Direct Action (11 page)

3:45
P
.
M
. They were lying on the bed, covered by a thick duvet. He’d stood under the shower for nearly a quarter hour while she busied herself, not wanting to pry. He’d finally emerged, a towel wrapped around his middle, clutching the empty cognac glass. He appeared so ingenuously vulnerable in that instant that MJ was able to picture him as a little boy.

His knees were scraped raw and bright red. The scabs were going to be enormous. She noted that the whole right side of his rib cage was bruised—a mottled mélange of purple, yellow, and sickly green that stretched from his chest to his waist. When she asked what had happened, he said someone had kicked him by mistake.

He’d padded into the living room, refilled his glass from the bottle on the oval, Art Deco rolling brass-and-glass bar, and downed it in a single gulp.
“Was it that bad?”
“Worse.” He’d poured a third shot, drunk it, then gone and collapsed on the bed. She’d lain down next to him and caressed his shoulder. Half an hour later they’d made love.

He snuggled close and kissed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry, love.” She rolled over and stared into his eyes. “For what?”
“I never even asked how you are.”
“You were preoccupied.”
“I’m not preoccupied now.”
Except he was. She could see it. His face was a mask. His eyes were

cold—murderous. The veins on his forehead were throbbing. She’d never seen him like this. MJ decided to take the easy way out. “I’m fine. And I love my backpack.”

He kissed her. “They’re all the rage here.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I don’t want to bother you. We have so little time...”
His expression softened. He kissed her. “MJ...”
She pulled herself up, reached for the shirt she’d draped over the bedpost, and shrugged into it. “Well, if you really want to know, it’s been a horrible week for me, too.”
He’d surmised as much. “Mrs. Sin-Gin again?”
“I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want me to do my job.”
He grunted. “You know you always have someplace to go.”
She looked over at him. “No, Tom, I’m serious.” She bit her lower lip. “Can I show you something?”
“Always.”
“But it’s just for you, Tom. Your eyes only. Not to share.” She waited for him to say something.
When he didn’t, she said, “I’m serious.”
Finally, he said, “My eyes only, MJ.”
“Okay.” MJ wrapped herself in the shirt more tightly, slipped out of the bed, and padded into the living room. Thirty seconds later she was back, a manila envelope clasped to her bosom. “I spent a whole day on this—for nothing.” She flipped the sealed envelope onto his lap. “She refused even to look at it.”
He pulled a small pocketknife out of the top drawer of the bedside table, used it to slit the top flap, and extracted a dozen photographs. He examined the first three. “Gaza—the embassy Suburban.”
She nodded. “I was just trying to be creative. You know—think outside the box. Oh, Tom, it’s so hard to work when the person you’re working for doesn’t have the faintest idea about—”
And then she saw his face, and realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He was zoning.
She curled around his shoulder to see what he was looking at. It was the blowup of the six bodyguards. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He let the photo drop onto the duvet. “MJ,” he said, his face as somber as she’d ever seen it, “tell me exactly what you were doing. Exactly, and why. And then tell me what the reaction was at Langley. Down to the tiniest detail.”

19 OCTOBER 2003
4:35
P
.
M
.
BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

AIR FRANCE 1620 ARRIVED HALF AN HOUR LATE. As the plane emerged from the opaque wall of cloud cover, MJ pressed her nose against the window listening to the whine as the pilot extended his flaps and descended quickly over an Israeli coast lit brilliant orange red by the setting sun. She’d expected... well, she hadn’t known what to expect. Camels and tents maybe, or some sort of Mediterranean Lower East Side. Certainly not the seawall of high-rises and glass-and-steel skyscrapers that looked a lot more Miami than her mind’s eye picture of Tel Aviv. Then the plane banked sharply over scrub-covered hills, descended rapidly, and landed. They rode a jam-packed shuttle bus to the terminal, passed without incident through passport control, claimed their baggage, then fought their way through the crowd into the bustling terminal itself.

Tom guided her through double doors, then steered her around a squad of soldiers, M-16s slung over their shoulders, along a wide swath of sidewalk that smelled of diesel fumes, sweat, and smoke. At the far end of the terminal they bumped their wheeled suitcases over the curb and scampered across three lanes of fast-moving traffic to a small asphalt island on the far side of the roadway. There, in a clearly marked no-parking zone, sat a white Jeep Cherokee trimmed in gold.

