"I'm Fiona. Is it your wedding, then?"
"No, no. We went a few months ago and I only got the pictures two days ago. I couldn't resist bringing them along with us. Come, sit here on my right. That way you'll see everything easier."
"It looks cold. There is a lot of snow there. Where did you say you lived?" asked Fiona.
"I didn't say," replied Sarah, with a laugh in her tone.
"Aren't we uppity?"
Aden piped in between slugs of dark ale: "Don't you girls get to scrapping now. I've got more than my hands full with the 'Bones' and my stout to keep me occupied."
"Hey, turn that page back," said Fiona.
"This one?"
"No. It's a few pages back. There it is. Well, you don't say. It's a bloody small world," she added as she stood and motioned to the bartender.
"Rolly," she shouted. "Get your ass over here."
The bartender was not particularly busy, so he complied. He flipped up the end of the bar by the cash register, after pulling himself a stout and walked over to the table.
"What's the fuss, Fi?"
"Have a gander here. That's not that Mick that's always singing in here during the fall of the year?"
"Well, I'll be damned. Sure looks like him," said Rolly, casting a glance at both the new customers a little suspiciously.
"What's his name? I never forget a face or a voice for that matter, and he had a real sad singing voice, right from the heart."
"Mac, something, if I got it right,″ responded Rolly, a little stiffly.
Kefira's ears perked up at the tone of the bartender's response. The evening was developing as though scripted. Sarah and Aden had subtly manipulated themselves into the pub without a hitch. From the surveillance central aboard the yacht, Kefira watched the screens and listened to the conversations in the washrooms, verified the numbers being dialed on the pay phones and the bar phone. As well, she watched multiple video feeds as Zak covered the only place not seen or heard by their electronic devices. He could see the rear exit near the dishwasher's sink at the back of the pub, leading into the alleyway that held the garbage and some empty beer bottles. Zak was also double-checking the front entrance. Rolly got up rather abruptly and headed back to the bar saying, "Duty calls," but there was no one at the bar. Fiona and Sarah kept looking at the photos until some customers started wandering in.
"Yer a sweetheart. Thanks for sharing the photo album."
Meanwhile, Rolly was looking through a Rolodex at the bar. He came to a card, looked around and dialed a number on the bar phone. An answering machine churned a message and Rolly said, "Interest, Mac me boy," and hung up.
"Bingo. Yes," said Kefira as she wrote down the number.
She proceeded to check the phone number on her Mossad-issued number recognition device and was disappointed to see that the trace led to a telephone answering service, specializing in message taking for busy executives.
Close, but another dead end, she thought aloud.
Kefira sat back, disappointed, when the bar telephone rang out and Rolly answered. A woman spoke in the singsong of an advertising jingle: "Cell phones make the loveliest memories," and hung up. Kefira was on the edge of her chair, looking at the monitor facing the bartender. He pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a photo of Sarah and Aden while pretending to dial a number. Kefira used her software to snap a photo of Rolly surreptitiously taking a picture of Sarah and Aden.
"We need all the numbers on the bartender's phone, because there might be other MacAuley contact numbers in it. I bet he has other numbers for MacAuley," Kefira said, speaking into a connection to Zak's concealed flesh tone earpiece.
"I'll be on it when he leaves tonight," whispered Zak into his shirt collar, in between long breaths into his blues harp.
"Hook," whispered Kefira to Zak.
"Line and sinker, too. Cover me when I go for him tonight," replied Zak.
"Better idea. I'll distract."
"Ok. Hoof it."
"Where's pick up? Appearances?"
"On Blackstone above the Hard Rock Cafe. Stage make up, stuff for disguises 'er in the cupboard, under the sink."
"Panhandling corner when bars close." added Kefira.
"Place closes at two in the morning. Stay on the monitors until one fifty," said Zak, overstepping his command role, but Kefira was not foolish enough to pull rank, knowing his experience in the field counted more here.
Even though she fought against it, her feathers were a bit ruffled. She settled back to her observation role while reaching under the sink and sifting through the makings of a disguise. She propped up the makeup mirror in the stage make-up kit and looked into eyes that shone with their first break in the chase after MacAuley. The evening's watch passed without any more interesting happenings.
