“Do I know you?” Mayberry asked. “What’s your name?”
“Esther.”
“Please untie me. I’ve not done anything wrong, and I need my pain medication. There’s a prescription bottle—”
“Yes,” Esther said, holding up Mayberry’s xtampza er. “It was in the satchel in the Fiat that you and the other American were driving.”
“His name is Garrett. Brett Garrett. Where is he? Is he okay?” She looked at the pain medication. “Please untie me and give me two of my pills.”
Esther lowered the prescription bottle out of sight. She dragged a chair closer to the bed so she was at Mayberry’s eye level.
“First, you need to answer my questions,” Esther said. “Then I will untie you and give your medicine.”
“Who are you? Garrett, is he alive? Tell me! Listen, I’m in a lot of pain. Can you at least free my hands and feet? I’m an American citizen. I have rights.”
“Answers first.”
“Who are you? Italian police? Am I under arrest?”
“Answers by you—not me. Who was the woman you were chasing in the red Porsche that exploded?”
“I demand to speak to someone from the US Embassy. I’m not saying anything until you tell me who you are and whether Garrett is alive. I’m not saying another word until I get my pain pills.”
Esther raised the prescription bottle high enough for Mayberry to see. She opened the bottle and removed a single half yellow, half white eighteen-milligram capsule, holding it between her thumb and index finger. “How much pain are you in? Would this help?” she taunted.
Mayberry felt a wave of nausea.
Esther continued, “Why did the FBI send you here to Bellagio?”
“No one sent us. We’re on holiday.” Mayberry tugged on the restraints.
“Tell me the name of the woman who you were chasing.”
Mayberry’s head felt as if it would burst. Her entire body ached, especially her already crippled hand, which was in chronic pain. “I demand to speak to someone from the US Embassy.”
Esther carefully placed the pain pill back into the prescription bottle and snapped shut its lid. She stood and left the room.
Mayberry glanced at the television. It was showing scenes from the explosion on the streets of Bellagio. The image changed to a photo of Julian Levi, identified as head of the Mossad. Pictures of wedding guests.
Mayberry blacked out.
The last time Brett Garrett saw Valerie Mayberry, she had been unconscious on the pavement. He had been handcuffed and put in a police car, fully expecting to be driven to an Italian police station for interrogation. Before the patrol car could leave the scene, a woman wearing a black tuxedo had appeared with two men. She’d checked Mayberry for a pulse and then spoken to the police officers. The police had surrendered Garrett, and a hood had been placed over his head. When it was removed, he was in a windowless room, hands and feet duct-taped to a heavy metal chair. No toilet, no bed. A single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Enough cord to hang himself. That suggested he was not inside a jail or prison cell. From the stone walls and musty air, he suspected it was some sort of basement.
A man entered the room. Refusing to speak to Garrett or answer questions, he removed the metal fragment that had been stuck in his arm when the Porsche exploded, bandaged the wound, and left.
For an hour Garrett waited, unable to move. The woman he’d last seen dressed in a tuxedo on the street entered, only now she was wearing a drab olive military uniform.
“The American who was with me,” Garrett said. “Her name is Valerie Mayberry. Is she okay? Did you get her to a doctor?”
“Who is this woman to you?”
“We’re traveling together. Is she conscious? Where is she?”
“An FBI agent and former CIA soldier on a holiday together,” the woman said. “Chasing a sports car that explodes. Both armed with pistols. You expect me to believe you are merely on holiday?”
“I don’t care what you believe. Is Valerie all right? Is she in a hospital?”
“She’s asking for her medication.”
The woman produced Mayberry’s prescription bottle. “Tell me, Mr. Garrett, what is the name of the woman you were pursuing? Tell me, and I will give your friend her pain pills.”
“You’re supposed to be on our side,” he said. “You’re Mossad. Last time I checked, we’re allies.”
Her face showed surprise, given she wasn’t wearing any identification.
“It’s your belt,” he said. “Israel Army Tzahal IDF field uniform. Standard issue.”
