“I don’t want you to go,” he said. “We’re a team. Join me and the Israelis in hunting down the Roc.”
“Excusez-moi.”
A woman’s loud voice, coming from behind them. Someone cutting through the line. Garrett glanced back. It was Esther, with two men.
“Please come with me,” Esther said to Garrett.
He looked at Mayberry. “Let’s go. Just hear her out.”
“I came for you,” Esther said. “Let her go back to Washington. We don’t need her.”
“Yes, we do,” Garrett said, slightly raising his voice. He rested his palms on Mayberry’s shoulders. “I’m better with you.”
Mayberry nodded. They followed Esther out of the terminal to a Mercedes-Benz Metris cargo van. Its driver pulled away from the airport.
Big Jules Levi spoke to them through a television monitor in the van’s cargo area. “I need you both to accompany Esther to London.”
“What’s in London?” Garrett asked.
“Not what, who. A Russian oligarch named Taras Aleksandrovich Zharkov.”
Esther joined the conversation. “Late yesterday our analytics team identified a company owned by Zharkov as the owner of the submarine base in Balaklava Bay. It took some digging. Twenty-two shell companies spread over four continents.”
“It appears Zharkov is involved in all of this somehow,” Big Jules said.
“Let’s assume Radi’s warning about a nuclear attack by a submarine is accurate,” Garrett said. “Why would this Russian get involved?”
“Panic selling on the worldwide stock exchanges,” Mayberry said. “Millions can be made when there’s chaos. The New York Stock Exchange remained closed for six days after the nine-eleven attacks. When it reopened, it set what then was a record for the biggest loss in exchange history. More than a trillion dollars.”
“Your privileged upbringing serves you well,” Big Jules said.
“We’ll never get by his lawyers to question him,” Mayberry said. “Something I learned from my ‘privileged’ background.”
“Esther will not be going through his lawyers,” Big Jules countered.
The Mercedes cargo van parked outside the majestic stone facade of the Gare du Nord, a grand railway station built between 1861 and 1865. Life-size statues of figures representing major European cities lined its curved peak.
“The Eurostar can get us to London in two hours and sixteen minutes,” Esther explained. “I have a hotel suite where we can wait until it gets dark.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,” Mayberry said.
“Our driver can take you back to the airport,” Esther offered.
“Why do you need us?” Garrett asked.
“Director Whittington remains skeptical,” Big Jules said. “He thinks we’re just trying to stir up trouble with Iran.”
Garrett grunted. “If he doesn’t believe the Mossad, why would he listen to us? He’s not a big fan.”
“I read the newspaper story about you,” Big Jules replied. “What you are underestimating is your influence beyond Whittington. At the White House with the president. He did give you both presidential medals. If we get the evidence, you can go directly to him in support of what our prime minister certainly will be sharing with him. That should be more than enough.”
“I need a moment to speak privately to Brett,” Mayberry said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “We can’t be part of interrogating a Russian oligarch in London.”
Garrett spoke to Big Jules and Esther. “What exactly are you expecting us to do in London?”
“That’s between you and Esther,” Big Jules said. He signed off.
“You can help me or wait at the hotel,” Esther said. “If you have no stomach for this.”
“Stomach for what?” Mayberry asked.
“We can’t risk not helping,” Garrett said. “Not if an attack is under way. Besides, we’re already in this so deep, what do we have to lose?”
“You, nothing. Me, everything.”
“We need to catch the train,” Esther said, opening the cargo door and stepping outside.
Garrett hurried after her. Mayberry remained seated, but only for a moment. She let out a sigh and joined them as they dashed into the station.
“The Eurostar terminal for London is on the first floor,” Esther said.
“We don’t have tickets or bags,” Mayberry said.
“Your bags will be delivered to London.”
“That’s good,” Garrett said. Hoping to add levity to their conversation, he added, “I’d hate to be in London without a change of underwear.”
“I don’t bother with underwear,” Esther teased.
