The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  It took several seconds for Siri to reply and then finally, “I’m sorry. I cannot complete your request at this time.”

  “You see,” Cabrera said. “She’s got a hard-on for me. I think she got PMS.”

  Lovely. “Apple devices run IOS, not PMS.” The man was about as tactful as a nudist in a nunnery, and it made me wonder how a conservative Israeli dignitary would react to an FBI agent whose greatest strength was the delivery of his punch line.

  Chapter 6

  “Roger, New York, going to fifteen thousand.” Ganz set the dial on the autopilot and verbally confirmed his action as dictated by protocol. “Beginning descent to fifteen thousand feet.” He turned to his copilot. “FMC will do the rest.” Examining Bauman’s face, he said, “You don’t look great, Dov. I can take us all the way in if you want to go back and get comfortable.”

  Ganz was pale, and his eyes looked watery. “No. I can make it.”

  “You don’t sound very convincing.” He noticed a perspiration stain on Bauman’s shirt. “Do you have a fever?” He reached across the flight console and placed his hand on Bauman’s forehead. “Dov, you’re burning up. The flight management computer and I will finish up.” His eyes widened. “Don’t be a martyr. Go back to the main cabin and close your eyes.”

  “I—I—” Bauman’s hand shot up to his mouth. He unbuckled his harness and sprang from his seat.

  “Don’t hurl in the cockpit,” Ganz warned.

