His hand slipped into his jacket, feeling for the small pistol there. Another voice spoke from near his car.
“Don’t even think of it. Put the bag and jacket down and your hands behind your head,” Avi said.
“What is this?” Mendel tried, forcing outrage as the blood drained from his face.
“We know about Leah. We know everything,” the director said, his voice sad.
“What are you talking about? There’s nothing to know,” Mendel said, stalling for time as his fingers searched for the pistol stock.
“It took some looking, I’ll give you that. Nothing obvious. No dating, clean phone records, no professional affiliation. But you can’t hide everything, at least not forever. We know she grew up only a few blocks from you. From there, the elementary school records cinched it.”
“That’s it? She went to school where I did? So did half of Tel Aviv,” Mendel spat derisively. “I’ve done nothing–”
Mendel spun, gun in hand, and Avi’s weapon spit with a soft pop. The tranquilizer dart penetrated Mendel’s shirt as he searched for the director’s bulk in the shadows, but his vision quickly blurred and his limbs lost sensation. Mendel’s knees buckled, and he dropped like a sack of rocks. Avi and two other men moved on him while the director stepped from the gloom, a frown in place, hands feeling for his cigarette pack as his men dealt with the traitor.
“You’ll be interrogated. You will tell us everything, of course,” the director said. “Whether it takes hours or days doesn’t matter to me in the least. If you have any accomplices, we will learn everything. We both know that. My advice is to make it easy on yourself.” The director raised a cigarette to his lips and stepped toward where Mendel lay, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow. “I know you can hear me even though your body’s betrayed you, so trust me when I say that this will be as unpleasant as you make it, no more. I have no interest in extending your suffering any longer than necessary. Be smart. Tell us what we wish to know, and it will be finished.” He looked to Avi and nodded.
His men gathered up Mendel’s gun and bag. Avi pulled the dart from Mendel’s chest and dropped it into his pocket before dragging him to a dark SUV parked illegally at the end of the row of cars. The director lit his cigarette and blew a plume of smoke after them. His capacity for sorrow at one of his protégés betraying him was slim, his understanding of human nature such that little could surprise him. The director had seen too much to be anything but melancholy at losing a capable man. But there were more where Mendel had come from.
There always were.
His footsteps were ponderous as he walked to the SUV, trailing smoke like a dragon, as another in a long string of bitter days drew to a close. Avi opened the passenger door for him, Mendel wedged in the back like so much luggage, and the director nodded appreciation before climbing in without so much as a glance at the comatose man in the rear.
Chapter 45
Walnut-sized raindrops pelted Itai and Jet as the storm intensified; the tree cover offered scant protection against nature’s fury. The cloudburst had begun at ten with a thunderclap, and then the heavens had opened and the deluge commenced with a fury that had taken Jet’s breath away, the ground soaking up the water like a sponge. Itai huddled like a miserable wet dog beneath a pine tree as Jet paced nearby.
Jet had been gone for three hours and, when she’d returned to Itai’s hiding place, had reported on what she’d seen and agreed to attempt the sanction. The lodge’s perimeter wall was low enough for her to scale it, and the surface of the house offered sufficient handholds that she thought she had a better than even chance of success. Itai had been ecstatic to hear it and had acquiesced and called the director on the sat phone, but hadn’t reached him. Jet had been annoyed but accepted the news without reaction – she’d have her chat with him upon her return.
She checked her watch for the tenth time and walked to where Itai crouched, dripping wet, the night black around him.
“I’m going to make my way there. If all goes well, I’ll meet you back at the car,” she said.
“Why not here?”
“No offense, but you should get a head start – I can move a lot faster than you can. And you’ll catch your death if you stay out here much longer.”
He looked doubtful. “You can find it no problem?”
“Worry about yourself,” she said, checking the magazine of the suppressed pistol before slipping it into her waistband and testing the weight. She frowned, withdrew it, and unscrewed the suppressor and tried it again. Satisfied, she nodded and tossed Itai the silencer. “Too awkward for climbing. Hang onto it for me, would you?”
