Recon

by David McCaleb

  Lori shoved his shoulder. “Relax. It’s a van. I can lose him. We can’t get the Det involved. You’re not supposed to be here. Neither am I. My father’s dead. This whole thing needs to never have happened. Get out of the country without anyone knowing we were here.”

  Covering up problems was Lori’s standard operating procedure. But that only meant the issue came back later, with more attitude. The defense mechanism was keeping her functional now, but it wouldn’t do anything to get rid of hunters on their trail. Only one way to eliminate a direct threat. Low-crawl below grazing fire only long enough to destroy a machine gun nest.

  Red pressed the map icon on his phone. “Keep the van behind us. Get back on Route 60 and head south. We didn’t get the Det involved. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “We can’t go to the safe house with a tail.”

  The Hyundai’s transmission moaned as the vehicle accelerated. “Slow down. We’ve got to head to a specific road first.”

  She slapped the blinker and changed lanes. “Why?”

  “Carter hung up before I could ask.”

  Lori glanced nervously into the rearview. She must have been more worried about the van than she was letting on.

  He guided them to Hafez Ibrahim Street. It ran only about two hundred meters. Carter had said to travel it eastward, so he navigated to the opposite end.

  Lori began to turn onto it, then stopped in the middle of the intersection. “I can’t go here. It’s one way, the opposite direction.”

  “It’s four in the morning. No one’s going to be on the road.”

  The alley was paved with square blocks, like large stone pavers. Three-story apartments lined one side, a tall beige hotel the other, rusted-iron stains streaking down corners of windowpanes like tear tracks. Cars crowded both sides, facing against them. They were a fish headed upstream.

  Red held an open palm next to Lori’s hip. She drew the Glock from her jeans. The metal was warm from resting next to her flesh. She passed him the two spare magazines as well. They approached a cross street and paused at a red sign displaying a raised white hand. The headlights behind them bounced and flashed. The chase vehicle was speeding up. Ahead, the road narrowed until the Hyundai had only inches of clearance on either side. Metal canopies extended from two opposing storefronts into their path, creating a gauntlet. As they approached the narrow passage, their headlights illuminated a man stepping into the middle of it. He wore black pants, shirt, and a dark scarf tied around his face. He turned toward them and—

  “RPG!” Red shouted.

  The seat belt snatched his neck as Lori slammed on the brakes. A speeding motor roared as the van trailing them raced to close in from behind. Trapped. Shit. Red gripped the Glock, released his belt, and opened the door, but it slammed against a parked car. He raised the pistol to the windshield. A blaze of brilliance and the rocket’s trail blew the soldier’s scarf against his face as the missile sped toward them. Red dove over Lori, folding her in half and shoving her below the wheel. The projectile screamed overhead, missing the roof by inches, slammed into the van, and exploded with a bright yellow flash. The crack shattered plate glass windows. A car alarm sounded. The van veered off course and plowed into a VW bug, its cabin filled with licking flame. The black commando’s eyes gleamed in the brilliance. His shadow danced and jumped behind him, surrounded by bursts of orange cast by the fire onto a concrete wall like a movie screen. The man lowered the RPG’s empty tube, waved them forward with a curl of his arm, and stepped out of the way.

  He must be from Carter, why the detective had to get off the phone. Red slid into his seat. He slapped Lori on the back. “Go. Get out of here.”

  Lori’s wide eyes reflected the orange that filled the narrow avenue. Tires squealed, and the Hyundai lurched ahead. As they passed the spot where the RPG had been launched, the commando’s shadow loomed beneath the store canopy with a hand raised in salute.

  Chapter 34

  Shadow of the Cat

  Lori lifted her black travel bag and slid it into the 747’s overhead compartment, wheels first as the flight attendant had requested. Halfway in, the door latch snagged on a pocket seam. She pressed the luggage down, but it still didn’t move. A Chinese man with gray hair and a young lady with the black lamp logo of Tel Aviv University on her sweatshirt stood behind Red, waiting to get to their seats. Lori shoved the bag, then again, harder, but it refused to budge. She balled her fist and tapped it like a hammer.

