The Syrian (Natasha Kelly, Mossad Spy)

by Felicia Mires

  She ran to the door, but his tail lights showed at the end of the street. He couldn't get off the base without going through security. She watched to see which way he turned, then ran in the room to call the security gate.

  A young man answered. Natasha marveled at her control as she turned on the charm. "This is Natasha Kelly. I'm staying on the base. David Benjamin just dropped me off, but I've forgotten something. Could you stop him when he comes through, please?"

  "Yes, his car approaches now. Hold on, please."

  Oh, please, please, please.

  What if he told the guard he'd call her later?

  "Benjamin here, may I help you?"

  She cringed at his brusque tone. "David, it's Natasha. Please come back. I want to apologize."

  "Thank you, Miss Kelly. There's no need."

  "Please, please, David, forgive me. Come back. I have to talk to you."

  David cleared his throat and replied without emotion. "Of course, I'll do that."

  The phone line went dead.

  Natasha dropped her phone and ran to the bathroom to check her face. With a few repairs, she'd do.

  At the knock on the door, she flew to open it wide. Not a trace of welcome showed in his face. She grabbed him by the hand and drew him in, then shut the door behind him.

  She had seconds to make up her mind. If she kissed him, it would lead him to believe he had a chance with her, which wasn't what she wanted to convey.

  She took his other hand, and holding both, looked up into his eyes. "I was wrong. You didn't deserve that. You've never done anything to make me think you were using me for the Mossad. I'm asking you to forgive me, please, and start over. This is the best welcome anyone's ever given me. I'm overwhelmed at your sensitivity and generosity. Nothing could have made this night better, except my behavior. Will you try to forgive me? I really am sorry."

  David held up their intertwined hands and kissed her fingers. "If you stop saying you're sorry."

  "Agreed." She took a step backward. "I meant to tell you. There was so much going on when you picked me up. I noticed you look incredibly tall, handsome, tan…the whole package is very…attractive. It's the first time I've seen you out of uniform…very nice."

  Natasha bit her lip as she gazed up at him. How did he really feel?

  He sighed. "If you continue to stare up at me with that woebegone expression, I'll be tempted to kiss you again."

  "I think I've met my quota tonight. Why don't you sit down and tell me what to do tomorrow."

  "That would probably be best."

  They sat around the table again, and he discussed several types of training she must complete. After Natasha yawned a few times, David convinced her it would be better for her to get some rest.

  "Remember, they expect you to get through this without calling me. Ordinarily, there's no phone in a trainee's room. They may move you tomorrow." He stared into space for a moment. "I don't care what they want. If you need me, call this number and punch in this code. We'll use your American distress signal-911. I'll find you, no matter what they've done with you."

  He stood and pulled her up to him. She feared another kiss, but he bent to brush her forehead with his lips. "Be safe. Stay hydrated. The desert is dangerous. Ask your God to protect you."

  She saluted. "Yes, sir. I'll do my best not to embarrass you or myself…and I'll pray. There's nothing else I can do." She sighed. "I wish I'd done more to stay in shape, but it's too late now."

  "I don't know. I've always liked your shape…very much." He teased her as if they'd known each other for years instead of weeks. "Are you healing quickly?"

  Nice of him to notice. "Yes, thank you. Good night, David."

  "Shalom, Natasha."

  Chapter 2

  Natasha's first day in Mossad training was exasperating to the point of exhaustion. As far as she could ascertain, the trainers were none to happy about the American ingénue playing detective. They rarely slowed their rapid-fire Hebrew to explain terms common to most Israelis.

  Natasha took notes and struggled to keep up. Daily, they taught her the art of deceit. Trust no one outside your Mossad unit.

  The Mossad took their motto from Proverbs 11:14, "Without guidance do a people fall, and deliverance is in a multitude of counsellors."

  She learned that David was a Case Officer, one of only 32-35, because of the tens of thousands of sayanim, or helpers, around the world. David managed a group of field agents. They called Natasha a walk-in, who had become a katsa, a Mossad field agent. When she returned to the States, she would be a jumper, an overseas agent. If she made it through the next few months.

