bought a pair of scissors in the gift shop and set to chopping away. After half an hour, the result wasn’t encouraging. Apparently, becoming a cosmetologist wasn’t part of her calling.
She left David to his own devices in the room and went for a drive, looking for a hair salon that could fix her experiment. Near the center of town, she found two within a block of each other, and selected one based on the decor. The stylist, a pert young woman with a contemporary hairstyle, surveyed her hair with a disdainful look.
“I’m afraid I might have butchered this,” Jet confessed once she was seated in the chair.
“It’s, uh, different. So what did you have in mind?” the woman asked, preferring not to dwell on how Jet got there.
Jet studied the woman’s cut.
“I really like yours. Do you think you could do something like that?”
“It’s a lot more edgy than the bob it looks like you were shooting for. You sure you want to go that direction?”
“I like edgy. Why not?”
“I’ve found it’s a good idea to check before I start cutting. There’s nothing worse than a client who hates her cut once I’m done. That’s not the kind of advertising that builds your business.”
“Don’t worry. If I look freakish, it will be my fault, not yours.”
Forty-five minutes later, Jet examined the new her in the mirror and nodded, satisfied. It would be hard to recognize her. Amazing how much difference a hairstyle change made.
“It’s perfect,” Jet proclaimed.
The stylist smiled. “It does look good. You’re very lucky. You have a great face to frame, so almost anything would look great.”
David was impressed upon her return.
“Wow. You’re hot. I mean, seriously. That’s a great look.”
“Thanks. But the main goal was to radically change my appearance.”
“It worked. Come here. Let me play with your new hair.”
They elected to have a late lunch in the hotel restaurant, and David took the opportunity after they ordered to make a call to his American contact. When he returned, he looked troubled.
The waiter arrived with their sandwiches, and he took a bite before gazing around the dining area.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Not so good. My CIA buddy said there’s been considerable agitation over the Belize situation recently. There have been a series of suspicious deaths, including the shooting of a public figure — a vocal advocate of nationalization of the nation’s oil reserves — and the untimely death of the governor general. An accidental drowning, but given the circumstances, I wouldn’t bet money on it.”
“So the game’s afoot already. We knew it would be.”
“True, but he also says that there’s satellite evidence of a new compound being set up in the jungle down by Punta Gorda, in the southern portion of the country. Apparently, the locals are afraid to go near it, and there are rumors circulating of a cartel moving into the area. It’s extremely remote, in an uninhabited section down by the Honduran border. That sounds like something Grigenko would be behind. It has to be. Nothing else is happening in Belize. The footage shows three main buildings with a perimeter that’s been cleared, and as of this morning, several large SUVs and signs of habitation.”
“Okay. So Grigenko’s got something going on in Belize. Question is whether it can help us or not. I was more in favor of heading to Russia to deal with him,” she reminded him.
“Like I said, that could be a major problem. He’s got more security in Moscow than most heads of state. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“How many missions have I carried out where I didn’t stand a chance? Come on. That’s almost routine.”
“This is different.” David took another bite of his sandwich and leaned back, signaling to the waitress for another iced tea.
“Then what do we do, now that we have this new development?”
“I’m thinking that we go to Belize. Whatever is happening there is obviously critical to Grigenko. He’s spent years on it, no doubt tied to the oil reserves he discovered. If we disrupt his scheme there, we may be able to draw him out. As it sits, he’s unassailable in Moscow, so we need him to make mistakes. If we can get him to Belize…”
“So we’re doing the jungle thing? Malaria, humidity, toucans?” she asked.
“I can’t see any better options. Belize is a strong lead, and we know it’s a big deal for him. I say we throw a grenade into his little
“I suppose nuking his headquarters is impractical?”
David smiled. “Always the subtle one, huh?”
“Okay, you win. Belize it is. How do we get weapons? I’m assuming we can’t stroll in with the toys we just bought.”
“It sounded like the American could help with that. I get the sense that the CIA has some feet on the ground there.”
“You sure you’re up for this?”
“No problem. I’m strong as a bull now. Healthy living and the love of a good woman…”
The joke silenced them both.
He slid his hand over the table and took hers.
“I’m glad, whatever the circumstances, that you came back.”
She stopped eating and held his gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, and then hesitated, as if pondering something he wanted to tell her, and then reconsidering.
“It does indeed.”
They checked out of the hotel late and meandered around Haifa, looking for an appropriate place to dump the weapons. Ultimately, David decided it would be best if they dropped them off the back of the boat before getting underway — there was no way of knowing for sure whether they would still need them up until then.
As the remains of the afternoon drifted into dusk, they negotiated their way to an intimate waterfront restaurant that David had eaten at before, and savored their last meal in Israel — probably for the rest of their lives. They watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea and drank coffee, each mentally preparing for the journey ahead.
The burner cell they had acquired rang with a startling intensity. David glanced at the incoming number before stabbing the phone on.
“Yes?”
He listened intently, then hung up.
“Change of plans. The boat we were going to take has an engine problem. So now we’re going to be on a commercial fishing boat. It’ll leave as soon as we get to it, and then we’ll do a transfer at sea to a Cyprus boat — the fishing boat will average seventeen to eighteen kilometers an hour, so by dawn we should be around a hundred forty five kilometers from the island. He’s got an associate that can make that distance in a boat from the St. Raphael marina on the southern coast, no sweat, so we’ll do the handoff at sea.”
“Where do we leave the car?”
“They’ll take care of that — they’ll return it to the rental agency so your credit card doesn’t get shut off.”
“Same plan on the weapons?”
“Yup. Over the side.”
David paid the bill, and a few minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot near the marina.
“A dinghy will take us out to the boat,” he explained. “It’s sitting just outside of the harbor mouth so it doesn’t have to deal with the police. He’s already been cleared.”
They parked where they had been instructed to, and Jet shouldered the weapons sack. A chubby man with a shaved head met them by the dock and wordlessly directed them to a waiting inflatable near the end of the long row of sailboats. The motor was putting quietly. The man helped them in, then climbed in himself after untying the line. Soon, they were tearing over the water. Halfway across the harbor, Jet tossed the duffle overboard, watching