The old-style compartments on European trains shown in movies don’t exist on modern Eurostar railcars. Two seats on one side of an aisle. A third single seat on the other. Hoping to take a nap, Garrett chose the single seat, causing Esther and Mayberry to sit together across the aisle. While other passengers were filing past them, Esther lowered her voice and said, “We’re working together now, so tell me, what is your relationship with him?”
She nodded at Garrett, whose head was tipped back, his eyes closed, seemingly unaware of their conversation.
“What do you mean?” Mayberry asked.
“I find him handsome. That’s rare in the opportunities we have. I thought you might know if he’s open to an approach.”
“I certainly wouldn’t know.”
“Then it may be me who will be possibly sharing that information with you in the future.” Esther laughed.
“You barely know him,” Mayberry said.
“I have no choice but to work quickly. Every week a new country, new people. Live every moment, because it could be your last. It has been a long time since I could worry about love and romance.”
“Sounds like a rationalization for not caring about people.”
“Do you not rationalize your lack of emotional attachments? I can tell you have known real loss. I read about your late husband. A freelance reporter killed covering the war.”
“I have attachments. I just don’t flaunt them.” Mayberry felt her face flush. “That’s a price I am willing to pay. I will always prefer having my heart broken to meaningless anything.”
Esther looked at Garrett. “It won’t be meaningless to me if he responds.”
Esther had rented the Grand Piano suite at Claridge’s in London—nearly two thousand square feet, decorated by Diane von Furstenberg. A marble fireplace, two bedrooms, with an additional bedroom attached through an adjoining door, and a grand piano. A whiff of freshly cut white orchids, not in one vase but ten, placed strategically throughout the rooms.
“I chose this suite for its view, not its luxuries,” Esther said, pushing an electronic pad that opened floor-to-ceiling window screens. “Zharkov’s Fallbrook Manor is there.” She pointed toward his mansion, a few blocks away. “His office is on the second floor, and his master bedroom—large enough for Zharkov and his wife to have separate sleeping chambers—occupies the entire third floor. There’s a safe room hidden behind bookcases in his bedroom. I’ll have to get to him before he reaches it and notifies his security guards.”
She called Garrett to the windows. Handed him binoculars. “Two security guards stationed outside the entrance,” he noted.
“And a few more inside.” Esther glanced at Mayberry, who’d taken a seat on a beige couch.
“What’s a few?” Garrett asked, lowering the binoculars.
“A dozen. Spetsnaz soldiers.”
“Spetsnaz? You’ve got to be suicidal if you think you can break in and do a number on Zharkov.”
“There must be alarms too,” Mayberry said. “Security cameras.”
“This is why I will simply walk through the front door,” Esther announced. “Hopefully with Mr. Garrett at my side.”
“I thought we were observers?” Mayberry said.
“To make this work, I require his help.” Esther affectionally touched Garrett
’s arm.
“Doing what?”
“The oldest trick. I will offer Zharkov sex. His wife is a former fashion model, a beautiful woman, but like all men of his type, he constantly seeks attention, excitement. He feels entitled. A glutton who needs his ego stroked.”
“Sounds like you’re going to do more than stroke his ego,” Garrett said.
“The promise of sex will get me alone with him,” Esther explained. “Zharkov belongs to an exclusive London men’s club where he mingles with other rich men, mostly Russians. One of them will call and offer me as a gift.”
“A gift,” Garrett repeated.
“Yes, as I admitted, not an imaginative approach, but one he will not resist. And because I will be a gift from a friend, he will not be suspicious.”
“Is Big Jules pimping you out?” Mayberry asked.
“He has arranged for my photo to be sent to Zharkov’s security team, and he has given me a convincing legend. A reputable high-priced London call girl.”
“Reputable? Is there such a thing among prostitutes?” Mayberry sneered.
“If you’d rather take my place tonight, I’m certain Big Jules can arrange it. Or perhaps we could go together—two for the price of one.”
“No, thank you!”