  Natasha rubbed the back of her aching neck and stared at the mirrored reflection in front of her. Surely that wasn't her dirt- streaked face and dull, flat hair. What had happened to the golden-haired, vibrant woman she used to be?

  How long had it been since she cared about her appearance? Two weeks? Three weeks? One day ran into another, and she felt too exhausted to figure it out. She turned away from the mirror in disgust.

  Leaning over, she turned on the tap in the tub and waited until the temperature felt comfortable. Today's olive drab uniform, coated in red sand, ended on the floor like every other day. What she wouldn't give to wear her own clothes again.

  She climbed in the tub, though it was an effort to raise her legs over the side. She lay back and closed her eyes, letting the warmth bring comfort to her tired, sore body and letting her thoughts wander over the last few weeks of her chaotic life.

  David had been right when he tried to warn her. On her first day, she walked into a plain gray building to a counter sheltered with bullet-proof glass.

  "Natasha Kelly," she said to the cloistered man.

  He turned to a computer screen for several seconds, punched a few keys then looked back at her. "Take a seat and wait."

  Almost an hour later, a thick metal door swung open with a whoosh, and a petite woman marched into the lobby. When she halted before Natasha, her pinched face held no welcoming smile. "Follow me."

  The curvy sprite sashayed down the hall without bothering to see if Natasha followed. How did such a short woman manage to look sexy in olive drab with her dark hair pulled back so tight she appeared almost bald?

  She stopped at an open door, holding out her arm in an imperious command for Natasha to enter. The white room contained a long table where a lone older man waited at stiff attention.

  Natasha's stomach sank. And she thought David was all-soldier.

  The man spoke in Hebrew. "That is Anya Perez. I am Muki Eitan. David Benjamin is persona non-gratis during your training."

  Anya's voice sounded from behind her. "Which means you are forbidden to go whining to him for help when you can't cut it."

  Happy to meet you, too.

  "You will come this way." Eitan left the room with Anya Perez. Natasha followed.

  They stopped two doors down, and Eitan hovered in the doorway. "This is your kidon. Agents 112, 329, 547, and 368."

  In the classroom sat four Mossad trainees who looked about as overjoyed to see Natasha as Perez and Eitan had been.

  Natasha scanned the room to avoid eye contact with her new club members. Charts and maps covered white-washed walls. From the ceiling hung a blank screen. The long table held an assortment of scattered pens, pencils, and notepads which brought her to the least threatening figure in the bunch, Agent 112.

  He leaned his chair back on two legs, looking very much as if the world was his oyster. Like that cocky Richard Williams of the CIA, who recently broke into her house to frighten her…as a lark.

  For the moment, 112 didn't smile, but the sparkle in his green eyes promised adventure.

  Natasha's gaze shifted to the only female of the group, Agent 329, reed-thin, mahogany-haired, with polite, expressionless brown eyes. Were all Mosaad agents born with a bland visage?

  Before she had a chance to observe her next candidate for best friend, the obvious leader spoke, 547, a dark-haired,
long-legged man with clear, intelligent eyes. "Shalom, Natasha Kelly. We accept you because we must. Then again, none of us has proven himself to the other."

  "Yet," said the final member of this kidon, Agent 268, a pale man with hands massive enough to snap her in two, in sharp contrast with the studious spectacles that adorned his wide face.

  All eyes snapped to the door, and Natasha swung around to confront Anya. "Miss Kelly, since you won't be a permanent kidon member, you'll accompany this group. Usually, a hit team consists of four members, one transporter, one target locator, and two assassins. You have no military title? No. I suppose you must have a training number." With her eyes half-closed, she looked like some sadistic drill sergeant. Then she smiled. "Four-o-nine. Formula four-o-nine. You will wash out."

  Anya walked down the hall, chuckling to herself.

  At least they hadn't labeled Natasha six-six-six.

  The newly formed kidon went to work. No matter what task they learned, Natasha received the hardest assignment, as if they were trying to make the American princess cry. She bit her tongue and toughed it out. She had come to save John. She wouldn't leave.