  Bauman grabbed an airsick bag and banged against the flight console in an urgent attempt to get to the lavatory. He unlatched the cockpit door and dashed out.

  ~~~

  Colonel Calman Ben Elias, or Ben as his colleagues in Israeli intelligence knew him, had learned to control his sleep patterns early in his military career, taking rest when the luxury of safety permitted him to do so. Now in the comfort of a well-cushioned seat, he dozed so that he’d be fresh when the plane landed in New York. He was barely aware of the copilot, who hurried past him racing to the lavatory.

  In the next instant he was once again deep asleep and back in a familiar place, his office, behind his desk, late into the evening. The light from the fading Israeli sky began to trouble his tired eyes. He switched on his desk lamp, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, which were blood red from strain. A tall stack of completed folders stood as evidence to his dedication and work ethic.

  There seemed to be a deep-seated wisdom emanating from his wide-set eyes. An examination of his face revealed lines and wrinkles far in excess of what one would expect of a normal fifty-two-year-old man. A long fishhook-shaped scar ran down the side of his face and curved backward to follow the contour of his earlobe. The scar, acquired many years earlier, had matured and assimilated the color and texture of his surrounding leathery skin. It barely seemed noticeable amongst the other wrinkles and served to add character to his weathered complexion. Without his spectacles in place, Elias’ face took on an almost ancient quality.

  Elias stood and stretched as night fell outside his window. He yawned in reaction to the late hour and rubbed his eyes again before taking his seat.

  As a division chief of Unit 8200, the largest intelligence-gathering agency in the Israeli Defense Force, Elias had reached a level of responsibility few men would aspire to, or accept. The security of the State of Israel was an all-consuming task, characterized by relentless pressure, work days without end, and worry beyond the limits of most mortal man. When Elias was promoted to division chief, he was told that the job required an individual with the wisdom of Solomon and the courage of David. Elias accepted the position believing that he was neither a Solomon nor a David. He accepted the position out of commitment to his beloved homeland.

  Elias spent these days of leadership utilizing his mind far more than his body. Days seemed longer to him, more tedious and more mentally taxing. His body, once far better maintained, had begun to succumb to inactivity. As a young soldier he had seen the way inactivity could decimate the physical condition and had sworn that he’d never become a victim of laziness. As he sat at his desk, his shoulders began to ache, which only amplified his frustration. Our lives are not our own, he thought.

  He had spent years carrying out undercover missions for the state. In those days, he was an instrument who quickly and silently carried out the instructions that others had developed. It was now Elias who was carefully developing plans and methodically constructing them to achieve the goals of the State and keep his operatives safe.

  He reached for a glass of water. It had been sitting half-consumed for more than an hour and was no longer pleasing to the palate. He decided to get a soft drink, but before he could stand, his secretary knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. Ben looked up at the stout woman with surprise and could see that she was very upset. “What is it?” he asked with concern.

  Sabina shuffled forward nervously and extended a sealed courier’s pouch. His secretary’s expression forewarned him to prepare for the worst. He immediately noticed the official seal of the Department of State. How could she know what’s inside? he wondered. The answer followed immediately. A light bulb went off in his head, and he remembered that Sabina’s cousin worked in the office of the Israeli ambassador. Gossip was not permitted. It nonetheless took place.

  Ben took a deep breath before he tore the envelope open. He rubbed his chin nervously as he read the cover letter.

  Sabina danced anxiously in front of him and accidentally bit her tongue while she waited for a sign from her boss. She had cried when she first viewed the story on television. The thought that such an unspeakable crime had been perpetrated against a sister of the State of Israel was to her the same as if the crime had been committed against her own flesh and blood.

  Ben had heard the secretaries gossiping in the commissary about the horrible crime. They had made derogatory comments about America, about crime and drugs. It seemed to the Israelis so self-destructive, a waste of the precious resource of life. “The Americans,” they said, “took their liberty and safety for granted,” alluding to the fact that by contrast, Israelis viewed each new morning as a precious gift. Each day of not hearing about a bombing or terrorist destruction was counted one at a time.

  How could Americans truly understand? he wondered.

  Sabrina saw Elias close his eyes. Her heart dropped. She began to cry and stammer uncontrollably, “No-no-no-no.”

  Ben stood up and put his arms around her. “Shhh,” he whispered softly as he tried to calm her down. They stood together until he could feel her begin to relax.

  “Who was it?” Sabina wanted the name that had been withheld by the press. There was literally no chance that she would personally know this woman, and yet she wanted a name and, by so doing, establish a proprietary connection.

  “No good can come from this, Sabina. Let it go.”

  “Please.”

  Ben shook his head and mouthed, “No.”

  It took a moment, but Sabina finally accepted her boss’s decision. She knew that it would be in violation of national security for him to tell her anything about a matter that wasn’t available to all Israelis from the media. She nodded to show him that she understood.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

  Sabina nodded once more. She collected herself and then left, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Ben went back to his desk and scanned the cover letter one more time before reading the apology from America’s secretary of state. The victim’s name was mentioned on the second line of the letter: Rachel Rabin. Blood began to drain from his face. Rabin was a common Israeli name, and although there were probably several women named Rachel Rabin born in Israel every year, Elias knew of only one.

  He immediately opened the accompanying report from an FBI special agent named William Wallace. As he reviewed the report, his worst suspicions were confirmed. The girl’s age, the general description, and the date upon which she had entered the country were all consistent with
that of the woman he knew. It all checked. He unclipped a stack of attached papers and found the victim’s photograph. His hand went to his mouth as he tried desperately to choke back vomit. The picture of a beautiful girl, one he had known since childhood, confronted him. His hand was still covering his mouth as tears rushed forward, dripping upon the girl’s picture. He quickly wiped them away so that they would not damage the photo and desecrate her memory.

