“You’re born with aptitude. We’ve developed techniques that will help you develop to your full potential. A lot of it is contextualizing events correctly. I’ll give you an example. You were involved in a gunfight recently, right?” Nava asked, knowing the answer.
Maya nodded.
“Did you kill anyone?”
“I think so. Actually, I hope so. I didn’t stand over their corpses, but I know I hit at least four or five of them. Maybe more.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Feel? Other than wishing I could have plugged the one who shot my friend Sarah?”
“Yes. Any nightmares? Regrets?”
“I don’t feel bad, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Why not? You took life.”
Maya eyed her like she was crazy. “Because they’re terrorists. They’re trying to kill innocent people. They’re butchers and criminals. And they were trying to shoot me.”
“Right. So there’s the context. They were cold-blooded killers, and you were defending yourself. But let me ask this: would you have shot them if they hadn’t been trying to shoot you?”
Maya looked uncertain. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“Let me rephrase it. If you were ordered to shoot them because they were conspiring to kill innocent people, would you have a problem doing it?”
Maya shook her head. “Absolutely none at all.”
“Even if they were unarmed?”
“Sure. They’re murderous scum.”
“Right. So now a tougher one. What if you were ordered to kill someone but you weren’t told why?”
“By the Mossad? I’d assume they needed killing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Shouldn’t I be? I don’t have any moral ambiguity. If the Mossad has a reason to execute someone, that’s good enough for me. We’re the good guys.”
Nava was silent for a moment. “Yes, we are. But sometimes situations get complicated. Most often we don’t know why we’re being ordered to do something. An effective operative doesn’t second-guess the command structure. An operative has to perform, without question, and have no remorse. Not everyone can do that.”
Maya looked squarely at Nava, her gaze unflinching. “Not everyone’s going to ace this program, either. But I am.”
Nava cleared her throat and stood as Zivah entered to escort Maya to dinner. She handed Maya a thick binder to study and smiled, to Maya’s eye, with just a hint of sadness.
“I believe you.”
Chapter 19
Pulau Numbing, Indonesia
Nahir al Farooq reclined on the divan in his villa’s great room, the polished Italian marble underfoot rivaling the flooring of a French summer palace. The air in the massive home was cool and temperature controlled; the air-conditioning removed the undesirable cloying humidity of the monsoon season. Nahir had hired an engineering team from Switzerland to design his island compound’s power plant: a combination of wind, solar, thermal, and diesel powered generators that ensured he never had to suffer even a moment of discomfort. Even after seven years living on the island, he felt the money had been well spent.
Nahir called out to the kitchen as he read a report on his tablet.
“More coffee. And be quick about it.”
His voice was surprisingly deep, a rich baritone that was out of place given the speaker: a short, well-fed man with an expensive tan and shrewd brown eyes. He shifted as he waited for the steward to bring him a refill, his Robert Jordan shirt and Armani slacks a sharp contrast to the more relaxed white linen attire of his staff, as were his navy blue hand-made Italian calfskin moccasins. A heavy gold chain featuring an ancient Roman coin pendant adorned his neck, and his wrist boasted a gleaming platinum Rolex President with a black pearlescent dial.
“Nahir, are you down here?” a female voice called out from the artfully curved staircase that led to the upstairs suites.
Nahir sighed and nodded. “Yes, my dear. What can I do for you?”
A stunning young brunette he’d flown in from Madrid, along with three of her frisky friends, descended the stairs, each high-heeled foot carefully placed, her white silk kimono barely concealing her deeply tanned charms. Freshly twenty, Bella was his guest for three weeks of debauchery – or until he tired of her, whichever came first. She approached, preceded by the delightful scent of coconut, youth, and sun-kissed skin, a petulant moue on her flawless face.
“Have you seen Samson?” she asked, obviously concerned. Samson was her Yorkshire terrier, more a fashion item as far as Nahir could tell than a companion. She stood in front of him, legs slightly apart, her million-dollar thighs an invitation that was well worth the five thousand a day he was paying for the pleasure of her company.
“Samson? No. Can’t say as I have. Why?” Nahir asked, his tone appropriately concerned.
“I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“Well, he is a dog. He’s probably exploring the grounds.”
The steward appeared with the coffee, taking care not to spill as he poured the rich dark roast into his master’s cup.
Nahir’s nose twitched at the aroma. “Do you want to join me? It’s delicious.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m going to look around for Samson. He’s just a little boy. He has no concept of danger.”
“Ah, to be young again,” Nahir said with a chuckle.
He watched Bella glide back to the stairs, her buttocks moving like precision-machined pistons, and took a sip of his coffee. Nahir had created a tolerable existence for himself here in the armpit of the world since being effectively exiled by his family from their oil-rich kingdom in the Middle East. He’d always been somewhat of a black sheep, but when he’d been connected with a series of public embarrassments during his university years in London, he’d been deemed too controversial to come back home. Since then he’d floated around from country to country for a few years before settling into his preferred trade: arms dealer for despots and similar undesirables.
