Next
Though she had seen it happen many times, Nadine was still stunned by the swiftness of Raza's mood change.
It had come with the false dawn, that hour when the frost gleamed on the sands beyond the window like the crushed ice in the champagne bucket on the floor beside the bed.
After Faruk Kadumi phoned from London with the new of the hotel bombings, Raza had opened the bottle. After they drank, he began to make love to her. Nadine thought each time was better than the last.
They had been interrupted by a call from Paris reporting the explosions there, followed by one from the United States. She had recognized the voice of the man. Rachid Harmoos, the Arab millionaire, laundered the money Raza received for his services to the drug barons of Colombia. Raza had shown her photographs of Harmoos' mansion in the countryside of Connecticut. It was near a place with a beautiful name, Sweetmont. Raza had promised one day they would live in such surroundings. Sometimes, he could be very romantic.
Finally, Lila had called. Afterward, Raza remained straddling Nadine, his body glistening in the starlight from the window. He seemed to be cast from the darkest bronze and she filled with a melting, warm wax. Then he had increased his steady thrusting until she was writhing and sobbing and screaming this to go on for ever.
Then came the call from Beirut.
Nadine saw his surprise when the bedside phone rang. He was expecting no one else. As Raza picked up the phone, his face was already tightening. After listening he asked no questions, only smashed down the phone so hard he broke its cradle.
He remained crouching over her, the last vestige of light draining from his eyes. The madness was back.
"What was it?" she whispered.
He ignored the question.
"Tell me," she begged.
His nostrils began to flare and his breathing grew loud.
"Please." She reached up with her arms to encircle him.
The movement broke the spell. Raza thrust her away and leaped to his feet, cursing. He yanked the champagne bottle from the bucket and hurled it across the room. It crashed against a painting of Bedouin shepherds in a Lebanese valley. She had bought it for him on their last visit to Beirut.
"What has happened?" Nadine whispered again. She was badly frightened, but knew she must not show it. Fear in others always stoked his fury.
Raza turned and stared at her and continued to curse incoherently. He was close to raving. She had never seen him like this. She knew she must not shrink from him. To do so could trigger a terrible violence. He raved on.
Momentarily exhausted, he was still, his view of her blurred.
Nadine tried once more. "Tell me, so I can help."
The madness filmed his eye, and she was more frightened, not only for herself, but for him.
"The girl!" he roared. "The girl is dead."
"Which girl?" she asked, pulling the sheet about her, shivering not only from the chill, but the tension in his voice.
"The Greek!" Raza roared again. He picked up the ice bucket and hurled it through he bedroom window, shattering the large pane of plate glass.
From outside came the sound of running feet and the compound guards calling out nervously. They backed away when they saw Raza at the window. He remained there, cursing volubly.
Nadine remained perfectly still, waiting for the anger to pass. An attack had never lasted this long. Usually, he would quickly step back across the border that divides sanity from insanity. Then he would pretend it had never happened. And, because she loved him, she would do the same.
After a considerable while, he began to grow calm, his speech to clear, and the strange contortions of his face to cease. Only then did she ask him again what had happened.
Raza turned from the window. "One of the girls I sent to Athens is dead." His words seemed to quiver in the cold air coming through the broken window.
"What can I do to help?"
He started toward her, his mouth working. She forced herself not to flinch, only to look at him attentively and lovingly. He began to pace from the window to the door, turn, and pace again. From time to time, he glared at her but made no attempt to come near.
Suddenly, he went to the radio on the table at his side of the bed. He began to search the wavebands, pausing each time only to listen for a few seconds before moving to a new station.
"Find me a Greek station," Raza ordered Nadine. He resumed his relentless pacing.
She slid across the bed, keeping the sheet around her, and began to tune the radio.
In a corner of the bedroom, a fax machine came to life. Raza ran over, reading aloud the words as the paper unfurled. "It's the older girl, Zelda. She's dead. Killed while making a reconnaissance. Burned to death!"
This time, the speech disorder and the wild flight of ideas that characterized his hypomania did not return. All Raza did was let out another long burst of profanity.
It drowned out the newscast from Radio Athens reporting that a truck filled with liquid petroleum had gone out of control in the center of the city and exploded in a huge fireball, which had engulfed at least twenty people.
Raza ripped out he rest of the message and turned from the fax machine, his hands trembling. "She was carrying almost all the bottles! The stupid camel's whore took them with her! All gone! All destroyed! Because of one stupid camel's whore!" He stood at the window, heedless of the chill, heedless of everything but the realization that he was facing disaster.
With the sense of certainty that both the deeply religious and the committed terrorist share, Mahamoud Al-Najaf knew he had prepared everything for the assassination of the Cardinal of Lebanon.
In his apartment overlooking the vast cobbled expanse of the marketplace behind the Pantheon in downtown Rome, he carefully arranged his prayer rug to face Mecca. Removing his custom-made shoes --- they were his one indulgence in an otherwise spartan life --- he kneeled and prostrated himself three times, each time touching his forehead to the ground. In a low, yet clear and firm voice, the way he had learned to pray from his father, he began.
He recited the words of the Ummu'l-Quran, the Essence of the Koran, the most sacred of prayers that the infidel Cardinal of Lebanon had dared to call the Lord's Prayer of the Muslims. The evil one had done so in yet another of his appeals for religious unity.
When Al-Najaf had completed the seven verses, he paused. In a deeper voice, he continued. "In the name of Allah, the Beneficient, the Merciful. Alif, Cam, Mim." Once more, he paused after reciting the three letters of the Arab alphabet deemed to have mystical power. Then in a rush of words, he resumed. "Guide thy servant's hand so that it may be worthy of Thee to silence the evil voice of your enemy who tries to sully your purity."
He remained prostrate for a moment longer, eyes closed, his mind filled with the memory of his pilgrimage to Mecca when he had kneeled with almost a million others before the Holy Place and pronounced he would die rather than see its power diminished. When he had prayed there, he had felt, as the mullahs had promised, a certainty that Allah was listening.
Now, when he lumbered to his feet and rolled up his prayer rug, he felt the same. Allah wanted the infidel Cardinal to die. It would be the just retribution the Glorious Koran spoke of.
He began to walk around the living room with its panoramic view of the domes, spires, and cupolas of Rome. He was a heavyset man with a curious way of walking, as if springs were implanted in his legs. His face was an unbroken curve from forehead to chin, giving him a benign appearance.
Over the years, his gentle manner had served him well while he had prepared his operations. He had come and gone with no one suspecting. Then a year ago, Raza had told him the Zionists had sentenced him to death. Since then, he had been even more careful. But the complexities of this operation meant he had to remain in Rome far longer than he would have liked. That meant there was always the risk that the Zionists could spot him. But as usual, he had chosen a cover to minimize the risk.
