She was right. My marine training had rubbed off on me pretty good, just in the same way that Grace’s youth had impressed her. She was a diehard Brit, and I a hard-charging grunt. She was very easily riled, though, and it sounded as if she was whipping into a tizzy.
We had just gotten into the car and were on our way to pick up groceries for dinner. I knew better than to let her infuriate me, but it didn’t stop me from looking at her like a bull about to gore a matador. I was tired, short on patience, and knew that although she wasn’t trying to, she was going to drive me absolutely bonkers. When she wanted to be, the woman could be absolutely obtuse.
I hated the fact that we were unable to talk with Elias today. More than that, I hated the fact that I had no idea when we’d gain access to him. He had, in fact, been taken to the hospital, where he and the others who were aboard the plane were being cared for.
“I asked you what the difference was,” Grace persisted.
I told myself, Soothe your nerves, and remember that she’s not doing it on purpose. Think about everything you’ve put her through. Want to age a parent? This is how you do it. Go off and join the marines, complete boot camp, and go into combat in the Middle East. She seemed to endure the humiliation of me not becoming a Manhattan socialite with some degree of self-control, but active combat in a foreign country really put her over the edge. I think she aged ten years for every one I spent overseas. “It’s like this,” I began in a deliberate tone. “Ben Elias is a retired Air Force pilot. He hasn’t been in the cockpit for a long time, but he was no stranger to the controls of a jet plane, and he had every possible form of assistance available. I mean, I give the man mad props for not killing everyone aboard, but he’s no Sully Sullenberger.”
“But they were both emergency water landings.”
“It’s still not the same thing. Sullenberger is a hero who safely landed a disabled commercial jet in the middle of the Hudson and saved the lives of one hundred and fifty-five people.”
“Disabled?”
“No engines, Grace.” Don’t let her get you worked up.
“What do you mean no engines? How can a jet fly with no engines?”
Oh, dear Lord. Don’t let her get to you. Once a marine, always a marine. “It was a geese strike.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. A few little geese can’t crash a big jet plane. Those things are bigger than school busses.”
“Want to bet?” Bite your tongue, stupid. You’re just fueling the fire.
“Tell me how? Explain.”
“Tell you how? Okay, goose shit.”
“Goose shit?” Her eyes opened so wide they veritably bulged from the sockets.
“Yeah. Goose shit. Goose guts, goose feathers … goose shit. The jet flew through a flock of geese; they got sucked into the engines and fouled them out.”
“Fowl-ed them out?”
God help me. “Not fowl-ed them out. Fouled them out. The geese clogged up the turbines, and the engines shut down.”
“That doesn’t sound very safe.”
Really? Not safe? Ya think?
“They should do something about that.”
God help me, I think I just popped an ulcer. Quickly, change the subject. “So, what are you thinking about for dinner tonight?”
“It all depends. What do you think we’ll find? I never shopped around here before.”
Yes, I know that we moved to the boonies. I’ll bet there’s a sale on squirrel and possum over at the old stockyard. It seems that my mother will never forgive me for moving us out to Long Island. She lived in Manhattan most of her adult life and was determined to make me aware of just how put out she was every day of my remaining life. “We’re not in the foothills of Tennessee. We’re in one of the most affluent suburbs in the country. You can get anything you want out here.”
“Never. I’ll believe it when I see it. You think that we’re going to get the same kind of groceries out here that you get in the city? You think we’re going to find Schaller and Weber meats, or cheeses like they had at Murray’s Cheese Shop or the Fairway Market?”
We had just pulled into the parking lot. I pointed through the windshield at the supermarket in front of us. “What’s that, you pain-in-the-ass elitist English snob?”
Her mouth dropped. “No. It can’t be. Fairway? Here?”
“Yup. They’re popping up everywhere, just like weeds.”
She refused to cave. “Are you sure it’s not just someone who stole the name?”
