Two Steps Forward

by Luana Ehrlich

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Although Nikki seemed to be okay with my explanation, I wondered if she might express her disapproval again after reading the transcript of a phone conversation originating out of a kibbutz southwest of Jerusalem.

  Someone had made a notation about the entry, indicating the conversation had been inadvertently intercepted while monitoring a suspected terrorist cell operating in Beit Shemesh.

  The transcript was one of several items in Geller’s ten-page dossier—information that included bank records, utility receipts, police entries, phone intercepts—all of which Shin Bet had given Carlton on Lisa Redding, who’d entered Israel several years ago with the declared intention of becoming a permanent resident.

  According to the data in the dossier, Lisa had changed residences a year ago and rented a garden apartment on Cremieux Street in Jerusalem where she’d lived for about six months.

  After that, she’d vanished.

  At least, that’s what her bank records seemed to indicate.

  Lisa had withdrawn a substantial amount of cash six months ago, but since then, there’d been no other activity, although her account at the bank was still open.

  A similar thing had happened with her apartment.

  The rent on her apartment had been paid a year in advance, but according to utility records, there was no evidence she’d been living in the apartment for the past six months.

  Apparently, Moshe Geller, or someone in his office, had checked with the hospitals to see if a Lisa Redding had been a patient there any time during the last six months. However, a note indicated no hospital records of Lisa Redding had been found.

  The only other bit of intriguing information was the transcript of a conversation between someone living at Tzora, a kibbutz approximately twenty miles southwest of Jerusalem, and someone living in Jerusalem on Cremieux Street.

  In the transcript, the female caller in Tzora was designated as FC and the male caller in Jerusalem was labeled MC.

  FC: I wanted to let you know Lisa is doing well. She’s adjusted to life at the kibbutz and seems much happier these days.

  MC: So you’re saying her condition has improved?

  FC: Not exactly improved, but she’s more coherent now.

  MC: I still say we should try to locate her son-in-law in the States, maybe contact the American Embassy for some help.

  FC: Who knows how she would react if we did that?

  MC: You’re right, but I don’t like it. I hate keeping secrets.

  FC: I’ll see if I can get you a pass to the kibbutz, so you can visit her.

  Underneath the transcribed conversation was a handwritten note from Carlton. “Our analysts couldn’t find any record of a Lisa Redding at the Tzora kibbutz. However, there’s a resident at the kibbutz named Lisa Redstone who might possibility be Lisa Redding.”

  When Nikki handed me back the document, she said, “Well, that’s interesting. I’m assuming the transcript of the phone conversation was included because someone named Lisa was being discussed and the word American was also mentioned. Is that right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’m sure Shin Bet ran a number of keywords like Lisa, American, and Redding through their surveillance intake for the past six months, and that’s how the transcript turned up. You probably noticed they obtained the phone records inadvertently while monitoring a suspected terrorist.”

  “Yes, I saw that. That kind of monitoring would definitely be a problem in the States, but evidently, it’s allowed in Israel. Do you plan to ask Moshe Geller to help us with the search for Lisa after we get to Israel or do you want to leave Shin Bet out of it?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, but Carlton hinted he’d prefer I do this on my own and not involve Geller.”

  “That seems odd, especially since Geller’s office gave him a ton of information on Lisa.”

  “Carlton told me he’s wary of asking Geller to help with this situation, because he might want him to reciprocate, so I decided I shouldn’t ask him for Geller’s private phone number. I’m not sure he would have given it to me even if I’d asked him for it.”

  Once we’d finished discussing the document, I unzipped the messenger bag I was using as my carry-on and placed the document inside a paperback novel. Just before I zipped it up again, Nikki pointed at the Agency sat phone sticking out of one of the pockets.

  “If that’s true, then why do you have an Agency satellite phone with you on our honeymoon?”

  “Uh . . . I was going to talk to you about that once we got to Marrakesh.”