The room bore all the signs of a transient foreign correspondent. Piles of newspapers lay everywhere. On the desk was an old manual typewriter, half-buried in press releases. A rented news teleprinter stood in a corner, chattering out copy. Long sheets of teletype hung from clips, like washing on a clothesline, across the room. He had taken every care to convince the rest of the building's tenants that he was a reporter with a Cairo newspaper, in Rome to cover the forthcoming ecumenical conference between Islam and Christianity that the Pope had called.
He paused once more at the teleprinter. The hotel bombings and Trekfontein continued to dominate the news. But not a word about the demands he had sent to the three wire services. The last tape --- the prerecorded tape Lila had made for claiming the destruction of Trekfontein --- was still in the answering machine he had converted into a transmitter.
The infidels must have ordered a news blackout. It would make no difference. The world of the nonbelievers would soon know the truth.
He stood for a moment at the picture window. The dog of a landlord had charged more for this view. No matter; the time was coming when he, and the millions like him who had exploited the Arabs, would pay the price. No amount of incense and devotional candles would save them from the great sword of retribution. And this city would provide a fitting backdrop to remind them no matter how hard they prayed, the hand of the true faith would reach out --- and show them the real meaning of belief.
Al-Najaf had prepared a piece of theater to demonstrate this perfectly.
Shortly before Raza's commando went to Saint Peter's Square, Al-Najaf would give him a cyanide capsule. After he had executed the Cardinal of Lebanon, the gunman would turn and face the stunned crowd and recite the opening words of the Ar-ra'd, the prayer of the Law of Consequences. The commando would then crush the capsule in his mouth to show the infidels that a soldier of Islam does not fear death.
Al-Najaf himself would not be there to witness the moment. The night before, he would leave this city of his enemies and fly to Tripoli. He would receive the gratitude of Raza and be rewarded with a girl child. These past weeks of enforced celibacy had been hard to bear. His only relaxation had been following the strict fitness program Raza insisted upon.
He went to his bedroom and dressed quickly in a bright purple track suit and jogging shoes.
After stretching and bending to loosen his muscles, he walked back to the living room and went to the answering machine on his desk. He removed the tape and opened the small safe beside the desk. He dialed the combination and opened the door.
The safe contained his air ticket, false Egyptian passport, and the balance of the money he'd been provided with to cover expenses. Beside the bundle were two cassette tapes. He removed one and replaced it with the one in his hand, closed the door, and spun the dial. He had chosen the numbers 3-10 as the combination. They represented the third sura of the Golden Koran and its tenth verse. As he dialed the numbers, he repeated aloud the words first revealed to the Prophet at Al Madinah, Al-Najaf's own birthplace. "Neither the riches nor the progeny of those who disbelieve will aught avail them with Allah. They will be fuel for the fire."
He straightened and turned to the answering machine. He inserted the tape and played it, keeping the volume low, listening to Lila's voice.
"In the name of Raza the Freedom Fighter, the government of France will take careful note. You hold in your prisons thirty-two of our glorious Feydeheen. As well as the other demands made in the name of all the Oppressed of Islam, you will release these heroes of the Revolution within twenty-four hours of this tape being received in the office of your lie-mongering propagandists. Failure to do so will result in immediate punishment."
Al-Najaf rewound the tape, his hand unsteady. The sheer audacity of not only this one, but all the other demands, was unprecedented. Yet, how could they be ignored?
He removed and, on impulse, pocketed the tape. It would be a heady sensation, trotting through the streets with the cassette. The Prophet must felt the same when he had gone secretly to the city of the Zionists, Jerusalem, and sworn a solemn oath in their very midst to destroy them one day.
Locking the apartment door to which was affixed a brass plate bearing the words Arab News Service, Al-Najaf descended in the ancient lift to the ground floor and stepped out into the square. He began to run, paying no attention to the Peugeot parked on the far side of the piazza.
"He's like God, he moves in a mysterious way," murmured Wolfie, grinning at Michelle in the front passenger seat. He sat with his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The early morning sun picked out the white strip of his Roman collar against the dull black of his priest's suit.
"Too much pasta gone to the wrong places," replied Michelle. She touched the modified nun's veil clipped to her wig. It went with her calf-length gray skirt and bloused top. There were thousands of religious sisters dressed like her in the Church-of-Change.
"You'd have thought he'd be too excited to bother with running this morning," said Wolfie.
The Peugeot's radio continued to report on the hotel bombings, Trekfontein, and the petrol tanker explosion in Athens.
Michelle frowned. "I can't see Raza bothering to blow up that tanker. An entire oil refinery's more his style."
Wolfie watched Al-Najaf disappear down a side street before starting the car. "No claim so far," he said, heading the Peugeot in the opposite direction.
"Chernow's put the lid on," said Michelle, reaching into a large shoulder bag, which nuns had taken to carrying this year. She screwed the silencer to the barrel of the Czech pistol.
"It looks like being a nice day," said Wolfie as the car entered the piazza where the Pantheon stood. The first of the cafés were opening.
The Peugeot headed toward Largo Argentina. A bread delivery truck blocked the way. Leaning out of the car, Wolfie called to the driver in perfect Italian. "Mi scusi. I have a mass to celebrate."
"No problem, Father," said the driver. He backed up the truck to allow Wolfie to enter the narrow street of Santa Chiara. The Peugeot bounced over cobblestones that had been laid down for Caesar's chariots.
Wolfie parked the opposite the entrance to the Church of Our Lady of Hope. He left the engine idling. Carrying her shoulder bag, Michelle walked into the church. Wolfie remained behind the wheel and reached for a missal under the dash. Beside him on the seat was a German Luger pistol. It, too, was fitted with a silencer.
Inside the church door, Michelle dipped a finger into the wall font. Then she genuflected toward the altar, and made the sign of the cross with her moist fingers. She sat in a pew directly across from the door.
The sanctuary walls sparkled in the diffused morning sun. The light gave the Christ on the stained glass the appearance of being crucified against a purple sky, tinged with a red darker than blood. Michelle noted the positions of the other early-morning massgoers. On two previous visits, there had only been a handful of old women seated near the altar, the same as now.
Placing her bag on the pew beside her, Michelle removed a prayer book and opened it at the mass of the day. She appeared to be deep in her devotions.
The old women had reached the sorrowful mysteries when Michelle replaced her prayer book. The shoulder bag was open.
