“So she’ll cooperate with us?”
“It looks like she will.”
“But she wants protection,” Mapother said matter-of-factly.
“I would want that too if my former employer had sent two people to take me out.”
........
Lisa was scanning the waiting room for additional threats when Mike and Mapother walked in. What was Mapother doing here?
“These two gentlemen work with me,” Lisa quietly informed Sassani.
Rustling Sassani out of the recovery room had been easier than she had anticipated. Lisa had brought in a wheelchair from another room on the same floor and simply mentioned to the police officers that they’d be back in a few minutes. One of the officers offered to go with them but Sassani brushed him off by saying she needed privacy.
Lisa pushed Sassani’s wheelchair toward Mike and Mapother. “We need to go before they figure out what’s going on.”
“I have two support teams less than five minutes away,” Mapother said. “One will take care of the situation in the locker room and the other is bringing the medical van.”
“I’m not sure we have five minutes, Charles,” Lisa said.
“We can use the Yukon,” Mike offered. “We’ll help her in if she needs it.”
Mapother turned on his heels and headed back to the Yukon. The others followed. They assisted Sassani to climb into the Yukon before taking their seats.
The Yukon’s configuration was custom made. The rear compartment had been modified to fit Mapother’s needs. Instead of the regular second- and third-row bench seats, four leather captain’s chairs faced each other. In the center was a communication console with two laptops on extendable platforms. There were two twelve-inch screens tuned in to two different news channels.
“Control from Mobile One. We’re heading to location Charlie with an ETA of twenty minutes,” the driver said over the Yukon’s communication system. “We need a medical team on stand-by.
Location Charlie was the IMSI’s headquarters. Since the driver had his earpiece plugged into the comms system Lisa didn’t hear headquarters’ reply but she had no doubt they’d be ready for them. Control—the IMSI’s communication center—was on watch twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. They were in charge of monitoring all the IMSI assets around the globe. Since the attempt on Mapother’s life at the New York Grand Central Terminal and the death of his bodyguard Sam Turner at the hands of Zakhar Votyakov—one of the Sheik’s sons—the two IMSI employees responsible for tracking Mapother’s movements had become paranoid. They wanted to know where Mapother was at all times. His new driver’s name was Russ Schneider. Lisa had briefly chatted with him in the IMSI cafeteria and had learned that he was a former Naval Criminal Investigative Service special agent who’d seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq. Before Mapother scooped him out, Schneider had been assigned to the secretary of the navy’s protective detail.
“Are you comfortable?” Lisa asked Sassani.
“I’m fine,” Sassani replied, her hand on her stomach.
The NYPD sergeant was putting on a brave face but she couldn’t completely hide her pain. Sassani grimaced and removed her hand from her abdomen. The scrub was red with blood and pasted the dressing underneath.
“Our people will take care of you upon arrival,” Mapother said. “But I need to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay with you.”
“Where are we going?” Sassani asked. “I’d like to know what’s going on before I say anything.”
“Understandable,” Mapother replied, “but it’s paramount that you understand the situation you’re in.”
“I do.”
“I’m not sure you do.” Mapother’s voice was steel. Sassani was walking a very thin line and the slightest hesitation might cost her her life. Lisa hoped she understood how lucky she was to get a second chance.
Mapother continued, “Your masters sent two killers after you—”
“Two? I thought—”
“It doesn’t matter what you think, Sergeant Sassani, you don’t have all the facts. I do.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the only place in New York where you’ll be safe.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet because the second I feel you’re lying to me or are being less than forthcoming, the Iranians will be the least of your concerns.”
Sassani twitched in her seat. Mapother’s warning was loud and clear. “As I said earlier to your colleague, I love this country. I won’t lie to you.”
The rest of the trip was spent mostly in silence. Mapother made a few phone calls and Schneider kept control aware of their progress but that was it. Lisa pondered the implications of Sassani’s capture. But was capture the right term? Since two people were killed during the operation, Sassani’s capture felt more like a rescue mission.
Nineteen minutes after their departure from the hospital, the Yukon passed under the Brooklyn Bridge and made several quick turns onto small secondary streets before approaching a fenced area.
“What is this? A black site?” Sassani asked. She sounded alarmed.
“Nothing to be worried about,” Lisa said.
If she’d been in Sassani’s shoes, she’d be worried too. The IMSI headquarters didn’t look like a welcoming place. A double gate opened and the Yukon crept forward. The chain-link fence was ten feet high with barbed wire looping around its top. Beyond the double gate, dozens of concrete wall panels were aligned on each side of the single lane road, forcing the driver to follow to the main checkpoint. There was enough space for only one vehicle at a time. The checkpoint was a large guard hut with a nine-foot concrete-and-steel fence behind it. A tall man wearing a nondescript uniform approached the driver-side window Schneider had lowered. Schneider handed the guard his ID card.
“I have the director, Mike and Lisa Walton and one injured NYPD officer riding in the back,” Schneider told him.