Idiot! It was your idea to flee the city and move to Long Island with her. Sure, there are going to be a few bumps. Better get used to it. “Let’s take a look inside,” I said with an affected smile. I grabbed her by the hand and dragged her right over to the cheese counter. “You can deny what you’re seeing, but you can’t deny what you’re smelling.” All of her favorites were there: Stilton, Camembert, and Caerphilly. “What did you think, that we were going to live on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for the rest of our lives?”
She shrugged once more. I knew that she wasn’t going to apologize. Grace is never wrong, and I mean never with a capital NEVER.
“Is this stuff acceptable?” I asked. “Hey, I’ll bet you were worried that you’d have to make your favorite old-world recipes with Velvetta Cheese.”
“You’re having fun my expense?” She pretend slapped me. “You’re a terrible child. I don’t know where you came from?”
Um. I don’t know, your womb?
“What about the meats and produce?”
“Do you ever give up?” She just keeps digging that hole, deeper and deeper. I once again took her by the wrist and led her to the meat counter. We arrived at a fortuitous moment. There was no one on line and a gray-haired gent was waiting for us behind the counter.
“Ah, senora,” he greeted with a defining accent. “What can I help you with today?” The butcher had that old-world Italian charm, sort of like Dean Martin. If he was a smart man, he’d croon a few bars of “That’s Amore.” She may be from England, but Grace lusts for Italian men.
Good. If she plays her cards right, she’ll make a friend and I’ll end up with a freezer full of porterhouse. From you mouth to God’s ears, Chloe.
“I’m going over to the olive bar,” I whispered. “I’m sure that you can negotiate a pound of veal cutlets on your own.” I got a playful smack on the ass as I slipped away.
I really don’t even like olives, but I had to buy myself a few minutes of peace and quiet, and the olive counter was the only reference point in direct sight. God help me if she’s still skeptical after this. Do you think perhaps she’ll want to see the supermarket’s business license? How about the fish counter? Nah. Even she knows better than that. You can’t buy fish anymore thanks to the Fukushima nuclear power plant disaster, not unless you want to glow in the dark.
French roast, and Arabica, and Kona, oh my—the smell of freshly roasting coffee beans was overwhelming and rescued me from blankly staring at the buckets of olives in which I had absolutely no interest. I envisioned an old Warner Brothers cartoon in which the aroma from a bunch of carrots mesmerized Bugs Bunny and led him by the nose toward those sumptuous orange beauties.
I was in a hypnotic trance as I stumbled into the coffee aisle. There were dozens of barrels of roasted coffee beans, and each one looked better than the next. The smell was so divine that I wanted them all. The color and the sheen were so warm and inviting that I wanted to dump them on the floor and roll around in them. Juan Valdez and his burro, yes indeed, they certainly knew how to live. During my active service in the marines, while I was stationed in the third world, a good strong cup of coffee was the only thing that made me feel like a living, breathing American. Foreign lands, foreign foods and languages, they have a way of making you feel, well, foreign. Sometimes coffee is far more than a hot drink with caffeine. I’d smell the aroma and it would transport me back home to the breakfast table with my family and a plate loaded with bacon and eggs.
The coffee merchant loo
ked at me and smiled knowingly. Dollar signs flashed in his eyes. The aroma of the coffee beans was like a siren’s song drawing me to my doom. Doom. Death. Damn it! I went from euphoria to sobriety in the span of a heartbeat. Who had killed Rachel Rabin, and why? My mind cleared and forced me to forsake the guile of the coffee merchant in the interest of solving Rachel’s murder. I tried to envision Rachel Rabin hard at work late into the evening. I wondered what it must have been like to work for a snake oil salesman like Soto? He was such an overbearing, obnoxious bore. You’d think a bright woman would have known better than to take a job with a man like that. Then again, the economy wasn’t exactly going gangbusters—good jobs were few and far between. Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.
“There you are.” Grace was smiling. She had a shopping cart and had already made several purchases. “Where the hell did you go, Chloe? I looked all over for you.”
I was still envisioning the scenario in Soto’s office when I realized that I had zoned out. “I smelled the coffee. What can I tell you? I’m a sucker for slow-roasted beans.”
