THE MANTEL clock ticked minutes away, finally striking midnight. Amal moved forward from the shadows and said, “Effendi, you must not be angry with Mr. Faust. It was not he who spoke, but the alcohol, which the Prophet Mohammed, blessings and peace be upon him, wisely forbade the faithful. Come. Let me prepare your bed. We must be up early if you want to be back in Philadelphia by afternoon.”
“Thank you, Amal. You go to bed. I want to stay here for a while.”
Amal bowed slightly. “As you wish.”
After Amal left him, Jan went to the secure landline phone. The conversation was brief and to the point. He gave the woman instructions to contact Joachim Nussbaum in Philadelphia. She was to send the ex-Mossad agent to Iran via Kazakhstan, and find out what happened to Armande Bonnet. Bring him back—alive if possible. Jan wanted no traceable Mundus connection with this adventure. The possibility of Mundus clashing with Iran while the western powers negotiated Iran to the conference table and away from nuclear arms was to be avoided. He couldn’t or wouldn’t expose Mundus and its Iranian operatives to danger when the stakes were so high and the outcome of locating Armande was so slim. Jan returned the phone to its cradle and headed to his bedroom upstairs.
Chapter 13
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The Mission
JOACHIM NUSSBAUM, ex-Israeli Mossad spy and assassin, finished his punishing early morning exercise ritual, showered, and sat down to a breakfast of Turkish coffee, green figs, and yogurt. The bright blue light on his cell phone blinked. Joachim disliked the intrusion in his private time. He noted the caller’s ID, and then picked up the phone. He listened but did not speak. He checked his watch, pressed the disconnect button on the phone, and began his meal.
His instructions were uncomplicated. The place: Rittenhouse Square. Time: 12:00 p.m. He was to wait until contact was made. A reference to salt would be the code word. The lack of detail bothered the man from Mossad. Joachim frowned. He did not like vague instructions, and least of all the melodrama of code words.
Everyone who knew him agreed he was the personification of caution, yet no one accused him of patience. Joachim was a man of action. Though German by birth, his citizenship was Israeli. When one of his many love interests asked if he was a practicing Jew, Joachim replied, “No, my dear. I’m a practicing Pisces.”
The wound he received at the hands of a terrorist on Iceland’s Murderküll Glacier had healed. That wound nearly cost him his life. Now fit again, he was needed by his new employer—Jan Phillips, North American master of the global and highly secretive Mundus Society. The call he’d just received was not from Jan. It was from one of Jan’s many sources—a woman this time. That alone bothered him. Jan had suffered a tremendous personal loss, but Joachim had never known Jan to use cloak-and-dagger methods, nor delegate this kind of thing. As he ate Joachim scanned the Philadelphia Enquirer’s front-page headlines: Thieves Boldly Strike Again: Sansom Street’s Jeweler’s Row Terrorized.
Terror, Joachim thought. These people have no idea. What are a few idle baubles compared to the lives of millions?
Chapter 14
Downtown Philadelphia
Rittenhouse Square
JOACHIM CROSSED Philadelphia’s busy Walnut Street at precisely eleven in the morning. He stopped at a street vendor’s cart and eyed a line of doughy pretzels dangling from plastic hooks. Joachim detested soft pretzels. To him they smelled like a gymnast’s jockstrap, and tasted of undercooked flour. He did, however, appreciate the pretzel cart’s shiny chrome construction. The polished metal was perfect for looking at what was going on behind him without having to turn. He bought a twisted slab of salt-encrusted dough that he had no intention of eating and set off down the street. Joachim made one casual pass around the park’s sidewalk perimeter, and then entered through the north entrance. Sycamore and maple trees had shed their fall leaves. Maintenance crews had silenced the noisy central fountain and were scooping out the soggy leaves in small batches before dumping them into a black plastic bin.
Joachim glanced at each workman in turn.
Nothing.
He found a well-worn bench that looked as if it would support him and eased himself onto the seat. The .25 caliber Cobra pistol nestled snugly in the small of his back. He tore off a piece of his pretzel and tossed it to a mendicant squirrel.