She stood inside the arched doorway, listening intently. Above the idling of the Peugeot's engine came another sound --- a raw, animallike rasping mingled with a scuffling. It was coming from where she expected, from her left, moving toward where Wolfie sat, intent on his missal.
Twenty yards in front of the car, the street curved. The rasping noise grew louder from beyond the bend. Now, she could separate the rawness and the scuffling, distinguish lungs being pushed to the limit and feet close to collapse as they were forced over the cobbles.
Al-Najaf came into sight. Sweat poured from his face and his mouth was open. He looked as tortured as the stained-glass Christ.
Michelle saw Wolfie reach across to the passenger door and open it. He was smiling pleasantly toward Al-Najaf.
She saw the puzzled look on his face, then he was past her, peering toward the car, the look on his face now not quite certain.
Michelle stepped into the street. "Mahamoud Al-Najaf," she called clearly in Arabic. "Turn around."
He lumbered another yard or two.
She called again. "Turn!"
Al-Najaf's last earthly memory was of a nun pointing a gun at him, her feet spread, both hands extended and gripping the weapon.
She shot him four times, twice each in the heart and head.
As he fell, the cassette tape rolled from his hip pocket.
Michelle ran toward the car as the Peugeot began to roll forward, the passenger door swinging wider open. Without pausing, she stooped and picked up the cassette and dropped it into her bag with the gun. Still not breaking stride, she jumped into the moving car.
Nine minutes later, Wolfie parked near the Spanish Steps. He and Michelle walked into the Hassler.
They had chosen the Hassler because the hotel gave a substantial discount to all religious visitors, and did not accept credit cards. There would be nothing unusual about a priest and nun settling their bills by cash.
Fifteen minutes later, they had checked out.
The Volvo was where Chernow said it would be on Via Condotti. The keys in Michelle's bag opened the car's door. With Wolfie navigating, she quickly reached the autostrada to Florence. She drove carefully, the way a nun would drive. Wolfie sat beside her, straight and prim, the way he had observed priests sat.
They drove for a while in silence.
"Let's hear that tape," Michelle said, when they had cleared the Rome city limits.
Wolfie fished in Michelle's bag, removed the tape, and inserted it in the slot in the dash below the radio. They listened in silence. He rewound it and they listened once more.
Wolfie looked at Michelle. "I wonder what those other demands were."
"Raza's clearly going for bust," said Michelle.
"I hope your government doesn't give in." He didn't bother hiding the uncertainty in his voice.
She frowned. "They usually do. Then the others follow. Chernow calls it the domino effect. He'll want to hear this."
"For sure," he said, in a good imitation of Chernow's voice.
She laughed. His mimicry had lightened many an assignment.
He played the tape once more. "I think any government would have to think very hard if it came to a choice between more hotels or another Trekfontein, and releasing a bunch of terrorists," he said, when the tape had finished.
"Why not release them, and then hunt them down and kill them?"
He looked at her and grinned. "Jesus, Michelle. Any more like you at home?"
"Worse. My mother wouldn't bother releasing them."
They drove a couple more miles in silence. On either side, the vines had been stripped, the last of the harvest gone for pressing.
"He'll form a team," Wolfie said.
"Then he'll need us."
"For sure."
Michelle laughed again.
Ten miles outside the city limits, they left the highway to drive between olive and citrus groves. She drove slowly over the uneven track. After a mile, he spotted the small cairn of stones leading into the lemon grove.
She parked the car and they both got out. He stretched his limbs while she rummaged in the shoulder bag.
She pulled out a piece of paper. "Five and nine," she read out loud. "A diagonal cut in the trunk."
"Typical of Bitburg," he said. "He's probably never seen a lemon tree in his life."
They both laughed and went into the grove. Bitburg's fascination with recognition signals was a recent one. As they walked, they counted. At the fifth tree in the ninth row, they found a slash in the bark.
"I'll get the spade and holdall," said Wolfie.
By the time he'd returned from the car, Michelle had removed her wig and undressed down to her panties. She had the body of a natural athlete, tanned and lissome.
"You did a hell of a job back there." His voice was low and clear, his enunciation perfect; too perfect not to be foreign.
She moved closer. "So did you."
She leaned back to press her hips unashamedly against him, aware of, and exulting in, his arousal.
"We have a plane to catch," he whispered.
"I know," she murmured, ignoring his words and pushing forward with her hips.
"Chernow wouldn't like it," he teased.
She gave a breathless little laugh. "For sure."
He began to touch her as she undressed him slowly, the way he always liked. First, she removed his priest's collar, then unbuttoned his black clerical shirt, pressing her lips against his chest, keening softly with pleasure. She unbuckled his belt, and his priest's trousers fell to the ground. He stepped out of them, kicking off his shoes. She pulled down his underpants, letting him gently push her down. He pressed his face against her neck.
Her gently sucking mouth absorbed him. He writhed and groaned. Her head continued to rise and fall steadily. Suddenly, she gasped, rolling on her back, ready for him. They made love in complete silence.
Afterward, they dressed in the sports clothes from the holdall. Michelle made a parcel of the clerical garb and dropped it in the hole. Wolfie filled it in and used the back of the spade to scuff the ground.
Mossad's Rome sweeper would recover the clothes and burn them, and arrange for the Peugeot to be collected by a garage that never asked questions.
At the Florence airport, Wolfie returned the Volvo to the rental company. They showed their Swiss passports to a bored immigration officer.
From the departure area, Michelle direct-dialed a number in Tel Aviv. "The vacation was good, and I picked up something you'll want to hear."
"That's fine. "I've got some business in London. Let's all meet there," replied Chernow, hanging up.
When Michelle told Wolfie, he smiled. They were on the team.
Jacob Chernow had driven them to Lod airport after Michelle's call. Now, an hour later, through the glare-free tinted glass of the control tower, they watched the Concorde swoop out of the sky. It lowered its nose cone as it passed over Tel Aviv and started to lne up with the runway. A controller continued to talk down the plane bringing home the bodies of Steve and Dolly Vaughans.
"Nairobi, Addis Ababa, and now somewhere south of Kabul," said Danny Nagier behind them, putting down a telephone. "It's the right track for her."
Chernow turned from the window. "Assuming Raza's in Afghanistan."
"It's the best fix we've got yet. Humpty Dumpty says each time it's the same voice as on the demand tapes. And both Comint and Elint confirm the location of her calls."
Chernow knew that Nagier swore by the technicians at Comint, communications intelligence, and Elint, electronic intelligence. Between them, they could throw a net over several hundred square miles of anywhere on earth.
Since that first intercept from Nairobi, they had been probing the atmosphere for others. They had picked up the woman's voice in the vicinity of Addis Ababa's ramshackle airport and, several hours later, coming from around Kabul.