  Red placed his hand on hers. “I got it.”

  Five more passengers had joined the line, gaping at her. The college student’s mouth was open, red chewing gum on her tongue. Lori’s face warmed in a flush. A bead of sweat trickled down her cheek. Her pinky was sore, as if it’d been pounded. She slipped into a window seat and leaned against the cold bulkhead, gazing out at luggage handlers tossing bags onto a lazy conveyor. Red slipped his hands down the sides of her carry-on. A pop! and it slid in. His mechanical intelligence was infuriating. As if his fingers were switchblades. He sat next to her and clipped his seat belt. She leaned to his ear. “Did I just make a scene?” Why the hell did she care? Must be fatigue.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head back. “You always make a scene, beautiful.” He squeezed her knee. “A few eyes may have turned your way. No more than usual.”

  She released a sigh, but a roil of angst filled her stomach. She had to stay sharp. Couldn’t let her guard down. Not yet. Outside, a woman with kneepads strapped against ballooning blue pants tossed a dog kennel onto the conveyor as if it were a trash bag.

  Another squeeze on her knee. “Doing OK? Want to talk?”

  Her stomach ached, as if it was slowly threading itself through a hole. “Not now. Once we’re home.”

  “Wake me if you change your mind.” He tucked a mini pillow behind his head and turned toward her, eyes closed, just as he did every night at home. He had to be exhausted. His chest swelled, and he heaved a sigh, like a bird ruffling its feathers as it settled after a fright. Black smudged the pillow cover now, and she caught the oily scent of shoe polish. A few copper-orange strands stood out from the rest, like stripped electric wires.

  “Why’d you follow me?”

  His eyelids shook, but remained tight. His lips barely moved. “Haven’t figured it out yet? Eight years of marriage. Three kids. Figure we’re a set.” His chest heaved in another deep breath. “Plus, no one gets to kill you except me. That’d be embarrassing.”

  She whacked his thigh and crossed her legs. He smirked. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his.

  What a patient man, putting up with her tantrums. She should’ve known better than to attempt a drop without some sort of backup. That’s how they should occur, but there had been too many variables on this one. He knew that, but she’d been blind. Why’d she been so anxious to push forward with this drop? Didn’t make sense.

  A raven twisted in a breeze, circling above the baggage handlers, like an eagle scanning a mowed field for mice. It turned gently, soaring upward, never flapping, carried by a rising thermal from the hot tarmac. Never seen a raven glide like that. Tony’s grip relaxed, and he grunted, a long exhale signaling he’d fallen asleep.

  She glanced at her watch. 7:14 a.m. local. She’d been awake all night, and now would certainly be so for the next thirteen hours of the flight. She turned to the window. The raven was almost as high as the control tower now. It spun and banked, enjoying the strength of its wings, as if it had no needs. No appetite. No yesterday. She closed her eyes and imagined the view from up there, the humid breeze rising past her feathers, soaring without a care of her own. Her mind drifted with the bird, her body shuddering as a stiff airstream lifted her into the sky, higher until the atmosphere cooled, a cloud mist brushed her eyelids, and the plane, airport, and all of Israel disappeared below a footing of white mist.…

  Her seat shuddered, and a chirp of tires so
unded outside the window. She bolted upright. The arced aluminum canopies of JFK Airport sped by as the plane’s brakes groaned. Manhattan’s bold skyline leveled in the distance, the Chrysler Building’s speared apex piercing a line of blue-gray clouds. She licked a crust of drool from the corner of her lips. She’d slept the entire trip.

  * * * *

  Red stood next to Carter in the marble foyer of Markel Research. The entrance was framed by two walls of plate glass in aluminum frames, the other two of shiny walnut paneling. Hard, like the Spartan images of city apartment flats furnished with concrete table and metal chairs in one of Lori’s designer magazines. He’d been able to convince her to decorate with a lodge motif instead of something so sterile. Rusty Blade stood behind the high counter again. His rash seemed to have cleared, or maybe the guy had finally switched razors. No more sour Granny Smith apple–flavored candies in the bowl. Red snagged a blue raspberry, a close second to his favorite.

