In the background she heard a woman cry out. Was it Yasmin?
Again the man spoke to Aisha in Arabic. “If you want to keep her alive, call the other number and tell us what you know.”
He disconnected.
Aisha’s heart and thoughts raced. They were lying! Yasmin might be sick or dead. But what if her sister was alive and they killed her now because Aisha hesitated too long?
How many seconds had passed?
She dialed with fingers so unsteady she had to stop and restart.
Please, God . . .
On the third try she reached the machine again, at least she heard the click this time.
Forgive me . . .
Again she began to speak in Arabic. “It’s me. She’s going to Venice today—she’s flying out right now from CDG. I did my side, now hold up your side of the bargain. Let my sister go free. You promised. Please . . .”
Only at the very end did her voice crack, betraying her true emotions.
She dropped the phone and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Her body contracted and she leaned deep over the toilet, retching violently.
When the sickness passed, she splashed her face with water from the small sink.
She picked up the phone and stared at it. Why didn’t the man call back?
She heard the whispering echo of Yasmin’s voice in her head.
She pressed redial. It was the only number she had for the terrorists.
But this time the phone rang and rang. There was no answer, no voice mail, nothing.
A shock bolted through her body as she heard the short buzzing ring. She pushed “answer,” even as she realized it was not the phone ringing but her work cell.
She stared blankly at the message, saw the emergency code alerting Team Viper to return to the safe house immediately.
What have I done?
59
Minus only Vanessa and Aisha, the members of Team Viper sat tensely around the safe-house conference table. All of them, including David Khoury, had been urgently summoned and their eyes were now locked on the primary monitor.
Six fighters in camouflage uniform converged on a stone farmhouse, exchanging gunfire with at least one shooter inside. As two of the men moved toward the door, the footage froze on screen.
Fournier stood a few feet back from the monitor, saying, “I’ll be briefing you on what I know from the commander of a French special forces team at this point. You’re looking at footage taken when our team went in less than an hour ago. Obviously, these were exigent circumstances and the op was top-secret. They moved on our intelligence obtained from the analysis of the True Jihad videos and on intel from several vital assets. One enemy combatant was killed in a firefight with our forces. We don’t have an identification yet, but we’re working on it, although I will tell you that he doesn’t appear to have any obvious scars.
“It appears that a hostage died, too, although we don’t know if she was killed during the op, just prior to the op, or if she had already been dead for some period of time when our guys got inside. A medical team is on the way from Paris to this estate, which is located about one hundred twenty kilometers northwest of Paris. Apparently it was supposed to be uninhabited except for an elderly caretaker. He is being questioned by team members now. We will have regular updates. Questions?”
Khoury lifted his hand but he didn’t wait to ask, “Will you confirm the hostage was a female?”
Fournier nodded grimly. “Female, early twenties, but that’s all I’ve got at this time.”
Chris stepped up looking pale and exhausted. “Most of you know Vanessa isn’t here because she’s following up a lead. But has anyone seen Aisha? For obvious reasons, it’s vital that we keep tabs on everyone.”
Khoury signaled Chris with a nod. “I’ll see if I can track down Aisha.”
His fingers slid across the face of his cell phone resting in his lap. He was worried because it wasn’t like Aisha not to respond to an urgent summons or at least check in, but she’d mentioned to him that she was meeting with an asset, so . . .
He was worried about Vanessa, too. He didn’t like the jittery feeling that had come over him. He ran his fingers automatically over the keys to send another text to Vanessa: Check in with me the minute you arrive.
60
Inside the international terminal at Istanbul Atatürk Airport, he stood between ornamental palm trees and next to a pillar decorated with a tourist poster showing Turkish landmarks and, incongruously, the slogan: “Fly me to the moon.”
He held his phone in his right hand, waiting. He felt strange traveling without the case after being attached to it for so long.
When his phone chirped he saw the Snapchat icon. His eyes narrowed as he clicked to view the image: a young blond woman, mid-to-late twenties, pretty in a natural way, a candid shot taken on the street in Paris. He read the brief message just as the photograph dissolved, erasing itself. He had to hand it to the twentysomething app developers. They had no idea they were part of Jesus’s plan to rid the world of nonbelievers.
And thanks to YouTube and Twitter almost everyone in the Western world had seen all the True Jihad videos by now; they’d had more than three million hits. The point was to inflame emotions, to frighten, to confuse.
He slid his phone into his jacket pocket, already scanning the list of departures. Turkish Airlines had a nonstop flight leaving in forty minutes, at 0425 hours. As he covered the short distance to the closest Turkish Airlines counter, he pulled out his wallet and the ticket that he’d booked earlier for London.
His special watch was inside his pocket. He stepped up to the counter and set the ticket on it. He smiled shyly, addressing the woman in polite Turkish, asking if it would be possible to add a stopover in Venice. Unexpected business has come up.
Only later did he receive the message that French special forces had killed the final member of his team and, apparently, the hostage.
61
The hard-shot clap of an engine backfire brought Khoury up short. He’d walked less than two blocks from the safe house. He tensed, glancing around as the offending vehicle turned a corner and disappeared.
Someone called his name.