"That's good work, Danny. But no acknowledgement?"
"Well, no. I wouldn't accept one. Each time, she's just reporting she's on her way. Keen little kitten that she is, she's ready to switch direction in midflight if that's what her lord and master wants."
"Nothing on the other girl?"
"Not a peep more."
Chernow glanced out of the window. The wheels were emerging from beneath the Concorde's delta wings.
"Our ugly duckling," murmured Nagier.
Not a duckling, a bird of prey, Chernow decided. That beak looked lethal. Tel Aviv to London and back again in under five hours. A two-hundred-ton payload traveling at the speed of a high-velocity rifle bullet --- from here to Jerusalem in thirty seconds.
Snce they'd been here, the El Al official had spouted facts and figures at them. Everyone had his own way of trying to push away the presence of death.
Tyreen turned and looked at the two men. "Raza could be using a Voice Throw box. He could be sitting in Beirut and feeding out those calls."
"He could be," said Nagier, "except Elint and Comint have just picked up a call going out of his bureau in Beirut to the same area around Kabul."
"What did it say?"
"Just repeated that stuff about the Prophet taking that woman and her perfume."
Tyreen squinted at the men. "Think they could've scented this stuff to disguise it?"
Chernow looked at her carefully. "You could have put your finger on something. The woman in Nairobi mentioned perfume."
"She could have carried the anthrax into Trekfontein in a perfume bottle," Tyreen continued. "A woman could do that without rousing suspicion. That could be what she meant when she said the water was perfumed."
Chernow looked thoughtful. "And we know that Raza uses women more than any other terrorist. Suppose he had one of them in place, ready to release more of his anthrax, and something happened to her. Maybe she was killed in some accident or just died. And she had the stuff on her. That would make sense of the bit about the Prophet taking her --- and her anthrax."
Nagier shook his head. "If Bitburg could hear you, his eyes would pop! It's one hell of a lot to buy. And where do we even begin to look?"
"Your people said the call came from anywhere within five hundred miles of Beirut. That's a start. We've worked with less."
"That could still put the source of the call in the Kabul area," said Nagier. "It's less than five hundred miles east of Beirut."
"For sure. But my gut says we should be looking west of Beirut. Now that he's on the move, Raza will want to be close to the action. My bet is that he's somewhere in Europe."
The El Al official came forward, solemn-faced. Do you wish to go to the unloading ramp?"
"Thank you, no."
The controller guided the white-painted Concorde on to the ground. The media had dubbed the plane the Dove. Nowadays, it spent most of its time flying Israel's leaders to the United Nations to argue for a just peace settlement. Chernow changed his mind. The Concorde was more like a stork, with those long legs racing over the runway.
The official was still at his elbow. "Most relatives like to receive coffins when they come out of the hold."
Chernow looked at him. The man had dirty fingernails, a peasant who had ended up indoors. Resettlement was a funny business. One of Bitburg's secretaries had been a train driver in Russia. But the official meant well. "I'd prefer to stay here," said Chernow.
"Of course, of course."
The Concorde was taxiing toward a hangar. A forklift and El Al van waited on the tarmac.
"Would you wish me..." began the official again.
Tyreen took the man by the arm, gently but firmly leading him toward the door. "Just go and do what you normally do," she said kindly, edging the official out of the room. "Thank you," she called after him, closing the door behind him.
Chernow watched the Concorde cargo hatch open. The forklift maneuvered alongside to receive the coffins. When they emerged, they looked so small. After they disappeared into the van, Chernow turned away from the window. Maybe Steve and Dolly had passed over Raza as they came home. He realized then he had still not accepted their deaths. That was why he could not grieve, why he could feel nothing.
Two hours later, he walked out of the synagogue behind the two coffins. Each was draped with an Israeli flag.
Hannah walked beside him, her eyes swollen from crying until no more tears would come, her dress torn in mourning. She stared fixedly ahead.
Prime Minister Karshov was among the pallbearers who were drawn from the ranks of Israel's academics, men in dark suits and prayer shawls, bearing Steve and Dolly on their shoulders toward the open graves next to where their daughter Ruth was buried.
Behind Chernow walked representatives of the government and opposition, and members of the Tribe. It was a reminder of how far Steve's influence had extended.
Dolly's bridge partners were there, elderly black-draped matrons with faces lined from previous suffering.
Chantal Bouquet and Lester Finel were there, walking with Humpty Dumpty and the Professor. Tyreen Mackenzie walked with them. They'd come for Chernow.
As they reached the graveside, Tyreen came forward and put her arm around Hannah.
Chernow looked across at Tyreen, thinking he should have done that. He loved Tante Hannah as much as he loved Steve and Dolly. But all he could think of was that scripture verse Steve had read all those years ago: And the enemy shall know I am the Lord when I shall lay down my vengeance on them.
After the coffins were lowered in the grave, the hazzan began to chant. The cadences rolled over the mourners, enveloping them in old certainties that did nothing for Chernow. The hazzan turned to him. A silence fell over the throng.
Chernow stepped to the edge of the grave and, as he had done for Ruth, he recited the Kaddish for Steve and Dolly, knowing at last it was for him, for the death that had happened inside him a long time ago.
The short prayer over, he bent and picked up a handful of soil and dropped it into the grave.
Then, as he had done at Ruth's funeral, he turned and walked away.
In the bunker's broadcast studio, Raza sat hunched over the Voice Throw console and prepared to send the last two tapes he intended would further confuse those hunting him. His face was stiff and expressionless, his eyes stiff and expressionless, his eyes intent on the flickering dials and switches.
Since the last transmission, which had placed Lila in the Kabul area, the Americans would have positioned a satellite overhead. They would be alarmed at how much he knew of their methods. The knowledge had already enabled him, he was certain, to have outwitted them so far.
He had anticipated that in the aftermath of the hotel bombings and Trekfontein, the Zionists and their allies would immediately direct their sky robots to point their mechanical eyes and ears to listen and photograph every square inch of ground where he could be hiding.
Their abiding belief in the infallibility of their technology was, in a sense, its very weakness. For all its brilliance in being able to photograph the wrinkles on a man's face from 22,000 mile out in space, the camera must first have a target to focus on.
Everyone in the camp had been ordered to remain under cover. The only human life a satellite would have seen were a few shepherds tending their goats near the villa. Not even the most skilled of photo interpreters would have been able to tell the shepherds were his instructors.
For months, he had carefully read the mass of freely available literature on the secrets of space espionage. He knew that once a satellite had searched an area, it would be most unlikely to return.
