around six, surely late enough for the tests to be over. But he got the same response. He hung up, worked through some of the memoranda on his desk, then tried again. This time a woman picked up the phone.
“I was looking for George Hadash,” he told her. “Have I got the right room?”
The woman hesitated, then said she really didn’t know anything. Before Rubens could ask anything else, she hung up. Rubens put the phone down and drummed his fingers on the desk. Then he grabbed the handset and called information for the hospital’s general number. He was connected with a rather officious young man who told him that federal law prohibited the hospital from giving out any information about a patient.
“You don’t have to give me any information.” said Rubens. “Just connect me.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”
Rubens hung up. Hadash had been divorced for years, but his daughter lived near Washington. Rubens looked the number up in his Rolodex — he hated computerized phonebooks — and called. The answering machine picked up.
“Hello, Irena. This is Bill Rubens. I realize it’s rather silly of me, but I seem to have forgotten your father’s phone number at the hospital and the boobs there won’t give it to me. Would it be possible—”
The phone beeped as Irena picked up on the other end.
“Oh, Bill, it’s terrible,” she said. “Daddy died of complications a few hours ago. I just got back — I can’t believe it.”
“No,” said Rubens. “Oh, no.”
CHAPTER 32
Lia had last seen Terrence Pinchon three years before. A pair of women who had been working for the International Red Cross had been kidnapped by a group of local thugs. Two separate three-member Delta teams had been tasked to work with the CIA and a Russian intelligence officer to extricate them. Lia, posing as another relief worker, went into the village where the women had last been seen to gather information.
The Russian’s intelligence was less than helpful; he hadn’t even gotten the names of the local government officials right. Sent on a wild goose chase to locate the kidnappers’ hideout, Lia found the real location: two doors down from the aid center.
The local police, with Delta backup, set up a raid. The thieves’ lair turned out to have been abandoned about a half hour before they arrived. The local police chief claimed to be amazed by this unlucky coincidence.
It turned out that the women had been handed over—“sold” would be a better description — to a neighboring warlord, who offered them to the local government in exchange for the release of several prisoners. The prisoners were being held for drug trafficking; the locals were willing to let them go but the regional government was not. Lia found out where the women were being held, organized a reconnaissance with the two other members of her team, and suggested an operation to free them — without help from the locals this time. The operation was vetoed by the CIA paramilitary officer.
So Lia and the Delta boys went ahead with it on their own. It wasn’t exactly Guadalcanal: they drove up in two cars, overpowered the single guard at the isolated house where the women were kept, and drove off with the two women. Not a single shot, not even a warning round, was fired.
The CIA paramilitary officer was livid and insisted that they go ahead with a plan to pay the warlord ransom money.
Was the para getting a kickback? Lia thought so, and told him that to his face. She could still see the red rings around his eyes — she’d nailed him.
Pinchon, though, didn’t think so. With a few months’ seniority over Lia, he was in charge of the detachment, and he bought the argument that the warlord would cause trouble if he wasn’t paid off properly.
“Two months from now we’ll be back to pull out two more people, only they’ll be better protected this time,” said Pinchon. “And maybe we’ll find them dead.”
Lia and the Russian intelligence agent handled the payoff. It was a drive-and-drop operation, with Lia and the Russian driving to a deserted curve on a dusty mountain road, dropping the plastic bag of money, and skedaddling — plenty of sweat but no real hassle. Lia thought the hardest part was surviving the Russian’s vodka breath, fanned by the finicky heater in the small car.
Mission accomplished, she hooked up with the rest of the team and headed out to the local airport. Three miles away, they were ambushed by a rival warlord’s group. Pinchon’s vehicle was destroyed by a massive bomb.
There was no question the Land Cruiser was destroyed — even now Lia could see it burning, the stench of flesh in the air. Her vehicle had been more than a hundred yards farther down the road, and by the time she managed to fend off the gunmen and get to the wreck, Pinchon’s body had been burned to a shriveled black twist. Still taking fire, she and the others had had to retreat; the body wasn’t recovered for two more days.
Lia could still feel the tears from the funeral. And yet it had been a sham.
A sham.
Organized by the CIA, no doubt, since he was working for them now. But why?
Lia couldn’t sleep. She got up and began pacing the hotel room, the adrenaline practically pouring from her sweat glands. She wanted to talk about Pinchon and what had happened — but the person she wanted to talk about it with was Charlie, and he was the last person she could discuss it with. You couldn’t talk about an ex-lover with a present lover, no way.
Terry Pinchon was an ex-lover. A brief lover, definitely ex. Even though her heart had jumped at seeing him.
Even though it jumped now, thinking about him.
How could he let her think he was dead?
And what the hell had she seen in him? He was a jerk.
But her heart was racing, even now.
A handsome jerk.
Lia looked out the window. The sky remained dark black, the stars twinkling brightly. She went back to bed, knowing she needed to rest, also knowing she wouldn’t get any.
CHAPTER 33
Irena Hadash met Rubens at the door to her condominium in her stocking feet.
“Thank you for coming over,” she said, reaching to hug him. She smelled of cigarettes — and a little gin, Rubens thought
Certainly she was entitled to both.
“There’s so much — I can’t process it all,” she said.
Rubens followed her inside to the kitchen. Irena had reclaimed the family name after her divorce a year before, and the condo dated from then as well. It was a small, one-story unit in a development that would not have been considered fancy even outside the Beltway.
“I have to find a funeral home to send him to,” said Irena, stacking forms to one side of the table before sitting.
“He’s still at the hospital?”
Instead of answering, she told Rubens that her father had begun to bleed uncontrollably during the operation. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it? It’s not.”
“No,” said Rubens.
“They want to do an autopsy.”
“They should.”
“The president—” Irena stopped. “Do you mind, would it be okay if I smoked?”