He’d ultimately settled on a remote island at the ass end of Indonesia as his home base because it was defendable, virtually unknown outside of the region, and he was essentially a law unto himself. When Nahir had been blackballed by his parents, he’d been cut off with next to nothing, a measly five million dollars. After squandering half on his aberrational appetites, however, he’d knuckled down and gotten serious about building a fortune – family be damned.
He’d initially made lucrative buys in the Golden Triangle and participated in opening up Eastern Europe’s fledgling heroin routes. But when that had soured due to the flood of product following the Americans’ liberation of Afghanistan, when heroin production there had gone from zero under the Taliban to more than the entire global demand for the opiate within a couple of years under U.S. occupation, all of the love had gone out of the trade, and he’d had to find another way of making outsized gains.
By then he’d become rich in his own right, but largely in cash, gemstones, and gold, none of which were easily laundered. While looking for a solution to his problem, he’d stumbled across a group out of Iraq that had been looking to sell some of the country’s older arsenal to a guerilla unit in sub-Saharan Africa, but was hamstrung by United Nations sanctions and watchdog organizations, as well as neighboring African governments that accused the guerillas of systematic genocide.
Nahir had assumed the role of consummate middleman and facilitated the transaction, which had begun his new career – one that was infinitely more profitable than the opium trade and better suited to his character. As a merchant of death, he was welcomed into the halls of power whenever a government wanted to do something its population might judge harshly, and over the years his wealth and reputation grew. He’d purchased most of Pulau Numbing a decade earlier and had set about creating his own private paradise, managing the construction from his penthouse in Singapore, flying in weekly to monitor progress.
His head of security entered from
the rear veranda and approached timidly, the mahogany skin of his face glistening with perspiration.
“Yes, Gohar, what is it?”
Gohar glanced around and, seeing they were alone, spoke softly, his eyes continuing to rove – an occupational hazard. “We’ve completed the testing, and the product appears to be exactly as described, sir.”
“Excellent. I’ll be along in a moment. Wait for me outside.”
“Of course, sir.” Gohar spun on his heel and made for the pocket doors as Nahir continued to sip his coffee.
The buy had been a speculative one for him, something he rarely did; he normally preferred not to stockpile inventory of anything but staples, instead intermediating transactions between buyers and sellers on more controversial wares. But this had been a special circumstance – North Korea had needed a quick injection of liquidity to meet one of its payments for a particularly anxious creditor, and ten million dollars’ worth of Nahir’s cash had solved its immediate problem. In return, Nahir had taken delivery of three crates of chemical weapons, all told six canisters of a purported nerve agent that would kill within minutes of exposure.
He’d arranged to have it tested before putting it out to the market, and that morning the experiment had been conducted at one of his remote buildings that had been specially prepared for the event. But if he’d learned one thing in his career, it was to never leave anything to chance, and he wanted to verify the results with his own eyes before making representations to potential buyers.
Nahir finished his coffee and stood. The steward came at a trot. “Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”
Nahir shook his head. “No, thank you. If any of the girls come looking for me, I’ve gone for a nature walk. Keep them busy with champagne. I should be back shortly. I’ll want a snack of fresh fruit and mimosas by the pool in an hour.”
“It shall be done.”
Gohar joined Nahir when he ambled onto the deck and took a deep breath, savoring the breeze off the water that carried with it the aroma of tropical foliage. He’d created his own little Eden, where his every wish was instantly fulfilled. He was a lucky man and had come a long way, doing things on his own terms.
They walked together to the rear gate of the walled complex, where a golf cart waited in the sleepy shade of a banyan tree. After a five-minute run down a white sand trail, they emerged near a Quonset hut ringed with rusting barbed-wire fencing. Two Malaysian men in white pants and short-sleeved shirts sat by the entrance, each with an assault rifle resting across his lap. They leapt to their feet when they saw Nahir, who ignored them as he approached the building.
“We have touched nothing since discharging one of the canisters,” Gohar said. “As you instructed.”
“Excellent.” Nahir entered the building, which, contrary to its corroding exterior, was antiseptically clean inside, all white enamel surfaces and chrome and glass. An Asian man wearing a white lab coat and wire-rimmed glasses stood near a window, and he looked up at Nahir’s arrival.
“It is as expected,” the Asian said in a rare display of chattiness.
“Nice to see you as well, Dr. Chan,” Nahir said as he moved to the window and peered into a large chamber. On the ground two small dogs lay unmoving: white froth coated the floor near their heads as well as their muzzles, drying blood caking the Yorkie’s eyes, the Chihuahua’s face frozen in a death rictus, its limbs twisted unnaturally. “Well, it looks like little Sammy’s had his last day in the sun.”
Gohar offered a trace of a smile. “It is a shame when a beloved pet runs off.”
“Be sure to expend every effort to find him for the young lady,” Nahir replied, amusement in his eyes. “Very well, Dr. Chan. In your opinion, this is the genuine article?”
The Asian nodded once. “Yes.”
“How long before you can open the chamber and clear them out?”
“Two hours, to be safe. The agent is neutralized within an hour of contact with the atmosphere, but I want to allow three for additional security.”
