The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  “Home?”

  “To her place in Oxford. Or to my flat.” He swiped at his tears with the back of his hand. “She was mine. This is all my fault. I loved her so. My heart, it is gone.”

  I reached toward him, but he pulled back. “Adam, we’ve known each other a while. Have you ever known me to go back on promises, to not play fair?”

  He shook his head. “You are very good to us. I heard what you did in Macau. We all did.”

  “Why do you think this is all your fault? Aziza was a young woman with a wide independent streak. She made her own choices.”

  That got a flicker of a smile. “She wouldn’t listen.” He pulled in a ragged breath. “I told her about the group I am a member of. We want our country back.”

  His last name was Kalb. “Country?”

  “I too am Arab. The Royal family, they run the country with an iron hand. They repress their people and they lie to the world, one minute smiling at the United States and the other Western countries, while sending huge sums of money to terrorist organizations whose sole purpose is to bring down the West. The people, we want more freedom. We want the truth.” He pulled a sleeve back to reveal a tattoo on his forearm. I’d seen one just like it…on the back of Aziza’s thigh. “This is our symbol. We added an extra character of our own to signify our love.” He colored a bit as sadness flattened his features.

  Donna leaned in. “The amulet the girl had around her neck had the same inscription.

  “As did her thigh.” I could tell Donna had made the same connection.

  “We want to be a part of the world working together for the greater good.” Adam sounded like a true believer.

  That last part I thought was a bit idealistic, but I was old. I’d earned my cynicism. Perhaps the kids could change the world. God, I hoped so. We’d sure made a muck of it.

  “Aziza wanted in?”

  “Not only wanted in, she went after the gold.”

  “The proof.” My stomach knotted. “Her family is involved?”

  “Very much so.” Adam looked pained. “At least some of them. I let her do it. Such a high price to pay.”

  And she doubled-down with her life. “You both are very brave. She obviously felt the risk was worth it, even given her health and all.”

  Someone close. Adam was close. I watched for his reaction.

  Confusion. Not what I expected. “Her health? She was as strong as a horse!”

  He didn’t know. “Sorry. I must be confused. Let’s finish the job. We don’t want her to have paid the ultimate sacrifice for nothing.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “You’re right.”

  “Who was after her?”

  He glanced at the book; his tears drying. A man remembering his mission. “You have the book, but it’s worth nothing without the page number and specific line.”

  I shot a side-eye at Donna. She nodded.

  Damn.

  “Adam, we can help you.” Jeez, I sounded like some cop spouting fake promises to talk someone off a ledge. Since I had no idea what he and Aziza had really been up to, I had no idea how to help. My toolbox was limited. Acme’s, politically constrained.

  A conundrum but we needed the truth.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Adam shot a quick glance at Donna.

  Donna stuck out her hand. “Donna Craig, Covert Operations for the CIA.”

  Adam crossed his arms, ignoring her. “We don’t trust the American government. That’s why the encryption. We’ve seen you make promises then leave those who helped you once you got what you wanted. The promises, the human suffering, they meant nothing.”

  Only one weapon effective against the truth. “I don’t blame you. I think you’ll find Mrs. Craig to stand by her promises, but maybe you could get a show of good faith or something from the CIA? Would that help? We’ve got to do something to move forward.”

  Donna looked at me wide-eyed. I ignored her. She navigated a den of snakes on a daily basis.

  Adam weighted my words.

  “Who else can you turn to, really?” I was so far out on the limb I felt it would break any minute behind me, plunging me into the abyss.

  “Okay. What did you have in mind?”

  Donna stepped in. “Can you de-encrypt one name, one Saudi of some importance, who has been funneling money to a terrorist organization?”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll need the proof.”

  “Okay. And then?”

  “What do you want to happen, Adam?” I asked.

  “We want them eliminated. We want our country back. The monarchy is corrupt. They play two ends against the middle. They fund unrest and war around the world to keep the oil prices high. It hurts all of us.” His passion was clear.