“Whatever!” she said flippantly. “I bought the most delicious-looking rack of lamb. Vito tells me—”
“Vito?” I looked at her accusingly. “Make a friend, did we?”
Ma had that cat-who-ate-the-canary-look on her face. It only happened every once in a very great while, but this was one of those rare occasions. Got ya! “Why, Grace, I do believe you’re blushing.”
“Whatever.” She turned and looked away, doing whatever was necessary to avoid the subject. She began to push the cart away from me.
“Grace, it’s fine,” I called to her. “I’m sure he’s better than the last guy you dated. What was that joker’s name … Dabney?”
She turned around, ready to do battle. “What was wrong with him? He had a good job and donated lots of time to the church.”
“Grace, for crying out loud, he used a penis pump. You yourself told me—”
“Enough, Chloe, enough!” She spun around and hurried away from me down the aisle. “That’s enough shopping,” she snapped. “I’m ready to check out.”
Chapter 20
Ahmed Gul picked up his linen napkin and wiped the remnants of dinner from his lips. Room service had delivered a light meal consisting of coffee and a Mediterranean wrap, which he found disappointing and left half-uneaten. After clearing the empty dishes from the serving tray, he removed the parchment placemat upon which the plates had rested. He went into the bathroom, sprayed the placemat with hairspray, and heated it with the complimentary hotel hairdryer. Concise instructions materialized on the placemat. He read the message, ripped it into small pieces, and flushed them a few pieces at a time until they were completely disposed of. He lingered a few moments to make sure none of the pieces floated back up.
The armoire in his suite was immense. He had picked this hotel specifically because despite the ultramodern interior décor, it was an old building and still had windows that opened. He’d searched the suites online and requested this specific room because of its location and the gargantuan furniture with which the room was decorated. It was on the sixteenth floor. High enough, he reasoned. He had left the Aman surveillance team a tasty trail of breadcrumbs to follow and was sure that they were watching his every movement. The Israelis would be watching the door to his room, the corridor, the lobby, and the street, but not the rear courtyard, not with their surveillance target sixteen stories up.
Five hundred feet of super-strong nylon hiking line had been woven into a rectangular mat, which lined the bottom of one of his black leather duffle bags. Likewise, wider nylon straps lined the bottom of the second duffle, and the outer hardware pieces on the duffle bags were cleverly disguised metal hiking gear components. It took him just a few minutes to unravel the nylon gear and assemble a hiking harness. He unwound the hiking line and carefully wound it around a resin spool so that it wouldn’t kink or bind as it unwound.
He changed into his gear: hiking harness, gloves, and rubber-soled shoes. He secured the line to the leg of the large armoire and opened the bedroom window.
Everything else he had traveled with would be left behind except for his wallet and the forged passport he had used to leave Europe and enter the US via Canada. It belonged to Hans Schnable, three days dead, his lifeless body wrapped in plastic and sealed within the vault-like confines of his Mercedes sedan, which sat in the garage of his Swiss country home.
Gul was always conspicuous when he moved through Europe—the caustic orange running gear, the crimson blazer, and the screaming yellow Porsche. He always made it easy for the Israelis to track him when he wanted to be tracked, and when he didn’t …
He looked out and surveyed the dark and deserted rear courtyard behind the hotel. It took him less than ten seconds to rappel the sixteen floors to the courtyard floor below. He vanished an instant later.
As on the previous night, the Aman surveillance team entered on their report that Ahmed Gul was safely tucked away in his room.
Chapter 21
Rachel Rabin had inhabited the attic apartment of a three-story building. I obtained a key to her apartment from Jacob Rosen, her landlord.
I had heard that Rosen, a recently widowed Hungarian Jew, wept openly upon learning about Rachel’s death. He wanted to accompany me up the two flights of stairs, but despite having had a few days to digest the bad news, he became overwhelmed with grief and once again ran back to his ground-floor apartment, sobbing.