Around one thirty, Kefira started to don her get up to seduce the bartender. She knew he had a big, black pickup with lots of work done under it. The body sat way above normal traffic level. The team had talked about the truck in their preparation remarks.
As a result, she had an idea of the kind of woman he might like. She wore a black tee shirt stamped with the lead guitarist from the '70s British rock group, White Snake. She added a ponytail piece and used the makeup kit to make some tattoos. She did her eyes with deep circles, a bit gothic, and pinned five silver studs in her ear. Her tongue had a false piercing, too. Some very tight reddish black stockings full of large round holes poked out of ultra short black shorts. As a finishing touch, she cut the sleeves from the T-shirt and etched a deep v-neck as well. A stuffed bra raised her cleavage where the words, 'lick me', appeared in home-style tattoo-form, much like cellmates do to each other in the 'joint'.
She appraised herself in the full-length mirror behind the door of the boat's head. Despite knowing that he might be wary, she looked alluring and slutty enough to be a 'working girl'.
She strolled along the wooden fence surrounding Creek Square on Blackstone, from the empty vegetable bins of a small fruit store to the alley beside the Millennium Hotel. Her target, shadowed carefully by Zak, appeared as expected around two fifteen.
He never did the clean-up. That was woman's work, according to Rolly, and the female servers did it. Kefira eyed him and removed a lollipop from her mouth, slowly, as he approached, walking toward her on the same side of the street – having walked through the back entrance and out the front door of the Haymarket all-night pizza joint, as was his habit. He nodded to her and she took his arm, babbling some rubbish about metal music. His arm slipped around her waist.
Zak shook his head and crossed the street in order to be able to beat them into the above ground parking lot. He waited on the second floor, crouched in front of the car parked on the driver's side of the souped up Ford Ranger. Zak had a strong feeling that Rolly, the bartender, would try to get his hooker into the back door on the driver's side of the vehicle.
When they walked by the car, Zak was hiding near the wall by the adjacent car's nose. Rolly turned in between the two parked vehicles on the driver's side. He had backed in before his shift. Zak whispered, "Yes", under his breath. The door lock popped with a remote control and big Rolly lifted a willing Kefira up after he opened the back door. He plopped her down on the seat facing him and she opened her legs exposing torn shorts with no g-string.
"Whoa, slide in, sweetheart," he said, the minute Zak struck the back of his head just above the neck.
"Not so fast, big boy," she answered, as Rolly fell into Zak's arms.
The two of them manhandled him into the waiting back seat. Zak took his wallet, removed the money, and spilled Rolly's cards all over the pavement under the truck. He then took Rolly's iPhone and pocketed it. Kefira went to the glove compartment and found a fully charged Taser M26c. Zak had left it there earlier.
Zak was taping the big man's mouth and securing his hands with plastic tie wraps when Rolly stirred and moaned.
"Climb out, Zak. I'll slow him down." The two needles from the taser launched
into Rolly's neck. He shook and passed out cold, drool forming at the corners of his now open mouth.
Sounding like the American wrestling announcer, Mike Buffer, Zak said, "Let's rumble," a little out of the normal context.
Kefira took Zak's hand and anyone looking might have thought that they looked like a slightly kinky couple out to a costume party.
"Aren't you supposed to say that before the fight?" she jibed and then froze, looking up at the surveillance camera in the entranceway.
"What do you take me for? Got the cameras before you got here,″ said Zak, waving his index finger in front of her nose. In ten minutes they were all back in the sailboat. Aden was working on the phone, and Zak and Kefira were removing stage make-up. A bottle of Champagne-style bubbly wine was chilling on ice, waiting to be uncorked. Everyone was looking at Aden. Even Sarah was quiet.