Across the silent fountain sat a fat, old man. He wore brown sandals with white socks, black trousers, and a baggy pink shirt. The old man’s thin gray hair matted to his head like wet cotton candy. Beside him sat a much younger man whom Joachim judged to be in his late teens or early twenties. The younger man was dressed in fitted stone-washed jeans and a crisp white dress shirt. He wore black loafers. No socks. The young man sat respectfully silent, listening to the old man. The old man’s eyes were puffy and red with tears. His words, spoken softly between jerky sobs, apparently fell on deaf ears. The young man shook his head. The message was clear: No. A few moments more of pleading and the young man rose slowly. He placed a tender hand on the old man’s shoulder and then moved off into the sparse shadow of an ancient walnut tree. In a moment he was gone without a backward glance. Whatever these two had been to one another was over. The old man blew his nose. His rounded shoulders shuddered once, and then once more. A moment later he rose, gathered up his injured pride, and left by way of the park’s Eighteenth Street entrance. Joachim watched as the old man made one last hopeful glance back into the park before being swept away by the afternoon lunch crowd.
Joachim tore off another bit of pretzel and scanned the park for new arrivals. Four squirrels immediately presented themselves for a handout. At the far end of the park, the Church of the Holy Trinity marked the noon hour with a lone baritone bell tolling the Angelus. A young couple paused, made the sign of the cross, and then hurried away to hail a taxi.
Mr. Young-Something reentered the park. Joachim watched with cautious interest as the young man strolled idly by, and then stopped to eye the quarreling rodents.
“Do you think salty pretzels are good for these bad boys?” Mr. Young-Something said.
Joachim frowned. “If you’re selling what I think you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
Mr. Young-Something glanced to where he had been sitting minutes ago.
“A guy’s gotta make a living.”
“Like that?”
Mr. Young-Something shrugged. “You do what you do. I do what I do.”
“You have something to say to me,” Joachim said impatiently, “or are you just passing through?”
The young man sat uninvited. “I have a message from someone.”
“Who?”
Mr. Young-Something ignored the question. “Do you know where Kazakhstan is?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Young-Something reached into his hip pocket.
Joachim instinctively stiffened.
The young man noted Joachim’s shift in posture with a wry smile. He looked into the ex-spy’s eyes as if to say, You know my game, and I know yours, so let’s get this show on the road.
“Here are your plane tickets, along with four hundred dollars in Kazakhstan tenge and an American Express credit card. You’re expected day after tomorrow. A man in the Petropavl Central Park will approach you just before noon. He’ll be selling ribbon candy. He’ll offer you a free sample.”
With that the young man rose and sauntered out of the park.
Joachim opened the ticket packet. At least they’re first class seats.
Chapter 15
Kazakhstan
Kaysm Khan Royal Hotel
JOACHIM’S ROOM was spacious as rooms went in hotels that hearkened to a time when Russian aristocrats hunted wild boar in the surrounding forests. The room smelled of mildew. The carpet was genuine Persian, but worn through in places. A brass bed, its gleam dulled to a matte orange from neglect, stood against a wall papered in what was once pale green brocade, now turned dingy from years of cigarette smoke. Only the newly installed Internet access,
double-glazed windows, and an electrified chandelier whispered that technology had overtaken an otherwise antique world.
Joachim looked out at the cloud-laden sky and frowned. Looks like rain.
After drawing the heavy red drapes against the late afternoon’s hard light, he sat at a mahogany writing desk. He noted that the desk was new—odd in a room so carefully preserved. He turned on his laptop computer and logged on to a site that barred prying eyes. After reading the coded message, Joachim scrambled the letters once again before deleting the page. I’m supposed to find a lost or kidnapped hitchhiker possibly in Iran. What am I, a magician?