“How do I fit in?” Garrett asked.
“Women like this always travel with a bodyguard.”
Esther walked toward one of the suite’s expansive bedrooms. “I need to change clothes for tonight.” She looked at Garrett and added, “Big Jules has sent over several dresses. Perhaps you will give me a man’s point of view in choosing one.”
“Before you go whore up,” Mayberry said, “how about answering some questions? You’ve read dossiers about us—you mentioned my husband’s death—but we know absolutely nothing—”
Esther cut her short. “Yes. Valerie Mayberry, the black sheep of a wealthy New England family. Wanted to be a doctor. A psychiatrist, which in my opinion is the basement floor for doctors. Instead, you joined the FBI’s counterintelligence branch. Married to Noah Williams, a journalist killed on assignment in Afghanistan. Your right hand is crippled because you were poisoned during an attack at the US Capitol, and based on what I’ve observed, you are addicted to opioids for your chronic pain.”
Esther turned to Garrett. “High school athlete. Fastball pitcher. Dad a coach—and an alcoholic. Your father crashed his car with your mother as a passenger, killing them both. You left Arkansas for the US Naval Academy. Became a SEAL. Got rejected by a fiancée. Served in Afghanistan, where you met your best friend, Thomas Jefferson Kim. Saved his life during a deadly firefight. Kim left to become a multimillionaire cybersecurity expert. You went to work for the CIA. Your career—”
“We know our own backgrounds,” Garrett said.
“I was raised in Ofra, a settlement on the West Bank. When I was sixteen, I became sick with spinal meningitis. The doctors told my parents that I would be dead in twenty-four hours. They told me the same.” Esther looked directly at Mayberry. “When you believe you only have hours to live, there is no time to worry about the next day. Every breath tastes sweeter, every rose blooms brighter.”
“You clearly recovered,” Mayberry said.
“Yes. It is not a cliché when I say I live in the moment, and always without regrets. I am not the only Israeli who believes this. My final year in school, I kept score. Palestinians killed forty-two Israelis and two visiting tourists in twelve months.”
“How many Palestinians did Israeli forces kill?” Mayberry asked.
“Our side killed two hundred and forty-two Palestinians, and every one of those Palestinians deserved to die. My mother was murdered by a suicide bomber while picking out fruit in a neighborhood market.”
“I’m sorry,” Garrett said. “Is that why you joined the Mossad?”
“Our military first, and later the Mossad. As you probably have guessed, I am not married. I have no children and no serious boyfriend.” She looked directly at Garrett. “But—how do you Americans put it?—I enjoy friends with benefits.”
“Have you ever worked with the CIA?” Mayberry asked.
“Yes, it’s no longer classified. I was sent to assist one of your army majors. Her name is Brooke Grant. Our mission was to track and kill a specific terrorist. Unlike me, she had an adopted child. A terrorist caught Grant by surprise. Luckily, she escaped from her farmhouse in Virginia mere seconds before he blew it up. I killed the terrorist, but not before he stabbed me.”
Without embarrassment, she began unbuttoning her blouse, exposing her breasts and a jagged red scar across her abdomen.
“It took me a year to recover physically. You see, the two of you are not the only ones who have been burned and crippled.” She buttoned her blouse and again directed her comments at Mayberry. “You don’t know me, and you can’t understand my life, so don’t you dare judge me. From the moment of my birth on the West Bank, someone has been trying to kill me. You do not understand what that is like. In America, you can wake up and go outside without being afraid. You can see a stranger on a street without feeling fear. You can go to bed without thinking you might be killed in your sleep. It is not only on the West Bank. It is true for Jews everywhere. Auschwitz-Birkenau taught us that. How did your grandparents die? Do I need to explain how mine did?”
“I’m going to get some rest,” Mayberry said, entering the suite’s second bedroom. She shut her door and locked it.
Esther stepped into the other bedroom, glancing back at Garrett. She left the door slightly ajar.
