“My friend, my friend, come here.” Three men looked him over. Not immigrants; locals, Parisians, though one might have had Middle Eastern blood. He knew their types, regardless. Bad news. They spoke to him in English. “Who are you looking for?”
Mattias’s English was good. “A friend. I couldn’t find him.”
They didn’t bother asking the man’s name. “You have a job? Doing something here? Anything?”
“I’m from Sweden,” said Mattias. “I’m not staying.”
“Sweden. Pretty girls.”
Mattias said, “Yes,” and turned to leave. One of the men blocked his path. He was shorter than Mattias, but thick. “Maybe you work for us,” he said. “Give your friends something to smile about. A little fun. You can make a lot of money. Understand?”
Yes, Mattias understood. Drugs. “Excuse me, but I must go.”
A hand in his chest stopped him. “Have a look. If you want, take a smoke. Good stuff.”
The hoodlum opened his palm to reveal a small plastic canister with ugly pale rocks inside. Crack cocaine or methamphetamine. “We front you. You sell it. Pay us later.”
“Before you go back to Stockholm,” said a second man, to his friends’ amusement.
“No, thank you. Really. I must go.”
The men closed in, the thick man pressing his chest against him. He smelled of garlic and cigarettes, and mostly of perspiration. Mattias held his eyes. Something inside him tensed. He was not afraid of fighting. He was not afraid of anything anymore.
The hoodlum backed off, offering his colleagues a disappointed shrug. “Out,” he said. “On your way, Swede.”
They found Mohammed two hours later, returning from Clichy, where he had spent the day selling cigarettes for one euro apiece. He had gotten fat over the years but still wore his eye patch. Mattias remembered him without it, on the raft, after the Ghanaian had torn his eye out. They’d killed the Ghanaian the next day.
“Should I get my things?” Mohammed asked.
Mattias had forgotten how young he had been back then, just a boy. Ten, eleven. The youngest on the raft. He hardly looked older now. Mattias threw an arm around his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll need them, do you?”
The four men burst into laughter and climbed into the small automobile for the long drive south.
Chapter 60
Above the Bay of Bengal
Two hours aloft.
The miniature plane icon on their seat-back monitor showed them to be cruising at a speed of 540 knots at 39,800 feet over the Bay of Bengal. They both had enjoyed a drink before dinner. In fact, they’d enjoyed two. Gin martinis per London’s suggestion. Who was Simon to say no? It was the first real meal he’d had in days. A filet for him, béarnaise sauce, pommes soufflés. Fish for the lady. Pan-roasted sea bass with black bean sauce, a vegetable medley. The lights had been dimmed. Beneath a lavender canopy, they’d toasted their future with a snifter of cognac. Hennessy, this time Simon’s choice. For the remaining ten hours of the flight, they declared themselves safe, out of harm’s way.
“What’s this?”
“What?”
“On your arm.”
Simon adjusted his sleeve, pulling it lower. London slid it right back up, keeping her hand on his arm, her long, slim, beautifully manicured nails tracing the waves, the anchor, the grinning skeleton draped around it. “‘La Brise de Mer,’” she said, almost too quietly to be heard. “Is that right?”
“It’s French,” said Simon, leaning closer. She’d tucked her oversized glasses in her hair. Her breath smelled sweetly of the liqueur and mint. “It means ‘ocean breeze.’”
“Mais, je parle français, Monsieur Riske.”
“Of course you do.”
“Were you a bad boy?”
“Depends on how you define ‘bad.’”
“I think you know.” London reclined her seat halfway. Simon matched her. He had been trying not to look at her, not that way. He knew she valued her intellect over her beauty. She’d already called him “patronizing.” He didn’t want to add “lech” or just plain “rude” to the list. Yet here they were, face-to-face, the world and all its pain and sadness far below.
So he looked. At her eyes, her lips, her hair, her skin, the notch at the base of her neck, at the cleft of her breasts. She was exquisite, every feature demanding attention, inspiring a gasp.