  “Okay,” Donna said. “You give us a name and proof. And we’ll do as you ask.”

  “I will text it to you.”

  Smart boy. Acme was great at hacking computers.

  Donna gave him her contact info. Within a minute her phone dinged the arrival of a text.

  “Wow. Okay. Where is this man now?”

  “Athens. Meeting with the Russians—in an hour, in fact. Aziza knew this.”

  “Then I better get moving.” She brushed by Adam on her way out the door.

  Adam and I watched her go.

  “Do you think she’ll do what she said?” Adam asked. The hardness had left his voice. Hurt replaced it. “It’s all on me now and we are running out of time. They killed Aziza, I know they did.”

  I watched the empty doorway long after Donna had disappeared.

  “She’ll make good.”

  If she didn’t, I’d kill her myself.

  22

  Donna

  “So, what you’re telling me is that the only way the CIA gets the full list of Saudi terrorist funders is this supposed show of faith? Extermination photos of a couple of Saudi operatives as they purchase arms from the Russians?” Ryan asks.

  “Yes. Frankly, I can’t blame Adam for asking for some sort of assurance,” I reply. “The CIA is notorious for giving with one hand and taking away with the other.”

  Because I’ve got my phone on speaker mode, I can pace the room as I speak. Jack is propped up on one of the twin beds. His way of showing his concern about our time crunch is by flexing his fingers.

  “Our largest employer has its reasons for what it does. And it always does what is best for our country, first and foremost,” Ryan counters. “Okay, so from what I’m reading, in less than an hour the munitions sale is to take place in a warehouse located on the outskirts of Athens’ Metaxourgeio district.”

  “Affirmative,” Jack says. “You’ve just received the warehouse’s address as well as the video of the two Arab businessmen in question. We also know that arms and ammo are being given to a Yemeni-based Houthis terrorist cell.”

  “Once the CIA provides us with photos of the dead men, Adam will release their identities to us, along with Aziza’s cipher for the rest of her intel. It includes the full list of the UAE traitors along with the bank accounts that trace all previous munitions purchases from Russia, and the traitors’ sales to the UAE’s enemies,” I add. “Adam also wants the CIA to feel free to pass the success of this operation forward to the Saudis. Or, as he put it, ‘the sooner the UAE knows it has a bed of snakes in its midst, the better.’”

  “It’ll be a feather in the CIA’s cap,” Jack points out.

  “Something DIO Branham will greatly appreciate,” Ryan agrees. “I’ll send this over to him now. As you’re already aware, the CIA has a strong presence in Athens. Hopefully, a couple of exterminators can be deployed quickly enough to catch the operation in action. As soon as I have the kill photos, you will too.”

  The second Ryan rings off my phone, Abu’s number lights up Jack’s caller ID.

  When Jack responds, Abu appears on the phone video app. “The bullet missed her lung. Roxanna is out of surgery,” Abu assures us. “And she’s willing to talk.” He turns the phone so that we
can see her.

  Roxanna’s lids are barely open, but her eyes and mouth open wide when she realizes she may be taking a different and much less desirable tumble with the mystery man who she almost took into her bed.

  “Roxanna, my name is Jack Craig.” Jack doesn’t smile, and his tone is severe. “You’re a person of interest in the death of your roommate, Aziza Halabi.”

  She bows her head. Tears fall from her cheeks onto her hospital gown.

  “You knew she’d been murdered.” Jack’s tone dares her to deny this.

  Roxanna nods slowly.

  “In fact, you played a role in her death.” We don’t know this for sure. Still, Jack wants to see if she denies it.