  She gestured at the empty tables. “Why not tell me now?”

  Since I was powerless to resist that smile, I did.

  * * * *

  Nikki looked surprised when I told her Carlton had asked me to take some photographs of the security detail accompanying the Iraqi delegation to the Arab Summit.

  “This isn’t an assignment,” I said. “I’m just doing him a favor.”

  “Since I was the one who chose Marrakesh for our honeymoon and you had nothing to do with it, I suppose I can’t accuse you of taking me there to help Douglas out.”

  “I assure you, I’m an innocent man in this matter.”

  She gave me a suspicious look. “You didn’t volunteer for this favor, did you?”

  “No, of course not. When Douglas found out the Iraqi delegation would be staying at our hotel, I had to convince him the whole thing was just a coincidence.”

  “The delegation is staying at La Mamounia? I thought you said it was a luxury hotel catering to newlyweds.”

  “Perhaps their website should be revised to say, ‘and government officials with extravagant tastes.’ ”

  “What kind of photographs does Douglas want?”

  “Just some shots of the Iraqi Prime Minister’s security detail. He didn’t explain why, but I’m guessing he must have received intel about an unfamiliar face among Prime Minister Abdul Madi’s bodyguards, and he probably wants the images so our analysts can identify him.”

  “Why would an unidentified bodyguard concern Douglas?”

  “There could be any number of reasons, but since Abdul Madi’s appointment as Prime Minister was controversial, I’m guessing the Agency might be concerned for his safety as well as the stability of his government.”

  “You mean Douglas thinks there’s a possibility someone in Madi’s own security detail could assassinate him?”

  “That could be it, but a rogue bodyguard who has unfettered access to Prime Minister Madi could create chaos in the Iraqi government in any number of ways, from sharing classified information with his political opponents to spreading false rumors about him.”

  “How will you take photographs of this rogue bodyguard?”

  “I’m not saying my rogue bodyguard scenario is a reality. That’s just my gut instinct. Douglas asked me to photograph all the members of Madi’s security detail, and since they’re staying at our hotel, that shouldn’t be too hard. At some point, I should be able to catch all of them in the lobby together, and after I’ve taken a few shots, I’ll be done with this assignment.”

  “Don’t you mean favor?”

  “Right. After that, I’ll be done with this favor.”

  She gave me a smile. “As long as this favor won’t interfere with our plans, I’m okay with it.”

  I reached over and took her hand. “I assure you, Mrs. Ray, nothing will interfere with the plans I’ve made for our honeymoon.”

  * * * *

  During our two-hour flight from Madrid, when Nikki and I were discussing the sightseeing excursions we could take in Marrakesh, she told me how much she was looking forward to shopping at the souks in the town square.

  After she told me that, I had her practice some Arabic phrases she could use with the vendors. My ability to speak Arabic was one of the reasons Nikki had chosen Marrakesh for our honeymoon.

  I’d been surprised when she’d announced she wanted us to honeymoon there, especially since I’d told her
I’d take her anywhere in the world.

  After thinking about my offer for a few days, she said she’d prefer to honeymoon in a place I’d never been before, but at the same time, she’d prefer to choose a location where I could speak the language.

  I’d been in total agreement with her idea, and I’d rattled off several places I’d never been before, either on a mission or for other reasons.

  Since she knew I wasn’t particularly fond of large bodies of water, she’d immediately eliminated any destinations involving a beach.

  Finally, after a week of research, she’d chosen Marrakesh.

  The city of Marrakesh was located in the interior of Morocco at the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, about two hours from the port city of Casablanca.

  The nearest body of water was the Ourika River some twenty miles south of Marrakesh, which was fine with me.

  Because it was a relatively isolated city, it was an ideal spot for a honeymoon and for that matter, for a summit between Arab leaders who wanted to get away from the turmoil happening in their own countries in order to discuss the turmoil happening in other countries.

