“You’re kidding, right? Don’t you see it? This is our chance to get the Roc.”
“Our chance? Catching him is not our responsibility. Didn’t Director Whittington make that clear enough for you?”
“C’mon, Valerie. Do you really believe a bunch of local cops are capable of finding and arresting the Roc—in Rome? Or investigating, if Iran has developed a nuclear bomb and wants to keep it secret?”
“The best we can do, then, is have Kim talk to my bosses at the bureau. Assuming the director will listen.”
“No, you can’t do that. You can’t drag Kim into this. I’m certain there’s some regulation or privacy law or something about him using his company to watch the goings and comings at an Italian airport without first getting all the proper clearances and paperwork filled out.”
Mayberry turned her Jaguar onto a side street in McLean and parked next to the curb but kept the engine running. “What do you want from me?” she demanded. She raised her crippled right hand and shook it at his face. “You should have never contacted me.”
“You can’t close your fingers,” he replied. “So what?” He stared at her face, illuminated by a streetlight. “Hey, I don’t speak Latin. Everyone has their faults.”
“Oh my God, is that the best comparison you got? My crippled hand, and you only speak English.”
“Well, a few words of Latin,” he said, smiling. “That hand doesn’t define you, or at least the old you. You’re still an FBI agent.”
“Is this all a joke to you?” she said. “My pain isn’t a joke. And neither is my career.”
“Valerie,” he said softly, “I can’t do this without you. You carry a badge. That opens doors. You’re rich. You can afford to fly us to Rome and wherever the Roc runs.”
“So that’s why you need me. My money. You’ve gone unicorn on me, Garrett,” she whispered. “Living in a fantasy world.”
“If the bureau authorized you to go after the Roc, you’d go. If Whittington sent me after the Roc, I’d go. So what’s the problem if we go on our own?”
“The bureau didn’t, and won’t. The agency didn’t, and won’t. That’s the problem.”
“We can do this without them.” His voice softened. “Listen, we both could use this right now. Ask yourself: Do you really want to file reports in the bureau’s basement for the rest of your life?”
“I’m not in the basement.”
“You once said you became an FBI agent because you wanted to stop wolves from eating rabbits. The Roc is an alpha wolf. He’s going to continue eating until someone takes him out. And if that nuclear bomb threat is real, millions of rabbits could die.”
Mayberry swallowed a deep breath. Slowly released it. She was staring straight ahead through the windshield. It started to rain. The Jag’s automatic sensors turned on the car’s wipers. She could hear the engine throbbing. She glanced to her left as a car drove past them. The rain started coming down harder.
“I’ll drop you at Tysons,” she said. “It’s on my way home, and you can take the Metro back to your place.”
Neither spoke until they reached the subway station’s kiss-and-ride drop-off.
“I’m going to Rome,” he declared. “With or without you.”
“Get out, Garrett.”
She watched him walk toward the station in the rain. Honked. Pulled up next to him and lowered her passenger window.
“I’ll order us tickets,” she said. “Get your passport and meet me at Dulles.”
“It would be quicker if you drove me home, rather than me taking the Metro.”
She left him standing in the rain.
Part II
We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged.
—Heinrich Heine
Fifteen
“It is only you?” Signora Alessandra Rossi asked as she unlocked the door to her one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of the centuries-old building.
“Yes,” Tahira Bashar replied, looking inside. “I am traveling alone.”
An antique double bed, a mahogany armoire, two wooden chairs, and a hot plate resting on a small table. Bright white walls. It was more a bedroom than an apartment.
“The shared toilet is down the hall,” Signora Rossi explained. “Yes, my room is small, but the view alone is worth what I charge.”
Tahira walked to an oval window facing Lake Como. Because the apartment had been constructed in what used to be an attic, the window was waist high. She bent slightly and gazed through it across Lake Como to the opposite shoreline.
“I will need it for a week,” Tahira said.