Itai caught it and nodded. “Good luck.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Luck won’t have anything to do with it.”
Jet vanished into the darkness like a phantom, leaving the station chief to stare at where she’d melted into the night. Itai searched the gloom for any trace of her but gave up after a minute and forced himself to his feet, sopping and miserable, the long way back to the car nothing he was looking forward to.
Jet raced along a game trail she’d discovered when looking over the grounds and followed it around to where she’d sat for hours, watching the guards as dusk’s final light had faded. At the time, lights glowed inside the lodge and the generator purred from beneath the shelter of its sound-dampening enclosure, its steady thrumming reaching Jet a quarter mile away. Now, when she reached her vantage point, the house was largely dark. The downstairs had only a single lamp on, to judge by the faint illumination from the windows; but upstairs, three of the bedrooms were still lit.
She wiped the rain from her face, her hair hanging limp and running with water, and sat with her back to a tree trunk, resigned to waiting as long as it took for the party to wind down and the lights to go out.
Two and a half hours later, the entire house was dark save the downstairs, and the deluge had abated to a steady shower. Jet had mixed feelings about the easing of the rain – the inclement weather would increase the odds of her making it past the guards without being seen, but it would make scaling the outside of the house more difficult. Still, even a light rain was better than nothing; the guards would likely be worn down by the weather and not paying much attention to anything but remaining dry. She’d noted that the ones who had been patrolling the perimeter had reduced their rounds to once an hour and showed no interest in their job, hurrying through their paces in an effort to get back to the lodge’s porch and out of the rain.
Jet stood and ran her fingers through her wet hair, combing it straight back and out of her eyes, and then made for the section of wall nearest the rear of the house. She paused ten yards away, listened intently, and then ran toward the sheer face and vaulted skyward. Jet was over the top in a blink and landed softly on the wet grass inside the grounds, grateful for the covering drone of the generator and the limited visibility from the drizzle.
The dark bulk of the house loomed ahead of her as she covered the ground in a sprint. When she reached the rear, Jet tried the back door, but wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge. The easy way dispensed with, she eyed the rough exterior of the logs used to build the lodge, and reached out with wet hands to pull herself upward, using the windowsill beside the door to push herself higher with her feet.
Halfway up the side of the house, her left hand slipped and she fell backward. She kicked as she angled away from the wall and was able to twist as she dropped. She hit the ground, tucking and rolling, the wind knocked from her when she came to a stop, staring up at the sky with frustration. She regained her breath and moved back to the door to repeat her attempt, this time more slowly and with greater care.
Jet arrived at the second-story window she’d targeted and her fingers felt a small gap to one side; as she’d guessed, the window was unlocked, there being no reason to worry about security on a second-story bathroom – assuming the HQ architects were correct about the layout. She heaved and it opened, leaving just enough space for her to wri
ggle through, and she gripped the edge and hauled herself through it headfirst, arresting her drop with her hands on the tile of the bathroom floor.
She took a moment to get her bearings. A night light’s glow from one of the electric outlets illuminated the space just enough so she could make out details. Jet rose and walked to the mirror, where a bedraggled version of herself that was almost unrecognizable stared back at her. She removed a towel from the rack and sopped up her wet footprints and the small puddle her body had left on the floor. Once it was dry, she stepped into the marble shower stall and wrung out her shirt and windbreaker, and then toweled the excess moisture from her pants, pausing occasionally to cock her head and listen for any sign of life on the other side of the door.
When she finished, she hung the towel back up with three others like it and regarded the scattering of objects on the vanity. A hygiene bag sat beside the sink, where a tube of half-used toothpaste lay next to a toothbrush. A stick of deodorant stood with a small bottle with a gold dome top. She eyed the collection and edged to the door to press her ear against it, the neurotoxin dispenser in her pocket ready for the main event.
