Iron Dove

by Leon, Judith

  Again, Joe exploded. “There’s no need to change anything, goddamn it.”

  Cesare now sat perched on the edge of his seat. “I must say that I myself found the nature of the cliff much more daunting than it appeared to be from photos. Is it true she is the better climber?”

  After a long pause and some more jaw clenching, Joe grumbled, “Technically.”

  “Well, then,” Cesare said, sliding back into the seat and resuming his easy manner, “I am formally in charge here. And I say, let’s do it her way.”

  He sounded amused. And all the way back to Positano, he kept up a friendly commentary on homes he’d decorated and the infamous exploits of their owners.

  She and Joe said little. Joe’s one comment was that if there was any bright side to the switch, it was that he would be the one to take a long drive with the Ferrari, whose owner had allowed SISMI to use it only after SISMI’s front for the deal—an agency claiming they were going to use the car in an advertisement—ponied up money for insurance against theft or damage.

  She didn’t really understand why Joe was so angry. The switch made sense. She had thought that by the end of the German mission, he’d accepted her as equal to any task, certainly any task like climbing. She wondered for a moment if maybe he was concerned for her, maybe worried for her, even if irrationally. Because if she cared for someone and they wanted to do something dangerous and she couldn’t forbid them, that might come out as anger. More likely, though, he just felt his macho Texas-flyboy pride had been dented.

  But the next evening, she got a clear message that it had been concern. In the late afternoon, she went to the beach restaurant that Greco frequented dressed to melt all male resistance—in her new red bikini. Greco religiously came for cocktails at six o’clock and stayed for dinner; he never showed up.

  In the ladies’ room, after calling Cesare and telling him that they would have to cancel the op and try again tomorrow, she changed into her gray slacks and blouse. She drank alone and then ate alone, disappointment her dinner companion. She always felt let down when an attempt to contact a mark fell through. They still had plenty of time; the sale wasn’t due to take place until the twenty-second, twelve days away. Still, the sooner this business was finished, the better.

  Just as her waiter brought an after-dinner cappuccino, Joe arrived. He ordered one, too, and afterward he asked if she wanted to walk on the beach.

  They left their shoes at the restaurant. At first, they talked about reasons why Greco might have changed his plans. She loved the feeling of wet sand slipping through her toes. Then she persuaded Joe to talk a while about his father and their small ranch in Texas. Then she said, “Why were you so opposed to having me go into the Sorokin home?”

  He stopped walking and took her hand. The rush and then sigh of the water against the sand seemed to echo the rush of her blood to her heart and the catch of her breath at his touch. He said, “I should have called you. I said I would.”

  “For a long time, every call I got I thought might be from you.”

  He turned her hand over and traced the outline of her fingers. “Is that true?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “No. You don’t lie. But you don’t share much, either.”

  “It’s a habit, I suppose.”

  “Maybe because of your stepfather?”

  He tugged her hand toward him, and she took a step closer, her blood pounding in her ears. “I hated my stepfather, that’s for certain.”

  “What he did, did it make you…distrust all men?” There was an unmistakable glow of passion in his eyes, gentle yet determined.

  “I don’t distrust all men.”

  “Do you distrust me? Or do you still think I’m just a kid?”

  She now stood so close to him, she imagined she could feel the heat from his body. She resisted an urge to throw herself into his arms. “Dumb questions. You know I’d trust you with my life. I already have, more than once. And I haven’t thought you were a kid for a long time.”

  He put both hands on her shoulders, and alarms screamed in her head. He was going to kiss her. “Don’t,” she said.

  As if she’d zapped him with a Taser, he froze, and she thought she saw the glow in his eyes turn to wariness.

  She cared. She’d known she cared a great deal when his failure to call hurt so much. She might hold his interest for a while, but not for long. Someone younger, someone pretty and new, would eventually steal his heart. He was only twenty-eight years old. And she wasn’t up to any more heartbreaks. She hurried to explain, “I don’t want to mix the personal with business. Things get very sticky. You said you’d call. You didn’t. I figure that’s pretty self-explanatory.”