  By the time our taxi pulled up to the entrance of La Mamounia, Nikki was too busy taking in all the ambiance of the city to bring up the subject of Carlton’s photographs again.

  As for me, I was scrutinizing the extra security precautions the Moroccan government had put in place in order to protect the delegates to the Summit.

  While it appeared soldiers from the Moroccan Royal Army had been deployed along the main thoroughfares, there were none stationed at our hotel.

  However, since the Arab Summit was being held at the Royal Mansour Hotel just down the road from La Mamounia, I felt sure the Moroccan Army had stationed more troops there.

  La Mamounia was not without security, though. Armed guards were stationed at the entrance and throughout the lobby.

  “Wow,” Nikki said, as she emerged from our taxi, “this is impressive.”

  She gestured at the hotel’s exterior, where stunning mosaics covered the lower half of the front portico’s massive white columns. “Can you believe this?”

  When the doorman ushered us inside, we discovered the interior of La Mamounia was just as breathtaking.

  The lobby was decorated with all the grandeur of a sultan’s palace—which La Mamounia had been at one time—white marble floors, intricate woodwork, golden tapestries, high arched doorways, and, of course, beautiful Moroccan handwoven rugs.

  There was a light scent in the air—presumably supplied by the hotel’s ventilation system—but the perfumed air wasn’t as cloying as the kind I’d encountered in other luxury hotels.

  The aroma reminded me of the lilacs in my grandmother’s garden, which was probably the reason I found it so pleasant.

  Exquisite artwork in the form of a colorful Moroccan mural covered the wall behind the registration desk, and when the desk clerk heard Nikki comment on it, she smiled and said, “There’s also a beautiful mural in the honeymoon suite. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too.”

  She was right about that.

  In fact, we enjoyed the honeymoon suite so much, we didn’t leave our room until the next morning.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 6

  Thursday, May 16

  Nikki and I spent three blissful days doing what all the other couples who were honeymooning in Marrakesh were doing.

  We toured two museums, visited Jardin Majorelle, the famous garden in the middle of the city, and took a day trip to the Atlas Mountains to explore a couple of Berber villages.

  On Thursday afternoon, as Eleanor had suggested, we went to see the El Badi Palace. Although it was in ruins, the remains gave us a glimpse of the magnificent structure it must have been.

  Afterward, we decided to call Eleanor, but as we sat down on a park bench in the palace gardens, Nikki questioned whether we should tell her the El Badi Palace wasn’t exactly the home of a beautiful princess.

  “I’m sure she already knows that,” I said. “She told me she’d researched all the interesting tourist sites in Marrakesh.”

  Nikki smiled and shook her head. “When I was eight years old, I’m not sure I even understood the concept of research, and I certainly wasn’t using the word in a sentence.”

  While Nikki was talking to Eleanor, a mini-bus from the Royal Mansour Hotel pulled up in front of the palace and eight men emerged from the vehicle. They were approximately the same age, had the same style haircut, and were all dressed alike—dark suits, white shirts, and solid colored ties.

  When I noticed their suits were cut in a distinctively Iranian style and their facial features were more Persian than Arabic—lighter skin, thinner lips, and a more prominent jawline—I realized these men must be members of the Iranian delegation to the Arab Summit.

  However, they didn’t act like high-ranking officials, more like support staff or members of a security detail.

  I debated whether I should snap some pictures of them, but since Carlton had only asked me to photograph the Iraqi security detail, I kept my phone in my pocket.

  These men were not Iraqis.

  The Iraqis weren’t in Marrakesh yet.

  They weren’t due to arrive until later today.

  * * * *

  I’d overheard this bit of intel on Tuesday morning as Nikki and I were having breakfast at Le Pavilion, one of the restaurants at La Mamounia.

  An older man and his much younger wife had been seated at the table next to us. He’d had on an embroidered western wear shirt, a pair of ostrich skin cowboy boots, and a Moxley luxury watch.