  A mental picture of Rachel as he had last seen her replaced the one on his desk. He visualized her laughing, happy, a little drunk, and full of apprehension about the new life she was about to begin in America. It had only been nine months since …

  She was expecting a visit from her parents. The knock on the door she had been waiting for came several hours later than expected. A police official stood in front of her instead of her parents, and in that moment the dread that every Israeli suppresses surfaced and became reality. Her life fell apart that very instant. While on their way to her house for Shabbat dinner, her parents were killed by machine-gun fire along with others in front of a bus stop.

  “I can’t live here anymore,” she told Ben. Her eyes were filled with tears as she stood by helplessly watching her parents’ coffins lowered into the ground.

  As a defender of the State, the news was hard for Ben to accept, but far less difficult to understand. He and a small group of friends were the only ones with Rachel when her parents were buried. He held her and whispered, “I understand.”

  He had become her uncle by default. Calman Ben Elias had been a close friend of the Rabin family, and now a cherished association had been obliterated, torn apart, and destroyed in the name of jihad.

  Rachel’s smiling face was the last memory he had of her. It would have to last the rest of his life.

  “Dov! Dov!”

  Elias awoke at the sound of the purser’s voice. She was in a panic and banging on the lavatory door. He unbuckled his seatbelt and joined her. “What’s going on?”

  “The copilot went into the lavatory ten minutes ago. I heard him retching, and now I don’t hear him at all.”

  “Stand aside,” Elias said. “Dov, are you all right?” He pounded on the door exactly as the purser had. “Dov?” He put his shoulder into the folding door, and it gave way but could not be opened. He saw that Bauman was lying on the floor, blocking the folding door from opening. He grabbed the door on each side and ripped it off the frame.

  Chapter 7

  We parked at the international arrivals parking lot in a spot between an abandoned car and a minivan, a spot I chose because of its close proximity to the terminal. Not that I mind a brisk walk, but Cabrera wasn’t in decathlon condition, and I was in a charitable mood.

  He took a minute to adjust his tie and check his teeth in the vanity mirror. I, on the other hand, just grabbed my portfolio case and got out. “Hey, Cabrera, you’re pretty enough,” I chided. “Maybe we should hustle it up before an international incident ensues.”

  “Take it easy, Mather, you want me to make a good impression on the Israeli guy, don’t you?” Cabrera got out of the car, brushed some lint from his sleeve, and stomped his trouser legs until the cuffs on his slacks fell on his shoe tops.

  He struck a dramatic pose, and I have to say that he looked rather dapper in his dark suit. “Very GQ, Dom. You look like a Calvin Klein model.”

  “Not bad, right? This is my bar mitzvah suit.”

  “But I thought that you were half Mexican and half French Creole.”

  “So?”

  What am I not getting? “Oh, you mean that it’s your good suit. For a minute I thought you meant that you wore it to your bar mitzvah.”

  “Like it would fit after thirty years. Duh.”

  What was I supposed to say, that I was befuddled because he had charmed me out of my pants. I shrugged. Oh, here’s one he’ll like. “Sorry. Brain fart.”

  “Okay, Mather, one-time pass, but stay sharp. I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of the Israeli dignitary.”

  “I’ll try not to humiliate you.”

  “You do that.” Cabrera picked up the pace and was actually hustling as we crossed the roadway to the terminal. It seemed that my companion had found another gear. “Do you know where to go?” he asked.

  “I’ve been here before. Stay with me.”

  “Sure. Where else would I go? This place is a goddamn labyrinth.”

  “Well then, stay close. We can’t have you getting lost now, can we?”

  Kennedy Airport had really changed over the last several years, with new architecture and electronic displays up the wazoo. It’s now much brighter and more colorful than it used to be. It’s almost cheerful. I walked a bit further and received a stark reminder that JFK was not just colored lights and coffee bars. It may have been Disney World on the exterior, but under the skin it was something much different. We turned down a corridor and saw a large warning sign that had the word “No” in bold red letters next to the words “Identification, Admission, Exceptions.” Another sign read “Restricted Area. Authorized Personnel Only!”

  The walkways, restaurants, and waiting areas were what travelers saw on the surface, but an entire central nervous system resided beneath, a complex of agency offices whose sole purpose was to keep Americans safe and sound, and to act as a firewall between dangerous terrorists seeking entry into our beloved country. In that respect, JFK was mission central, the single most strategic outpost in the entire northern hemisphere.

  Cabrera checked his watch. “I think we’ve got a few minutes before the plane lands,” he said and suddenly changed direction.

  I turned my palms upward and shrugged. “And where the hell are you going?”

  “I thought I’d go through airport security and get a complimentary cavity search.” He rolled his eyes and vanished into the men’s room.

  Chapter 8

  Elias was built like a bird, but his appearance and his strength were greatly discrepant. He hoisted Bauman onto his shoulder and carried him to the closest empty seat. He checked for a pulse and then extended the footrest. He pulled Bauman by the ankles, sliding him down so that he was stretched out on the extended footrest, his feet almost level with his head. He instructed the purser, “Get a cool washcloth and the first aid kit.”

  Schecter stood and hustled toward the galley. She returned with the wet washcloth and the emergency medical kit. She placed the washcloth on Bauman’s head while Elias checked Bauman’s mouth for obstructions. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” Elias timed Bauman’s pulse and looked up at Schecter. “Very slow. There should be oxygen aboard. Check.”

  Her eyes grew large with worry. “I’ll get it,” she said and hurried off.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Elias looked over his shoulder. Shaul Tasker, a brigadier general and the only other passenger aboard, crouched next to Elias.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Elias said. “Food poisoning maybe?”

  “Unlikely. Both pilots were fine when we took off. Food poisoning wouldn’t make him that sick that fast. This is something else. He may be having an allergic reaction or …”

  “Or what?” Elias prodded.

  “He may have been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Elias asked with alarm in his voice. “But—”

  “Who did it?” Tasker raised his eyes. “Keep him warm. The oxygen should help.” He stood. “I’ll check on the pilot and apprise him as to what’s going on back here,” he said in a controlled voice.

  “Okay.” Good idea, Elias thought. “I’ll stay with the copilot.”

