JET - Ops Files (9 page)

Avi’s stern countenance registered surprise. “Your Arabic is good.”

“It’s better than good. It’s perfect,” she said, then switched to English with a vaguely Midwestern American accent. “As is my English, French, and all the rest. Look, someone altered my submission. Can you take two guesses who that might have been?”

Avi sat back, thoughtful. “I need to take this under advisement.”

“Great. Meanwhile I’m rotting in here.”

“The other part of your story also doesn’t check out. There were no explosives at the mosque.”

She looked genuinely puzzled. “And the ball bearings?”

“They were found, but there was no device, just two bags of bearings, which while suspect, is hardly enough to clear you.”

“Wait. The bomb maker. He said something about the device being mounted in a utility truck with a remote detonator.”

“Sure he did.”

“No, I’m serious. Want to bet the explosives are somewhere else, and they just stopped at the mosque to pick up more supplies? Or perhaps there’s another explanation…”

“Like there’s no bomb.”

“Look, you didn’t believe me about my language skills, and you’ve seen you were wrong. Give me the benefit of the doubt. And what possible innocent reason can you think of for there to be a cache of ball bearings in a mosque? Tell me that.”

“Coming up with alternative theories isn’t how I typically mount a convincing defense unless I have absolutely nothing else to go with. I prefer evidence that shows the charges are baseless. Unfortunately, at least one of the counts is easy to prove. You were off the base, out of uniform, when you were supposed to be in the barracks.”

“I was in uniform beneath the robe.”

“That means nothing.”

“If you go into the West Bank wearing an IDF uniform and you’re not in an armed convoy, it’s a death sentence.”

Avi sighed. “I understand that. I completely get why you were disguised. For your own safety. Unfortunately, all that proves is that you didn’t want to get killed by an angry mob. It says nothing about your motives.”

“I already told you why I did it.”

“Even if I believed you, that still makes you guilty of most of the charges, Maya.” He paused. “What were you thinking would happen? Really?”

She stared at the dented metal tabletop and rubbed a tired hand across her face. “I figured they’d find the bomb and throw me a parade. Honestly. I’m not suicidal.” She closed her eyes and then sat up and snapped her fingers. “The bomb maker. Do you have a list of the Palestinian casualties at the mosque?”

Avi shook his head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I got a good look at him. He was older. Looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties.” She hesitated. “See if anyone answering that description was killed at the mosque. Because otherwise he’s still out there. And if I’m right, he’s targeting one of the settlements around Ramallah, and it’s only a matter of time until he puts his plan into action and a lot of innocent people wind up dead.” She ignored the expression on Avi’s face. “And see if the ambulance driver was one of the casualties. If not, they both got away.”

Avi looked at her with an expression of disbelief. “You aren’t hearing a word I’m saying, are you?”

“Can you get that information or not? Regardless of my situation, it’s critical. Because he might be out there, and if he is, time will prove I was right all along. But when busloads of women and children get turned into hamburger, that won’t be much of a consolation. Bluntly, my best defense lies with finding the bomb maker and his terrorist sidekicks.”

He grunted. “I can nose around some, I suppose. But I’m not sure what you expect will happen, even if their bodies aren’t there.”

“What will happen is that I’ll give the appropriate parties their names. I’m sure with names they can locate them, given enough resources. And I can offer a detailed description of them both. Enough to find at least one of them in a town with a small population like Ramallah.”

Avi’s eyes narrowed. “You know these men’s names?”

She nodded. “Better get to work. Clock’s ticking, and time’s not our friend.”

“That’s it? Just, get to work? Nothing else?”

She sat back. “Please, just find that out. And then get someone in here whose first priority is to stop a major terrorism attack against one of our settlements. If you can do that, I have a feeling that the rest of this will fall into place, and my actions will be viewed in the correct light. Whether you believe it or not, I haven’t lost my mind, and I know what I heard.”

Avi was silent for several moments. He pushed back from the table and shouldered his backpack. “Fine. But this is a very risky game you’re playing.”

