Mossad training facility, Negev Desert, Israel
The sticky note affixed to the door of Rachel’s dorm room was characteristically brusque.
See me. The scribble beneath it represented Noam’s signature.
Her heart leaped. A new assignment?
Rachel entered her room and toweled the pool water from her hair. She donned a fresh uniform and a shined pair of shoes, then drew her thick hair back into a bun at the nape of her neck.
She checked her appearance in the mirror, smoothing the green uniform shirt against the flat of her belly. She was fitter than she’d been in a long time, and she looked relaxed and healthy.
Still, she needed to make a good impression. As leader of the kidon, the decision to send Rachel into the field was Noam’s alone. He would be watching her for weaknesses, for any reason to keep her at Scorpion’s Ascent.
Rachel moved swiftly through the halls. The dinner hour was nearing and most of the work for the day was done. She nodded to the few people she socialized with in the center. One of the assessments by the psych team was social interactions, so she made an effort.
The door of Noam’s office was closed when she arrived. She rapped her knuckles three times below his nameplate.
“Enter,” the rumbly voice from within said.
She threw open the door and took three steps forward and saluted. “Officer Rachel Jaeger reporting as ordered, sir!”
Noam looked up in surprise, then collapsed back into the cushions of his chair, guffaws of laughter filling the office. He waved his hands at her.
“Have a seat, Rachel,” he said, still laughing. “When was the last time you saluted me?”
Rachel grinned at him. “I wanted to make a good impression.”
Noam’s mirth lessened and he wiped his eyes. “A good impression. A good laugh, you mean. I think maybe Psych needs to take another look at you.”
Outside, the setting sun outlined the bulk of Scorpion’s Ascent, but Rachel’s eyes were drawn to the pictures decorating the wall of Noam’s office. A much younger, and much thinner, Noam in an IDF uniform. A photograph of a young boy next to an army officer. A picture of that same boy a few years older at a funeral next to a woman dressed in black.
Noam followed her eyes. “My father,” he said. “He died in the Yom Kippur War in ’73. I had just turned thirteen.” He sat back in the chair with a sigh. “Big shoes to fill. Still.”
Rachel swallowed. They all had reasons to be here. Patriotism, guilt, duty, or just running away. But motivation was less important than results—and she was good at her job.
“I have your evaluation here,” Noam said, paging through a file on his desk. “But what I really want to know is: Have you learned your lesson?”
Rachel nodded smartly. “Absolutely.”
Noam raised his bushy eyebrows, planted both elbows on the desk, and posted his chin on his fists. “Tell me.”
He was baiting her. Rachel knew it, but she couldn’t resist. “Not to wear high heels on a mission,” she said. Noam’s eyes clenched together in suppressed laughter. She waited for the outburst to subside.
“You’re lucky I don’t send you to a board for your fitness for duty evaluation,” he said. “They’d never let you out of here. No wonder the psych people don’t know what to do with you.”
Rachel’s spirits fell. So that’s what this meeting was about. That idiot doctor wanted her to open up about her dead husband and how she was dealing with the pain of loss. Rachel dealt with Levi’s death by working as long and as hard as she could. She dealt with his murder by taking as many of the bad guys off the board as was humanly possible and with extreme prejudice when she could get away with it.
Levi had been killed years ago, but she was still angry about losing him. She knew she used his death as a motivator for this work, but so what? She was good at what she did.
Rachel set her jaw, her shoulders tightened. Let them ramble on about feelings and motivations as much as they wanted, but count her out. She wasn’t playing that game.
“What did they say this time?” she asked. Rachel did her best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice and failed.
Noam’s eyebrows showed he’d heard the tone. “Same as before, mostly. They want you to talk about your motivations as an agent and you don’t.”
“So, what’s different now?”
“What’s different now is that I need you in the field.”
Rachel tried to suppress the smile that threatened to spread across her face. “You have a new assignment for me.”
Noam sighed and tossed a folder over the desk to her. She caught it and eagerly opened it.
Rachel found herself looking at the face of a man in his forties with penetrating dark gray eyes. The shade of his skin and the wave of his hair suggested North African blood in his heritage, but the name on the bottom of the page was French: Jean-Pierre Manzul, CEO of Recodna Genetics.
Noam busied himself with another cigarette. “Our American friends discovered a suspicious money transfer between two shell companies in the Nile River basin. One was a coffee company, the other one was Khartoum Security Services.” He paused to suck on his cigarette. “Khartoum Security Services only has one customer: Recodna Genetics.”
“What was suspicious about the bank transfer?”
Noam’s lips bent into a humorless smile. “It was initiated by a Saudi Arabian holding company. A big one, billions-of-dollars big.”
“So why not go after the Saudi connection?”
“It turns out that the CEO of Recodna Genetics is in the market for some high-end personal security. Someone who knows how to handle themselves but looks good doing it.”
Rachel flipped the page on the briefing packet. Jean-Pierre’s bid request had gone to some of the most exclusive security firms in Europe. This would not be a cakewalk.
“Your new identity is Zula Bekele. Italian-Ethiopian heritage. Clearwater Security in the UK owes us a favor. They have agreed to bid you out for the job. The details of your company history are all in the packet.”
“What am I after?” Rachel asked.
Noam didn’t answer, which told her all she needed to know.
He didn’t know what they were looking for.
Noam smashed out a half-smoked cigarette. “The whole thing stinks. Saudi shell companies funneling money to a security company that only has one customer, which happens to be a bio company. We don’t like it. We want you to get close to Jean-Pierre and figure out what he’s up to.”
Rachel studied Manzul’s picture again. Now she knew why the eyes bothered her: They reminded her of Levi. They both had the same piercing quality to their gaze that even in a photograph seemed to look right through her. She flipped the page to hide Manzul’s face.
She hadn’t thought about her late husband in days, a rarity for her.
“And what do I do when I get close to this guy?” Rachel asked.
“He’s your client.” Noam shrugged. “You keep him safe.”
Rachel smiled sweetly. “I’ll leave my high heels at home.”
Noam’s laughter followed her out of the office.