“The woman you were chasing,” she said. “I need her name.”
“You tell me your name, I’ll tell you hers.”
“The woman in the Porsche participated in an attempted assassination. Tell me her name.”
“Who was she trying to kill?”
“You don’t know?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t bother asking, would I?”
“The director of the Mossad.”
“Big Jules? Julian Levi?”
“Do you know him?”
“Everyone in intelligence knows about him. He’s a legend. Is he okay?”
“By intelligence, you mean you are still employed by the CIA.”
“No. The agency doesn’t have any use for my special talents.”
“What is the name of the woman who you were chasing?”
“You give Mayberry her pain pills and free me, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
The door behind her opened.
“Esther,” Julian Levi said, entering with two security guards. “Let’s undo Mr. Garrett’s restraints.”
Esther brandished a knife, cut free his legs and wrists. She handed Mayberry’s prescription bottle to one of the men standing nearby, who left the room.
“The Roc and his daughter obviously failed to assassinate you,” Garrett said, rubbing his wrists where the tape had torn loose surface skin. “That’s good for both of our countries.”
“The Roc?” Big Jules replied. “You’re mistaken. We killed him with an American drone.”
“No, I’m not mistaken. He’s not dead, despite what your people reported. I’ve seen him and his daughter.”
“Are you absolutely certain of this?” Big Jules asked.
“A hundred percent. Backed by facial recognition software and a visual ID.”
“Assuming you are correct,” Esther interjected, “if you knew the Roc intended to assassinate Director Levi, why didn’t you warn us?”
“If I’d known, I’d have told anyone who would’ve listened. Mayberry and I followed him to Italy because the two of them murdered an Iranian who happened to be my next-door neighbor in the States.”
“Nasya Radi,” Big Jules said. “The letter writer.”
“That’s right,” Garrett replied. “Radi left a letter for me on the night he was murdered, and sent another letter to your embassy in Washington.”
“How do you know that?” Esther asked.
“Our post office takes photos of letters before they’re delivered.”
“Your friend, Thomas Jefferson Kim, no doubt traced it,” Big Jules said. “Did he also identify the Roc and his daughter?”
“Let’s just say the two of them were positively ID’d on security video while leaving a Georgetown restaurant.”
“Tell me, Mr. Garrett, what did this exiled nuclear physicist write in the letter that he sent to you before he was murdered?”
“I imagine he wrote the same thing he sent in his letter to your embassy. The Iranians have manufactured a nuclear bomb. They intend to attack the US with it by using a submarine.”
“And what did you do with the letter that he wrote you?”
“Mayberry and I shared it and our concerns with Director Whittington, but he blew us off. Now, I’d like to see Mayberry.”
“Esther,” Big Jules said, “have Ms. Mayberry join us.”
She left, and Garrett said, “The Roc doesn’t
fail very often. You’re damn lucky.”
“Thank you for telling us he is still alive,” Big Jules said. “I will investigate how we made such a mistake, and once I confirm what you are saying is accurate, I will notify Whittington and correct our error. I’ve already spoken to him today.”
“He doesn’t believe Mayberry and me, but he’ll listen to you.”
“Sometimes he does, but not as often as you might think. Whittington is a suspicious man when it comes to my country. Now, when it comes to the Roc’s attempt to kill me, I owe my escape to Esther. Let’s go somewhere more comfortable than this basement storage room.”
Big Jules led him upstairs into the expansive Villa Como. “This was supposed to be a magical day,” he said as they walked. “My niece’s wedding in the home of my sister and her husband. Now it is a day of pain and suffering. Of mourning. Pain that I brought into this happy home. The oldest son murdered by a sniper’s bullet intended for me. Five of my men killed during an ambush intended for me. A decoy, naturally, arranged by Esther.”
“The Roc thinks you’re dead?”
“The entire world does, I suppose. Minutes ago, a Palestinian terrorist claimed responsibility on the internet for murdering me.”
