“Oui,” the gunman said, then listened. “We have them,” he said, looking at Scorpion. He listened some more, said “d’accord,” and hung up. “Now what?” he said to Scorpion.
“He has a place near Aix. He said to meet you somewhere near there, oui?”
The gunman nodded. “It seems you know this fils de putain.”
“I gave him a thousand euros tonight,” Scorpion said. “If you take it from him, as far as I’m concerned it’s yours.”
“Why? You don’t want the money?”
“A business expense. It’s not good to let people think they can get away with merde. It leaves a bad impression.”
“Anything else?” the gunman said, getting up and throwing the bloody, wadded-up towel on the floor.
“One thing. We never want to see either of you again.”
Later, in the taxi to the airport, Najla broke the silence.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. The next time you say we’re not going back to the hotel, believe me, I’ll listen.” She hesitated. “Thank you.” She looked into his eyes, which was all she could see in his face, hidden in shadow. Scorpion didn’t say anything. “God, you are a stone cold scheisser!” she said, pushing him away.
“None of that had to happen. We can’t afford this. We only have seven days,” he said.
“What happens in seven days?”
“Nothing, if you do what I tell you.”
“I will. I swear,” she said. The taxi made a turn, causing her to lean. She let it bring her close enough to brush against him.
By the time they got to the airport, they had thirty minutes to catch the late night flight to Rome. They checked the luggage and were going through the passport control in separate lines, Najla in the EU queue, and Scorpion, with his South African passport, in the non-EU queue. He had just gotten through when he saw the immigration officer, a woman, signal, and two armed soldiers approach Najla. She turned to look at him as they led her away. He had to decide quickly whether to stay or go. The plane was already boarding.
After a moment’s hesitation he jogged to the gate. He had no choice. The mission was entering the critical phase. Settling into his seat, he made a call with his cell phone to set up a follow-up call with Langley from Rome. There was a lot to talk about, including why the French DGSE intelligence-he was sure they had something to do with it-had taken Najla into custody.
The jet lifted high over the lights of Marseilles and made the turn over the dark Mediterranean toward Italy. Now that there was a good chance he might never see Najla again, he allowed himself to think of her sexually, the warmth of her body next to his in the bed in Amsterdam, the stunning contrast of her aquamarine blue eyes against her golden skin and dark hair. He was more attracted to her than he had been to any woman in a long time. It had taken all his willpower not to grab her, and when she’d brushed against him, she knew what she was doing to him, and he knew she wanted it too. But there had always been the chance that she was an enemy, and if it came to it, what if he had to kill her? In a way, going to Rome alone simplified things.
He looked out the window at the lights strung along the coastline of the Cote d’Azur below in the darkness. Somewhere in Italy, the Palestinian was getting ready. Out of habit, Scorpion glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. He had six days.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
New York, United States
The danger point was the U.S. Customs and Border booth at JFK Airport. If the border agent detained him, the Palestinian knew they would fail. This was something they had known from the beginning. The key to security for the entire operation was also its fatal flaw. He was the only one who knew all the pieces. The strategy provided perfect security so long as he was operational, but without him there was no operation. And he’d already had one close call too many, barely getting away in Utrecht.
He was traveling as a businessman, dressed in slacks and a jacket, no tie, with business cards and papers from his freight company in Hamburg, which they could contact and that would pass a superficial background check. His German passport was bulletproof, he told himself. Nothing Muslim about it, and the name he was using and RFID chip embedded in the front cover were in the German Auswartiges Amt database.
As for Liz, she was female, good-looking, and British, which already lowered her profile, since Americans tended to trust the English, not realizing that some of the most radical jihadis in Europe were in the UK. He hadn’t wanted to bring her, but it was too dangerous to leave her behind in Italy because she was still seething over Francesca, though she denied it. Women were always a complication, but he needed her for Rome, his throat going dry as he stepped up to the non-U.S. citizens booth in the crowded terminal hall and handed the border agent his passport and a filled-in U.S. Customs and Border Protection form. If they were to stop him, it would happen here.
The U.S. agent checked his face against the passport photo, looked up his preboarding screened data: name, digital fingerprint, and photograph against the Watch list on his computer. He checked the arrival form again.
“You here for business or pleasure, Mr. Groener?”
“Business,” the Palestinian said in English in his German persona accent, which hovered halfway over the Channel, somewhere between Hamburg and the BBC, sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades.
“What business are you in?”
“Material handling. Trucking. My card,” the Palestinian said, taking out one of his business cards, which the agent waved away.
“You came from Rome via Paris?”
“Yes, we do business with DHL and also with American companies throughout Europe,” he said, finding it hard to talk or swallow, his mouth was so dry.
“How long do you plan to be in the United States?”
“Just a few days,” attempting a smile. The agent didn’t smile back. The agent checked his computer screen again. The two men waited.
“Welcome to the United States,” the agent said after a long moment, and stamped his passport.
Liz was waiting for him at the luggage carousel, and together they stood in line for a taxi that took them to a midtown hotel near Grand Central Station. They barely spoke in the taxi. At one point she started to say something and he glanced significantly at the driver. Heeding that warning, she made meaningless conversation about the cool weather as he looked out the window at the row houses along the Van Wyck Expressway, not seeing them because all he could think of was the critical pieces of the operation he had left behind in Turin and Rome, and whether by coming to America and bringing her he had jeopardized the whole thing. They checked into the hotel in separate rooms, and once his luggage was delivered, he went down two floors to her room and she let him in.
“Why the bloody hell couldn’t we be together, you bastard. I had to fend off some palmy Belgian asshole who thought my tits were the business class bloody hors d’oeuvres,” she began, and never finished because he kissed her and started pulling off her clothes.
He had first met Liz two years ago in Mykonos. She was topless on the beach, with her mini-breasts and leggy post-Oxonian body, and within an hour they were going at it like rabbits in his room overlooking the port and the sea. Afterward, the two of them sharing a cigarette, she told him about joining the Oxford Movement for Palestinian Justice, her eyes gleaming with conviction, and he had alerted Utrecht to see what they could do about recruiting her. He visited her several times in London, a budding shaheedah she-wolf in Sloane Ranger guise, all boho short skirts and Hermes scarves and meetings to ban Israeli professors from British universities. He went shopping with her on Beauchamp Place, and at night they kept her flatmates awake while they went at it nonstop, as if Knightsbridge was Mykonos North, till one of the other girls wanted to join in. Then Liz’s jealousy flared up.
Looking for him, she had arrived in Turin the night before the move to Rome, making a big entrance at the warehouse, only to learn he wasn’t there. Mourad, whom he had left in charge, wouldn’t tell her where he was. In fact he was in Milan, in Francesca’s suite at the Savoia Hotel, making the final payment after the delivery in Turin that morning.
