The senior man shook his head. “They could not have been more than forty kilometers from here. Why the delay?”
Hazim defaulted to his passive setting. “I do not know, Teacher. I only pass the message from the courier.”
“Then I need to speak with him, not an errand boy.” The words were selected to cut, to hurt. To teach. He stalked from the house, making for the larger building that served as headquarters for a few days.
Hazim trailed in his master’s wake, biting down the pain. Belatedly he realized that he should have informed himself of more details before awaking the Iranian.
He was learning.
In the main building Esmaili found the courier drinking thick tea and devouring some biscuits. Showing deference to the Iranian, the Lebanese fighter stood and inclined his head. “Teacher…”
Esmaili waved a placating hand. “Please sit, brother. You are a guest here.”
The two men were within three years of one another’s age, both in their mid-forties, both dedicated and competent. But few Hezbollah operatives possessed Ahmad Esmaili’s depth of experience. From the revolution onward, through the nightmare of the Iraq war of the 1980s and what the Zionist lackeys called the present “terror” war, the Iranian liaison officer had been constantly engaged. His masters in Tehran knew his worth — and so did his acolytes in The Lebanon.
The messenger was called Fida, and while he surely had sacrificed much of his earthly life to the service of God, it had been a willing sacrifice. This night, he knew what the Teacher wanted to know without being asked.
“We were to meet Malik and his team this morning for a joint reconnaissance. When they did not appear, we searched for them.” Fida sipped more tea but did not taste it. “We probably arrived two or three hours after… after the Jews.”
Esmaili’s obsidian eyes locked on to the courier’s face. “You are certain it was Israelis?”
Fida reached into his vest pocket and produced a metal object. From across the table, Esmaili recognized an IDF identification disk. Neither man read Hebrew but both recognized the characters.
The Iranian’s mind churned through various options. “This might be a ruse to mislead us. The killers could be local militia trying to drive us from the area.” He thought for an additional moment. “Was there expended brass?”
“Yes. It was unmarked — no head stamps.”
“In any case, Malik and his men are dead,” Fida continued. “We buried them properly and came here. I thought it best to avoid the radio. We are almost certain that the Jews have learned our frequencies again. We will have to change…”
“You did well, my friend. Now rest here. I have much to do this night.”
The intercom buzzed on Derringer’s desk. “Admiral, there’s a message for you at the front desk.”
Derringer turned from his copy of
Mrs. Singer’s contralto voice crackled over the line. “Cheryl said it’s just a calling card in an envelope addressed to you. She can bring it up.”
“No, I should stretch my legs. Tell her I’ll be right down.”
In the lobby fronting on Courthouse Road, Derringer greeted the receptionist. “Hello, Miss Dungan. I understand there’s a message for me.”
“Here it is, Admiral.” With her Peach Street drawl, Cheryl Dungan pronounced it “hee-yer.” She handed over the envelope and beamed a heartbreaking smile. Office gossip said that she had been engaged twice but was having too much fun to change her marital status after just twenty-six years.
Suppressing his sixty-something male hormones, Derringer forced himself to concentrate on the message. It was a plain white envelope with the recipient’s name and “PERSONAL” typed on the front. The CEO opened the envelope to find a business card.
Mordecai Baram, Minister for Agriculture and Scientific Affairs, Embassy of Israel, 3514 International Drive Northwest.
There was also a handwritten note that Derringer read in a glance. He turned to the receptionist again. “Who delivered this?”
“Oh, a man who spoke with an accent. Maybe thirty, thirty-two. Kinda cute.” She said “kee-yute.”
Minutes later Derringer walked into Wilmont’s office and closed the door. “Marsh, take a look at this.”
Wilmont looked up with a furrowed brow. “Agriculture and science? That’s got to be some kind of cover.”
“Concur. If I’m not interested, I’m to leave a phone message. Otherwise the note says to meet him at Natural History, 1100 tomorrow. At the evolution exhibit.”
The SSI president slid the card across his desk. “What do you plan to do?”
“I see no reason to pass this up. I admit that I’m curious.”
Wilmont’s paunch bulged beneath his vest as he leaned back. “Obviously that’s what Mr. Baram intended. But I wonder why he didn’t just call or send an e-mail.” He thought for a moment. “Have you ever met him? I’ve never heard the name.”
Derringer shook his head. “Me neither. But that’s probably the way he wants things.”
“So you’re going to keep the appointment?”
“Affirm. But I’m not going alone.”
2
The Hall of Human Origins was a well-attended exhibit, partly because it generated such fervent debate on both sides of the Darwinian fault line. As Michael Derringer paced down the millennia of human evolution, he found himself more interested than he had expected. From arboreal hominids to fire starters and
“It makes you wonder about intelligent design, doesn’t it?”
Derringer was caught off guard by the voice. It seldom happened to the SSI founder, who prided himself on his situational awareness. But the man had seemingly materialized beside the former naval officer.
“Mr. Baram?”
The Israeli extended a hand. “Mordecai.”
They shook, openly regarding one another. Derringer saw a slender man in his mid to late fifties, slightly taller than himself with a close-cropped beard showing traces of gray.
“Mike.” They released their mutual grip. “How’d you recognize me?”
Baram smiled tightly. “I did a Google image search. Do you know that your name produces 447 hits? Of course, not all are actually photos of you, and you share a name with a well-regarded artist. But there were enough likenesses that I could pick you out.”
It was Derringer’s turn to smile. “That’s odd. I couldn’t find any images of you.”
The diplomat spread his hands in a deceptively helpless gesture. “Alas, the result of an obscure career in an obscure field.”
For the first time Derringer wondered if the man’s name actually was Mordecai Baram.
“Mordecai, why do I doubt that you’re approaching me about agriculture? If that actually is your area of expertise.”
Baram seemingly reacted to the American’s skepticism by rocking back on his heels. “Oh, my, yes. It truly is. I was a
