Dark Waters (5 page)

T
om Daugherty, regional security officer for the Tel Aviv embassy, sat squeezed onto a small bench opposite the apartments. Jordan had spotted him waiting when she pulled up but kept him sitting while she wrestled her hair into a ponytail holder and clipped her cell phone onto her belt next to her holstered and clearly visible gun. Running her palms down the front of her Kevlar vest, she tugged at the hem and then crossed the street to join him. Behind him, the fountain towered like a silent behemoth at rest. The smell of olives suffused the night air. A minifleet of white Israeli patrol cars, blue lights flashing, formed a semicircle in front of the Zinah Dizengoff Apartments.

From the number of officers and the blue barricades cordoning off the entrance, clearly something catastrophic had occurred. The judge and his daughter were staying in these apartments, but it seemed like the attention was focused on the office. Which begged the question, why was she here?

“Enjoy your dinner?” Daugherty asked.

“What I had of it.” She envisioned the half-serving of spaghetti with Bolognese sauce and the glass of Pinot Grigio she had shoved into the refrigerator.

His mouth twitched and then his face hardened into a craggy mask. “The apartment manager was murdered.”

She heard footsteps behind her. “It’s an ugly scene.”

She recognized the voice. Dan Posner, her old boss. Keeping her emotions in check, Jordan turned. He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him. Smug and self-righteous.

“Dan.” She held out her hand. He ignored it.

“Bet you’re wondering why I’m here,” Posner said, unbuttoning his signature G-man jacket and sticking his hands in his pockets. “Well, I’ve been reassigned to the secretary of state’s advance security team.”

She wanted to tell him that anyone else would have lost his job for what he pulled, but he still outranked her.

Daugherty chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying the exchange.

“Posner and I were having dinner ourselves when the call came through.” He gestured to the seat beside him. Jordan shook her head and remained standing.

Posner shrugged and sat down beside Daugherty.

“The judge and his daughter were out,” Daugherty said. “They got back, found the police here investigating a call on the manager, and found their apartment tossed.” Daugherty jerked his head toward the apartment building, now cluttered with crime scene personnel. “You are now in charge of babysitting.”

“The judge? You’re not bringing him in?”

“Nope,” Posner said. “I can’t allow it. We don’t have the room on the embassy grounds, and the advance team for the secretary of state’s visit is taking up all the contracted embassy housing.”

Daugherty tipped his head in concession. “Not only that, but the damn fool refuses to leave.”

Jordan frowned in surprise. The judge was in trouble on foreign soil. Standard procedure called for providing an American citizen refuge at the embassy and helping him get home. The judge had told her earlier that his daughter, Lucy, needed two more weeks of medical treatments and that he intended to stay. But now things
had changed. Surely he could see the only logical thing to do was to return to the States.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jordan said, “but if he’s refusing to come in, he’s not qualified for protection. The DSS only provides security for the embassy, foreign guests on U.S. soil, and U.S. government personnel on official business on foreign soil. We don’t normally protect American travelers with their own private agendas.”

Posner looked at Daugherty. “What did I tell you, Tom? Always ‘by the book.’”

Jordan stiffened. They had protocols for a reason. If Posner had followed protocol that night in Denver, neither of them would be here now.

“This citizen’s special,” Daugherty said. “His ex-wife is Sarah Taylor.”

“The junior senator from Colorado,” she said, making sure he knew she had done her homework.

Daugherty nodded. “Turns out she’s a good friend of Ambassador Linwood’s.”

Jordan drew a deep breath. “Crap.”

Posner chuckled.

Daugherty cocked his head and cupped a large hand behind his ear. “Did you say something, Jordan?”

“That explains it, sir.”

“You bet it does.” Daugherty scribbled something in the notepad he carried and then pointed his pen at her. “You know, you still have a couple of years on department probation before your job is secure.”

Jordan felt her mouth go dry. Why assign her this mission? She hadn’t been in Israel long enough to receive her geographical orientation, much less her mission security briefing. There had to be a more senior ARSO he could assign.
Was this some kind of test?

Her mind flashed to the night in Denver and the botched takedown. It hung in her memory as it became clear that Posner and Daugherty were old friends. Posner might not like the way the cards fell, but he had left her little choice but to tell the truth. He should’ve been fired. Lucky for him, he had friends in high places. He had been demoted and reassigned. She had been promoted and sent to Israel. Reward or a punishment? Right now, it was hard to say.

Posner’s head bobbed. “You might also want to remember that sometimes this job forces you to color outside the lines.”

“With the secretary of state’s advance team on the ground, everyone else is assigned to priority duties,” Daugherty said. “You’re what I’ve got, Jordan. If you don’t think you’re ready . . .”

Posner scoffed. He was clearly expecting her to fail.

Jordan locked eyes with Daugherty. “I can handle the job, sir.” If he thought anything different, he was sorely mistaken.

Daugherty grinned and wrote something more in his notebook. “Good to know.”