"Uncork it. There are two numbers to Michael MacAuley, one in Buenos Aires, and another in North Hatley, Quebec.″
ADOPTION OF KEFIRA
March 21, 1992
Agape Takis, her first name meaning 'love′ in Greek, sat leaning slightly forward, her knees together, feet to the left of her knees, with her hands in her lap, in a stiff-backed wooden chair just outside of the headmaster's office of Naoussa Junior High School. Her eyes flashed repeatedly to the clock on the wall. It was very unusual to be asked to wait after school because the school buses ran on a strict schedule, but more annoying for Agape was that she was missing her first meeting as editor of palmi tis neoleas, The Young Beat, her high school's student newspaper.
Mr. Skadia, the headmaster, opened the solid oak door to his office from the inside. He had a serious look on his usually smiling face.
"Miss Takis, please step into my office."
In the leather chair, near the wall by the ten-foot-wide window overlooking all of Naoussa and the Aegean Sea in the distance, sat an ordinary looking woman. When Agape entered the room, the older woman stood and extended her hand to Agape.
"I am Yochana. I have known your parents for a long time. In fact, your mother was my best friend when I was your age."
"Thank heavens. I was wondering why they hadn't phoned as they usually do on Tuesday evenings. Do we have to talk long? I am the new editor of the school newspaper. My first meeting is right now. May we talk later, please, Sir, Madame?"
"Please sit down young lady. We have some very important and rather unpleasant news for you," said Mr. Skadia in Greek, excusing himself to Yochana with a nod of the head and a click of his heels.
Mr. Skadia saying 'please' in the polite form of Greek to address her was a shock in itself. Agape sat, edging her knees slightly to the left, away from the two people now seated on the other side of the coffee table. She clasped her hands over her thighs and waited. Mister Skadia stood up abruptly, went to the door, and asked his secretary to bring some chamomile tea for all of them. He returned to the couch and then thought better of it.
"Perhaps Miss Takis should sit on the couch beside you, Madame Dayan," said Mr. Skadia, once again moving with embarrassment. This time, the school headmaster gave up his customary seating place, facing the window, beside the table exhibiting his cherished collection of rocks from throughout the Cyclades Islands. When Agape did not move, he clicked his heels and gestured to her to move as he bent slightly at the hip in obvious deference to the young woman.
"I must insist," he said, again making the deferent gesture and motioning with his hand opened in her direction.
His secretary came into the room with biscuits and tea for everyone. She busied herself with pouring each cup laboriously, and then exited without having lifted her head or said a word. When the door closed without a sound, Agape looked around the coffee table. No one seemed to know what to say.
"I really should be getting to my meeting," said Agape, making to get up. "I am sorry, but chamomile makes me sleepy and I have a lot of things to do today."
Sensing his unease, Yochana said, "Perhaps you should go, Mr. Skadia, and inform the newspaper group that their new editor will be delayed."
The headmaster seized on the chance to escape the emotions in the room, leaving the two strangers alone.
"Come and sit a little closer, child. I have something beautiful to show you. Do you recognize this?" asked Yochana, as she uncurled her fingers, revealing a locket that opened to expose a picture.
"Where did you get that? It's my mother's," said Agape, snatching the necklace from the woman's open palm.
She opened the clasp and saw that the picture inside was not the same as the one in her mother's locket, but that both her parents and the woman in front of her were in the picture. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
"Something has happened to my parents."
"Let me help you with that locket. I want you to have it. I will close it around your neck for you. You know, your mother gave me that locket when we were about your age. We were the best of friends at Kibbutz Yamit in the Negev Desert.″ Yochana gently caressed the child's hair.
"Open the locket."
Agape complied, feeling the shock set in.
"You see. They are always with you. Any time you think of them, you simply have to open the locket and they are with you."
Agape fell into the older woman's arms, tears flowing from her uncontrollably. Yochana's perfume, a subtle, homemade mix of jojoba oil and night blooming sambac and jasmine overwhelmed the teenager.
"You smell like my mother," said Agape, recovering a little.
"Well, actually, she smells like me. I make this perfume and often sent it as a gift to your mother on her birthday."
"When will I see my parents again?"
"Do you like adventures, Agape?"
"You didn't answer my question."
"I'll explain everything when I show you where I met your mother."