I had asked Rosen a few preliminary questions about Rachel before heading to her apartment and had the sense that he had nothing in the way of meaningful information to contribute. I left him my business card to add to the collection of business cards of police, FBI, and other law enforcement officers who had already been there.
Rachel’s apartment was small but warmly furnished and sunny. A sturdy wooden beam supported a high, vaulted ceiling. Large windows followed the contour of the roof to its apex and gave the apartment an airy feel.
I took a quick look around and decided that Rachel had gone on an Ikea shopping spree—everything had that snap-together look. I guess she was the kind of girl who was handy with hex key and Philips head screwdrivers. There were lots of books lying about. Most of them were written in Hebrew but not all. Her taste in English literature ran to contemporary romance. Rachel had many family photos on display. She was depicted in several photos with an older man and woman whom I assumed were her parents. A strikingly handsome young man was the subject of numerous photos. I didn’t know whether he was family or friend, but he had that tawny yummy look. I’d met guys like that while serving overseas—they were always trouble, each and every last one of them—men to be avoided at all costs.
As I scanned Rachel’s apartment, I almost felt as if I had known her, the kind of person she was, and the way she had lived. It made me feel a little sad. Her pictures were everywhere. I saw her smiling face alone and with the people I assumed she loved most. Sometimes I get this creepy feeling when I go through a victim’s apartment, almost like I’m defiling their personal sanctuary with my presence, desecrating the home in which someone had once lived. I shook it off after a moment and moved on to the kitchen.
Rachel had left a teakettle on the counter. It looked a lot like one Liam and I owned and often used. A lump formed in my throat. I ran some water and splashed it on my face before hurrying out of the room.
There were several messages on Rachel’s answering machine. There was one call from a friend confirming a date to go to the movies. There was a call from a Doctor Levine’s office confirming a routine checkup. Levine’s secretary left a number to call in case Rachel was not going to keep the appointment. I made a note of the doctor’s name and phone number. There were three subsequent calls from other friends stating that they hadn’t heard from her and were worried about her. The last call was from Soto. He sounded very serious, his voice heavy with concern. The oily European said that she was missed at the office and
to call back as soon as possible.
I’d asked Cabrera to check the phone records, but it was quite early in the morning, and since he hadn’t reported back, I assumed that he hadn’t gotten around to it. I checked the time and date of Soto’s call. It was less than twenty-four hours old. The old fraud had called after our meeting at his office.
Chapter 22
My cell phone rang.
“That you, Gumdrop?”
“Talk to me, stud muffin.”
“I just had a cup of coffee with one Lorraine Franco.”
“How’d you swing that?”
“I don’t know if I want to divulge any of my trade secrets.”
“So you called her up and asked her if you could meet her out of the office on official FBI business at a nearby coffee shop. Does that about sum it up?” Silence. “You still there, Svengali?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I hope you’ll have enough common sense to stay away from her until after the case is closed.” Silence. “Okay, forget it. Did you learn anything besides her bra size?”
“You were right. She had plenty to say.”
“I’m waiting.”
“First of all, she said that Rachel was the busiest girl in the office. She said that she was brilliant. Soto does a ton of business with companies in the Middle East, and Rachel was fluent in Hebrew, Farsi, and Arabic—you name it, and she spoke it. She said that Rachel was in the office until all hours so she could communicate with business partners in different time zones. She said that Rachel knew more about Soto’s business than he did; called her indispensable.”
“Interesting. I just played back the messages on her machine. There’s one very concerned message from Soto in which he really pours it on. Unfortunately it seemed to take the doting Mr. Sunshine quite a while to find his conscience; he called after we met with him yesterday.”
“What a douchebag. Listen, Lorraine kind of alluded to the fact that some of Soto’s business associates are shall we call them … unsavory. The office staff is never privy to his meetings; they’re all held behind closed doors. She didn’t want to bring it up, but she mentioned some gents who came into the office the day we believe Rachel disappeared, and she said that they kind of creeped her out. She was kind of dancing around the subject, but I hit her with a heavy dose of guilt, and she caved.”
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