“Unlock the doors. We’ll take a quick look,” the guard said. Lisa didn’t remember the guard’s name but he was a former military police officer who’d served overseas for over a decade. He had kept his military haircut and his suspicious eyes didn’t miss much. The automatic locks popped open and the guard opened the rear driver-side door while another guard walked an explosive-sniffing German shepherd to the back of the Yukon.
“Good day, Director,” the guard said, his eyes scanning the interior of the Yukon.
“Hello, Peter,” Mapother replied.
Peter. That’s his name.
“A medical team is waiting for you in the garage,” Peter said before closing the SUV’s door.
Moments later, the heavy steel door rose and the Yukon smoothly accelerated toward a square-shaped medium-sized concrete building. The structure had no windows and looked more like a storage facility than a state-of-the-art intelligence headquarters. The Yukon took a slight right before heading downhill to a large, solid-looking garage door that was in the process of opening.
Inside the garage, two women and one man were waiting for the Yukon. Next to them was a gurney. Sassani must have seen them too.
“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough for Lisa to hear it.
Sassani was crying. Was it from relief? Lisa thought so. The events of the last twenty-four hours must have shaken Sassani to her core. It wouldn’t surprise Lisa if Sassani continued to have nightmares about this day for the rest of her life. Who wouldn’t after what she had gone through? Lisa had her own demons to fight every night. Images of her dead daughter and unborn child visited her dreams almost daily. It used to be every single time she closed her eyes, so, in a way, her mental health was getting better. Mike worried her the most. The death of his father had taken its toll. Mike had spent two years looking for his dad, and, in the end, Ray Powell had given his life to save Lisa’s. I
f it hadn’t been for Ray’s heroic actions, she wouldn’t be here today. And that made her feel terrible. What kind of man sacrifices everything to save someone else without thinking about it? There were too few of them, but, luckily, she had married one. Mike was just like his father; he wouldn’t hesitate to go through hell to save her, or anyone else for that matter. That was why she thought it might be time to get out of this life, for both of them. At their present pace, it was only a matter of time before one of them caught a bullet in the chest or a knife in the back.
Mapother’s voice brought her back to the present.
“You’re coming, Lisa?”
Mapother was outside the Yukon, holding the SUV’s door open. Mike was already out and with the medical team, ushering Sassani away.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, climbing out of the SUV. “I dozed off for a second.”
“More like two minutes, Lisa, and your eyes were wide open.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
Mapother closed the reinforced Yukon’s door behind her. “I shouldn’t have sent you into the field. You weren’t ready for something like that.”
“I’m—” Lisa started to say, but Mapother interrupted her.
“But you handled yourself like I knew you could. You kept your cool and did all the right things. And so did Mike.”
Lisa didn’t think it was a good time to mention Mike’s small panic attack.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Walk with me to my office. I’ll get some caffeine into you.”
Mapother swipe his ID card in a black electric keypad and punched in his seven-digit code. The door opened automatically with a soft click to reveal a long hallway with white marble flooring. Mike and the medical team were nowhere in sight. She followed Mapother down the hallway, her mind already searching for ways to move quickly on the intelligence Sassani was about to reveal.
“Did President Muller give you a timeline?” she asked.
“We have just about forty hours left before the Iranians do whatever they’re planning to do. We need to know how many Iranian agents are left, and who are their targets.”
“What will happen if we don’t?”
Mapother stopped and turned toward Lisa. “Failure isn’t an option, Lisa. President Muller was adamant. If there’s another attempt on the life of a federal or state official, it would be like a declaration of war.”
“Against the Iranians?”
“And the Russians, I’m afraid.”
Mapother was right, failure wasn’t an option. With a North Korean nuclear threat looming in the background, the slightest mistake could ignite a war no one could win.
Lisa wanted to say something, but her mouth had run dry.
CHAPTER 74
Ramallah, Palestine
“Someone’s coming,” Zima whispered.
“Wait for it,” Eitan reply. “Four quick taps followed by two more.”
Zima didn’t care. The last two and a half hours had been the worst of her life. So much so she would have willingly switched places with Meir Yatom. A few months ago in Syria, during a botched operation to rescue Ray Powell—Mike’s father—Zima had lost a finger to a sniper. As painful as that was, it was nothing compared to the last two hours. She couldn’t feel anything below her waist and she wondered if this was because her neck was twisted. The little holes, meant to allow oxygen through to the secret compartment, were either clogged or not big enough because she could barely breathe. Her sweat acted as glue between her clothes and her skin. She had long stopped caring how awful she smelled, and Eitan had been kind enough not to say anything when she had to relieve herself.
Zima had never been prone to claustrophobia, but she was beginning to feel the effects. How long she had left before completely losing it was anyone’s guess.
Four quick taps to the side of the van followed by two others set her heart pumping and the adrenaline flowing.
“We’re good,” Eitan said.
They each pulled on their lever and the compartment opened. Zima wriggled out of her plywood prison onto the dirty floor of the building. No lights had been turned on, but Zaret was holding a flashlight to the ceiling, careful not to shine too much light into her eyes. He rolled two bottles of water in her direction.