"What about school?"
"Soon you will be going to a different school. I am sure a bright girl like you will love it. How many languages did you say you speak?"
"I didn't say."
Mr. Skadia knocked on the door of his own office as he opened it. His manner was stiff and he looked ill at ease. It was the first time Agape had seen an adult having difficulty with reality. The headmaster handed a large manila envelope to Yochana.
"Everything seems to be in order in the paperwork, Ms. Dayan. I phoned the embassy. They are aware of the documents and have confirmed the transfer."
He then turned to Agape and extended his hand while once again clicking his heels and bending a little at the waist.
"My deepest sympathies, Miss Takis."
At that, Agape and Yochana left the office and made their way to a car with a driver. The ten-kilometer drive passed in a dream. Upon arrival at Paros National Airport, the car drove right out to a small, unmarked private jet.
"Is this your jet?" asked Agape.
"It belongs to my employer, but I can use it when necessary."
"What about all my things in my room?"
"I took the liberty of having all of your things flown ahead of us. Your room, where we are going, will look exactly like your room here in Paros."
The smell of new leather flooded over Agape as she took in the Learjet. She sat down in a plush leather seat and Yochana sat opposite her. Before she could do it, a smiling military-looking flight attendant reached down and buckled Agape's belt for her. The attendant's khaki uniform blended with her olive skin, jet-black eyes and tightly pulled back raven hair.
"You, young lady, are going to fly a plane today. What do you think about that?"
"I don't–"
"I am Captain Bagrit and I won't take 'no' for an answer. Once we get up and going, I will come back here and get you, that is, with your permission, General."
"That's a wonderful idea, Captain," said Yochana.
The young pilot walked purposefully toward the cockpit. Yochana cleared a tear from the corner of her eye.
"What do you think, Agape?" asked Yochana, and repeated, "What d
o you think, Agape, maybe a new life deserves a new name. With your permission, of course, I am going to call you Kefira, which means lioness in my language, from now on."
"I am never going to see my parents again, am I?"
"Open the locket, child. They are always with you.
TAHRIR SQUARE
March 21, 1992
Kabril Shafiq, a rare Coptic Christian in an Islamic organization, sat alone in his office, watching the growing street protests on closed-circuit television filmed from the rooftop of the Egyptian General Intelligence Service (GIS) building in central Cairo.
Shafiq's job had always been secure by virtue of his dedication and competence, as well as his father's high rank and long service. His father had also had the foresight to give Shafiq an Arabic name, so that his son would fit into the GIS more easily. "Now, who knows," he mumbled aloud and to himself. He had put some money aside in case of misfortune, but he was a purist, an agent's agent, although the pictures on the screen above him gave him pause. It is all coming undone, he thought.
A dedicated teletype machine clattered. This particular piece of equipment had rested unused for years, spent technology, retained only in case all other message-making devices failed. Odd, he thought, that's my Israeli counterpart's secret call sign and location marker. He rose, glancing one more time at the madness, the anarchy, on the streets of his beloved Cairo. He craved movement, anything to distract him from the maelstrom rising up even to his high offices.
Shafiq snapped his antique British Army swagger stick under his arm and then thumb polished his epaulets' single stars and eagle pips, signifying his Lieutenant Colonel rank. Wistfully, he sighed and rolled on the ball of his foot, turning smartly toward a full length mirror behind the door of his office.
The GIS man slowly removed his uniform and stepped into the clothes of a desert Bedouin. The rank odor of camel filled his nostrils as he unsealed the large bag containing his outer garments. He wore a wrapped white turban, a traditional, short Bedouin style striped garment, white pants with buttons on the legs, often called a potur and a plain, long, light blue shirt or gellabiya. Finally, his two sets of travel documents: one in the personality of an Egyptian desert nomad offering tourist camel rides at the site of the pyramids, the other the documents of an Israeli Bedouin from the southern Negev. As well, he carried recently made pro-democracy and pro-Mubarak identity cards in case of emergency. He kept all four different sets of identification in separate pouches, conveniently located about his body under his gellabiya or main garment.
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