The Eden Deception

by Nathan Swain

  Samir stopped the car in Berkeley Square and handed his keys to a valet.

  He offered his arm to Olivia. “Come on then.”

  They dined on muscles, pommes frites and steak at Kinzie’s private club and took drinks in the basement at the ridiculously exclusive Eleven Club, to which even Olivia had never gained admission. London’s it-man of the hour Jake Sandford-Smith personally served their cocktails and chatted privately with Samir for a moment, all jocularity and backslapping.

  Olivia was grateful she had over-dressed for her lecture, wearing a black split-neck sheath dress that could easily double as a cocktail frock. That, and her mother’s purple amethyst ring, that never left her right ring finger, made her feel sufficiently stylish for the occasion.

  “How on Earth could you get us in here?” she asked Samir.

  “Of course, I’m a member.”

  Olivia reached out across the table and put her hand on Samir’s.

  “And how is it, dear student, that you are a member here?”

  A beam of indigo from the lights in the club spiraled across Olivia’s face. Samir returned the gesture, gently cupping Olivia’s forearm in his other hand.

  “There’s much you don’t know about me professor.”

  Chapter 20

  It was 2 a.m. when Samir’s cell phone buzzed again. Without apology, he rose to take the call.

  Olivia shook her head and smiled. Another layer of mystery. Who takes calls at 2 a.m.? Was it his daddy’s banker asking where to wire the money to pay for drinks? She and Samir had spent the night together, driving through London, dining and drinking, but Olivia still knew very little about him.

  It wasn’t until the end of the drinking portion of the evening, after Samir returned from his call with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in hand, that he finally started to open up. It turned out that he was understated, but intelligent—even charming. Despite his stolid demeanor, there was a childlike innocence about Samir that Olivia found disarming. By 3 a.m., she felt like she had finally breached his defenses.

  Samir let drop a few precious biographical jewels. His parents were Palestinian. He was born in the Gaza Strip and orphaned by an Israeli missile. A Jordanian doctor adopted him and raised him in Amman—hence, his interest, Olivia inferred, in the story of the world’s most famous orphan, David Copperfield. He ended up serving five years in the Jordanian army, including as aide de camp to the country’s future king.

  “I know twelve different ways to kill a man,” Samir said, “but I’ve only used eight of them as of tonight.”

  “I do hope you’re joking,” Olivia said.

  “You’ll never know,” Samir said, with a wink.

  Olivia still had so many questions. Why was Samir studying at Cambridge? What did he like to do other than follow her around Cambridge all day? But after getting nowhere with her initial inquiries, she was reluctant to dig deeper—to run through the litany of classic “first date” questions, even to ask him about that ridiculous pin on his lapel that looked oddly familiar to her.

  This most certainly is not a date, she kept telling herself, just in case she wanted an out. That would be eye-brow raising. Also, strange. She could date virtually any eligible man in London: actors, politicians, even royals. And yet, the evening bore all the indicators of wooing and romance. The posh environs. His insistence on footing the bills. The occasional touch on her shoulder and arm around her back. Strangest of all, Olivia was reciprocating.

  Samir returned to the table. “Samir, this evening has been delightful, but I really must leave if I’m going to make it back to Cambridge before breakfast.”

  “No. You should come to my flat.”

  The gall of this man.

  “You have a flat in London?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course, you do. Well, thank you. But that’s not going to happen. I don’t do one night stands, despite what the tabloids might say.”

  “Is that what you think this is?”

  Olivia was exasperated. He was blowing hot and cold to keep her off balance. It was classic dating gamesmanship, following an aggressive gesture with feigned indifference. Still, she was exhausted and a sojourn back to Cambridge was out of the question. She was also curious what the flat could tell her about Samir.

  “I have no idea what this is. But I am so bloody tired I will take you up on your offer, as long as you understand that there will be nothing untoward occurring.”