The stooped older woman frowned, shook her head. “Two weeks would be better. You can’t see everything in Bellagio in a single week, and two weeks makes life much easier for me. Did I say that you can walk to the basilica of San Giacomo from here?”
“Two weeks, then,” Tahira replied.
“You mentioned on the telephone you would be paying in euros,” Signora Rossi said. “It’s best to not always go through AirBnB. My son handles AirBnB for me but I prefer meeting in person and cash payments. I am curious—how did you find my phone number?”
“The internet.”
“I have no use for it,” Signora Rossi answered, waving her bony fingers. “Filled with filth. Pornography.”
“And phone numbers,” Tahira cheerfully responded. She hadn’t seen her own grandparents in years. After the deaths of her mother and brother, her father had severed all contact with relatives. But she imagined her grandmother was much like her Italian hostess. “Where will you be staying while I am here?” she asked the old woman.
“With my son at his apartment in Varenna. It’s not far. He never married, so there is room. It’s such a disappointment not having grandchildren. You young people care too much about work and making money and not enough about living life. Family. It is all that matters. Tell me, why is a young woman like you traveling alone? You are so pretty.”
“Like you said, we work too hard. I need a vacation, and I always wanted to see Lake Como.”
“George Clooney, that is why all you young girls come here. You hope to see the American movie star. What chance does my son have, when all the women come to see a famous actor? It’s a mother’s burden.”
“I’m not here to see an American movie star.”
“I attend mass each morning. I pray that my son will meet a nice Catholic girl. Give me grandchildren. Tell me, are you a believer in our Lord Jesus Christ?”
Tahira noticed a crucifix hanging above the headboard. It was the only decoration in the flat.
Signora Rossi didn’t wait for a reply. “Our basilica is in Piazza della Chiesa, on the hillside. I can tell you the best times to attend mass before it becomes crowded with tourists. You are Catholic, aren’t you?”
“I’m not a religious person.” That was easier, she decided, than to admit she was a Muslim and possibly prompt suspicion.
The woman crossed herself. “Everyone is a child of God. I’ll pray for you. It is never too late. Too many young people are lost. Greed, pornography.” She opened the armoire and removed a worn black satchel that she placed on the floor. “Let me open the window for fresh air, sometimes it sticks,” she said, shuffling toward it.
The room smelled musty.
The window pushed outward and was hinged at its top. The signora propped it open with a metal rod, much like the one that holds the hood of a car open.
“Much better,” Signora Rossi said, taking in a deep breath. “I will need two weeks’ rent now, and a deposit of a hundred euros that I will return after I check my room for damages.” She dropped her voice into a whisper. “Some who stay here are filthy pigs. And you will not be bringing men to my bed, will you?”
“No!”
“Good, I thought you were a good girl. I can tell, you know, by looking.”
Tahira counted out the euros, which Signora Rossi folded and inserted into an embroidered pouch. She deposited it into the pocket of t
he white apron that she wore over her black ankle-length dress and flesh-colored leggings.
“You did not say where you are from,” Signora Rossi said. “Let me guess. Your skin is light brown.”
Tahira interrupted, wanting to control the answer. “I’m from Portugal, a good Catholic country.”
Rossi nodded approvingly. “And yet you are not Catholic. I will pray for you.” She walked to where she kept her worn Bible and placed it in her satchel. “I always keep this with me, but I can leave it for you, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” Tahira said, “but you should keep it with you.”
The woman started for the door.
“May I help you with your bag?” Tahira asked. “I’m going downstairs to fetch my luggage from my car.”
“Did you park nearby, in a public spot? There’s no parking in front of the building.”
“Yes, it is not far.” Tahira picked up the woman’s satchel.
“Such a thoughtful young woman. You aren’t married, are you?”
“No.”
“A pity, such a pretty girl like you. Don’t go through your life alone. You need a husband. Otherwise you will grow lonely. Although children can be a disappointment. You spend your best years raising them, and then they forget you and only come by when it is convenient. It is how life is. We can’t complain, only accept what God gives us.”