~ ~ ~
Sanjar Nabiyev shifted on the four-poster bed, his upper torso standing out in stark relief against the white linen sheets. The girls had left him to get some badly needed rest an hour before, and he’d fallen into bed, exhausted; the demands of the evening had drained him in more ways than one. A bottle of expensive imported vodka sat half drunk on the table near the window, the three glasses by its side a reminder of his earlier excess.
He licked his lips, his mouth dry from the alcohol, his dreams vivid and disturbing as the rain hammered a tattoo against the roof, his sleep restless and unsatisfying. Metabolizing the vodka was proving more difficult with each night of the Russian’s hospitality, and he’d reached the point where his body was protesting that it had reached saturation.
Nabiyev adjusted the pillow beneath his head and drifted in and out of slumber, the generator’s muted hum masking the worst of the rain’s pattering against the window. The air was heavy with humidity and somewhat uncomfortable in spite of the air conditioner that ran throughout the night.
A sound from the bathroom door startled him awake, and he flipped over, eyes searching in a darkness that was black as ink. He fumbled for the lamp on the night table beside his bed, still only half conscious, his head pounding like an anvil chorus from the drink. The smell of the girls lingered on the sheets, but he pushed the thought aside as his fingers found the flat edge of the switch and twisted it on.
Light flooded the space, and he blinked as he stared around the room, his hair askew, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
“Guards! Come quick!” he yelled, his voice hoarse, and slid open the night table drawer and removed a semiautomatic pistol. He stood, the weapon pointed toward the bathroom, his hand trembling slightly from the sudden surge of adrenaline pumping through his body.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and the bedroom door burst open. Two gunmen with assault rifles swept the room with their weapons and froze at the sight of the prime minister, nude except for his underwear, his chest a dark mat of wiry black hair. The nearest of the men looked to Nabiyev with puzzlement, eyeing the gun in his hand with concern.
“What is it, sir?”
“I…I heard something. Someone was here.”
“In here?” the guard repeated, his gaze flitting to the vodka before settling on the prime minister again. “Where?”
“In the bathroom.” Nabiyev motioned with the pistol at the bathroom door. “In there.”
The men exchanged a glance and nodded, their faces somber.
“Yes, sir. Would you mind pointing the gun away from us, please?”
Nabiyev seemed to just then notice the weapon in his hand and nodded. “Right. Of course.”
“Thank you. We’ll just take a quick look, then, sir.”
Nabiyev sat back on the bed, the pistol by his side. The first guard walked toward the door, followed by his companion, and they stood on either side of it, AK-47s at the ready. The first reached for the knob and paused for a heartbeat, and then he twisted the knob and threw the door open, rifle pointed into the gloom.
A moment went by, and then another.
The men turned to Nabiyev.
“The window’s open, sir. It was probably the storm. Wind. A gust caused the door to creak or something.”
Nabiyev didn’t look convinced and was preparing to protest when a particularly heavy sheet of rain lashed the window near the bed with a noise like the crack of a whip. The men suppressed smiles and nodded. “Or it could have been something like that,” the gunman said.
Nabiyev’s expression turned sheepish. “I…are the guards still patrolling the grounds?”
“Of course, sir. As we have since you arrived.”
“You haven’t noticed anything suspicious?” Nabiyev demanded.
“No, sir. In this weather, it’s hard to see your hand in front of your face. Nobody’s on the road. We’d have been alerted if anyone had come close to the grounds – we have motion detectors set up by the gate.”
Nabiyev frowned, but had nothing to add, so he waved the men away and shook his head as though to clear it. “I could have sworn someone was in here.”
The first guard returned to the bathroom and walked inside. “I’ll close the window and lock it. That way the wind won’t disturb you again.” Out of sight of the prime minister, he rolled his eyes at his reflection in the mirror and moved to the window. Water was pooled on the floor beneath it, and he shook his head at Nabiyev’s carelessness in a rainstorm. After peering out into the darkness, he slid the window closed and latched it.