  At five each morning, they expected her to run four miles. If she arrived late, they added another mile. One had been enough. She was never late again.

  Eventually, she was grateful they ran so early in the morning. Another training exercise convinced her she didn't want to run in the heat of the day. After a week of training, they blindfolded her and drove her into the desert. When the jeep stopped, Anya yanked the blindfold off. "Get out."

  Natasha scrambled out of the jeep. Waves of heat rose from the red sand, hitting her in the face and stealing her breath.

  Eitan lifted his sunglasses. "Go west, young man." He grinned at Anya, dropped his glasses to his nose, then spun the jeep away in a cloud of dust.

  Hysterical. And I thought he didn't have a sense of humor.

  Natasha wiped at the silt already settling on her face. She glanced at the sun directly overhead. It would be a while before she could tell in which direction it would set. She couldn't delay.

  She shifted the weighted backpack across her shoulders then studied the horizon. Not a trace of life or shade in any direction. She dug in her left pocket. Thank God, she'd brought her compass with her or she'd really be embarrassed. Or dead.

  Hours later, when she dragged her backpack through the security X-ray, she learned that each person from her squad had already returned. Another failure.

  It was the unscheduled wake-up calls that wore her down the most. In the middle of the night, someone banging on the door would call her to run another four miles before dawn.

  David had also been right about the mental strain. The Mossad considered it essential to develop her ability to absorb information under pressure. While she stood at attention for hours at a time, the screen flashed with names and faces at ever increasing speeds. Then she recited what she'd memorized. They never told her whether or not she had mastered the photographs and names.

  One such day, after several monotonous hours of memorizing flashing faces, she saw a picture of her and Dirk blink across the screen. She knew better than to respond in any way, lest she miss what followed.

  A half hour later, Anya watched with a grim smile as Natasha identified the pictures from the exercise. She named Dirk Sloan and Natasha Kelly as if it were nothing, inwardly rejoicing at the sour scowl that transformed Anya's usually pretty face.

  After days of intriguing tutelage in the art of disguise, Eitan scheduled a test. "The point is not to be recognized, or even noticed, in an open, crowded marketplace in Tel Aviv. Prepare your disguises then show up at 0900 in this area." He pointed at a darkened square on the city map. "You must remain visible for two hours while we identify each of you."

  Utilizing Bedouin raiment from her previous mission with Dirk, Natasha draped herself as a merchant. Gauze padding, stuffed in her cheeks and on her shoulders, further altered her appearance as a stooped, old woman.

  With great excitement, she arrived at the market an hour early to observe the customs of the people and memorize as much Arabic as she could. Baskets of all shapes and colors hung from ropes extended across the ceiling. Pomegranates, potatoes, figs, lemons, limes, and vegetables she didn't recognize rested in crates along the walls. Long loaves of crusty bread and stacks of pita bread made her mouth water.

  Her eyes devoured the brilliant colors of the raw silks in the stands, but once again, her activities required a sacrifice. No touring for the American tourist.

  At the appointed time, she paid off an old woman in a kiosk then took her place, selling Bedouin wares. Wizened Arabs offered her coins for spices, veils, and henna. Anya passed her twice.

  Eitan strode within two feet of Natasha as she yelled at the top of her voice about the glorious quality of her cinnamon. He ignored her. His loss. She really did have a superior supply of cinnamon.

  The two instructors located every other member of her kidon and left the marketplace. When Natasha joined them in the training class, not one word of praise did she receive. But the sideways glance and wink from Agent 112 buoyed her for several days.

  Not all the lessons involved pain or danger. Natasha could take apart her gun and reassemble it blind-folded. She could recognize and disassemble a bomb or build one from simple elements. She could sabotage a car, identify sabotage to a car, and thanks to yesterday's shooting match, she knew she shot straighter than anyone in her class, even from a seated position.

  For the last two weeks, they'd re-enacted old Mossad missions in preparation for the next phase of their training, but they'd never managed the same time schedule as their famous predecessors.