  Samir smirked. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Set amid the trendy restaurants and pubs on Haverstock Hill in Belsize Park, everything in the apartment was immaculate and insanely expensive.

  Bloody hell. This must have cost the doctor-daddy a fortune. Underground parking, 24-hour security, elevator delivery directly into the flat. I knew I should have gone into medicine.

  It also had all the trappings of a lad’s pad: billiard’s table, ample mini bar, gratuitous Manchester United paraphernalia. An enormous terrace offered gorgeous views of central London, its historic gray stone buildings and modern skyscrapers were laid bare by the moonlight.

  Samir offered Olivia a seat on the living room couch and returned with two glasses of cognac. He deftly wrapped his arm around her left shoulder and then caressed the hinge on the back of her neck.

  Olivia protested. “Uh, Samir, recall that I’m your instructor.” Inwardly, however, she had already decided to jettison the faculty rule book. Almost everybody did, particularly the male faculty. Why should there be a double standard?

  “Tonight, let me be your instructor,” Samir said.

  It was a horrible line. But that was the charm of Samir: it didn’t seem to matter.

  He led her into his bedroom. Olivia followed.

  Chapter 21

  Surging west in a C130 over the Arabian Desert, Eastgate fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed of walking through the grounds of a gothic-steepled university as chunks of granite and shards of stained glass fell from the sky. He waited for a Chinook to land in a grassy garden next to one of the buildings to evacuate him back to Baghdad. But each time he heard the blades of the helicopter chop through the air, ready to drop a ladder for his escape, it disappeared into the perfect blue sky above him. The dream seemed to tumble, turn, and repeat in his mind, without beginning or end.

  And then, a thud. The jumbo transport plane, specially chartered to deliver Eastgate to his destination of choice, touched down and screamed to a lurching halt on the airport runway. Eastgate looked down at his lap. There was the silver briefcase. The same briefcase he swiped from the old man at the checkpoint. He had been clutching it during the flight like a mother cradling her infant child. The tablet was safe inside, for now.

  He also clutched his sprained shoulder. It bashed against the side of the plane on touchdown. The battered nerve endings seemed to wait to cry out until he had checked on the tablet. Like the rest of his body, they understood his priorities: the mission came first.

  A crackle, and then the pilot’s voice sounded over the plane’s speaker: “Welcome to Amman, Jordan, Eastgate. Please watch your step deboarding the plane. We know you have a choice of airlines when you fly. We appreciate you choosing the United States Air Force.”

  With a desert camo rucksack slung over his back, Eastgate carried the briefcase through the surging crowds of Queen Alia International Airport. Packs of long-legged flight attendants pulled roller bags through the terminals. Bedouin tribesmen bearing squawking fowl and bleating goats rushed to purchase tickets alongside slender businessmen in Western suits. Mothers covered from head to shoulder in traditional hijabs led restless children through the mass of travelers.

  Eastgate kept his eyes open for trouble, but his thoughts were focused on Olivia Nazarian. Before he left Baghdad, a CIA contact gave Eastgate a dossier on Olivia and her family. A page turner, Eastgate finished it before the C130 left Kuwaiti air space.

  Olivia was clearly the right person for the job. Her knowledge of proto-cuneiform and the
historical Garden of Eden were unmatched. If anyone could help him uncover the secrets of the tablet, it would be her. But Eastgate was conflicted. By consulting her about the tablet, he likely would be putting her life in danger. It’s possible he already had. Someone in the CIA or Army Intelligence—someone on the inside working against him—might have reviewed his flight manifest and realized where he was going and with whom he was meeting.

  The fact that her father was foreign secretary created other problems. There might be a security detail assigned to her, or an MI5 agent watching her from afar. They would have little patience with an American soldier pestering her about an ancient tablet bearing hidden secrets. With a curt nod of the head, she could signal them to jolt Eastgate with a TASER and drag his limp body off to the Cambridge police. The incident would be chalked up by the tabloids as an unfortunate side-effect of post-traumatic stress.