  Roxanna responds with a torrent of grief. “I didn’t know that was what he’d planned! When he approached me, he said he was concerned that she’d fallen in with some terrible people. He asked me to keep an eye on her—you know, report back daily to him, about anyone who came to visit her. Men, women, it didn’t matter. He insisted on knowing about it. He even offered me money—a lot of it.” Roxanna shrugs. “But crikey! Aziza was the closest thing to a hermit I’ve ever known!” She stares into the camera’s eye. “He thought I was lying, so he upped the ante. I was to get a bonus if I…if I …” Roxanna’s voice breaks under the weight of her guilt.

  “If you what?” Jack asks.

  “If I broke into her computer or her mobile. But it wasn’t as easy as he thought. If she didn’t have her devices on her, she locked them in her desk. The few times she left them alone I couldn’t open them because they were password protected. Still, I needed the money, so I had to try! The last time I saw her, she was taking notes as she talked to someone on the phone. Then she hurried out. I got the bright idea to run a pencil over the pad and see what letters came up.”

  “What did you find?” Jack demands.

  “‘Vulture.’ A few other words or phrases as well. But because she’d written them in a row, it certainly didn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Do you remember what they were?”

  She grimaces as she thinks. “‘Royal S.’ Tuesday’s date. 20:10, and...” She pauses in thought. “Oh yes—Hermès!”

  Roxanna can see that Jack is now staring off-screen, but not at what, or whom.

  Me.

  Aziza was writing down Nigel Ahern’s instructions on whom the CIA would send for the intel, and where she was to meet me.

  So yes, Roxanna was complicit in her murder.

  “And this is the information you passed along to Gerald.”

  “Who?” Roxanna stares quizzically at Jack.

  He shakes his head. “The man who tried to kill you—Gerald Morten. Or perhaps you know him as Edgar Black.”

  “That man?” Adamantly, she shakes her head. “No! I was talking about Aziza’s uncle—Sheik Mohammed Ben Halabi.”

  I’m stunned, as is Jack.

  Finally, Roxanna adds, “That man—Gerald, you say?—He was…well if you must know, sometimes I must sell my services as...a private escort.” She buries her face in her hands. “He must have seen my ad somewhere.”

  “That’s too much of a coincidence,” I whisper to Jack.

  He nods in agreement, but he’s smart enough to keep this to himself.

  “But I don’t like the rough stuff, and I refused to be tied up. That’s when he pulled out his gun. If you and that other hunky toff hadn’t broken down the door, I’d be…” Roxanna’s voice trails off.

  “As dead as Aziza,” Jack tells her.

  She buries her head in a pillow and sobs.

  To talk further in private, Abu walks out of Roxanna’s room. “At Ryan’s behest, MI6 was kind enough to have a police officer stationed outside Roxanna’s door,” Abu explains. “I’m heading back now.”

  “Is Ryan worried that Gerald will come back to finish the job?” I ask.

  “No. The security is just a precautionary measure. Ryan feels Edgar Black may be long gone. And believe me, he’s not happy about that.”

  Of course not. And there will be hell to pay for letting Black slip from our fingers.

  “Arnie is trying his damnedest to pick up his trail again,” Jack points out.

  Here’s hoping he succeeds.

  In the meantime, I pray the CIA doesn’t blow Acme’s one chance to pull its fat out of the fire: bringing down the Saudi traitors who wish to keep the Middle East in constant turmoil.

  I am back to pacing, which is better than Jack’s current activity: staring at me while I pace.

  Okay, maybe having his eyes follow me around this oversized closet of a room isn’t so bad. If I weren’t in such an anxious frame of mind, I’d do something to make it worth his while. I don't know, maybe a striptease or something.

  The thought of this makes me smile.

  Seeing me smile puts a grin on Jack’s face. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  “You.”

  His smile widens. He pats the bed.

  But then these few seconds of diversion are cut short by the muted hum of my phone.

  I look down at the caller ID: “It’s Ryan.”

  Jack nods resignedly. Back to battle stations.

  “The exterminators got there in time and made the kill.” There’s a satisfied lilt in Ryan’s voice. “They took down the two buyers and their bodyguards—two of them—along with three Russians. The ops team collected the munitions cache too. Video taken from a surveillance drone is coming in now.”