“Let’s just say I wasn’t always the gentleman I am now.”
“You mean the gentleman who sprays Mace in a man’s face, handcuffs him to a table, and slams his head onto the pavement until he’s unconscious? The gentleman who knows how to break a man’s fingers to force him to talk? What did you used to be? A hardened criminal?”
“Well,” said Simon, “yes.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’re not?”
“This,” he said, pointing to the tattoo, then running his fingers over the back of her hand. “This was my outfit. The police referred to us as ‘organized criminals.’ Not the Mafia, exactly, but what passes for it in Corsica and parts of the South of France—Marseille, in particular.”
“You’re from Marseille?”
“Long story. Born in the U.S., parents divorced early. Grew up in London, then shipped to France when my father died. I guess we can blame it all on the French.”
“They usually are the cause of most problems,” said London.
“To the French,” said Simon, lifting his snifter.
“Chin-chin,” said London, touching her glass to his. “Before, when I said I wanted to thank you…I really wanted to thank you for saving my life. So thank you.”
“It’s what gentlemen do.”
She gazed at him, closed her eyes and opened them, her lips parted. It was a look every gentleman recognized, and only a scoundrel ignored.
Simon kissed her.
“And you?” he said, after.
“Me?”
“No tattoos? History of organized crime? Lengthy prison sentences?”
“Not unless Beethoven, Bach, or Brahms were gangsters.”
“Music.”
“Piano.”
“No wonder your hands are so beautiful.”
“Look closely. Broken knuckles. A car door. End of career.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So was I. Not anymore.”
“Me neither, then. We wouldn’t have met.”
“Move to Singapore?”
“Probably not in the cards.” Simon raised his eyebrows. “London…London?”
“Ditto.” She continued to look at him, mischief and maybe something else in her eyes. “I have a secret.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a bad girl.” She kissed him, longer this time. She raised her seat back, unclasped her safety belt, and stood, brushing her body over his as she made her way to the aisle. “Coming?” she whispered in his ear, a nip on the lobe.
Simon watched her walk to the lavatory. It was the big one, the one for handicapped passengers. He waited a moment—no wheelchairs, walkers, or flight attendants in sight—then rose.
He knocked once, softly.
Like a gentleman.
Chapter 61
Jerusalem
Transcript of conversation / Names of participants redacted
Time: 16:15 GMT
“So?”
“The Doctor is hard at work caring for his patients.”
“Are they giving him any problems?”
“None. He’s looked after these kind of things—patients, that is—before.”
“Will they be well enough to leave the hospital tomorrow afternoon?”
“The Doctor asks if all five must leave at the same time. One is giving him a bit of trouble. Nothing serious, mind you, but given the type of medicine involved, he would like additional time.”
“Out of the question. We have only one ambulance free.”
“I will tell him. He wanted you to know that the patients are remarkably robust. Some of the strongest he’s operate
d on in years. He thanks you for the medicine. He says he is certain that upon their release, the patients will be more than able to accomplish any task you have in mind.”
“Convey my thanks to him.”
“What is the latest time he can stop treatment?”
“The ambulance will arrive at nine a.m.”
“Can you delay it?”
“It is a six-hour drive to their home. Rain is forecast for the first part of the journey. Under no circumstance can the ambulance travel at speeds greater than the limit. Part of the route is under construction. There may be a slowdown.”
“Why not fly?”
“We can’t risk anyone seeing the patients. As you can imagine, security in and around their home is stratospheric.”
“To be expected.”
“Will you be coming, my friend?”
“Sadly, no. I must return home. My master had been asking for me. It doesn’t do to keep the young prince waiting.”
“I had so hoped to see you.”
“Next time.”
“In a better world.”
“Thanks be unto God.”
“Ciao, my friend.”
“There it is.”