  And then there was her celebrity. According to the dossier, Olivia Nazarian was the third most popular internet search in Britain in 2002 behind Rio Ferdinand and foot and mouth disease. A gaggle of media probably followed her every step. What if the tabloids found him out? At best, his reputation would be ruined and he’d be dismissed from the Special Forces in disgrace. At worst, he’d swiftly be located by his pursuers and shot dead before he could leave Cambridge.

  “This way, sir,” a woman dressed in a smart red and gold airline uniform said. Distracted, Eastgate looked up. She was pointing toward a gleaming mirrored door. The sign above read: “Executive Lounge.” Eastgate had no membership ID, but it didn’t matter. The woman was among a handful of people at the airport that day hired to keep Eastgate alive. Eastgate walked inside.

  The lounge was designed in the Middle East techno-posh style common to the best airports in the region. A domed ceiling crowned the main room. Plasma screen televisions hung like paintings above black lounge chairs. Three men in business attire sat quietly at the bar sipping on bottles of Peroni.

  Eastgate walked through the main room into the adjacent billiard hall and library, which was modeled like the study of an English nobleman. Islam’s prohibition of the selling of alcohol, which was strictly observed in much of Jordan, did not apply in the lounge. Nor did the custom of modest attire. He hadn’t seen so many short skirts since he and Jarrett crashed a disco-themed wedding party in Tel Aviv. What would the devout people of Jordan think if they saw this place? Eastgate wondered.

  The pool table looked like something out of the gallery of prizes on a game show set—it had never been used. Eastgate rolled the white cue ball back and forth across the width of the table. A distinguished looking man, trim and finely dressed, approached.

  “Would you care for something to drink, sir?”

  Eastgate peered up at the man. “Before my flight? What would you recommend?”

  “The Hogan sherry is excellent.”

  “I’ll have that—and a newspaper.”

  Eastgate sat alone in a green leather wingback chair. The waiter brought him his drink and a news daily printed on pink paper. The burgundy-colored spirit shimmered under the dimmed fluorescent lights.

  Eastgate drank the sherry slowly. He felt the stinging liquid slide down his throat into his stomach, sending shivers of warmth down his legs. After a few more sips, his insides tingled happily and he had to fight off sleep.

  He had been under extraordinary stress for months—even before the invasion, while he was gearing up for war. Sleep had been more elusive than usual. He also wasn’t getting any younger. More speckles of white seemed to take root in his hair each day. A herniated disc in his back was giving him trouble and an old rotator cuff injury seemed to be flaring up again. Ten years down range had left him with more aches and pains than Grandmother Eastgate back in Sea Island, Georgia.

  But the package of goodies left him by the waiter had gotten his attention. He shook himself awake and carefully opened the newspaper on his lap. A large leather pouch slid against his stomach. He unpeeled the long silver zipper, which made the sound of a child’s kazoo, and reviewed the contents of the pouch: a passport, embossed with the seal of the United States of America, a US driver’s license, a GPS tracking device, and a small iridium satellite phone.

  Eastgate’s pulse quickened again. Gear and gadgets always invigorated him.

  “Hello, friends.”

  He opened the passport.

  Name: James Callender.

  Birthplace: Golden, Colorado.

  Although it appeared empty, the pouch was still heavy. Eastgate ran his hand over the bottom liner. He felt another zipper, which opened into a smaller compartment.

  Come on, baby.

  He scanned the room. One of the business men from the bar stood in a corner talking on a blue-tooth device. Two teenage girls dressed liked beauty contestants padded around the lounge shoeless, apparently resting their feet from the torture of their three-inch heels.

  Eastgate lifted a small wooden box from the bottom of the pouch. He shimmied the top of the box out of its grooves and removed a red velvet cloth underneath. With a brush of his fingertips, he discerned what was inside: an M11 pistol.