As they moved into the hallway, Signora Rossi offered Tahira the room key. “Enjoy my Villa Cielo Blu, even though it is only one room!”
Tahira carried the woman’s bag onto the elevator at the end of the hall. “My son will be picking me up in his car,” the old woman continued. “I warned you the police do not allow cars to park outside, but he tells them I am handicapped. He drives a red German car with only two seats and barely enough room for my bag. It is not for me. But he pays me no attention.” She waved her hand to her side and frowned. “My son. He needs to meet a nice girl like you.”
Tahira left the woman and her bag on a bench outside the apartment building, facing the lake. It was a clear morning, no rain forecast nor any strong breezes. Tahira walked up the hillside between the city’s Romanesque buildings until she reached a public parking area where her father was waiting in a rented van. He saw her approaching, stepped from the driver’s seat, and met her at the van’s rear doors.
“You took longer than I expected,” the Roc said.
“The old woman was lonely. Asked me questions.”
“About what?”
“If I were Catholic, and why wasn’t I married. She has a son she wanted me to meet.”
He looked at his watch. “The wedding will begin at five o’clock, after riposo.”
“Do the polizia di stato also nap in the afternoons?” she asked. A joke that he ignored.
“The view,” he said. “Will it work?”
“Better than what was shown in the photos.”
He removed a hard-shell suitcase and a backpack from the cargo area. “I’ll help you set up in the apartment, and we’ll review the plan.”
Tahira frowned. “Not again, Papa. We went over it in Paris every night. I know it.”
“Tahira,” he said sternly. “The Israelis are serious people. They will kill you if they suspect. They will kill me. Now do as you are told.”
He handed her the backpack and picked up the heavy suitcase.
“Take me to the apartment,” he said.
“Papa, I left the old woman sitting out front by the entrance. She will see us together.”
“Find the back entrance. I will be waiting there for you to let me inside.”
He glanced around, noted that the street was empty, and reached into the front of his tan cargo pants, withdrawing a Glock 26 Gen4 subcompact ten-round pistol, one of the most popular concealed-carry handguns. She took it from his palm and slipped it into the front pocket of her gray utility jacket.
She shouldered the backpack and started back to the apartment. He waited before following with the heavier suitcase. Signora Rossi was still sitting outside.
“My son is late,” she complained. “He cares nothing for his poor mother.”
It took Tahira only minutes to find the ground-floor back entrance, where the Roc was waiting. They rode up the elevator. Once inside the flat, he began assembling the McMillan TAC-50 from the suitcase. Next was a motorized stainless-steel boot affixed to a tripod. He slid the old woman’s table toward the open window, positioning it about two feet from it—far enough inside so it would be impossible to see from the street below, and improbable for someone on the other side of Lake Como to spot through binoculars. He placed the short tripod on the table and checked to make certain there was no wobble. Satisfied, he took a moment to admire the autonomous weapon that he had prepared in Paris.
Without bothering to speak, he withdrew a portable computer with a joystick from the backpack and synchronized the computer with the motor and rifle. A slight twist of the joystick, and the rifle barrel moved. The computer screen showed a series of gauges as well as the view from the rifle’s Vortex PST Gen II 5–25x50 scope.
“Tell me the plan,” he said.
“The head Jew will be attending his niece’s outdoor wedding at the villa directly across from this apartment. Distance: three kilometers. The air is thinner here because Lake Como is at the base of the Alps. There will be less drag. The bullet will fly faster, with a flat trajectory.”
“Elevation, temperature, windage,” he said. “The computer program that I installed will help you calculate, but it will be you sighting in the head Jew. Now, if it begins raining?”
“Papa, look outside. The sky is clear. It will not rain.”
“And if it does?”