Now for the question she would have known the answer to if she’d been formally briefed. “Will I have a team? In order to provide adequate protection, I’ll need some Marines.”

Posner laughed. “Even with his connections, Taylor’s a stretch on available resources.”

Again, Jordan ignored him and looked to Daugherty for answers.

“I can afford ten Marines. Two guard details in rotating shifts.”

“That’s not nearly enough.” She needed to fully assess the layout of the apartment building complex, but from what she could readily see, she would need at least twice that number. There were too many access points to the apartments and too many hours to cover. Hell, when Prince Harry had visited Colorado on a ski trip, there had been more than a hundred agents working the detail.

“It’s the best I can do,” Daugherty said.

“What about local help? Who’s the embassy’s local contact?”

“Detective Noah Weizman, Israeli police, Tel Aviv District.” Daugherty gestured toward the office. “He’s on scene.”

He was the police detective who’d greeted her when she’d arrived on scene earlier that day.

“The lead on the sniper attack,” she said.

“Then you already have a relationship.” Daugherty uncurled himself from the bench. “I expect regular check-ins, Jordan. The first five Marines will report at twenty-two hundred hours. Better get some sleep between rotations.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” She waited until Posner and Daugherty reached their car and then called out, “And I might even eat something.”

Once they had pulled away, Jordan made her way toward the crime scene. The apartment manager had worked out of a storefront office on the bottom floor of a two-story building. Crime scene technicians packed the small room. Fingerprint experts worked the doorways and blinds, and yellow markers flagged footprints and evidence. Noah Weizman stood near the desk, where a photographer clicked photos of the carnage. The papers on the desk were covered in blood spatter, except for a thin void where someone had stood.

“I’d guess the murderer,” Weizman said, barely glancing up. He gestured between the desk and the manager’s body.

Jordan studied the scene. Based on the brutality, whoever had done this had killed with relish. “Any chance this was personal?”

“It’s possible, but then why toss the judge’s apartment?”

“So the killer was after the apartment number?” Jordan said.

“And the manager resisted.” Weizman gestured and moved toward the back door to the office. “Daugherty tells me you are going to be the judge’s minder.”

Jordan followed. “Word gets around fast. Did he also tell you we have limited manpower?”

“No.”

“Any chance for some help?”

“Not much.” Weizman raised a latex-gloved hand to push back his hair and then caught himself. “We’re stretched to the maximum.”

“The peace talks.” The secretary of state’s visit had everyone stretched thin.

Weizman nodded. “Plus Judge Taylor is an American. My superiors will feel you should be forcing him home.”

“Them and me both.”

“So you agree that’s best, and yet you are letting him stay.” He offered a thin smile and fished a business card out of his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

“Thanks.” She slipped the card into her pocket before waving her hand at the crime scene. “Any idea who did this?”

“They left fingerprints everywhere, so I doubt it was our shooter from the square. She was careful and left no traces in the hotel. We’ll run the prints through AFIS. With luck, we will get a hit. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks again. Do you know where I can find the judge?”

“Across the garden, upstairs to your right. I left him with my partner, Gidon.”

The automaton with attitude
. Gidon Lotner seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to Jordan. The thought of having to deal with him now left a sour taste in her mouth.

Exiting through the back door, Jordan stopped on the stoop and took time to assess the security risks. The buildings were all two-story. The one with the manager’s office abutted the sidewalk that surrounded Dizengoff Square. The two buildings in the rear shared a staircase and were accessible only through the garden and a locked doorway to the alley.

To her right, a path wound around the side of the building housing the office. Jordan followed it to the front sidewalk.

Mental note: post one guard here.

Continuing around the inside perimeter, she noted that the surrounding walls were easily climbable.

Post another guard at the back door of the office
. From there, the sentry would have a clear view of anyone attempting to scale the garden walls and of the alley entrance for putting out trash. The back door of the adjoining bar stood open, and she wondered if the bar patrons ever used this area. She’d have to make the garden off limits to them.

Jordan crossed the garden and climbed the two flights of stairs backward, taking in the surroundings. A guard stationed outside the apartment door would have an unobstructed view of the area and, more importantly, a line of sight to the guards positioned at the path entrance and the office door. That left one guard for inside and one floater. It was doable, if everyone worked twelve-hour shifts.

Jordan turned and knocked. Detective Lotner answered, opening the door into a small room that functioned as a living area and kitchen. There was a short hallway on the right with three doors.

“Good, you’re here to take over.” The Israeli’s thick accent slowed Jordan’s processing of his English.

“Yes.” Her delay in responding clearly annoyed him, and she switched to Hebrew, hoping he’d be easier to understand. “Where’s the judge?”

“Putting the child to bed.” He gestured toward the first door on the right.

“And the other two doors?”

“The judge’s bedroom at the end. The bathroom in between.” Lotner picked up a jacket draped across the easy chair and moved to leave. Jordan blocked his path.

“I need you to stay until the Marine contingent arrives,” she said.