The guard retraced his steps to the bedroom, and Nabiyev glared at them like they’d failed him. “I want you to search the property. Now. As a precaution.”
The guards exchanged another look. The first pulled a small two-way from his jacket and held it to his lips. He relayed Nabiyev’s order, listened as it was acknowledged, and then slipped the compact radio back into his pocket and nodded to the prime minister.
“Very well, sir. The men are going to do a sweep.” He paused. “Would you feel better if we sat just outside the door?”
“I…no. There’s no need. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir. Call if you need anything, sir.”
Once the men were gone, Nabiyev switched off the light and lay his head back on the pillow with a sigh. As of tomorrow, he would cut his alcohol consumption by half. Now that he was running the country, he needed to be sharp, and he was obviously imbibing too much if he was so easily spooked. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he took a final distrustful look at the bathroom door, slid the pistol under his pillow instead of back into the drawer, and stared into the darkness, heart thudding as anxiety slowly leached from his system and the last of the storm flogged itself against the roof.
Chapter 46
Jet hung by her fingers just below the bathroom window, teeth grinding at the effort of supporting herself with only a precarious handhold. Rain coursed down her face and she blinked it away, feeling for a toehold to relieve the strain on her arms. Light streamed from the window, and then it closed with a clunk, the snick of the lock engaging audible even above the sound of the storm.
Her right foot found a space between two logs and she tested it. Satisfied that it would support her, she brought one hand down to her waist level and felt for another promising spot, knowing there had to be one there from her trip up the sheer side of the lodge. She found it and eased her weight off her other hand, and then repeated the process of hanging while searching for another toehold, arms trembling from the exertion.
A gust of wind drove a wall of rain across her back, and Jet struggled to maintain her grip. After a few brutal seconds it eased, and she was resuming her descent when she heard voices from around the side of the lodge. She twisted her head to the side and glanced down at the ground, and then released her hold and dropped, tumbl
ing in a roll when she landed. She recovered quickly and leapt to her feet and, when she heard the voices approaching, bolted toward the perimeter wall.
Flashlight beams jittered from the lodge as she drove herself faster, the rain gray in the beams, the lights playing along the ground at the base of the building. She ducked as she ran, willing herself smaller, hoping that her drop hadn’t left an indentation in the ground to alarm the guards. She looked over her shoulder and noted the footprints already filling with water – if the guards were paying any kind of attention, the tracks would lead them straight to her.
Jet cursed at the luck that had her running from armed guards in the rain. Everything had been perfect, the toxin in her hand, the target snoring softly, the storm’s sound sufficient to mask the sound of the door opening. She’d taken two steps toward Nabiyev’s sleeping form, and her weight on one of the floorboards had caused it to creak – and the noise had awakened him. She’d barely made it back into the bathroom when the lights had come on and he’d cried out, signaling that her chance had eluded her.
She didn’t have time to dwell on the failure. She took a quick look back at the lodge, and her stomach twisted. One of the flashlight beams lingered below the window where she’d landed, and the others moved toward it as the guards converged on the depression. A voice cried out and the lights swept the ground between her and the lodge as she poured on the steam, urging her legs to greater speed, seconds now the difference between life and death.
The downpour intensified and she zigzagged through a patch of tall grass, the soil firmer and less likely to show tracks. The only reason she hadn’t been seen was the rain, but she knew she couldn’t count on that for much longer. If they spotted her footprints, all uncertainty would be eliminated, and she could expect them to mount a full-court press to hunt her down, irrespective of the weather.
Jet reached the wall and threw herself at it, but her foot slipped as she was launching and she fell short. Instead of her hands finding the top, her torso slammed into it when her fingers missed their mark. She fell onto the wet ground and swore as pain radiated from her spine and the back of her ribcage. She fought for breath and waited for the agony to recede, more than aware that she was losing time she didn’t have.
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