The driver saw them coming. He extracted himself from the vehicle, strode toward them, threw his arms around Tom, and kissed him thrice in the Arab fashion. “Ahlan, Tom,” he said. “Ahlan wahsalan. Welcome back to Israel, my friend.”

“Reuven. Good to see you.” Tom put his hand on MJ’s back and propelled her forward. “Reuven, this is my friend MJ.”
The Israeli’s eyes scanned her professionally and his expression left no doubt he’d sensed her shock. He took her hand and kissed it in the European fashion. She couldn’t help but notice that he favored a lot of sweet and slightly citrus-scented cologne.
He slowly withdrew his lips from her hand but never let it go. “I am Reuven Ayalon.” The Israeli smiled warmly, his dark eyes locked with hers. His accent was unmistakably French. “You are most welcome to Israel, beautiful MJ.”
She blushed. The intensity of his gaze was making her uneasy. “Thank you,” she stammered. MJ couldn’t help but stare back at him. He was a fascinating picture; almost a caricature. Tall and dark, but soft around the middle, he was dressed entirely in black: black silk shirt open halfway down his chest, baggy black trousers, and shiny black tasseled loafers. His coalblack hair was, on second glance, a perfectly coiffed and hugely expensive hairpiece, which was balanced below by the same sort of well-manicured mustache and triangular goatee favored by Saudi royalty. Around Reuven’s neck hung a heavy-linked gold chain. His left wrist held a thick gold Rolex whose bezel was implanted with diamonds at the three-, six-, nine-, and twelve-o’clock positions. On Reuven’s right wrist was an oversize diamond-accented gold ID bracelet with Hebrew lettering.
Tom opened the rear door for her and helped her in as Reuven tossed their suitcases in the back and slammed the cargo door shut. Tom eased into the shotgun seat and cinched his seat belt. “I know Reuven from Paris,” he explained. “He was with the Israeli embassy. We covered some of the same ground. Now he works for 4627.”
“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t what MJ wanted to hear. The fact that she was in Israel was bad enough. Israel wasn’t on the itinerary Mrs. SJ required her to file before she’d left Coppermine. And now she’d met an Israeli foreign intelligence officer. It didn’t matter that he was retired, either. In fact, just sitting in his car was enough of a no-no to jeopardize her Top Secret clearance.
Tom swiveled. “Hey... just relax and enjoy the scenery. You’re gonna love this place.” It was as if he’d read her mind.
And of course he was right. What’s done is done, is what her father always said. Besides, this was all her own doing. Her clearance was already in jeopardy—hadn’t she removed the Gaza photographs from the office? Hadn’t she brought them for Tom to see? Hadn’t—her reverie was shattered as Reuven Ayalon slammed the Jeep into gear, smacked pedal to metal, and fishtailed toward the airport exit, cutting off a huge bus without a second thought or any hint of a glance at the rearview mirror.
The Israeli raced past a security checkpoint manned by khaki-clad troops and in a matter of seconds the Jeep was on a modernistic four-lane highway bordered by cotton fields and orange groves. The Jeep flew west into the disappearing light, Reuven signaling with his horn and weaving in and out of the thick evening traffic as if he were drunk-driving the Daytona 500. MJ glanced at the dash. Mother of God, he was doing 155 kilometers an hour. Instinctively, she reached over her right shoulder for the seat belt. There was no seat belt.
They hurtled through a long underpass and came out under Tel Aviv. Reuven passed a police car on the right, veered into an exit lane, and steered the Jeep onto another freeway. MJ saw a solid wall of brake lights ahead. The gridlock didn’t faze Reuven, who steered the Jeep onto the narrow shoulder of the road, leaned on the horn, and just kept going. When the Jeep skidded on some loose gravel, fishtailed, and almost hit the guardrail, she actually screamed. When Tom caught a glimpse of her horrified expression, he laughed out loud.

5:55
P
.
M
. Reuven Ayalon sped north along the Herzlyia beachfront, swerved right, and accelerated into a narrow side street past a sign that bore the words K
EDOSHAI
H
ASHOAH
. Two hundred feet later he pulled up onto the garage apron of a walled three-story villa. A foot-square antique tile set into the wall next to the mail slot was emblazoned with the number 71 and Hebrew lettering.