“Every bride who plans an outside wedding has a contingency,” she said. “If I don’t see the head Jew, I am to fire into the chalet’s windows. Cause panic.”
“Good.” He removed a recent eight-by-ten-inch photograph of Big Jules and placed it in her hands.
“Papa, I know what he looks like.”
“At this distance, you must aim at the biggest body mass. This is not the television, where you aim at the head.”
“Yes, Papa, you’ve told me many times, but even in France when I practiced, I only hit the target once out of every ten shots, and you are giving me only one opportunity.”
“A professional needs only one bullet,” he said, slipping a BMG—Browning Machine Gun—round into the single-shot rifle’s chamber. “If you are worried about firing a second one, you will not concentrate on the first. Firing only once reduces the chance of you being seen, and having you stay in the apartment to reload only puts you at greater risk.”
He looked into her eyes. “Tahira, I have taught you how to shoot. You can kill him, but only if you want to.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“As long as you cause panic, the Mossad will follow protocol, and I will deal with him.”
“But if I miss, I will be putting you in danger.”
“Then don’t miss.” He stared into her eyes, looking for signs of doubt. “The first time you kill another human being is the most difficult,” he said. “But the Jews are not human beings. They are dogs. Now do as I told you. If you hesitate, think of your mother and your brother. This Jew was responsible for the bombs that killed them and would have killed you and me.”
Someone knocked on the flat’s door. A key was inserted into the lock. Signora Rossi’s voice: “Buon pomeriggio, signorina! My son is downstairs, and I thought—”
The elderly woman opened the door and froze. Looking at the Roc. Looking at the rifle at the window. Trying to understand what her eyes were seeing.
The Roc reached her in two steps. He slipped behind her before she could scream, covering her mouth with one hand and drawing his knife with the other. He jammed the blade downward in a little gap between the first vertebra and the base of the skull, cutting her spinal cord. She collapsed on the floor. The Roc grabbed a pillow from the bed and held it over her face,
but she was already dead.
“Help me,” he ordered his daughter. She shut the door while he pulled the top blanket from the bed and placed it on the floor. Together, they rolled the old woman onto it. He wrapped the material around her, and they slid her out of the way.
“Her son?” he said.
Tahira moved to the window but was unable to see directly down onto the building’s front entrance because of a decorative ledge. She checked the hallway. No one was in sight.
A car horn honked outside.
“The son,” the Roc said.
Tahira drew the Glock that he’d given her earlier. Cocked it and hurriedly attached a suppressor from the backpack.
From outside, they heard the hee-haw whoop of an Italian police siren. Tahira stuck her head out the window as far as possible to listen. An argument. A police officer ordering the son to move his car from the no-parking zone in front of the apartment building.
Again, a car horn honking. Longer bursts. It was the son. Impatient. Signaling his mother to come down.
“Papa, what should we do? The police? Should we run?”
“No.” The son would find his mother dead. Find the sniper’s rifle. There wouldn’t be time to dismantle it. The police would inform the Mossad. There would be a massive hunt for them. He suspected Signora Rossi had bragged to her son about the beautiful young woman who’d rented the flat. Possibly described Tahira. No. There might never be a better opportunity to kill the head Jew.
They heard the whining noise of the old elevator climbing to the fifth floor, of its door opening and footsteps coming down the hallway. The Roc pointed to a spot directly in front of the door for her to stand. She would be the first thing the son saw when the door opened. Would he come alone or with the police? Tahira held the Glock behind her while her father slipped against the wall by the doorway, clutching his knife. The door would swing inward, which meant it would open between whoever was entering, with the Roc behind it. He looked at Tahira. She was breathing rapidly. Perspiration was beading on her face. Some ran into her eyes, and she began blinking. The Roc tugged down a hand towel hanging on the back of the door and tossed it to her. It smelled like the old lady when she wiped her face. She dropped it on the floor and watched the old black doorknob turn. The flat’s door swung open directly in front of her.
Shakedown Page 9