Just two meters from him, Aisha stepped out of a doorway. She was clutching her worn leather bomber jacket tightly to her. Her hair had come loose from her braid. She seemed hollowed out, and he caught the faint sour scent of her sweat.
He could only describe the expression on her face with one word: stricken.
“Aisha, what’s wrong? Where were you? They killed the hostage—”
“I know. I did quelque chose de mal—” She stammered, shifting into Arabic, confessing. “I told them about Vanessa, that she’s going to Venice.”
“Who did you tell?” Khoury gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging into leather to the flesh of her arms.
“You’re hurting me.” Aisha pulled away. The blood had drained from her face. She looked ill.
“Talk to me.”
“They said they have Yasmin, my sister, but now she’s dead—”
“Jesus,” Khoury whispered with dawning horror—was it possible that the dead hostage was Aisha’s sister?
Aisha was talking fast, almost babbling. “The man called me right before I went to Amsterdam, and I came to you, I was going to tell you that night, but something stopped me.”
Khoury’s mind raced with calculations, but he tried not to show it. He stepped closer to Aisha, hoping to calm her like he would a child, softening his voice and his touch. He was half afraid she would fall apart completely. “We’re going to figure this out.” He needed to get word to Chris, get Aisha to a safe place, that was the first priority.
“Please,” Aisha said now, “Yasmin isn’t normal, she isn’t like other adults. She’s like a child.” Her eyes filled with tears. “She needs me, Dawood.”
“We don’t know anything for certain, not yet,” Khoury said. He suddenly realized what she’d told him: The terrorists knew
Vanessa was going to Venice.
Aisha swayed and Khoury caught her just as her knees buckled. He held her against his chest. The rain started again, just a few drops, but he barely felt them.
—
“I’M HERE, AISHA. Let’s go inside where we can sort this out.” He eased her back toward the direction of the safe house, glad they would reach it in minutes.
As they walked, Aisha kept talking, her voice low, almost inaudible at times. “He gave me a number to call. He said I must do exactly as he said or they would kill—” Her voice broke.
“We need to do everything we can to help Yasmin. You need to keep it together, do you understand?” With his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her to arm’s length to look intently into her eyes. He wouldn’t let Aisha fall apart. Not now.
She nodded slowly, running her tongue over dry, chapped lips. “I know the number. I told them I had to know she was alive. I know they will kill her otherwise. He said to call and tell him whenever Team Viper made a big move, and to tell him when Vanessa went anywhere.”
“He knows Vanessa by name?” Khoury asked.
Dazed, Aisha shook her head. “No. He said the blond girl, call if the American blond girl made some move.”
They were almost halfway back to the safe house now and Khoury could barely stop himself from pushing Aisha to move faster.
But now she slipped away from his grip. “I’m sorry, Dawood,” she said, backing away from him.
Alarmed, he reached out slowly with both arms, trying not to spook her.
She broke into a run. He started after her, but she had a lead and was fast and she turned the corner.
When he reached it, she was gone.
He didn’t go after her, but he was already pulling out his phone. He pressed autodial for Vanessa and left a message on her voice mail. He was certain she had turned off her phone and would use it only in case of an emergency.
He checked his watch. If her flight had departed on time, she was already on the ground in Italy. Too late to send someone to catch her at the gate.
He was about to call Chris when he spotted a lone taxi dropping a fare half a block away. He took off at a sprint, flagging the driver.
When the cab was moving, Khoury caught Chris at the safe house and quickly brought him up to speed on Aisha. Chris said he would alert Fournier, the COS Paris, and the DDO. They could contact Italian authorities, but both men knew it was the middle of Carnevale in Venice and getting any extra help from them would be impossible.
Next he booked his flight: Alitalia leaving CDG at 1555 hours and arriving at VCE at 1735. Since no one in Venice ate dinner before eight, he’d have plenty of time to get from Venice Marco Polo Airport to the island and find Vanessa even if he had to check every five-star restaurant. Who would have ever guessed that Charles Janek’s taste for only the best would turn out to be a form of GPS?
But there was something else on his mind: an encounter yesterday with Aisha just after the daily briefing. Outside the safe house, they had almost collided.
“Dawood.” She used his Lebanese given name, speaking softly. “I need to talk to you, please . . .” Her large eyes were reddened and watery, but he’d chosen not to believe she’d been crying.
“Let’s find time tomorrow,” he’d told her, moving to the door.
Now, as the streets of Paris passed in a blur, he pictured her face at that moment: The look in her eyes could only be described as despair.
“Tomorrow,” she had said, turning away abruptly. “I look forward to it.”
He couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he had stopped to talk to her.
62
“You’re not going to like what I have to say, Vanessa.” Charles Janek slid his manicured hand lightly across her wrist. She recognized the signet ring he wore on his right pinkie; it bore his family crest from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He tapped her fingers lightly with his own.
She nodded. “I reached out to you because you are the wisest man I know, and you will tell me if you think I need a straitjacket, and you won’t sugarcoat one word,” she said, all of that having the absolute benefit of being true.
