May 2
Federal Plaza
New York City
12:17 P.M. EDT
They recessed shortly after noon, with the various members of the task force—or study group, or whatever each member privately considered a suitable nomenclature for the hastily formed six-person team—wordlessly reaching a consensus that a shared lunch break might be taking “duty” a step too far.
Certainly, if that meant sharing a lunch with Tavah Duhahi.
The two additional FBI agents, the Justice Department attorney, and even the delegated representative of Homeland Security each—on their own—had uniformly decided that neither their responsibilities nor their manners merited such additional stress.
Again, Tavah had contributed more than her share—if not of fully disclosed insights, then at least to the global tally of tobacco sales. The latter they could still smell on their clothes and in their hair; the former, the Shin Bet operative generally had kept to herself—offering only the occasional, cryptic-smile contribution as the task force plowed through the mass of intel on Ahmad Abu Khaled contained in the now-cleared CD and flash drive.
That left Jeffrey Connor to play host. It also left him with a dilemma.
He considered escorting Tavah to the building’s cafeteria; having, on occasion, eaten there himself during visiting fireman trips to the NYC field office, he rejected that option immediately. Tavah was undeniably an irritant, but had not yet earned such cruel-and-unusual punishment.
Similarly, Connor rejected ordering in sandwiches; he too yearned for fresh air outside the smoky confines of the conference room, but the urban scents of New York would have to suffice for present.
Still, the thought of sitting across from his guest at a restaurant—again trapped at a table, again wondering why the Israeli woman was simultaneously infuriating and alarming to him—was a ghastly prospect.
That left New York street-meat or New York carryout, and Connor seized on what he considered the lesser of two evils.
Which was how, a quarter hour later, the pair found themselves seated on the same benches that Connor and a persistent newshound had occupied earlier this day, each now holding in a two-handed grip a slice of pizza cut from a mozzarella mothership the size of a wagon wheel.
“So,” Tavah said, eyeing Connor slyly over the thin-crust, “this is our first date, Jeffrey. Two more, and I believe that we will be required to sleep with each other, yes? Is this not the custom in your country?”
In mid-swallow, Connor choked on his own bite. It took a moment for him to regain a red-faced semblance of control.
“Are you like this with everybody?” he demanded.
“Only with you. I swear it. Normally, I am quite shy; exceptionally reticent.”
“You were pretty damn reticent during the meeting. I thought you were here to provide information.”
“Perhaps I wish to speak only into your ears, Jeffrey.” She watched him turn red again. “But no. I have embarrassed you with my joke, I see. I did not speak around the others because the files contain enough to satisfy their needs.”
“What about my needs?” Connor said, and turned a yet deeper shade. “You know what I mean, damn it.”
“And so we speak, now. Ahmad Abu Khaled will not be captured—or killed, which has long been my government’s desire—by what is written on papers or contained in files. Were that the case, my own countrymen would have accomplished this long ago.”
She shrugged. “Foolishly, perhaps, Ahmad has surfaced; he has twisted the tail of the American tiger. So we have the opportunity to act, finally.” A wry chuckle. “Now, as a result of our Prime Minister’s promise to your late President, we are required to act in tandem.”
“You have a suggestion, I’m sure.”
“He hides; he hides very well indeed. Ahmad must be drawn out of hiding to a location of which we know the exact place and the precise time. I possess a strong enough magnet to pull him into the open, but it is a tool I am unwilling to discuss with strangers. Men whose expertise, let us say, is attending meetings. Men who I do not know, of whose discretion I am uncertain is adequate to possess such sensitive information. Men, Jeffrey, who I cannot fully trust.”
“So where does that leave us, Tavah?”
“I trust you, Jeffrey.” Her voice was coquettish again, mocking, and Connor felt his teeth grind.
“Great. So talk about this ‘tool’ of yours.”
“Of course, it is my son. The son of myself and Ahmad. I spoke of the telephone contacts that have been made. We have allowed these to continue, and that will be our means of killing him.”
She saw the expression flit across Connor’s face, and amended her words. “Or of capturing him, if that option is open. But we must take great care.”
“I understand your reluctance, Tavah. You’re the boy’s mother, but we need—”
“Do I seem to you a woman ruled by her emotions?” she interrupted. “You understand nothing, Jeffrey.”
“Right now, I sure don’t.”
“The boy must not be compromised,” she said, any emotion in her voice undetectable to Connor’s ears. “Not his name—not even his existence—will appear in your ‘means and methods’ reports. I will serve as the conduit, to you and only to you, of the information we acquire. But the collection, the manipulation of Ahmad—that will be done by Israel alone. The boy’s involvement cannot be known to any but a select few. Not in this matter.”
Connor caught the inflection, and something in it reminded him of the hiss of a rattlesnake unseen beneath the rock. He felt the hair rise on his neck.
“The boy is being prepared, groomed,” Tavah continued, and her tone was almost conversational. “The son of a Palestinian ‘hero,’ who is a respected leader among terrorists? His pedigree will be impeccable, even if the father—as I sincerely hope—becomes an ‘honored martyr.’ What better weapon could have been found?”
She nibbled at her pizza and smiled sweetly.
“Do not look so shocked, Jeffrey. Israel must play a very long game. We already have invested much in his training. But to be fully effective—to be fully operational—will require yet a few years more.”
“So let’s say you do use you own child to draw out Abu Khaled. You assume your former lover won’t tell anybody he’s going to meet his son? Your people haven’t thought this out very well, have you?”
“Oh, but we have. Should circumstances require it—for instance, should an assault team or even a sole sniper be the method selected to neutralize Ahmad—the boy could suffer a carefully nonlethal wound. In point of fact, we feel that might greatly enhance the pedigree of which I speak.”
“Who the hell are you? What are you, Tavah?”
“I am an Israeli. As is the boy. We are both assets, important only in our ability to ensure the survival of our nation.”
“He’s a nine-year-old kid. He’s your son, for God’s sake. Don’t you love your own—”
“Ah, Jeffrey,” she said. “You see, I forget how young you are. As is the boy, of course. But in a few years more, his value to Israel will be immense. Far too valuable, Jeffrey, to waste.”
Another nibble, casually chewed as her eyes looked at Connor with what might have been amusement.
“Even to kill his father,” she added, and calmly took another bite.