To encourage them to look elsewhere, he had set up a network of agents. Each was equipped with no more than a telephone to which was connected a small transponder permanently tuned to the Voice Throw box.
While Lila had flown directly from Nairobi to Athens, the box had placed her making calls from Addis Ababa and Kabul. The call emanating from Beirut had also come from the box.
Now, it was time to place Lila deep in the Afghan mountains. The enemy would scour the area with their spy cameras and sound probes positioned halfway to the moon. All they would see and hear were the Islamic Mujaheddin encampments.
But the tapes would totally convince his enemy he was somewhere in the mountain vastness.
Faces stared at Jacob Chernow from every screen on the wall of the Situation room. The 24-hour clock had a new card taped underneath. It bore the words: Post Deadline. The hands showed two hours had passed since the message from Raza's woman claiming the destruction of Trekfontein.
Those on the screens were the representatives of every European Intelligence Service as well as of the United States, Canada, and Egypt. Each was identified by a handwritten card Chernow had stuck beneath each monitor.
In addition, Danny Nagier, Matti Talim and Lou Panchez, Wolfie and Michelle, Pierre Lacouste, and the ACC were also on the screens. Tyreen Mackenzie sat beside Chernow.
"Thank you for coming," said Chernow formally. "You all know my terms of reference."
Quick nods came from the screens. Each of them had received in the past hour the memo confirming Chernow's appointment as head of the task force to destroy Raza and his Anthrax-B-C. It had been signed by the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and the President of France, as well as by Karshov.
"Some of us have worked together in the past. For others, this is a new experience," continued Chernow, before pausing to glance at the screen labeled KGB --- Moscow.
A fleshy face nodded vigorously. General Igor Yertzin was the head of the KGB's First Chief Directorate. Until recently, he had waged a ruthless covert war against many of those on the other screens.
The regime in Moscow --- anxious to show Soviet willingness to cooperate fully with the West in return for food and raw materials to save millions of Soviet citizens from starvation --- had ordered the KGB to assist fully in the hunt for Raza.
"It is our shame that we helped to train this animal," rumbled Yertzin.
"General, a lot of other monsters have been created by governments," said Chernow quickly. There wasn't time to get sidetracked on esoteric debate.
From an adjoining screen, Anwar Salim, Director of Egyptian Intelligence Service, nodded gravely. "I am sure I speak for all of us when I say we are united in our determination to work with you to eliminate Raza and the threat he poses."
A chorus of assent came from the monitors.
"Thank you, gentlemen. As this is our first meeting, I think it important to establish guidelines. We don't want to trip over each other, so everybody works within his own geographical area in terms of investigation. Everything gets routed through to me or my deputy, Major Danny Nagier. My own team will report directly to me. For those of you who don't know them, let me introduce them now."
Tyreen, Matti, Lou, Wolfie and Michelle nodded quickly as Chernow called their names.
Chernow paused and glanced at notes he'd made on a sheet of paper. "The Secretary-General of the United Nations is warning everyone of the consequences of sheltering Raza. It could mean automatic expulsion from memberships and sanctions."
"That hasn't worked before," interrupted the representative of Italy's security service. "It won't work now!"
"Have your political masters make sure it works this time," said Chernow crisply. The Italians were among the most notorious sanctions violators.
Chernow continued to address the monitors. "The Secretary-General has formally approached the People's Republic of China. Beijing says none of their Anthrax-B-C is missing. They insist Raza must have got it elsewhere."
"How many countries have this stuff?" growled a thickset, middle-aged man from behind a screen labeled CSIS --- Ottawa. Norm Stratton headed the Anti-Terrorist Force in Canada's Secret Intelligence Service.
"No way of knowing. Saddam Hussein had it. He could have given some to Raza. But the Chinese have said they will consider providing a sample so our scientists can know how best to deal with it."
Murmurs of surprise came from several of the screens.
Chernow waited until there was silence before resuming. He gave a clear, concise situation report. The hunt for the hotel bombers and the destroyer of Trekfontein had now extended to every corner of the globe. Interpol was coordinating police forces in over a hundred countries. The military were assisting in many. The focus of this unprecedented search was Raza's known link to the drug cartels. There, the hunt had become bogged down in the face of the cartels' virtually impenetrable defenses.
They continued to listen without interruption and with complete attention as he turned to the intercepts. He repeated his theory that Raza could be planning to distribute the Anthrax-B-C disguised as perfume, and would use women to do so. He told them about the possibility that one of the women had died.
"There are two basic questions for us to consider here. Are all these intercepts part of Raza's plan to sow confusion --- even this last one between the woman and the man in Raza's Beirut office? From that arises the next question. Is Raza in Afghanistan? If he is, he can be isolated. Then we go in and get him."
He looked intently at each monitor. From a center screen, a sallow and wizened monkey face began to draw on a pipe. "We have a K-12 over Kabul. Another over Beirut. Their sensors are sufficiently good, so I'm told, to separate heartbeats. Both sats have verified the last call is in current time," said Admiral Edwin Burness. He was the long-serving Director of America's National Security Agency, the world's most sophisticated eavesdropping organization.
Chernow glanced at Nagier's screen. Nagier nodded.
A tall, dome-headed and bespectacled figure leaned into his screen. "Raza could still be using a Voice Throw box. The Stasi showed us how effective it can be, Mr. Chernow." Hans-Dieter Müller was the Operations Chief of Germany's formidable security service, the BND. Next to the ACC, he was the one man Chernow trusted most in Europe's law enforcement agencies.
"And there'd be no way of telling?"
"No way, Mr. Chernow."
Yertzin rumbled, "We are ready to send a team into those mountains to find if Raza is there. We'd know in a week."
"Do that, General. But you don't have a week. Two days, maximum."
"Da," replied Yertzin. "Two days --- okay."
"We could try to have our governments extend the deadline." The mellifluous voice came from a screen to Chernow's left. It belonged to Percival West, head of MI5's E-Branch, responsible for antiterrorism.
Chernow struggled to conceal his annoyance. Tyreen had worked closely with him in the past, and the impressions of him she had passed on to Chernow had not been favorable. West was not known as a man of action. "I think we know by now that when Raza says something, he means it."
The sound of spittle being loudly swallowed came from the screen beside West's. "Let's cut the crap. "I've got six hundred men out on this, and no one's picked a monkey's prayer where this bastard's gonna try next. Let alone where he is! I'd be happy to send some of my people into the mountains along with General Yertzin's. But for my dime, like the intercept says, they could be looking East for their next shot. Raza could make a powerful point unleashing his anthrax in Tokyo, or Hong Kong, or Sydney." Bill Gates sat back, arms folded, defying anyone to challenge him. He had been Director for Operations, the head of the CIA's most clandestine branch, under three presidents. Chernow respected Gates as a total professional.