  Rusty Blade returned a handset to its cradle. “You know the drill, gentlemen. End of the hall. Remove all metal objects.”

  The pair stepped inside the same narrow closet and removed wallets, keys, knives, and pistols. After returning from Jerusalem, carrying his own sidearm had proven therapeutic. He’d been off balance without it.

  Carter had refused to disclose who had saved their asses with the RPG on that narrow street in the West Bank. He’d only reminded Red that in his short stint at the FBI, he’d worked in the Counterterrorism Division. But the masked shooter’s aim with a crude weapon had been quick, instinctive, and accurate. His salute had snapped like an honor guard on parade. A military asset. But the media had spun the attack as organized crime turf warfare.

  Carter clicked the locker door shut. “About time Stacy called us back. Lori give you any idea as to the meeting’s topic?”

  Red hurried through undressing and jumped outside the cramped space before the walls closed in and suffocated him. Air in the hallway was more welcoming. “Think it’s obvious. I told you about yesterday’s intel brief. Paili Baum was killed. Poisoned by strychnine.”

  Carter stepped out behind him, rubbing an eyebrow. “That was old school. And vindictive. Why use an alkaloid that causes such a painful death? There’s a message in that.”

  Without a belt, Carter’s pants were halfway down his hips again before he stepped inside the millimeter wave stall. Once the scan was complete, a red dot above stainless steel elevator doors flashed on. Lori stepped out wearing black jeans and a tight white blouse. Dress-down Friday. He’d left early that morning, before she was at the breakfast table. He’d have fun snaking her out of them tonight.

  She shook Carter’s hand, then gave him a hug. “Good to see you again. And thank you.”

  His wide frame seemed to swallow hers.

  She gave Red a hug and peck on the lips. Her lips were slick and tasted like cherry. He reached for her hand as she led them upstairs, but stopped short. He didn’t recall seeing any suits on TV holding hands. Probably a faux pas. He didn’t want to reflect poorly on her. And Stacy already held a grudge against him.

  They passed the conference room where they’d met a week earlier, into a large corner office with white slatted window blinds. Closed. Even so, beams wedged through the gaps and cast parallel rows of light across a side table where an industrial Bunn coffeemaker perched. It hissed as brown liquid poured into a carafe. Steam rose from the brew through the rays like a stepladder.

  Stacy sat behind a steel desk. It was clean but dented by hammer blows, like a workbench in an automotive shop. She wore purple slacks and a lime-green blouse in some sort of stiff fabric. An instant headache. Carter had spoken of her poor taste in clothes earlier, but surely this had to be fashionable. He’d seen a commercial on TV with a swanky runway model in the same colors. The detective stutter-stepped when he entered the room. Stacy was picking at a rock in the tread of her white sneakers. It twanged in a trash can, and she stood, beaming. “Morning, Carter. Coffee?”

  The detective’s gaze moved to the side table, and his shoulders relaxed a mark. “Please.”

  She snatched the pot and began to pour into a mug sporting the eagle and crossed rifles of the NRA logo. “How would you like it?”

  “Just a little sugar.”

  She glanced at Red, and her smile disappeared, but a corner of her mouth turned back up. Maybe the woman had left her fangs home, stuck in her husband. “And you?”

  “Black, thanks. Like my coffee with coffee.”

  She handed Red a steaming mug with a kitten in a Santa hat. A bubble cloud read Have a Mewy Christmas. This lady was a professional in her passive aggressiveness. Why’d Carter get the one with the guns? But the java was dark, chocolate, with the perfect hint of bitterness. He itched his nose, took another swig, and sank into a leather seat. Lori stood, leaning against the blinds near the steaming pot, then moved to a chair next to him. Stacy settled behind her workbench, and instantly the mood seemed to settle as her purple pants disappeared from view. “I think we make a good team, Detective. I hope we can work together again.”

  Carter straightened. “Once my investigation is complete, I won’t be under the employ of the Det.” He lifted his mug in a toast. “If all goes well, you’ll never see me again.”

  Stacy glanced at the ceiling. Red followed her gaze. Butterflies were pinned to it, arranged in a circle. A mosaic of black and yellow and orange, rimmed with iridescent blues and greens, formed into the image of a happy face. A smile arranged from insect carcasses.