  The footage looks as if it’s happening in real time:

  Despite January’s early nightfall, the video from the drone—the shape and size of a mosquito— is crystal clear. We watch as the targets, driving a panel van, pull up to the roll-up cargo door of a one-story unmarked windowless warehouse that sits in the middle of a block filled with other nondescript buildings.

  A man—buff, chrome-domed, and unshaven—walks out from the warehouse’s security door, solid metal except for a peephole and knob. Chrome Dome glares hard at the driver and his passenger before nodding, at which point the cargo door rolls up and the van backs into it before the door goes down again.

  Three blocks away, the CIA ops team—two men and a woman—stroll nonchalantly toward the warehouse. In dress and coloring—olive complexions, casual jackets, and jeans—they could easily pass for Greek natives.

  Security cameras are placed around the warehouse, but no doubt the CIA had hacked the feeds and looped them.

  When the operatives are two blocks away, the older of the two men breaks away from the others to enter the yard of the warehouse next door. After leaping over the adjoining fence, he positions himself behind a dumpster. From there he has a bird’s eye view of the back door.

  The other man and the woman cross the street. They have now taken on the role of entwined lovers out for a walk. Acts of adoration—stroking fingers, furtive kisses—are mimed as they make their way past the warehouse. In case anyone inside the warehouse is looking out through a peephole, they walk another half-block before doubling back around. When they reach the two-story building on the far side of the warehouse—a book depository—the man ducks behind the leafy bushes against the fence closest to the targets’ warehouse. He is in position to shoot anyone who goes out the front door.

  As for the woman, she makes her way up the book depository’s back staircase to its second floor. From there she’s able to leap onto a small balcony, where she climbs up on its railing to pull herself onto the roof. She then runs to the side closest to the targets’ warehouse and leaps onto its flat tar roof. She lands low and tucks into a roll. When she stops, she lies flat.

  The team waits for someone to come out to investigate.

  No one does.

  The woman crawls toward a vent on the roof and drops something into it.

  In less than a minute, six men are running out the back door followed by a gold cloud of tear gas. The first one takes a bullet to the head. By the time he falls, the man behind him is shot in the chest. The third man
tries to sidestep his fallen friends, but he can’t outrun the bullet meant for him.

  By now the woman has rolled to the back of the roof. She aims down from above, taking out the next two of the men with shots to the back of their necks.

  The last man comes out the door coughing, sputtering, and with his hands up, only to get a bullet to the chest.

  A moment later all three CIA operatives are in the back of the warehouse. After the woman takes a picture of each kill, the men take turns dragging the bodies back inside the warehouse.

  Six minutes later the cargo door rolls up, and the van pulls out. After it closes again, the van drives away.

  The drone video ends. The still shots of the dead men’s faces are attached in a separate file.

  “Text Lucky,” Jack says. “Tell her we have what Adam needs to see, and we’ll meet her in Nigel’s office. In the meantime, I’ll call Arnie and Emma. We can send her the cipher, page by page, when we get in. Still, she and her team will need to move quickly.”

  Even as I nod, I’m already texting:

  Proof is here. Meet you with AK in manager’s office?

  Lucky immediately texts back:

  We’ll be waiting for you.

  Glancing over at my phone screen, Jack smirks, “What, no happy face emoji?”

  I sigh. “Does Lucky strike you as the emoji type?”

  “No more than she strikes me as Dominic’s,” Jack retorts.

  “Where is Casanova anyway?”

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Picking up flowers for Lucky. He thinks that will woo her away from her Frenchman.”

  “He’ll have to do better than that,” I acknowledge. “Like, say, crack a book or two. Or maybe get the words ‘I’ and ‘me’ out of every sentence. And it wouldn’t hurt if he could look a woman in the eye as opposed to her chest.”

  Jack laughs. “You’ve enjoyed watching her put him in his place, haven’t you?”