  “I said I was wrong not to call.”

  “And you were right.”

  He let go of her shoulders. “Okay. No mixing of personal and business. Let’s just forget it.”

  Nevertheless he took her hand and they walked that way for a bit, until she pretended that she’d stepped on something that needed to be brushed off and took her hand away.

  Chapter 16

  Mohsin handed the phone toward Ahmad, halting Ahmad’s plan to leave the office. Irritated by the interruption, Ahmad snatched the phone from Mohsin.

  “This is Alberto,” said the deep male voice on the other end of the line.

  Ahmad felt the uncomfortable tightening of the chest he experienced whenever the Don’s consigliere or any one of his lieutenant’s called. The Camorra family had been in control of La Cosa Nostra in the region surrounding Naples for many years. And from his third month of arrival in Amalfi, almost ten years ago now, Ahmad had paid the family’s demands for protection money. Not just for the legitimate fish business—nearly eleven percent of everything—but even more expansively, for keeping his Al Qaeda operations secure.

  “How can I help you?” Ahmad replied, keeping his voice calm and reminding himself to make sure he used none of the words that would trigger the interest of those all-prying ears of Italian, British, American or Soviet agencies.

  “We have noted a lot of activity from your business lately. My employer wants to know what it’s all about?”

  “Please assure him that nothing special is happening. Nothing.” Ahmad felt a moment of panic. Would they buy it? No one, not even La Cosa Nostra, was to know that Operation Awesome Vengeance was organized by the Italian cell of Al Qaeda. Information would be leaked to Aljazeera that implicated Al Qaeda operatives in Lebanon. If any hint of his connection to the operation leaked out, he might have to leave Italy permanently. He sat down, his heart racing.

  Alberto continued, “I’m calling to remind you that you are not to touch anything under our protection. If anything serious happens without our permission, you will not be welcome here. And if any financial transactions occur to your benefit, we expect to have compensation.”

  “I am, as always, grateful for the consideration and assistance I receive and I would do nothing to injure our relationship.”

  “So. You have been reminded.”

  Ahmad’s palms were sweaty. He wiped one hand and switched the phone receiver to it. “I appreciate that.”

  “Then you will also appreciate knowing that we have information that a certain agency is hot on the trail of something coming down in the Amalfi area. Your area. While you don’t appear to be one of their subjects of interest, we’re putting everyone in the Amalfi area who we feel might be involved on alert.”

  Ahmad immediately thought of the seller. “I can absolutely assure you that no party of the kind to which you refer is aware of my actions or existence.”

  “Yes, of yours. But perhaps you are dealing with others who are under suspicion.”

  “Who are these suspects?”

  “Unfortunately, our informant does not know. Just consider yourself warned. You would be well advised to take extra precautions.”

  “Yes. Of course. My gratitude once again. And please extend my respect to your employer.”
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br />   Alberto, if that was his real name, hung up. Ahmad did so, as well, and wiped both sweaty palms on his pants.

  “What is it?” Mohsin asked.

  “SISMI seems to be snooping around Amalfi. You contact our broker right away. Urge extra caution.”

  “This is not good.”

  “The Don has somehow sensed that we are up to something. These pigs must have a paid informant for every ten people in the country. They know, or sense, everything.”

  “You did not get permission from the Camorra? Syria thinks we have their permission.”

  “We do not need the permission of infidels. This operation is the will of Allah. I will find a way to deal with the Camorra. They listen to money.”

  “Not if their people die.”

  “We will deny having anything to do with it. They will have to accept that because they will have no proof to the contrary.”

  Mohsin shrugged. “God is great. And I hope you are right.”

  Chapter 17

  Nova’s swimsuit had dried out enough to be comfortable for walking but was still damp enough to cling to every curve. Now would be the perfect time to contact Greco.