“Seems like a lot of folks who are supposed to be dead—like you and the Roc—are still walking around.”
Big Jules sat on a lavender sofa in a room on the villa’s main floor. There were no windows for outsiders to see in. He gestured for Garrett to take a seat on an overstuffed chair next to him. He’d just sat down when Esther arrived with Mayberry.
Garrett stood. “You’re okay!”
“Now that I finally got my pain medication.” She flashed a hateful look at Esther.
“A concussion, some minor cuts, soreness,” Esther said in an unsympathetic voice. “Nothing life-threatening.”
“Please, Agent Mayberry, join us.” Big Jules motioned for Mayberry to sit near Garrett. She did while Esther slipped next to the director on the sofa. His two bodyguards remained at the room’s entrance.
“Tell them what we know,” Big Jules instructed.
“A sniper’s rifle was found in an apartment across Lake Como in Bellagio,” Esther explained. “Fired remotely. An older woman and her son were in the apartment too, both dead. The rifle shot missed our director, causing panic. A second assassin was hiding along the only road in and out of Villa Como. He used drones and an RPG to attack a decoy.”
“Most likely, Tahira Bashar had fired at you moments before we spotted her coming up the street to the public parking lot,” Mayberry said.
“The Porsche she was driving belonged to the dead man in the apartment,” Esther said.
“I’m guessing from your questions that you didn’t catch Tahira after the Porsche exploded,” Garrett said. “And since you didn’t know the Roc was alive, he got away too.”
“Several people saw a woman fleeing on a bicycle.”
“A bicycle! And neither you nor the Italians caught her?” Mayberry said. “Riding on a bicycle.”
“If we had known about her before you chased her through Bellagio,” Esther replied, “we could have caught her without innocent people being killed by a car explosion.”
Big Jules cleared his throat, and everyone fell silent. “I’ve talked to Director Whittington about you both,” he said. “To confirm your identities and ask why you were sent here. He told me that neither of you are working on behalf of the US government, and quite frankly, he was angry that you were involved in a deadly car chase and explosion.”
“Like we explained,” Garrett said, looking at Mayberry for backup, “we’re on vacation.”
Big Jules chuckled. “Would you be surprised if I told you Whittington urged me to turn you over to the Italian authorities for prosecution?”
“On what charges?” Mayberry asked.
“This is Italy,” Big Jules replied. “They don’t need charges.”
“Is that what you plan to do—turn us over to the Italians?” Garrett asked.
“I said, Director Whittington suggested I turn you over, Mr. Garrett. Not Agent Mayberry. He recommended that she be sent home on the first available flight.”
“We aren’t especially close, the director and me,” Garrett said.
“We also discussed Radi’s letter and the threat of a submarine attack with a nuclear bomb.”
“Let me guess,” Garrett said. “Whittington isn’t buying the whole submarine attack scenario.”
Mayberry said, “You have sources in Iran. What have they told you?”
“We’ve always known the Iranians were constructing a nuclear bomb, despite the West’s doubts.”
“Then why doesn’t Whittington believe it?” Mayberry asked.
“Your director looks at Iran and thinks, ‘If I were an Iranian leader, would I develop a nuclear weapon?’ He analyzes the situation logically, weighing the pros and cons and concluding that it would not be worth the price the Iranians would pay in sanctions or, worse, in a lopsided military confrontation. Whittington doesn’t understand that the Iranians are not rational when it comes to Israel.”
Big Jules paused for a moment and spoke to one of his security guards. “I’d like some water, and I’m certain Mr. Garrett and Ms. Mayberry are thirsty.”
Returning his attention to the Americans, he said, “Your director also doesn’t believe Iran has a submarine capable of sailing to your borders. He believes we are exaggerating the threat.” He looked at Esther and nodded.
Esther said, “In the Black Sea there is an old Soviet submarine base burrowed into a mountain. One of our operatives was sent there to investigate after we heard rumors of activity at this base. A few days ago, our man was found floating in the sea, supposedly dead from a freak scuba-diving accident. Three naval officials also have reported sighting an old Soviet submarine in the area.”