“It’s a pity we had to use an entire canister.”
Dr. Chan shrugged. “Once the seal is broken, the canister is compromised.”
“I understand.” Nahir took a final look at the dead animals and pushed past Gohar. “Let’s return to the house.”
As the cart bounced back down the trail, Nahir considered how best to market his deadly new acquisition. He had five more canisters left. He would price each at eight million dollars, but accept less from a qualified purchaser. According to the Koreans and Dr. Chan, a canister held a payload sufficient to kill everything within a five-hundred-meter interior area, assuming an effective dispersal mechanism. And it had a ten-year shelf life, so he had time to find the right buyers.
It troubled him not one iota that whoever purchased the goods would use them to kill innocents. As long as the canisters couldn’t be traced back to him, it was none of his concern. Just like the bankers who’d funded both sides in each of the world wars, the actions of others were not his problem – they were an opportunity. And he would require payment to his diamond and gold broker, so there would be no record of a bank transfer to him anyone could follow; standard procedure when contemplating the sale of weapons of mass destruction to the highest bidder.
It would take a while for prospects to materialize – after all, this was a specialized product for an unusual type of customer. But he had the contacts to reach the right corners of the globe, and he had no doubt willing buyers would eventually appear. When they did, he would have made another small fortune, ensuring the continuation of his lavish lifestyle while somewhere Hell’s gates opened and toxic death spewed forth.
All in a day’s work.
Chapter 20
Southeast of Tel Aviv, Israel
Six weeks had gone by, and Maya had acclimated to the grueling training schedule. After a rough first ten days, her upper body strength had increased substantially, and she could manage her three hundred pushups, if not with ease, at least without killing herself. The muscle soreness had abated with time, and she developed a centeredness and poise that surprised her as much as it appeared to please Gurion, who otherwise alternated between cynicism and grumpiness, even when at week two he’d announced almost in passing that a bombing plot in Ramallah had been stymied when the bomb maker’s factory had been raided.
Today they were working on her parkour skills, and she was standing beneath a shade tree near three abandoned buildings in a distant corner of the base.
“Again,” he called out.
Maya bolted to one of the nearby structures, bounded up the side a meter and a half, and pushed off a windowsill with one foot. Using the momentum to launch higher, she grabbed the rim of the roof and pulled herself over. She rolled to her feet, ran across the flat concrete, and scaled the second-story wall. Once on top of the building she moved to the far side and dove off headfirst, landing on the first-story roof, tucking and rolling to absorb the shock, and repeated the dismount with another roll on the dusty ground before springing to a standing position, chest rising and falling with the effort.
Gurion grunted, the only praise she would hear, she knew, and cleared his throat.
“Take a few minutes, and then I want you to spar for half an hour with Angie.” Angie was a guest instructor who had arrived the prior day, in her thirties and solid muscle from what Maya had seen from afar.
Maya winced and nodded. Gurion had pitted her against her fellow female trainees, and when it had been obvious that she was more skilled, switched to male conscripts, whom she’d also bested in most contests.
Angie made her way across the field after Gurion blew his whistle and waved, and when she arrived, offered Maya her hand. “Gurion tells me you’re a real badass.”
Maya shook it. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“That’s the word. Well, let’s see what you’ve got. Bring it.”
They donned padded gloves and helmets and then circled each other, bouncing on the balls of
their feet, feinting and waiting for an opening or indication of the other’s move. Maya had been working with Gurion on masking her intentions and displaying no outward reactions, and she was now light years ahead of what she’d once thought of as being a good fighter. Angie had obviously been to the same school, and to Maya it was like having a mirror image as an adversary.
When the first salvo came from Angie, it was stunning in both its ferocity and speed, but Maya was able to counter the blows and land several of her own.
Gurion nodded. “Stop playing with her, Angie.”
“I want to see how well you’ve done your job, old man.”
“Don’t make me put on the gloves and take you down, you upstart.”
Maya’s assault was fluid, unexpected, and seemed to happen at the speed of light. The next thing Angie knew, she was on the ground. She looked up at Maya, whose face radiated tranquility as she stood over her, her foot poised a millimeter above Angie’s throat, where in an actual fight she would have crushed her windpipe, and smiled.
“Nice. I never saw it coming. Great feint.”
Maya moved her foot and helped Angie up. “Thanks.”
Angie looked to Gurion. “She’s ready.”
Gurion turned to Maya. “Don’t let it go to your head, but that’s the highest compliment you could get. Tomorrow we’ll start in on maemai – the major techniques of Muay Thai, which is different than the karate you learned in your misspent youth. Angie is an accomplished instructor in the discipline, and since she’s going to be here for a couple of weeks, we might as well take advantage of her skills. Now, let’s finish up our time with some more sparring. I want to see whether that was just luck or whether you’ve actually been paying attention out here.”
By the time Gurion’s four-hour instruction block was up, both Angie and Maya had given as good as they’d received, and Angie was advising Maya on minor stylistic elements she could improve. Muay Thai’s primary approach was being able to tolerate and dish out pain, and both women were obviously spent when the training session drew to a close.
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