  ~~~

  Tasker rapped on the cockpit door and tried the doorknob without waiting for a response. It was unlocked.

  “Yes?” Ganz asked weakly. He was slumped in the pilot’s chair with his head angled to the side. A sealed airsick bag rested on the floor behind his seat.

  Tasker saw that the pilot had a continuous tremor in his hand. “Are you all r
ight?” he asked.

  Ganz glanced over his shoulder. “General, can you ask the copilot to join me? I’m feeling a little weak and dizzy.”

  Tasker moved with purpose to the oxygen storage compartment located behind the pilot’s chair. He opened the flow valve on the oxygen and slipped the quick-don mask over the pilot’s perspiring face. “I think—” He stopped himself. Don’t send him into a panic. “The copilot is still sick. The oxygen should help to clear your head. How can I assist you?”

  “This aircraft can almost fly itself,” Ganz said bravely. “I’m okay.”

  Sure you are. Tasker checked the altimeter. Fifteen hundred feet on the button. “About a hundred miles out?”

  Ganz nodded.

  “I’ll be right back.” He forged into the main cabin and opened his briefcase as he turned to the purser. “We need three bottles of water. Sealed bottles, understand? Not tap water.”

  Schecter nodded nervously. “What’s going on?”

  “Less talk. More action,” Tasker commanded as he searched a zipped compartment in his briefcase. He removed a strip of tablets and broke three out of their blister packs. “How is he?” Tasker asked while gazing at Bauman.

  “Weak. I don’t like the way he looks. What are those pills for?” Elias asked.

  “Activated charcoal, in case we’ve been poisoned as well.”

  Schecter returned with the bottles of water.

  Tasker handed each of them a tablet. “Crush these with your teeth and drink as much water as you can get down.”

  Schecter cringed as she crushed the tablet in her mouth. “Is Ariel okay?”

  “The pilot?”

  She nodded.

  “Something is wrong with him as well. I know my way around a cockpit, but I’m no pilot. What about you, Elias?”

  “IAF retired,” Elias replied. “But I haven’t flown in twenty years.”

  “Well, you’re all we’ve got. Get your ass up front and into the copilot’s chair. We’re about eighty miles out of JFK on initial approach, and the pilot is fighting to remain conscious.”