But Gates was wrong this time. "They're all tempting targets, Bill. But to make any one of them really viable, Raza would need the kind of backup no longer available to him. He's fallen out with the Yakuza over drugs. Even the cartel can't save him there. Same with the Triads. Before he went to ground, he conned them out of a couple of million US dollars. He's now paid back the money, with interest. But they still wouldn't lift a finger to help him --- especially in the massacre of their own people in Hong Kong. Sydney, in my view, is just too small a target. My money's between London, any of the other major cities European cities, or the top half-dozen in North America."
Gates grunted. "That's a helluva spread, Jacob. I don't know about Europe, but we sure don't have the resources over here to keep a full watch on every major city day and night."
"We're talking less than a week, Bill."
"I know, I know. But we still couldn't do it. We were stretched to provide full cover for the last party conventions."
Admiral Burness spoke through a wreath of smoke. "I just don't see Raza having the means to destroy some place as big as LA. Trekfontein's one thing. But he'd need an army to cover LA. There's no one prevailing wind, no one water supply."
Yertzin rumbled from his screen. "You have forgotten, Comrade Admiral, what happened in another of your cities in 1950. That was the time you really believed we were coming."
Chuckles came from several of the screens.
"You may still do one day!" grinned Burness.
Yertzin belly-laughed. "Only as tourists!"
"So what happened in 1950?" asked Anwar Salim, his curiosity genuine.
"The Pentagon conducted a little experiment in San Francisco," continued Yertzin. "Its agents released a harmless bacteria from the Bay that would turn red on body contact. A million people went around for a few hours like lobsters. The incredible thing is that no one complained. They just kept telling each other to have a nice day!"
When the laughter subsided, Chernow addressed Salim. "What can you tell us about the cabal's intentions?"
The Egyptian pursed his lips. "The mullahs are more nervous of Raza. He's gone too far too quick."
"Will they drop him?"
"No --- at least not yet. But they'll go with what Ayatollah Muzwaz says."
"Why not take him out?" asked Lacouste quietly. The tension from the screen was electrifying. "If we'd done that with Khomeini at the beginning, we wouldn't have this mess. Same with Saddam."
Chernow shook his head. "In my view, it's too late for that, Pierre. And it could trigger the very thing we all want to avoid --- holy war."
Heads began to nod. Chernow waited until Lacouste had indicated, by the merest inclination of his head, his acceptance that there would be no assassination of the Ayatollah.
Norm Stratton returned to the matter he had alluded to earlier. "What about this PEG-enzyme? Our labs have very little of it. No more than enough to cover half of Toronto."
Chernow turned his head to look at Tyreen. She spoke up for the first time. "The blunt truth, Mr. Stratton, is that no one will have enough of the stuff in time. But where do we place what we have? In London? And then he goes and hits Paris? Or vice versa? In New York --- when he chooses Boston or Chicago? In a month, there'll be enough to cover all the potential targets in Europe and North America. But right now, the best estimate, with every lab working flat out, is that by the time Raza's deadline runs out in six days, we'll still be way short of requirements."
"We have none of this antidote in our country. Our scientists say they need a month --- and then only enough for Moscow," said the Russian heavily.
"We are in the same situation," added the Egyptian.
"I'll ask the Secretary-General to see if a system can be worked out to make supplies available on the basis of women and children, the old and the sick first," said Chernow.
Gates grunted. "Remember the Titanic, pal? It was first into the lifeboats and screw you Jack! The world's got worse since then. As it is, we're putting armed guards on our labs with orders to shoot to kill." The CIA's Director of Operations spoke directly into the screen. "Jacob, what do you want from us? I'm empowered to say that as far as this and any other US agency goes, you have it."
"The KGB is at your disposal, Comrade Chernow," said Yertzin.
Similar pledges came from other screens.
"Thank you again, gentlemen," said Chernow. "Right now, the priorities are simple. Finding Raza and his supply of anthrax. Finding the woman who destroyed Trekfontein. Finding that other woman who died. Finding the hotel bombers."
A suppressed cough came from West's screen. "This dead woman. We could be talking thousands of deaths."
"Then the sooner we start, the better," Chernow replied equably.
One by one, the monitors cleared.
Finally, only Hans-Dieter Müller remained. "I have arranged what you asked, Mr. Chernow."
"Thanks, Hans-Dieter."
"When will you come?"
"After London. Has she any idea?"
"No."
"That's good," said Chernow.
Müller's image receded rapidly as the screen went dark.
Tyreen Mackenzie felt the Concorde's nose wheel lift from the runway and saw the wings cant skyward to bite better into the air. A moment later, the landing gear assembly rose into the belly of the plane and the droop-nose locked into its streamlined position. It would remain there until they were in British airspace. She had flown in many types of aircraft, including fast AF bombers, but this was her first time in this supersonic transport.
Four hours had passed since the conference call that had set this flight into motion.
The interior of the Concorde had been designed to create a flying battle headquarters. From here, Israel's Prime Minister and key members of the Tribe would fight Israel's final war. Karshov had given Chernow the plane for the duration of the crisis.
Behind the flight deck was the Prime Minister's cabin. It was equipped with a bed. Aft of this was seating for his aides, and then the galley and toilets. The rest of the plane was occupied by the communications center. Over eighty million dollars' worth of equipment was fitted into an area that ran from midships to the tail.
The Concorde banked forty degrees as its computers put it on a heading due west. It swept over the beaches of Tel Aviv at four hundred knots and continued its swift, steep climb out across the Mediterranean.
During takeoff, the technicians had connected the Concorde to the Defense Communications satellite in geosynchronous orbit 22,000 miles up in space over the Negev Desert.
"We have the Prime Minister on line," the communications center officer said to Chernow.
On board, only Chernow exceeded the authority of the mustached figure in flight coveralls who commanded the thirty electronic specialists.
Chernow swiveled in his highbacked chair to face the bank of six-inch screens built into a bulkhead. The static cleared from one and Karshov's face appeared. The last of the squelch faded.
"Shalom, Jacob."
"Good afternoon, Prime Minister."
"Chancellor Kunzler has just called me to express his concern that what you want to do could trigger reprisals by Raza against the Federal Republic." Kunzler held the highest office in the unified Germany.
"What did you tell him?" asked Chernow.
"I told him to do what I was doing, look the other way, and swear blind you had never told me," chuckled Karshov.
"Thanks."
Karshov was suddenly serious. "You're sitting in my seat up there, Jacob. You see that little flap to your left? Lift it."