  He looked up. The business man was gone.

  He holstered the pistol under his pant leg and placed the rest of his presents in his rucksack.

  The waiter approached. “How is the sherry, sir?”

  “Fine, just fine.”

  “And the newspaper?”

  “Very interesting.”

  The waiter responded, now in a whisper: “I’m glad to hear it.” He looked around the room nervously. “You have very influential friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “There is one phone number that has called your satellite phone. When you arrive in London you are instructed to place a call to that number. You will then be given instructions to meet our friend.”

  “I see,” Eastgate said.

  “Would you like anything else to drink, sir?”

  “Sure.”

  The waiter flinched. Another drink was not part of the script he was given.

  “I’ll have another sherry.”

  “Yes sir,” the waiter said, annoyed by Eastgate’s improvisation.

  Eastgate plucked his bifocals from the breast pocket of his shirt and scanned the front page of the newspaper. “Nazarian Vows Britain Will Stay in Iraq Until the Job Is Done,” the headline read. He smirked. Politicians were very good at making big statements, he had learned, and just as good at avoiding having to decide what they meant. As a rule, he didn’t trust politicians. But he was about to trust his life to the daughter of one.

  Let’s hope the apple falls far from the tree.

  Chapter 22

  Eastgate opened the passenger door of a black BMW 3 idling outside the arrival gate at Heathrow Airport in London.

  The driver was startled. “How did you know it was the right car?” he asked, his English barely discernible over a rough Arab accent. Based on the Coptic Cross pinned to the bill of his cap, Eastgate guessed the driver was Egyptian.

  “I saw the license plate.”

  “Fastnfirm,” the driver said, reading the back plate. “What does it mean?”

  “I could tell you, but then your life would be in danger.”

  The driver put his hands in the air and shook his head laughing.

  “Forget it. It’s not worth it.”

  The sedan prowled smoothly up the A10 highway, passing the fleet of blocky black cabs that checkered London’s expressways and spewed bilious plumes of exhaust into the white clouds above.

  Eastgate exulted in not having his backside bruised. He hadn’t driven on proper roads for six months.

  His thoughts drifted to Charlottesville. Central Virginia. Blooming dogwood. Highway 129. Driving north through the gold, brown, and blue of the Shenandoah.

  It had been a long time since he had seen his old friend. Eastgate wondered if he had changed, and if he could still be trusted.

  The BMW exited off the highway and followed a winding cou
ntry road past pristine forest, cow pastures and thatch-roofed cottages. Humming a Simon and Garfunkel tune, the driver abruptly jerked the wheel of the car ten degrees to the right. The car jumped, seeming to take flight for a moment, and then hit the pavement hard, rumbling down a gravel road that crept deep into the woods around them.

  Eastgate checked his GPS. The blue circle on the screen settled above two words on the map: Chipping Ongar.

  Thick rows of forsythia bound the motor on both sides of the road, creating a tunnel of yellow and green. The driver opened the back door of the BMW and pointed down the road.

  Eastgate got out and looked at the driver. This would be an opportune time, it occurred to him, for the driver to remove the pistol he had been carrying at his waist and deposit two bullets into the base of Eastgate’s skull. Eastgate waited for the driver to return to the motor and pull away. But he just stood there, hands crossed, like a beefy power forward intent on setting a pick.

  OK, have it your way.

  Eastgate walked slowly down the gravel road, kicking up as much dust as possible in the event the driver was taking aim at him. He felt the reassuring weight of his M11 over his shoulder.

  Just in case, just in case.

  Twenty paces on, he looked back. The driver and his car were gone.

  Shrubs of lilac encroached on the narrow road from the forest. Blue birds hopped and preened in the purple blooms of green bushes.

  Eastgate thought again about Charlottesville. He could be there now. Holding office hours on the Lawn, lecturing on comparative literature, with no thought of being gunned down by an undercover assassin. But he had chosen a harder life.