  Specifically, it was the special edition Dallas Cowboy watch.

  I’d recently seen an article about it in one of the sports magazines, so it had gotten my attention immediately. Naturally, the designers had used the team’s silver and blue color scheme. In addition, they’d placed the iconic Cowboy star at the five o’clock position.

  According to the article, this unique placement was a tribute to the team’s five Super Bowl victories. As a tribute to the Moxley’s reputation for producing expensive watches, they’d placed a $25,000 price tag on this special edition timepiece.

  Mr. Cowboy Fan’s younger blond wife had been wearing several pieces of equally expensive-looking jewelry, plus a white cowboy hat decorated with rhinestones, a pair of designer heels, and an outfit with an inordinate amount of fringe on it.

  Since Mr. Cowboy Fan was one of those men whose volume control was perpetually set on loud, it hadn’t been difficult to overhear the conversation he’d been having with Mrs. Cowboy Fan.

  “I’ll make this up to you, sweetie. I promise,” he’d said. “Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here.”

  “Well, sugar, if we stay in Marrakesh, we’ll have to find a different hotel. Our suite here at La Mamounia won’t be available after tomorrow.”

  She’d adjusted the tilt of her cowboy hat and smiled. “Maybe you could just pay those guests to go to another hotel. I’ve already made a spa appointment here for Thursday.”

  “No, darling, I checked with the manager earlier today. The guests scheduled to be in our suite are some kind of foreign dignitaries from Iraq, and they’ve booked our entire floor. They’re here for the Arab Summit, which I believe is being held down at the Royal Mansour.”

  “What a bummer that is. Why aren’t they staying at the Royal Mansour?”

  Nikki had asked me the same question when I’d told her I’d read in the CIA’s Daily Briefing Summary that the delegates from Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates had chosen not to stay at the Royal Mansour.

  Evidently, their decision was based on the fact the Iranian delegation would be staying at the Royal Mansour.

  Since both Saudi Arabia and the UAE were engaged in a war with Iran in Yemen, their refusal to stay in the same hotel with them was understandable.

  However, the situation between Iraq and Iran was a little different.<
br />
  Until recently, there hadn’t been much daylight between the two countries, but following Abdul Madi’s election as the new Iraqi prime minister, their close relationship had undergone some definite changes.

  According to what I’d read in the DBS, such changes were due to Prime Minister Madi’s refusal to allow his country to be dominated by the Iranian regime any longer.

  In fact, the decision he’d made to have his delegation stay at La Mamounia could be interpreted as a symbolic gesture of defiance against Iran, a way of demonstrating he was his own man and couldn’t be bullied by the Iranian president, Hashem Rashad.

  On the other hand, as Carlton had suggested, Madi had extravagant tastes, so maybe his refusal to stay at the Royal Mansour had nothing whatsoever to do with symbolic gestures. Maybe the Royal Mansour Hotel simply wasn’t up to Madi’s standards.

  For whatever reason, it appeared the upcoming arrival of Prime Minister Madi and his Iraqi delegation at La Mamounia had prevented Mr. Cowboy Fan and his spa-loving wife from staying a few extra days at our hotel.

  Personally, I’d be sorry to see them go.

  I didn’t think I’d find the Iraqi delegation nearly as entertaining.

  * * * *

  I was still observing the Iranians at the El Badi Palace when Nikki handed me her cell phone and said Eleanor wanted to speak to me.

  “Hi, Eleanor,” I said. “Are you and Stormy having a good time at Bella’s house?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course we are. Bella has a bunch of books I haven’t read.”

  “What about Stormy?”

  “He gets to chase Bella’s dog around the house, so I’m pretty sure he likes it here too.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  No doubt Danny would have plenty to say about Stormy’s behavior by the time we got back home. I’d probably never hear the end of it.

  “Did Nikki tell you we just finished touring the El Badi Palace?”