Garrett waited a moment, considering what had just transpired. How each of them had been shaped by the situation in which they were born. Their parents and the events of their childhoods. It seemed clear to him that no one gets through life without being scarred. He did not judge either woman. He opened a beer at the bar. Walked over to the window, and looked again at Fallbrook Manor.
Twenty-Nine
CIA Director Connor Whittington was, as the native Texan was fond of saying, “covering his butt.”
“Mr. President,” Whittington said, “every day we receive tips about possible terrorist attacks—everything from radical Islamic terrorists plotting to murder gamblers in Las Vegas casinos to bombing attacks at Mount Rushmore. What separates this tip from the others is that Director Levi called me personally about it.”
Whittington had included a copy of Nasya Radi’s warning letter and an edited transcript of his telephone calls with Big Jules in the presidential packet delivered earlier.
President Randle Fitzgerald leaned forward and placed his elbows on the Theodore Roosevelt desk that he’d chosen for his tenure in the Oval Office. He clasped his fingers together and peered over his hands at Whittington, sitting before him. “I’ve never met the Mossad director,” he said. “What I do know is that the Mossad has a hell of a lot more sources inside Iran than we do.”
“That’s true, but I must admit I’m a bit suspicious of Israel’s motivation,” Whittington said. “Israel is always accusing Iran of not abiding by any international nuclear agreements. They’ve cried wolf before. Nonbiased international inspectors have assured us that Iran is not developing nuclear weapons, and there is no satellite or other technical evidence to contradict that. Based on our predictive analytical models, we do not believe Iran will have nuclear capabilities for several years, and in fact we further believe that developing a nuclear bomb is not a high priority. The Israelis are constantly raising the threat for their own political reasons without tangible evidence, and Iran uses that fear for leverage.”
“What about this old Soviet submarine base in Balaklava Bay and this rogue submarine that the Israelis say they spotted?”
“Mr. President, if there was such a rogue submarine, who does it belong to? The Israelis couldn’t satisfactorily answer that when we last spoke.”
Randle unclasped his hands, raised his elbows from his desk, and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. He had no public
appearances planned today, so he’d skipped shaving, gaining himself a few extra minutes in his exhausting daily schedule. He was sixty-nine, but felt much older. When he looked into the mirror before showering, he’d wondered who owned the worn face staring back at him. Once he’d been handsome. Now, drooping jowls, bags under his eyes. In his youth, an NFL quarterback. Nimble. Ripped abs. Now he carried the male version of a muffin-top waist. Too many days sitting at his desk. Too much stress. He felt confident that his mind was just as sharp as when he’d called plays in the huddle. Yes, he was that old. A different era, before offensive coordinators made the call. His mind wasn’t what was failing him. A Washington reporter had compared his watery blue eyes to the color of a calm mountain lake on a chilly winter morning, and his temper to that of an angry charging bull wounded with banderillas. He’d loved that description—except for the watery eyes. He no longer loved being president. A year left before his second term ended and he could retire. Those seeking to replace him already had begun criticizing his tenure, and it was like being plucked to death by geese. They listed his every slipup, every perceived failure and fault. They were running against him, not for what they could do better. He did not want to finish his presidency being accused of ignoring a warning about another pending 9/11 attack.
“Director Whittington,” the president said, “I know this seems implausible, but I’m not going to get caught with my pants down. I expect you to stay on top of this, as if it is a genuine attack.”
“Yes, sir, I’m planning to,” Whittington said. “Is there anything else?”
“There is.” The president reached into a desk drawer and removed a copy of the Washington Interceptor. It was rare for him to have an actual newspaper; as president, he received an edited version of the top news each day, specially prepared for him.
“Someone leaked information about Garrett and Mayberry to this reporter,” he said. “The article says you felt compelled to issue a statement saying they are not working for the agency. I’ve been around Washington long enough to see a smear job, and I don’t like it. I gave those two our country’s highest civilian medal, and stories like this—about them running around Europe, causing havoc—make them and me look bad.”
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