THE RAIN that drummed against the hotel window all night had stopped in the early morning hours. Joachim ate a breakfast of hard cooked eggs, dry toast, and sweet green tea. His breakfast companions consisted of a sleepy waiter leaning against the kitchen door, and a very young man wearing an ill-fitting dark brown business suit and shoes where the leather pulled away from the rubber soles. Joachim noted that the waiter wore the same kind of shoes as the businessman.
SVR! Hmm, I wonder what the Foreign Intelligence Service is up to now.
Joachim read the French language edition local newspaper. The most useful item was the weather report: rain turning to light snow.
Before leaving the overheated hotel restaurant, Joachim laid down a stingy tip for the waiter. Generosity signaled a surfeit of cash, and cash attracted unwanted attention.
Joachim stepped out into a raw wind that whipped the leftover moisture from last night’s rain into a stinging mist. He turned the collar of his heavy black overcoat up around his neck. After walking a few feet, he stopped to look into a shop window. From the corner of his eye he caught a brief glimpse of the young man from the hotel. Joachim waited a moment more, then headed toward the Petropavl Central Park.
Petropavl Central Park was the focal point and gathering spot of the city. A semicircular colonnade of brilliant white marble embraced one half of the park’s perimeter. But for two policemen, the park was deserted. Joachim skirted the colonnade, stopping now and then to inspect inscriptions detailing Kazakhstan’s heroic struggles. As he walked, he patted his pockets, absentmindedly searching for the Turkish cigarettes he’d given up the year before. A middle-aged man pushing a noisy cart entered the park and approached him.
“Sweets, sir?” the man said in Russian.
The man’s clothes reeked of cigarettes. Joachim’s caution instantly turned to envy. God, I wish I had a smoke!
“No, thanks. It’s bad for my teeth.”
“But, sir, it is very good. Perhaps I can tempt you with a sample of fine ribbon candy. It is made with only the finest ingredients.”
Joachim stepped closer. “Perhaps just a small piece.”
The man dropped a small chunk of the confection into a little paper bag and murmured, “You are being followed.”
Joachim picked out a small sliver of candy and put it to his lips. “Of course I am. Everyone is followed these days.”
The man raised his eyes ever so slightly. “He looks very young—probably just a messenger, but you never know.”
Joachim returned the candy to the bag without tasting it.
The man nodded. “Good, is it not?” The man murmured, “Be careful. Go to the Church of Peter and Paul. The priest will guide you. Ask for Father Alexi. Complain that it is hot today.”
The man started to move off when Joachim said, “Wait. I will buy some of your candy.”
The man smiled. “You are very kind, sir.”
Joachim overpaid the man and then walked to a wooden bench. His tail followed at a short distance. Sitting with his back to the wind, Joachim eyed the man’s reflection as it shimmered in a splash of water caught between a pair of paving stones a few feet from where he sat. Joachim stared at the wavy form. I hope I don’t have to kill this guy.
FATHER ALEXI finished hoisting the big brass candelabra that hung in front of a niche chapel dedicated to the archangel Gabriel just as Joachim entered the church. The priest turned with a smile and said, “Welcome.”
“Father, I wonder if you could hear my confession?” Joachim asked in Russian—his accent clearly evident.
The priest narrowed his eyes, saying, “My son, the hours for confession are over. Perhaps—”
Joachim pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Dabbing his forehead, he said, “It’s hot today, isn’t it?”
Father Alexi regarded him for a moment. “Come with me.”
Once inside the dark cubicle, the priest whispered, “Who sent you?”
“America.”
“America has a first name. What is it?”
“Jan,” replied Joachim.
Then the priest said, “You are Israeli?”
“Yes.”
After a long pause, the priest asked, “What do you need to know?”
“I’m looking for a young Frenchman. His name is Armande Bonnet. I believe he was hiking in the mountains. Do you know him?”
“Yes, he was here. He asked to see the church records from the time of the war—the first one, I mean.”
“Why? What was he looking for?”
“A grave, a Russian grave. He said it was his great-grandfather.”
“Bonnet isn’t a Russian name. Why would he say that unless he has Russian ancestry?”