  It seemed a lot like memorizing football plays to Natasha. Katir had put her through enough of those in high school, only this time, she had to shoot the quarterback, not sack him. Theoretically, she was ready.

  Natasha stretched in the tepid water. In the other room, a surprise waited on the table, and she grew anxious to investigate. Her grime-covered attire and aching limbs had prevented inspection when she first came in.

  Enfolded in the fluffy pink robe Dirk had given her on her last visit, and with her hair bound in a towel on top of her head, Natasha walked to the table.

  David's original flowers had long since wilted and been discarded, but every few days, unbeknownst to the dictatorial trainers, a new bouquet arrived, fresh and fragrant, no card. Now a TV and some type of player awaited her pleasure.

  Perhaps they'd found John. Perhaps he'd been rescued.

  Perhaps not.

  She picked up the note and read. Missing person located. Rescue planned. Very proud of your market success. Thought you might enjoy this. DB

  John…found! Would she be allowed to join the rescue? David knew of the success of her disguise. Was he equally aware of her failures?

  Natasha turned on the TV and lay back on the bed. The familiar, musical strains of The Tonight Show filled the tiny room and with it came a wave of homesickness. The camera shifted to the famed clefted chin and silver hair of Jay Leno.

  How sweet of David to think of something from home. Jay's monologue brought Natasha several smiles, until he invited the audience to stay tuned after the commercials for an exciting announcement from an elusive British actor.

  Natasha gasped. Surely not Dirk. She jabbed at the fast- forward button, skipping the commercials.

  It was Dirk all right, dressed like an ad from a fashion magazine: Seville Row suit with matching blue shirt, open at the collar. And that had to be hand-tooled Italian leather shoes.

  Natasha caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror: Sun-burnt face matching the pink terry robe…and that towel over her hair.

  "Ugh!"

  All she needed was a big box of bon-bons to make the picture complete. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection, thankful no one could see her.

  Jay Leno leaned toward Dirk. "I heard in your latest flick you only kiss four women. Are you losing
your touch?"

  So, Dirk was on a publicity tour. And he'd said he was coming to the States to see Natasha.

  Dirk laughed with the audience then grinned at Jay. "Perhaps. I don't shoot as many people either."

  "Is the gorgeous Jane Winslet kissed or killed? You've been seen together all over town."

  Dirk shrugged with casual indifference. "She's quite lovely and talented, but my interests lie elsewhere."

  "You mean the tabloid pictures were finally right?"

  "Ahhh!" Natasha screamed, standing up in the bed.

  "To which do you refer? There've been quite a number actually."

  Jay Leno jumped out of his chair, reached behind his desk, and pulled out an enormous blow-up of Dirk kissing Natasha. "Well, how about this one, 'MY FUTURE WIFE' or…"

  He pulled out another blow-up of Dirk and Natasha posed in front of the car. "There's always this one, 'ACTOR WEDS MYSTERY GIRL.'"

  Dirk smiled, perfectly at ease with Jay's antics.

  "So Dirk, what's the story? Who is this mystery girl? Are you already married, engaged, divorced, what's the scoop, buddy?"

  Dirk turned his head to stare directly into the camera. "We're not yet married, but I did meet her parents and her brother recently. And we visited with the minister at her church."

  Natasha jumped up and down, screaming at the TV. "No, no, tell me it isn't true. Not my parents and my pastor."

  "A church wedding. Have you set the date? How did you meet? You still haven't mentioned her name."

  "Yes, a church wedding. Her parents are retired missionaries. In fact, her brother was adopted in Africa. But we haven't set a date. My fiancée has been rather out of pocket lately, what with one distraction and another."

  Dirk smiled, prolonging Natasha's agony. Would he give her name?

  "We met on a plane. I was flying to a film location, and she was working. She's a courier. Quite interesting, actually. I'd been chatting to this redhead, and she disappears into the powder room. When she came back, the red hair was gone and…" Dirk turned to the camera again, seeming to speak directly to her. "I was rather knocked for a loop. There stood this elegant, blond young woman, and she was…everything." He smiled at the camera then looked back at Jay. "Now, I'm a besotted fool."