She frowned. “That’s the point. I’m not playing a game. But I’m the only one who knows that. Get me the info, and everyone will.”

Chapter 14

Prague, Czech Republic

Esther yawned, her long night finally over, another in a series of depressing encounters that made her want to drink a bottle of Scotch after scrubbing every inch of herself to eradicate the filth she felt covered in. She knew it was purely psychological – she’d taken a shower after her last client, a member of the cabinet who’d apparently never had sufficient breastfeeding as a child. But still, she felt like there was a polluted sheen to her skin that all the soap in the world couldn’t eliminate.

Her clients tended to be easy to please, mostly wanting to be dominated by a strong, beautiful female. Many wanted to be humiliated, which was fine by her, although her eyes had been opened to some surprising facets of the human condition since taking the job. The sex, on the few occasions it was required, was always safe, but it still sickened her, and every time one of her clients touched her, a part of her soul died.

Tonight had been especially unpleasant. The new customer had been drunk, and when she’d refused to cross a line she’d warned in advance wasn’t part of her repertoire, he became abusive and violent. Fortunately Ingrid, the Madam, had reacted swiftly to her call for help, and two burly bouncers had made short work of the man, carting him unceremoniously from the room and warning him to never come back as they showed him the exit. It had rattled her, but it was a horrible gig under the best of circumstances, and she felt fortunate that kind of incident hadn’t happened sooner.

Her cover story had to be airtight, she knew, but after this assignment she was going to hang it up or ask to be retired to less demanding work, perhaps as an instructor. At the ripe old age of twenty-three she felt triple her age, and the duty was wearing on her more with each passing day. She understood the need for operatives who would do the unthinkable, but she’d found that being one exacted a heavy toll, and the excitement of a clandestine life quickly turned into something far uglier than she’d bargained for.

But she’d made a deal with the devil, and she knew she was obligated to keep it. There was no turning back, and the mission depended upon her being above suspicion. Which meant working as a prostitute, albeit an extremely high-end one that specialized in kink – the sort that her target was known to favor.

She rolled her head, trying to loosen the ache that had developed in her neck during the last session, which had mostly involved some light whipping and making the customer beg to suckle her breasts while he wore a pair of oversized pajamas that he’d clearly had custom made, the feet and the button-up front an oversized duplicate of a child’s. She shuddered and closed her eyes, willing away the memory of the man’s sweating, porcine face. When she opened them again, the world appeared slightly less grim. With a final glance at the room where she spent six hours per evening, five nights a week, she extinguished the lights and made her way downstairs, where the other girls were having their after-work drinks – a ritual in the house at four in the morning, half an hour after the official closing time.

Her friend Monique waved a champagne flute at her. “Esther. Come. I saved you some Dom. One of the Russians couldn’t be bothered to finish his second bottle, so we get it. Tasty,” she said. Monique was one year younger than Esther, from Paris, where she’d been a dancer before her enjoyment of cocaine and booze had led her to this business instead of rehearsals. She’d quit the ballet at seventeen and had been working in Prague for one year, having run afoul of the local mob in France over a debt dispute and decided that opportunity lay east.

“Ah, thank you,
chérie
. Just what the doctor ordered,” Esther said, looking forward to the drink. God knew she needed it. Some nights were like that, some better than others. This had been another one of the hard ones.

Monique poured a flute full and handed it to Esther, who took it gratefully and drained half the glass in two gulps. “Mmm. That’s delicious. You’re a magician, Monique.”

“That’s what all my clients say. The customer’s always right,
n’est-ce pas
?”

They bantered, trading war stories about the night’s Johns, and before Esther knew it, the Dom Perignon was gone and Monique was pouring herself a glass of sambuca. She offered Esther a splash, but Esther declined. She knew where that led, and the morning hangover wasn’t worth the oblivion the anise liqueur promised. The alcohol and the tension from the night’s confrontation had drained her, and her head was already spinning after the champagne on an empty stomach.