  She lay on a beach towel on her stomach, gazing at the parking lot where Cesare was on lookout in the SUV. This late in the afternoon—quarter to six was really more like early evening—the sun held little heat. She actually felt a bit chilled.

  After yesterday’s failed attempt to make contact, she’d felt positively twitchy all day, antsy to get on with it. In theory, they still had plenty of time to stop the sale, but her instinct was never, ever to assume anything.

  Her cell buzzed. He’s in place, the text message said.

  She scrambled to her feet, rolled up the towel, picked up her sandals and big woven beach bag, and trudged through the sand toward the Hotel Dolphin’s bar/patio. As she neared it, she saw that Greco was seated at his favorite table next to the sand. With him sat a pretty brunette that Nova figured must be no more than twenty-three.

  She washed sand off her feet in the big conch shell the restaurant placed at the patio’s beach entrance for that purpose. With her pulse elevated, just enough so she felt incredibly alive, she sauntered up to Greco’s table.

  In Italian, she said, “Excuse me, but I sat here earlier and I can’t find my sunglasses. I think I may have left them on your table.”

  With the predictability of a Pavlovian dog, Greco ran his eyes over every curve of her body.

  “We didn’t find any glasses,” the girl offered in Italian, smiling.

  Nova returned Greco’s frank gaze, bending her head and looking up at him from seductively lowered eyelids. With her tongue, she moistened her lower lip as Greco maintained unbroken eye contact. She said, “Perhaps they slipped to the floor.”

  She bent down at the knees in a way calculated to give him a male-pleasing view of cleavage. Whether the glasses Cesare had planted were still there wasn’t relevant. The ploy worked either way. In this case, the glasses were right next to the pedestal. She plucked them up and stood. “Lucky me,” she said. “Here they are.”

  “Right. Lucky you,” Greco countered. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I’m only here for a week. Doing some photography. I ate here last night. Wonderful food.”

  He checked out the cleavage again as he said, “The best in Amalfi.” His gaze connected again with hers. “Here for a week. Photographing what?”

  “Mediterranean architecture.”

  He laughed. She liked the laugh—deep, very male, and sincerely amused. No doubt about it, Fabiano Greco was a singularly handsome hunk of Italian male. Dark, permanently tanned, flawless skin, clear intelligent eyes below a high forehead, and a Roman nose that gave the face strength where it might otherwise have been just pretty. “Such a stunning woman cannot possibly be a serious photographer of architecture.”

  She let herself laugh, went with the flow. “I assure you, I’m quite serious. It was nice chatting with you.”

  “So you are you leaving now?”

  “No. I’m going to change and then have dinner.”

  “Alone?”

  “Quite alone.”

  “I don’t believe it. It’s not possible. It’s not natural.”

  She laughed again.

  “Look,” he said, “why don’t you change and then join me, join us, for dinner?”

  The brunette’s eyes had been shooting darts at Nova since the moment Greco asked Nova if she was leaving. The woman’s eyes were now shooting daggers, each one carrying the message, “Leave now, or I will slit your throat!”

  “Are you sure,” Nova said with all the sincerity she could muster, “that you wouldn’t mind my intruding?”

  “Change. Come back. I live here and I know a bit about the architecture. I’ll find out if you are telling the truth, and if you are, you can find out what I know about Amalfi’s buildings. Perhaps I can be of help.”

  She leaned down, touched his arm—very quickly, but the message was clear. “Your offer is delightful and accepted. I’d love to have your…help. I’ll only be a short time in the ladies’.”

  She left the table, and her naked skin experienced that sixth sense that said he was watching her walk away toward the restrooms. His driver/bodyguard sat at the bar drinking, and as she walked past him, she felt his gaze as well.

  In the bathroom, she went at once to a stall, entered, and sent a text message to Cesare. The op was on, the priest should make his call. In a short time, Joe should be free to enter Greco’s condo. Getting into the safe would take at least an hour and a half, they hoped, not more. She noted the time.