Danni ended the playback and set down the transcript. She was not in the offices of the SON Group but inside a SCIF—a sensitive compartmented information facility—at a Mossad outstation in the hills above Jerusalem. It was midnight. Seated across the table from her was Avi Hirsch, deputy director of Operations, Covert.
“Am I allowed to ask where you got this?” Hirsch was a sallow, hatchet-faced fifty-year-old, a lifelong veteran of the “office,” as its members referred to Israel’s foreign intelligence service.
“A client.”
“Really?” Hirsch looked at her askance. He’d known Danni for twenty years, give or take, had been one of her first trainers upon her intake and her case officer on several ops that ran beautifully and several that did not. “Tell me something, Major Pine, since when do you install your software on a client’s phone?”
“Long story,” said Danni. “I saw something I shouldn’t have. Maybe I even looked for it. I decided to do something about it. I’m not the devil, you know.”
“You had some of us fooled,” said Hirsch. “Keeping to yourself, pretending you don’t know us.”
Danni offered a weak smile. Guilty as charged. She’d declined Avi Hirsch’s requests for help on more than one occasion. Her company didn’t give away its software for free and the Mossad was notoriously tightfisted. “So, what do you think?”
“What do I think?” Hirsch said, giving a nasty laugh. “I think those two men, whoever they may be, are talking about building bombs. Explosives. Whatever you want to call it. It’s obvious, isn’t it? ‘Patients’ are explosive devices.”
“Agree,” said Danni. “I’m thinking vests. A concealed explosive device of some kind. An IED. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s sophisticated and requires some degree of expertise.”
“And it’s being transported tomorrow morning at nine a.m. local time—wherever that may be—for what sounds like immediate use.” Avi ran a hand across the back of his creased neck. “Jesus, Danni, you’re laying a real-time situation in our lap.”
“‘The Doctor,’” she said, an eyebrow raised playfully. “Suppose that isn’t just a clumsy codename. Suppose that’s what he’s really called. Ring a bell?”
“Syria,” said Hirsch. “We were running an operation against a terrorist named Al-Adnani, the self-proclaimed leader of the Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant. I think it was 2015.”
“Aleppo,” said Danni. “They had a guy who made their bombs—IEDs, vests, little pressure cookers that could take down a small house. An Iraqi. We had him on tape. He was good. They called him ‘the Doctor.’”
“I remember,” said Hirsch. “Do you really think it’s the same man?”
“Why not?”
Hirsch lit a cigarette and leaned his chair back, balancing on two legs. “Anyway, you’ve gotten our attention. It’s not something we can ignore. Are you ready to tell us the name of your client?”
Danni set her clasped hands on the table. “Luca Borgia. Italian industrialist. Billionaire. Right-wing fanatic. Bankrolled the Northern League for years. Old-school fascist. A latter-day Mussolini with a great head of hair and a beautiful blond mistress.”
“I thought your shop sold only to governments.”
“Borgia is family.” Danni explained the Italian’s ties to the company, giving Hirsch an edited version of the events that had brought her to the smoke-filled room in the middle of the night.
“So the first voice is Borgia,” said Hirsch. “I wouldn’t have said he’s Italian. Maybe a Swiss who’d gone to school in the States.”
“The second’s a Saudi,” said Danni. “I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
Avi Hirsch nodded ruminatively. “I’m tempted to say I know him. Maybe it’s just a hunch, but I’m guessing he’s one of us. A professional.”
“If we’re right about the identity of the Doctor, that would figure. Can you run the recording through the VP database?”
“VP” for “voiceprint.” The Mossad maintained a library of several thousand voiceprints belonging to individuals deemed worthy of interest to the Jewish state—politicians, military officials, public figures with some tie to Israel, and, of course, terrorists.
“Easier if we run the Saudi’s cell number,” said Hirsch. “We have a few people at Saudicom. But since you’ve been such a sweetheart to bring this information to our attention, we’ll do both. Like I said, he sounded familiar. And not in a good way. He gave me a bad case of heartburn. I make it a point to follow my gut.”