Chernow raised the black-painted piece of metal recessed into a control panel. Below were two red-painted keys.
"The keys to hell, Jacob. If the day ever comes when all else has failed and our people are facing extinction, I get to sit where you are and turn those keys. They'll override all the fail-safe mechanisms to stop our entire nuclear arsenal blasting off. No matter how many times I sit in that chair, I still haven't gotten used to having Armageddon at my finger tips."
Chernow gently lowered the flap. "I hope you never get to play God, Prime Minister."
"Right now, that's very much up to you, Jacob."
After Karshov's face had faded from the screen, Chernow sat perfectly still listening to the men around him tuning wavebands and checking frequencies.
Shortly afterward, the CCO reported, "Major Nagier's on relay two."
Chernow turned to the indicated screen. "What's new, Danny?"
"Yertzin's teams are in. Sixty of his best Spetsnaz, all Afghan veterans. They've got a couple of the Admiral's men with them to run the satellite link NSA's providing."
"Which is?"
"GWEN."
Chernow glanced at the CCO. The Ground Wave Emergency Network was a newcomer to NSA's arsenal. The CCO nodded; the Concorde was equipped to receive it.
"We'll patch in, Danny."
"I'll tell them to allocate a link on Milstar."
This satellite system was the most sophisticated and secret in use. It circled the world and allowed instant and totally secure communication between all American commanders.
Nagier continued. "We've run the tape Michelle picked up. Same woman as on all the others. Except the lisp's a little more noticeable. I've cued a copy to Lacouste. It's gone straight into Cabinet."
"Does he think they'll give way?"
"He's going to try and hold them up," said Nagier flatly.
"Anything from South Africa that would help Lester find this woman?"
"Zero. There was a package tour of Greeks going home that night. A computer failure at Jo'burg delayed their flight for a couple of hours. Vorag says the Greeks raised merry hell. Personally, I'd have thought they'd feel quite at home. Athens is on the blink again, the third time this month. same thing --- a bug in the Immigration computer. Planes are stacked up between Rome and Damascus."
"Anything else?"
"Percy West says he'll have one of his cars meet you. But he can't make it himself. He's booked in for a Downing Street briefing. So's the ACC. They'll meet you afterward at Foley Street." Foley Street was where Mossad maintained its London safe house.
"You raise Costas yet?" Costas Calcanis, the Mossad agent in Athens, had been Bitburg's first appointee. Since then, Calcanis had on several occasions filled Chernow with misgivings. He did his job well enough, but he was a little too showy, almost brash at times. Maybe that was what Bitburg liked, being able to control someone so opposite.
"I've close-circuited him copies of all the intercepts. Plus everything Steve and Humpty Dumpty have on that woman."
Chernow grunted. "You tried to raise him on his MRT?"
"Not yet."
The miniature receiver terminal enabled Mossad agents to receive short messages through the Defense Communications satellite. It was still in the experimental stage and Calcanis had been one of the first given the pocket-sized receiver to field-test.
Nagier grinned "Last time we called him, it went on the blink and Costas couldn't shut it off. He was at the theater at the time and had to pretend he was a doctor who'd gotten an emergency call on his beeper."
"Just get him going as fast as possible. I always feel better when we've eliminated Athens as one of our concerns."
After Nagier had cleared the screen, Chernow sat and watched the digital Machmeter on the bulkhead steadily move toward Mach 1.00 as the Concorde broke the sound barrier.
Then he started to think once more about how he would handle the interview in Germany. What would she be like now after two years' imprisonment?
Some fifty miles away and almost ten miles below, the Air France Airbus from Tripoli was already thirty minutes late landing at Athens airport because the Immigration computer was down.
"Any other airport, ladies and gentlemen, this would be a problem fixed quickly," came the apologetic voice from the flight deck. "But ground control has just informed me that rather than have a long jam of passengers on the ground, they prefer we use up our fuel. I'm not sure Aristotle would have admired their logic."
Raza turned to Nadine in her first-class window seat, his hand squeezing hers. She smiled at him, her eyes bright with excitement.
Before leaving the camp, he'd phoned the cabal's liaison man in Tripoli and said what he wanted. The man had called Athens and shortly afterward, the computer developed a fault. It would remain out of action for a further hour after the Tripoli flight had landed.
Raza looked up. The hostess was at his elbow, holding a bottle of champagne, smiling mechanically. "A little more while we circle?"
He shook his head quickly and smiled her away.
Raza had chosen Nadine's and his rôles with the greatest care. He had dressed and cast her in the part of his new bride. She needed no other disguise. He could not improve on that look of adoring innocence.
During the year he'd spent in Moscow, the KGB instructor had said the simpler the disguise the better. Change only the essentials, and always age upward.
Raza dyed his hair and eyebrows gray and dramatically altered the shape of his face by inserting wax plugs in his nostrils and rubber molds between jawline and cheeks. It created the jowly effect of middle years. Colored contact lenses lightened his eyes.
He wore a lightweight smock beneath his shirt, padded to widen his shoulders and create the paunch that often goes with success and wealth. He'd veneered several front teeth with a fast-setting gold paste. A shiny new band on one finger matched Nadine's wedding band. Both were traveling on Peruvian passports.
Leaning across Nadine, he glimpses several other aircraft in a holding pattern. "Perfect," he murmured. "They'll be going more crazy than usual in Immigration and Customs."
There'd be the usual response to a mechanical failure: cursory glances at passports and baggage, keep everybody moving, avoid any hassle. Athens had long been his favorite airport.
The hostess was back to collect the newspapers. They had remained undisturbed in the seat pockets during the flight. Raza reached to hand them over. The International Herald-Tribune fell open. Its headlines were divided among Trekfontein, the hotel bombings, and the Athens disaster.
Raza took the paper and waved the hostess away, no longer smiling.
The reports from London, Paris, and Washington showed the hunt in full flow. Let it flow. Ground that had been hunted was always safer to walk on.
He turned to the story about the Athens explosion. All but one of the bodies were accounted for. Forensic scientists believed the unidentified remains were of a young woman carrying a quantity of bottles; glass had been found fused to fragments of bone. A police spokesman said she could be another of those peddlers who had become such a plague in Athens.
Raza folded the newspaper and turned to Nadine. He patted her hand and brought his mouth close to her ear. "There's no need to worry. The heat will have destroyed everything."
Nadine sensed the effort he was making to keep control. But the madness was there, touching his eyes and mouth, before it was gone. She ran her hand lovingly over his face.