  Greco’s housekeeper practically flew out the condominium’s front door. She must need money badly, Joe thought. He estimated it couldn’t have taken her more than a minute to get her purse and get in gear.

  With his safecracking kit, which included a digital camera and blank CDs, and a laptop in hand, he picked the lock and let himself into a cool, serene haven for what Cesare had said were priceless antiques. The spacious entry led first to a powder room to the left and the secondary entry into the modern kitchen on the right. He walked forward into the living room, the walls of which were covered with tapestries and old paintings. He knew from Cesare that the den was the first door down the hall to the left, the maid’s room at the end of the hall, and the master bedroom off to the right of the living room.

  He went straight to the den, the most likely place for a safe. Fifteen frustrating minutes later, he said, “Shit,” and began to worry. Maybe SISMI’s information was wrong, and Greco had the stuff for sale stored in a safe at one of his two places of business.

  He lost another ten minutes searching another small bedroom down the hall from the den. Twenty-five minutes gone.

  Statistically, the kitchen and dining rooms were the least likely places to install a safe. The next most likely was the master bedroom. He crossed through the living room, entered the hallway and then stopped. Something—his gut, intuition, whatever—said the living room. He backtracked and began to search again, starting with the most likely places.

  Sure enough, behind the third painting he checked, he found the safe encased in a two-foot thick layer of concrete and steel. Modern and electronic. Very expensive. No ordinary thief would be able to break in. But then, the Company was no ordinary thief. He set the safecracking kit aside and opened up the laptop.

  The software, an upgraded version of the program developed by J.D. Hamilton, would be able to interface wirelessly with the lock at its programming port. He started punching keys. The program simply ran number sequences at an astonishing rate of speed. The safe, a Manlichman, used a six-number combination. It would be impossible to know exactly how long the program would take to hit the right combination. Maybe five minutes, maybe two hours. He’d already used up thirty minutes.

  For a moment, he watched the flickering of the LED. Then, satisfied, he pulled out his latest Ken Follett thriller and started reading. God forbid
it took more than an hour and a half, because then he’d have to alert Cesare, who would signal Nova. She would then have to put into play some ruse to keep Greco away.

  Chapter 18

  After letting Cesare know that the op was on, Nova stayed in the bathroom stall to change out of the bathing suit. By what struck her as an interesting coincidence, Greco had come dressed in white cotton slacks and a lime-green, silk, short-sleeved shirt and she had brought white jeans and an emerald-green spaghetti strap silk top with plunging neckline. She smiled, zipping up the jeans and thinking what a lovely color-coordinated couple they would make.

  She sat the large woven beach bag on the sink counter, returning the smile of a Muslim woman wearing a hajib who then dried her hands and walked out.

  One secret Nova had found effective with men over the years was to surprise them in ways that played to their senses. Surprising them did marvelous things to rev up their libidos. She had purposely done up her hair in a single French braid twisted up in back. She’d made sure it didn’t get too wet when she had been in the ocean, but the hair was nevertheless damp.

  She removed the hairpins and undid the braid, letting her hair fall to her shoulder blades. From the basket, she took out a blow-dryer and brush, found an outlet, plugged the dryer in and heated the straight, silky black strands of her hair and bangs to total dryness. The change should fascinate him. She tilted her head a couple of times and noted with satisfaction that her glossy hair swished freely, as if lubricated with silicone.

  While she’d worn lipstick and subtle eye colorations to meet him, she now enhanced the lipstick with a glistener and also darkened the eyeliner. The overall effect was to bring out strongly the emerald color of her slightly almond-shaped, large eyes.

  She completed the transformation with earrings, dangling silver doves in flight, their eyes made from tiny emeralds. She always felt undressed or incomplete without a pair of earrings, even if only studs. They seemed to somehow ground her. Noting her fetish, Joe had given her these doves as a parting gift in Germany.