“No, sweetheart, I’m done. Enjoy yourself. I’m off to get my beauty rest,” Esther announced, waving to the room full of young women, each with her own stories, most of which involved a background of abuse, drugs, and living on the streets as runaways before discovering that certain physical attributes could be exchanged for creature comforts.

“Are you sure?” Monique pouted.

“Absolutely,
chérie
. See you tomorrow, eh?”

Eric, the older bouncer, escorted her to the door, the faint white trace of a knife scar on his cheek glowing in the dim light of the foyer. He held it open for her and watched as she walked down the stairs. Her heels clicked on the cobblestones, echoing off the surrounding buildings like the ticking of a clock.

A dark figure darted from the shadows at the end of the block and was on her before she could reach for the stiletto in her purse. The first blow came out of nowhere and knocked her senseless; the second fractured her jaw. She fell hard, striking her head, and the last thing she registered before the world faded was the drunk from earlier that night, kicking her with a savagery that transformed his mildly handsome face into a twisted mask of rage.

Chapter 15

Ramallah, West Bank

The following day Maya was led back into the interrogation room, but this time her wrist wasn’t shackled, which she took as a positive sign, if a small one. She waited the obligatory five minutes and, when the door opened, wasn’t surprised to see Avi – although she was to see him accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man in his thirties wearing a rumpled charcoal suit.

“What is this?” she demanded, instantly distrustful.

“Maya, this is Benjamin. He’s with the Mossad.” Ari let that sink in. “He wanted to meet you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“The Mossad?” she echoed, hoping that signaled that she was finally being taken seriously.

“Yes,” Benjamin said, taking one of the two seats on the other side of the steel table. “Avi brought you to my attention, and I wanted to get a look at you myself. A most unusual story.” He switched to fluent English. “You were taken into custody after being found in the West Bank, where you had been doing clandestine surveillance on a mosque?”

“Yes, that’s right,” she replied in kind.

“On your own,” he said, his disbelief evident.

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“I’ve already explained this.”

He crossed his arms and sat back in the chair. “Explain it again.”

Maya took him through her reasoning. He interrupted her midway through and asked her to continue in Arabic, which she did. When she was finished, he regarded her with sleepy eyes. “And you think you have a lead on the bomb maker and the terrorist leader?” he asked in lightly accented French.

“I know what they look like, and I know their names. Is that good enough?” she answered in perfect French.

“If it proves true.” He paused. “How many languages do you speak?”

“That was all on the original form I filled out.”

“Humor me.”

“Counting Hebrew? Seven. Although I’m teaching myself an eighth.”

“Really. Why?” he asked, appearing to be genuinely curious.

“I enjoy learning new things. Languages were a way to pass the time…when I was younger.”

“And you can write them, too?”

“How do you think I learned them? From books. Of course I can write them,” she snapped, leaving out that her parents had spoken Hebrew, English, and Spanish at home. The Arabic she’d picked up from her pig of a foster father’s maid. None of which was anyone’s business but hers.

Avi and Benjamin exchanged a glance. Avi leaned forward, his hands folded on the table. “Benjamin brought a test he wants you to complete. It shouldn’t take long. An hour, an hour and a half, tops.”

“Why should I do anything? I’m under arrest. You’re the one who told me not to say anything or talk to anyone but you.”

Avi nodded. “It might help your case.”

“I don’t see how.”

Benjamin sighed and stood. “Very well, then. Take your chances with the court.”

“But the bomber…”

“I don’t believe you. I think it’s an invention to justify your actions. I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve had enough of it,” he said, his tone stern.

Avi held up a hand and frowned. “Maya. He’s not bluffing. Just take the test, and then, depending on what Benjamin thinks, we’ll get a detailed drawing of the bomb maker done and see if we can find him. As your attorney, with all due respect, I’m advising you to shut up and take the test.”

She glared holes through Benjamin. “Just like that. Take it because he said to?”

“Right. And say thank you,” Benjamin fired back, eyeing the door, his slim eel-skin briefcase in hand.