He pursed his mouth, his eyes youthful and restless. “I have never questioned your sanity, and I am quite confident I never will. Your impulsive tendencies may be another matter.”
“Duly noted.”
All eight tables in Osteria alle Testiere were full at nine p.m. in the middle of the Carnevale di Venezia. Leave it to Charles to find a table here at short notice when reservations were usually booked months in advance. The premises glowed with the warmth of amber. Most of the diners had honored tradition and come in costume, and Charles, with his aristocratic features, outshone everyone. Tonight, in his seventeenth-century duds, his feather-topped cap jauntily covering a head that was bald except for a halo-like fringe of sandy hair, he reminded Vanessa of a seasoned Autolycus from The Winter’s Tale.
Vanessa had planned to make do with the complimentary mask from the hotel Charles had booked for her, Hotel Ala, but just as she was getting ready to meet him for dinner, the bellman knocked on the door to her room bearing an enormous box tied with a satin bow. Inside, she found a full outfit: a stunning hand-stitched seventeenth-century gown of lavender silk and turquoise satin decorated with white lace. The note on heavy stationery said, “If this pleases . . .” and Charles had no doubt signed his distinctive flourish with his Mont Blanc fountain pen. Perhaps one of his mistresses had worn the gown once, but it looked brand new. Although she felt a tinge of impatience at the timing of this indulgence, Vanessa couldn’t resist and she certainly wasn’t going to insult his generosity. It was exactly the sort of gesture that made Charles . . . Charles.
“Who am I?” she’d asked in the hotel lobby when he bowed low over her upright hand.
“The lovely Juliet, of course, who was young but also headstrong and intelligent,” Charles said, one eyebrow rising in appreciation. “Although, sadly, I am not destined to be your Romeo.”
“Be glad,” Vanessa said, smiling wryly. “‘Within the infant rind of this small flower poison hath residence . . .’”
And with that, they had begun their short walk to the tiny five-star restaurant.
As soon as they were seated at their table, an elderly waiter with jet-black hair brought a chilled bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil 2000. They raised their tulip-shaped glasses, and Charles cleared his throat. “‘In Lent, if masquerades displease the town, call ’em Ridottos and they still go down.’”
Vanessa laughed, something it seemed she hadn’t done for ages. “Who said that?” she asked, sipping her champagne. “Oh, this is extraordinary, Charles.”
“So glad you approve. The toast comes from ‘The Man of Taste’ who was alive and well in 1733,” Charles said. “And I would argue that his words continue to hold true today.”
She took another sip of champagne; she would pace herself. Charles’s ability to consume large quantities of alcohol was amazing. From aperitif to dinner wines to the last sherry or grappa, he never seemed the least bit affected and certainly not impaired. It was a marvel to watch. She felt the glow of the sparkling wine the moment it hit her belly, the horrible tension of the past days easing just a bit.
Charles chose that moment to set a silk pochette on the table between them. “For your continuing education.”
“More gifts?” She shook her head but she was smiling. Inside she found three CDs, albums of Bach, Chopin, and Dvoˇrák. “Thank you, Charles, when I play them I’ll think of you.”
Charles raised his glass, his fingers poised against the delicate glass stem, not a drop spilled. Watching his magician’s style, his seemingly casual precision, Vanessa unwound another micro-notch, and she relaxed a little more in the high-backed wooden chair that probably dated back to the time of the Doges.
He smiled at her now with his distinctive mix of intelligence, wit and wickedness, and regret. He let his gaze linger, taking her in, the way only Charles
could. And then he sighed. “I fear it is time to turn our talk to matters most serious.”
He lowered his voice to a gravelly whisper. “You asked me what I know about Allen Jeffreys.”
63
Through the lace-curtained window of Osteria alle Testiere, he watched the blond girl and her companion in a feathered hat and jacket, talking at their table for two. Their conversation seemed so secretive, their heads nearly touched over the small candles. The girl wore a thin gold mask over her eyes and her dress was the kind he’d seen at a Shakespeare play. He’d watched that play, the only play he’d ever seen, the summer he spent in Virginia in America with the other initiates and leaders of the Circle.
That was the summer that changed his life. It was the summer he had discovered the purpose Jesus had for him. That summer was the reason he was in Venice tonight, waiting to send the girl to her reckoning.
He’d followed her from the airport—had to wait forever for her to finally exit the terminal. He’d taken a water taxi even though it cost more than a vapo, because that’s what she did. He got off at Saint Mark’s Basilica, and he was shocked by the people in the nearby piazza, who were clothed in lustful and indecent costumes, powdered wigs and face paint and tight pants, the women showing half their breasts and some people only covered with body paint! Little did he know, but he’d walked directly into Carnevale.
From Saint Mark’s he followed the girl on foot the few minutes to her fancy hotel. Her bearing and stride were distinctive, and the crowds made it easy to track her without being noticed.
When the time was right he would deal with the girl, and this crowd of sinners would make his job easy. He would garrote her long, slender throat with wire as he whispered from Isaiah 13:9 the last words she would hear before she went straight to hell.
“Behold, the day of the Lord comes, cruel, with wrath and fierce anger, to make the land a desolation and to destroy its sinners from it.”
Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) Page 24