The priest shrugged in the darkness. “I do not know. We did not talk about why he was looking for it. I showed him our archives. He was here for a whole day. I do remember he asked if we had maps. He found the gravesite nearby. Then he left.”
Father Alexi leaned forward. “May I ask why you are looking for him?”
“He’s missing. We believe al-Qaida in the East has him. Possibly in Iran, or Azerbaijan.”
“I see. Yes, any westerner is in danger out in the mountains, especially along the Iranian border. It may also explain his interest in maps…. But I wonder why would he go to the mountains if he found what he was looking for here?”
“I don’t know,” Joachim said. “But I have to find him.”
“Look in the village of Dolatska, on the Iranian border. If he was looking for trouble, that is the place he would go.”
Joachim made a mental note and then said, “I will go now—I was followed.”
“Before you go, I have something for you. I’m sure you had to leave your weapons behind when you entered the country.”
The grill screen that separated the men slid open. The priest handed Joachim a World War II vintage Luger pistol.
“The clip is full. I fired this gun just last week. It is very accurate.”
“Thank you, Father. I did not expect this.”
Father Alexi replied with the sign of the cross.
“May God go with you, my son, and remember your psalms. He who watches over Israel slumbers not nor does He sleep.”
Chapter 16
5,000 miles away in Philadelphia
EVERY CITY diner has at least three breakfast crowds. The five to seven o’clock mob is made up of night shift crews mixed with prostitutes and their pimps headed for home after an exhausting night’s work.
The seven to eight o’clock customers are the nine-to-five types who work in the skyscraper offices that crowd center city.
The third, and last, set of breakfast patrons are coffee klatch regulars, retirees, and those lucky enough to sleep in while the rest of the world toiled away, keeping America rich. Jan Phillips fell into the last of those denizens of the Broad Street Diner. The diner was one way Jan connected with a time when he hadn’t had obscene amounts of money, a time when, as a boy, diner food was akin to ambrosia. It was also convenient on days when Amal made his morning prayer at his local mosque.
Jan left the serenity of his Camac Street townhouse and walked to the corner where the knobby cobblestone lane met the smooth macadam of Pine Street. He had lived in the single block neighborhood of antique brick townhouses for only a short while, but for the first time in his life, he had a home that was uniquely his.
It was just after eight o’clock this cool Friday morning. The night’s chill still clung to the red brick townhouses lining both sides of the street. Lingering wisps of silver morning fog shivered away as Jan walked carefully around the old sycamore trees that buckled the neighborhood’s ancient sidewalks. The great trees had already shed their broad leaves in thick damp pads. These had transformed the street into a jumbled quilt of brownish yellow and orange.
Gathering the collar of his suede jacket close around his neck, Jan marched in long strides from Camac Street to Pine Street. He turned right and headed up four blocks to the diner.
Eight o’clock is considered late morning in any big city, and crammed, jammed, noisy Broad Street was already flooded with delivery trucks and buses. Jan stopped at his favorite corner newsstand and grabbed a Philadelphia Inquirer from the rack.
“How ya doin’, Mr. Phillips?” Betsy, the stand’s owner, said as she threaded errant strands of graying hair back behind her ears.
“Tip-top, Betsy, how about you?” Jan answered brightly.
“Couldn’t be better,” Betsy said as she pointed upward. “Will ya just look at that sky, Mr. Phillips? Have ya ever seen such colors?”
“Betsy, you do know that those beautiful colors are a result of air pollution, don’t you?”
“Spoilsport!” she laughed.
Jan waved her away with a cheerful grin as he sprinted down the sidewalk, up the concrete steps, through the double glass doors, and into a stainless steel rectangle that mimicked a Victorian railroad car. Even at this relatively late hour, the Broad Street Diner seethed like a beehive under a wasp attack.
The long room was flanked on one side by a chrome-rimmed counter covered with faded red Formica. Here men sat on backless stools. Bent over their food, they seemed unfazed by the chatter around them.
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