  She lifted her mug and gulped. “Too bad. You may be closer than you realize.” She turned to Red. “Paili Baum. You have a hand in that one?”

  Who the hell did she think the Det was? “We’re not the SS. Bullets and knives. No poison. The official word is it was an accident,” he huffed. “How do you accidentally ingest strychnine?”

  Carter eased back in his chair. It was the first time Red had seen him relax in weeks. “Poisoning takes planning. A person on the inside. Whoever did it, it’s been in the works for a long time.”

  Stacy shook her head. “Nah. Mossad took care of their own.” She peered over the rim of her mug to Lori. “Sure you’re OK with me talking about your dad?”

  Lori nodded. The shadow of a cat leaped onto the floor. The animal must’ve been outside on the window ledge, casting its distorted form upon the carpet between the slats. The angle of the light made it appear larger than life. Its tail trailed behind like that of the large, dark feline from which Red had hidden in the forest when Penny had been asleep.

  Stacy glanced at the shadow. “The detective here had all the senator’s communications tapped. We got the authorization to listen in as well because he’d proven Moses had been laundering money. The day before he was killed, he came clean to Mossad.” She turned to Red. “What he told you and Lori before he died was the truth. He had been trying to protect Lori. He and Paili had worked together for years, laundering, lining their pockets. Paili had risen to a director in Mossad’s political action department. As such, she was in constant contact with foreign dignitaries. A perfect opportunity. I suspect Moses was only one of many. Moses had been trying to put a stop to it, but never enlisted the help of any US agency since it would mean admitting he was a crook. He didn’t go to Paili’s supervisor, either. Instead, he contacted an old crony in Metsada, their special operations division. Paramilitary ops.”

  Red sat up. “You saying Paili wasn’t poisoned?”

  “I’m saying that once Moses contacted Metsada, it escalated. I passed my intel up our channels and we tried to snag him, but he was already out of the country. Paili discovered Moses was in Israel and paid organized crime to kill him. I’ve got a buddy in our Office of Space Reconnaissance. I was told, unofficially, we put a satellite on Paili. The same night Moses was shot, my buddy said six men slipped into Paili’s house.” Stacy took another gulp. “Poison was the cover story, my guess.
Either way, she met a violent death. Mossad doesn’t screw around.”

  The shadow pranced across the floor, making its way toward Stacy’s desk.

  Lori crossed her arms. “My father said Paili was the one after us.”

  Stacy tapped the desk. “When you provided Mossad that extra fintel nine months ago, Paili must’ve thought you were onto her. Mossad was already running their own investigation, and she was covering her tracks. You were marked. Paili controlled the account from which the Pikes Peak wet team was paid.”

  Red stood and walked to the door, swirling coffee in his kitty mug. “So we’re done, then. Moses had Paili taken out.”

  “Good riddance,” Lori growled. “No one’s after me anymore.”

  Carter closed an eye and scratched the lid with his thumb. “But the list?”

  Stacy rubbed one of the dents with a finger. Her nails this morning were violet. “That was Paili, not Moses. Turns out she had expanded her services from laundering to blackmail. Mossad doesn’t know how she got the list, but when she found out Moses had a daughter and son-in-law on it, she used it against him. She wanted not only her cut of the laundered cash, but Moses’ as well. That’s when things started to unravel, and Moses was trying stop her. Misguided, but he possessed some semblance of nobility after all.” She tapped the divot with a knuckle.

  Red sipped his kitty. Coffee was lukewarm now. “Just about wraps things up.”

  Carter leaned back and stared at the smiley face on the ceiling. “Almost. When you went running off to Jerusalem, you told me to get the kids to your parents. On the trip, Penny told me all about how you’d taught her ‘stop, look, listen’ in the woods. How she’d figured out Agent Stump was a fake. That got me thinking, and I did my own ‘stop, look, listen.’ I was missing something. A clue was ringing a bell, but I’d been deaf to it. Then it hit me. Other than those in this room, who knew you and Lori were going on vacation to Colorado?”