The hostess returned with hot towels. Raza handed her he newspaper. He and Nadine wiped their hands with the towels and gave them back to the hostess. Neither had spoken to her during the flight. Another lesson Raza had learned in Moscow was to avoid all unnecessary contact.
Thirty minutes later, they successfully negotiated the twin hurdles of Immigration and Customs. Raza slid their passports across the counter. They were stamped and passed back. A Customs official chalked their baggage without asking for either of the expensive leather suitcases to be opened. Raza had followed the KGB's advice to purchase top-of-the-range luggage to enhance the image of respectability.
Outside the hall, Raza quickly and expertly surveyed the crowd. Only Cairo or Mexico attracted so many people to meet flights. The reek of tobacco smoke and perspiration reminded Nadine of the fetid atmosphere of the Beirut suburbs.
Raza spotted Lila. Hefting the suitcases, he cut a path through the throng to her.
"Welcome," Lila murmured, kissing Raza formally on both cheeks.
"I am glad to see you," he replied. He pulled away and looked at Anna. He made no move to embrace her. She smiled wanly.
After Nadine had quickly greeted both women, they walked out of the arrival hall in uncomfortable silence. Only Nadine knew how near to the surface once more was Raza's fury. Anna had reminded him how close he had come to failure.
The black Mercedes was one of several cars the cabal maintained in Athens. While Anna placed the suitcases in the trunk, Raza settled in the back with Nadine. He stared out the window, hands in his lap, working his fingers together. Nadine knew it was a further sign of the fearful tension gripping him.
Anna settled behind the wheel and headed toward Athens. They drove in a silence that had become dark and threatening.
As they entered the city, Lila turned in the front passenger seat and looked at Raza. "It was a pure accident that Zelda was killed," she said.
"Yes, yes," said Anna eagerly.
Raza rasped in little more than a whisper. "We will speak of this when I tell you." He turned back to the window.
Nadine could smell Anna's fear. Without a further word being spoken, they drove to the apartment that the cabal owned.
It was on the ground floor and consisted of three reception rooms and five bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. There was also a kitchen and spacious dining room that led to a terrace. The furniture reminded Nadine of the villa: the same heavy, dark carved wood, and chairs covered with camel hide.
Raza turned to Anna. "Make tea. Call me when it is ready." Without another word, he walked onto the terrace, gripping its rail tightly with both hands, his head raised to the sun, his lips moving soundlessly.
"I did not know he prayed," said Anna nervously.
Nadine looked at her dispassionately. "He's not praying. He's cursing what has happened. All his plans were nearly ruined by Zelda's stupidity." Turning away, she carried her suitcase to the master suite. Its huge double bed was surrounded by couches and ottomans. Wardrobes covered one wall. The bathroom was furnished in blood-red marble.
"A bathroom always releases the fantasy in me."
Nadine turned. Lila was standing by the bed, smiling. Nadine looked at her and frowned. Lila walked toward her, still smiling. Her hand was unbuttoning the top buttons of her smock. "Do not be nervous, chérie," she whispered. She moved closer, reached out and touched Nadine's face.
"Stop it!" Nadine gripped Lila's wrist and forced her hand away.
For a moment, they stood there, testing each other's strength and resolve.
"Do not be nervous, chérie," Lila said again. She moved to break Nadine's hold.
"I am not nervous," replied Nadine, releasing Lila and pushing her firmly away.
Lila smiled archly at her. She badly needed release after the tension of the past few days. Anna had been accommodating, but hardly satisfying. "You are too beautiful for just a man," she murmured.
"Lila, I love him." Nadine walked past Lila and placed her suitcase on the bed. she began to unpack.
"Chérie, Raza does not know what love is. And you really think you are the only one? He is insatiable!"
Nadine whirled. In her hand was the throwing knife she had packed between her clothes. She balanced the handle in her hand, then, in a swift unbroken movement, hurled the knife.
It embedded itself in the doorframe, an inch from Lila's head.
Nadine turned and produced a second knife from the suitcase. "Do not speak like that of my man," she said fiercely. She walked over and tugged the blade out of the wood, then stepped back and faced Lila. "Just stay away from him! And from me!"
Without a word, Lila walked out of the bedroom.
Nadine continued to unpack. She had learned her throwing skill as a child. No one had been able to match her except Shema.
Shema. She had not thought about her once since leaving Tripoli. She knew she still wanted her sister free, but she did not want Shema to push her once more into the background. The surprise was that she didn't feel guilty about this.
When Raza shouted for her to join him in the main reception salon, she saw Lila and Anna seated together on a couch. Small cups and a glass jug filled with tea made with fresh mint stood on a table.
Close by were the five remaining bottles of Grecian Nights, filled with Anthrax-B-C, and a cardboard box containing a couple of dozen empty perfume bottles.
Raza stood beneath a gilt-framed portrait of a glowering-faced figure in a tarboosh and black robe.
Nadine went and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, keeping her legs together and hands in her lap. It was the way Raza liked her to sit in public. She saw the pulse throbbing in his temples. The headache must be almost unbearable. She rose and went to the table and poured tea into a cup. Holding it in both hands, she took it to him.
He drank the scalding brew in noisy gulps, his eyes only leaving Anna to stare at the perfume bottles. Why had this camel's whore not been able to save those bottles?
"Would you like more?" asked Nadine, taking the cup from his hand.
He nodded, his eyes still fixing Anna with that frightening glare. Twice more, Nadine served Raza tea, which he drank without saying a word. After the third cup, she saw the throbbing was less noticeable. He waved her away and she returned to her seat.
"Our benefactor," said Raza suddenly, gazing up at the portrait. "Ayatollah Muzwaz trusts me to ensure his plans can succeed. And he trusts me because I have always told him the truth!"
He turned to the couch, once more staring at Anna. His eyes were now devoid of expression. When he spoke again, his voice was suddenly gentle, as if he was speaking to a child. "Did you know she had taken the bottles?"
Nadine saw the surprise on the girl's face at his change of mood. Anna gave a little nod, lowering her eyes.
"Did you try to stop her?"
Anna shook her bowed head.
"Why not?" he asked in the same gentle voice. "Why not?"
Anna raised her head, nodding slowly. "I didn't think..."
"No. You didn't think." He looked down at her, nodding slowly.
"I am sorry," whispered Anna.
Nadine saw that terrifying look return.
Raza turned abruptly away and stared at the portrait. The girl must be punished. But not yet. To do so now would only further jeopardize the operation.
When Raza turned around, Nadine saw he was again completely composed.
"There will be no more mistakes," he said quietly.
Anna nodded fervently. Lila and Nadine did the same. "Very well. Because of what has happened, there will be changes," he said, going over to the bottles and beginning his briefing.