Big Jules said, “I was sending Esther to investigate our man’s death and these reports immediately after my niece’s wedding, but her schedule is now being changed. I’m sending someone else there.”
He removed a slip of paper from his pocket. “Fathi Aziz is claiming credit for my death. When I listened to his rant, I scribbled down his words: ‘I will soon deliver a flood over your cities from beneath your oceans, and the wrath of Allah will destroy you.’”
“Could be a submarine attack,” Garrett said.
“Do you intend to continue hunting the Roc?” Big Jules asked.
“Absolutely,” Garrett replied. “I’ve got to think the killing of my neighbor, the attempt to kill me, the assassination attempt on you, and all of this talk about a nuclear bomb and submarine are related.”
“I agree,” Big Jules said. “They are pieces of the same puzzle.”
“The Roc and his daughter are our best leads, besides that submarine base,” Garrett said.
Big Jules looked at Mayberry and said, “What about you?”
“Maybe we should let you, the Italian authorities, and Interpol do your jobs,” she said.
Garrett shook his head. “No offense, Director Levi, but until we got involved, you thought the Roc was dead.”
Big Jules ran his tongue across his dry lips. “Ah,” he said, “our water has arrived.” A housekeeper entered with a tray of glasses and a pitcher. The Mossad director took a long drink while she was serving the others. “Mr. Garrett,” he said, putting down his glass, “might I suggest you help us find the Roc and his daughter.” He nodded toward Esther. “Esther has agreed to take charge of hunting him down.”
“You would be serving strictly as an adviser,” Esther said.
Garrett looked at Esther. “You want my advice: catch him, interrogate him, and kill him—and his daughter too.” He turned and looked at Mayberry. “I’m in,” he said. “What about you?”
Twenty-One
Tahira Bashar had not been harmed by the explosion in Bellagio because she had taken refuge inside a Deutsche Bank office in the Piazza Giuseppe Mazzini. The bank’s securi
ty camera showed her entering the lobby seconds before she detonated the C-4 inside the Porsche that she’d abandoned less than ten yards away. The bank’s fortified glass security door had shielded her and its customers. She’d joined the others in rushing outside. Scooping up a bicycle whose rider was lying dead on the sidewalk, Tahira had pedaled from the piazza onto Via Giuseppe Garibaldi, a street leading out from the city’s historic center.
When Tahira reached the Parcheggio Valassina parking lot, she traded the bicycle for a Volkswagen T-Cross.
After the attack on Big Jules, Tahira was supposed to pick up her father in their rented white van. But two strangers had intercepted her before she could reach the van, forcing her to improvise. She was reluctant to drive to the agreed-upon rendezvous point, fearing that she might lead those pursuing her to her father. Nor could she telephone him on her disposable phone. In her rush to escape, she’d left it and her billfold inside the Porsche. She was on her own.
The Roc had told her that if they were separated, she should return to Paris as quickly as possible and wait, but only for forty-eight hours before moving on. They’d already rented a flat in Athens. She sensed her father was still alive. The thought of being alone frightened her.
The shortest route to France was northwest through Switzerland. It was part of the Schengen zone, so there would ordinarily be no passport checks at the Italian, Swiss, and French borders. But because of the shooting and explosion, security at those borders would be tightened, and she had no passport, and no money to bribe her way through.
An hour-and-a-half drive south brought her to Milan, where she ditched the Volkswagen; enough time had lapsed that it might have been reported stolen. As she walked through the city, she tossed the Glock 26 pistol that she still was carrying into a navigli, one of the river channels designed by Leonardo da Vinci to divert water from the river Po through Milan. She paused to count the few euros stuffed into her pockets, discovering that she had enough to buy a train ticket to Claviere, a ski resort on the French border. She could walk through the woods and mountains there to the French town of Montgenèvre.
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