For a minute, Zima remained on the floor, panting. She tried to move her legs, but a jolt of pain passed through her body. She moaned, afraid something terribly wrong had happened to her body.
“I can’t move my legs, Eitan,” Zima said, fighting tears. She looked at him. Eitan wasn’t in much better shape. His black hair was slick with perspiration, his eyes were red and puffy and he was shivering, despite how warm it was.
“Give it a minute or two, Zima,” Eitan said, forcing a smile. “Drink the water.”
Zima unscrewed the cap of the first bottle and emptied it in two large gulps. She opened the second and used it to splash her hair, face and neck. The water was lukewarm but it felt divine.
Eitan had his eyes on her. “You look stunning. Will you marry me?”
What? She must have misunderstood. She had to. Or did Eitan just ask her to marry him? No. He couldn’t be. Not here. Not now. I just peed my pants, for God’s sake!
“Did you—”
“Yes, I did.”
He crawled toward her, using only his elbows. His legs were useless too.
“This is the worst shape we’ll ever be in, Zima. We’re exhausted, hurt and dirty like hell, but the only thing I kept thinking about while we were stuck in this cage was kissing you.”
His lips were fresh and cool, which surprised her.
“I love you, Zima Bernbaum. Please marry me.”
Despite the throbbing pain in her lower back, the pinched nerve in her neck and the fact that there was a man she didn’t know standing five feet from them, she laughed.
“You’re completely crazy. You’ve really lost it this time.”
“Maybe, but what do you say?”
This wasn’t the sweet proposal she had dreamed of since she was a little girl. She had always seen herself being proposed to during a romantic getaway on an exotic island, or in the Alps, halfway down a quiet trail. This wasn’t it. But, again, Eitan wasn’t the type of man who’d do that. Still, she’d fallen for him. Hard.
“Yes, Eitan, I will marry you.”
When their lips touched again, an electric current went through her, from her hair to the tips of her toes. She felt rejuvenated.
“Okay, you two,” Zaret said, “that’s enough. We have to move.”
Zima massaged her legs. The cramps were still there, but at least she could feel them again. Eitan was doing the same, looking at her with a huge grin plastered to his face.
“Where are we going?” Zima asked.
“There’s a weapons cache half a mile from here. After that, it’s up to you. I don’t know what your mission is and I don’t want to know.”
That made sense. In case of capture, Zaret couldn’t betray them if he didn’t know what she and Eitan were up to.
“Any other friendlies in the area of operation?”
“Officially, no. But I’ve heard rumors that an American special operations team—I’m not sure if they’re CIA or military—is in or around Ramallah. That’s all I know.”
Zima took an extra minute to stretch while Zaret and Eitan discussed how they’d get from their current location to the weapons cache. Zima’s mind drifted away and she thought about Mike and Lisa. She hoped they were fine. They were good friends who deserved much better than the hand they had been dealt. A few years ago, before the Sheik changed their lives, Zima used to look at them with envy. They were so perfect. A match made in heaven. She too had wanted a partner, someone with whom to share the good or the bad. Her job had made it difficult to find someone. As a Canadian S
ecurity Intelligence Service—CSIS—field agent, her life had been compartmentalized, and the handful of men she had let in weren’t ready to make the sacrifices required to be with her. Being in love with a spy wasn’t the same as being married to a bureaucrat. An abnormal work schedule and broken promises were part of the deal, not the exceptions. When she joined the IMSI, she gave up all hope of finding someone. Then came Eitan, an arrogant, misogynist prick who sacrificed himself to save her.
Her knight in shining armor. Her future husband.
But first, they needed to finish this. They were Meir Yatom’s only hope.
CHAPTER 75
Ramallah, Palestine
The city of Ramallah, just north of Jerusalem, wasn’t exactly the first place that came to mind as a vacation destination, especially for Israelis. Ramallah used to be a hub of anti-Israel activities during the First Intifada in the late and early nineties and the Second Intifada at the beginning of twenty-first century. Fresh in Zima’s mind were the scenes of clashes between Israeli soldiers and protesters she had seen on television. Ramallah was founded in the sixteenth century by Christians from Jordan and had remained a Christian city up until the Six Day War in 1967. The municipality didn’t have official figures as to how many Christians still lived in Ramallah, but it was thought to be less than twenty-five percent of the population. Zima had read somewhere that there were more Christians from Ramallah living in Detroit and Jacksonville than in Ramallah itself.
It was well past nine o’clock at night when Zima, Eitan and Zaret left on foot. The local development organization UBIM was doing its best to help. The weapons cache was located close to the central square known as “Manara.” Zaret had told her and Eitan that most English-speaking folk in Ramallah called the place “Lions’ square” due to the four lion statues gracing the roundabout. Ramallah city officials were trying their best to open the municipality’s arms to tourists by marketing it as a hip, energetic destination. But it seemed to Zima their efforts had fallen on deaf ears. Restaurants weren’t even a quarter full and there were no queues to get into the clubs. Still, the wider streets they walked on were dotted with a few casual but somewhat trendy cafés that reminded Zima she hadn’t eaten in a while.
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