Reuven switched off the lights and set the parking brake. “Home sweet home.”
Tom looked confused. “I thought you told me you’d made us reservations.”
“I did,” the Israeli said. “At the Ayalon Hilton. You get your own suite.”
“We don’t want to put you out.”
“Out? Me? I welcome the company. Ever since Leah died, I’ve become un reclus.” He turned toward MJ. “A bit of a hermit. You know she was killed in a homicide bombing last year.”
“Tom told me. I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. “Thank you. It was why when Tom asked me to join his firm I couldn’t say no.” Reuven opened the Jeep’s rear gate, yanked MJ’s suitcase onto the concrete, and extended the handle. “So you’re staying here—I don’t accept arguments. My boys are both married. They have their own lives. Believe me, I crave adult company.” He waited as Tom retrieved his own suitcase. “Look—for the last ten days or so, I’ve begun asking the dogs for investment advice. What worries me is that they’re starting to make sense.”
To the sound of muffled barking, Reuven led the way to a tall, wide, eggplant-colored metal gate. He punched a code into the keypad that sat at eye level, waited until the gate lock buzzed, then nudged it with his shoulder. “Bou—come. Follow me.”
He led the way. MJ was impressed. The thick, razor-wire-topped wall was covered in bougainvillea and wild roses. The pathway from the gate to the front door was made of textured stones and bordered in ground cover. There were palm trees and lemon trees and Roman columns all lit by accent lights. A millstone, also beautifully illuminated, rested against the far end of the garden wall. To its right, near a huge dining table protected by a tentlike covering, sat a terra-cotta urn that had to be six feet high. MJ was entranced. “This is breathtaking, Reuven.”
“Thank you. Believe me, I didn’t do anything. It was all Leah.” The Israeli pushed open the ornate wooden front door, and they made their way into a marble-floored foyer. To their left was a wide marble staircase. MJ could see what looked like a living room up the half-dozen steps. At the top of the steps, two huge black Bouviers des Flandres poked their square muzzles around the wall, Totem-pole fashion. They saw the strangers and barked.
“Sheket, klavim.” Reuven gathered Tom and MJ in his arms and squeezed them close to him. He machine-gunned Hebrew at the dogs, who trotted down the stairs and sniffed the visitors.
“Let them smell your hands, MJ,” Reuven instructed. “Tom they’ll remember.”
And indeed, the smaller of the two Bouviers was already standing on its hind legs, forepaws on Tom’s shoulders, licking his face.
Tom laughed and ruffled the dog’s ears. “This is Cleo, right?” “Of course. Your girlfriend.” Reuven made a clicking sound and the dogs sat obediently. He turned to MJ. “Cleo likes to sleep with Tom when he visits.” He looked at Tom reprovingly. “Not that he visits very often. The big male is named Bilbo.”
Cleo nudged Tom, herding him up against a wall until he scratched behind her ears then transferred his attention to her rump, grinning when her stump of a tail vibrated with pleasure. “How’re the boys?”
Reuven extracted a treat from his pocket and tossed it at Bilbo, who caught it midair. “Like I said, married. They have their families and big success in business. In the summer, they go to Turkey on the weekends. In the winter, Switzerland to ski.” He glanced at Tom. “Take your bags upstairs— you know where to go—and then come down. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We can sit outside and catch up, and I’ll cook us some dinner later.”

10:35
P
.
M
. MJ sat on the wide marble balcony, her feet propped on the low wall, and stared westward toward the high-rise buildings that rimmed the coast road. The clouds had blown out to sea and the night was brilliant— the moon huge and golden. At 8:30, Reuven had cooked a simple dinner of omelets filled with onions, goat cheese, and wonderful Russian sausage, along with green salad and an extraordinary red wine. They ate outside, and it was chilly enough for MJ to run upstairs for a sweater.

Now she drained the glass of mellow red, padded inside to the kitchen, and poured herself another two fingers’ worth. She stared at the label. It was unintelligible—entirely in Hebrew. Well, that made sense because the wine was Israeli. Reuven had said it was a Merlot—he’d called it a Kfira Merlot to be precise. Well, this Israeli Kfira Merlot was as good as any she’d ever tasted. Cleo at her side, she headed back to the balcony. She’d already had three glasses tonight and she was slightly tipsy.

She sat, sipped, then let her head loll back against the chair while her left hand played with the Bouvier’s rough coat. There’d be time tomorrow to call the office and explain the fact that she wasn’t going to be back for a few more days. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight, she was content to sit and stare into space while Tom and Reuven jabbered at each other in a bewildering mixture of Arabic and French with an English word thrown in every now and then. She guessed they were talking about the materials she’d brought to Paris. So what? No one at Coppermine cared enough to give her work a second thought. Tom had found it valuable enough to bring it here.