Lotner pushed her aside. “I need to rejoin my partner.”

Jordan blocked the front door. “It’s important you wait.”

Lotner planted his feet and crossed his arms on his chest.

Jordan mirrored his stance, planning on waiting him out. She had no idea why this man was such a hard-ass. Maybe he disliked all Americans, or maybe he hated his job, or maybe he suffered from hemorrhoids. Whatever his problem was, it wasn’t hers.

“They’re on their way,” Jordan said.

Finally, Lotner relented. “Fine.”

Jordan nodded, stepped over to the living room window, and looked out into the alley two stories below. Checking the lock, she pulled the shade. “Did you conduct a sweep of the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sweep for bugs?”

“I know how to do my job.”

Not wanting to spar, Jordan glanced around at the disheveled room. “Any idea what they were looking for?”

“The judge.”

This asshole needed to be taught some manners. “Inside the couch cushions?”

“Maybe they wanted to make a statement.”

C
radled in garbage, Ganani lay still for a moment. Then, with a groan and an effort that shot pain through her back, she turned over and pushed herself to her hands and knees. The bags beneath her rolled and pitched. She heard the clamor of feet on stairs and the shouts of men. From the corner of the trash bin, a rat bared its teeth at her, prepared to battle over its dinner. She shuddered and hauled herself to her feet.

Harah
. Heaving herself over the metal edge of the dumpster, she dropped to the ground. The landing jarred her teeth and sent another shot of pain up her spine. The pashmina clinging to her shoulders stank of rotted fish, but she pulled it close to shield her face and fled into the darkness of al-Ajami.

The soles of her flats slipped on the loose dirt of the roadway, forcing her to slow her pace. She wove an intricate path through the alleyways, turning right here and left there, always aware of the shouts from the men in pursuit. Soon the voices faded away and the lights of Yafo welcomed her back.

People stared at her here, too. Not because she looked Israeli, she decided, but because she smelled. Ignoring the owner’s protests that the toilets were for customers only, she limped through the nearest café and took refuge in the bathroom.

Her pashmina was ruined, the fine wool embedded with bits of food. A rent in the fabric split it nearly in two. She pitched it into the trash, splashed water over her face and arms, and blotted the stains from her clothes using a handful of wet paper towels. Finally, facing the mirror, she tousled her brown hair and fished the lip gloss out of her pocket. The tinge of red made her transformation complete. A marvel considering she smelled like spoiled
chraime
.

Exiting the bathroom, she purchased a cup of coffee and, likely to the café owner’s relief, carried it outside to the patio. The night had cooled and, with help from the breeze off the water, the stench of the fish abated. Ganani sipped her coffee and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She needed to call Brodsky.

The thought brought with it a stab of fear. He frightened her when little else did. Colonel Brodsky was not a man who tolerated errors, and she had made several.

The phone rang and she pictured him lifting the receiver. Tall and fit, with close-cropped hair, blue eyes, and a piercing insight, the colonel engendered fear. He would know she had failed.

“Shalom,”
Ilya Brodsky said, his voice quiet yet fierce.

“It’s Ganani.”

She waited for him to secure the line. After a final click, he asked, “Has it been taken care of?”

“No.” The truth was easiest when it came quickly.

Silence. Finally, he spoke. “Why not?”

She gave him a rundown of the events.

“And the Arab who got away?” Brodsky asked.

She chafed under his reproachful tone. She wasn’t trained to make costly mistakes. Today, she’d made two, and Israel would pay the price for her failure. “I will find him.”

“Does he have the information?”

Ganani didn’t want to admit it. “I don’t know for sure.”

Again, there was a momentary silence. “If the mission is to succeed, we must have the information the Palestinians brought to trade.”

“I am aware.” Ganani tried wetting her lips, but her mouth was dry. She took a sip of the coffee and wondered how he’d react to her next idea. “Perhaps we should go to the detective in charge of the shooting investigation and—”

“No.”

The word came strong. She knew that, from his vantage point, there were already enough rumors circulating about who fired the shots in Dizengoff Square.

Brodsky’s next words solidified her thoughts. “There will be more to deal with once the police are called to al-Ajami.”

She flashed back to the Palestinian’s crushed larynx and the single shot to the tall man’s head. More room for speculation. The thought made her self-conscious. She glanced around to see who besides the coffee shop owner would remember her. It was time to move on. She stood and started away from the table, but the motion caused static on the line. She stopped in the glare of a streetlamp for fear of losing the connection.

“For now,” Brodsky said, “there are only rumors, nothing more. It is not your concern. Your job is to recover both of the USB drives. You must make sure nothing passes into the wrong hands. There is too much riding on your success.”

She wondered at his meaning. Was he concerned about the mission, or was he suggesting there would be other rewards? “I understand, Colonel.”

After he hung up, Ganani turned off her phone, slipped into the shadows of the building, and waited for the next bus to take her back into Tel Aviv. She studied the landscape, reassuring herself that no one showed her any overt interest. Now all she needed was a plan.