Danni forwarded him a copy of the recording. “All yours.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?” asked Hirsch.
“Someone else is on to Borgia. Actually, there are two of them. A reporter for the Financial Times Asia named London Li. Solid record. Won some awards. And an American named Simon Riske, some kind of fixer out of London, used to be a banker, runs an automotive restoration operation these days. He was at the embassy in Bangkok when the shit hit the fan.”
“And he got out?”
“The sole survivor. Apparently, he was a friend of De Bourbon.”
“And they’re giving chase?”
“Looks like it.”
“To what effect?”
“Like I said, the whole thing is tied to a fraud. One of those involved was the vice chairman of Harrington-Weiss, a man named Hadrian Lester. Lester is dead. Killed himself a few hours ago. Jumped from the seventieth floor of a hotel in Singapore apparently after meeting with Riske, who’d beaten him up or tortured him in some way.”
“Riske told him something he didn’t want to hear.”
“Probably that he knew about Lester’s involvement in the fraud.”
“Sounds about right. Something made Lester jump.” Hirsch pulled a face. “Seventy floors. I’m impressed.”
Danni laughed.
“This guy, Riske, he a pro?” Hirsch asked. “Retired Agency? FBI? Blackwater?”
“Not that I know,” said Danni.
“Maybe we should hire him.”
“Another day, Avi.” Danni tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Borgia with Lester’s help sicced an assassin on the woman, London Li. A man named Kruger. Riske broke up the play. Borgia’s ticked off. He’s sending Kruger after both of them now.”
Hirsch wrote down the names, then summoned an assistant. “Run them down,” he said, tearing the sheet from a notepad. “I want everything you can find. Trade favors if you need to. This is important.” Then to Danni: “Any idea where these two crusaders are as of now?” asked Hirsch.
“Last known location in Singapore. That was several hours ago. Kruger’s a South African dual national. I did some checking. Possibly former German military. GSG 9. Dishonorable discharge.”
“How many South Africans named Kruger can there be in the Ger
man military?” Avi Hirsch pushed back his chair. “This is some can of worms you’re dumping in my lap. I’m tempted to have you recalled to active duty so you can help clean it up.”
“I’m tempted to accept.”
Hirsch stood, tucking the transcript under one arm. “If it gets out that we knew about this—and believe me, it will—and this attack succeeds, which given the time constraints, it will, there will be hell to pay that we didn’t stop it.”
Chapter 62
Zurich
Back in Europe.
Simon walked down the concourse, keeping close to London. He had insisted they wait until half the passengers had deplaned before joining them. He made sure they didn’t walk too quickly or too slowly, two faces in the crowd among a hundred others. He traveled often to Switzerland for his work. The feeling that he was back on familiar territory relaxed him, even with the specter of a free Shaka looming over them.
It was early Saturday morning, just past six local time. The long, immaculately clean walkway felt like a sanctuary, the dampened footsteps and the quiet hum of conversation lending the airport the hushed, respectful atmosphere of a modern church.
“But he’s still in Singapore,” said London. “Right?”
“He got into Thailand with the help of his friends. He could get into Switzerland.” Simon nudged her shoulder. “And don’t say, ‘But the Swiss…’”
London smiled weakly. “Never again.”
Simon had passed the flight reading Hadrian Lester’s emails, learning everything about the man: his work, his family, his mistress, his tennis game, and, of course, the fraud. The emails went back months, years. There was nothing about the attack, nothing about Prato Bornum, and much too little about Luca Borgia, other than the usual family exchanges.
But there was plenty about Lester’s criminal activity. It was all there, writ in excruciating detail, even if it wasn’t admissible as evidence. There was nothing they didn’t know already. Almost nothing. Still, those first emails between Lester and PetroSaud back when it all started came as a shock. Small world indeed.
The Palace Page 31