Project Deliverance, undisclosed location in Sudan
For Rachel Jaeger, the state of Israel had given—and taken away—the best things in her life.
If it were not for Mossad, she would never have met Levi. If it were not for Mossad, she would not have lost her young husband.
It was hard to remember the exact contours of Levi’s face after all these years, but she never forgot the way he looked at her. The eyes of an angel, she used to say.
No, that was wrong, too. It wasn’t how he looked at her, it was the way he made her feel.
And now, she was feeling it again. From Jean-Pierre Manzul.
“Penny for your thoughts,” JP said. “Isn’t that the expression?”
“It is, and they’re not for sale.” Rachel buckled her seat belt in the Learjet and looked out the window at the packed-earth runway of the secret research site.
“You’re angry with me.” A statement, not a question.
Rachel continued her study of the desert landscape. The door of the jet slammed shut and the engines began to spin. JP darkened the windows until they were opaque black, forcing her attention back to him.
“When do I get my phone and my weapon back?” she asked. Rachel didn’t care a whit about the weapon, but she hoped to hell the phone had been left on and was trackable.
“We have security protocols at this site,” he said. “Everyone follows them. Even me.”
“So, I can have them back now?”
The engines on the jet roared and she felt the craft turning.
“Soon,” JP said.
“I feel naked without my phone and gun.”
JP didn’t take the bait. “I don’t need protecting here.”
“Why did you bring me here? Obviously, physical security is not an issue.”
“You intrigue me, Zula Bekele.”
“Who was the woman back in the garage?” Rachel asked. “The one in the hijab.”
JP stared at her evenly. “She’s my lover. Does it matter?” He said it like a challenge, but he smiled as he said the words.
She met his gaze. “Not to me.”
When they landed in Khartoum, Rachel got her belongings back and powered up her phone to check the time. Two in the afternoon. They’d been in the air between four and five hours.
The Mercedes limo was waiting for them. She inspected the vehicle and held the door for JP before she slipped into the front passenger seat. Rachel assumed the role of professional hawk, her eyes roving over the crowds, looking for someone who was watching too carefully, whose hands stayed out of sight.
Throughout the hour-long drive to his apartment, she could feel the heat of JP’s gaze on her.
She ignored him, hearing Noam’s gruff voice in her head. A rushed operation is a botched operation.
“You’re smiling,” JP said.
Rachel snapped a glance over her shoulder and met his eyes for a second. “I love my work.”
The driver pulled to the curb outside JP’s apartment building. She exited the car, her eyes scanning the street. Rachel pulled his door open, her hand on the top of the doorframe.
When JP stood, he put his hand on hers. “Have dinner with me tonight.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” she answered without thinking.
When Rachel got back to her own apartment, she checked the calculator app on her mobile phone. The register on the calculator read “22,” the code from Noam to check in. She sent a text to JP that she was going shopping.
The late-afternoon sun broiled the pedestrians on the westward-facing side of the apartment building. Rachel lost herself in the crowd, heading toward the shopping district, but tacking down side streets whenever she saw an opportunity to assess if she was being followed.
When she was confident she was alone, she stepped into a café and ordered a coffee. She dialed Noam’s number from memory.
He answered on the first ring. “Where have you been?” His voice held the tiniest tinge of concern that made her smile.
“Doing my job. Where have you been?”
“Don’t get smart with me. Your phone was off for over twenty-four hours.”
Rachel briefly relayed the events of the last two days. The visit to Cyprus, the mysterious yacht, the meeting that had so upset JP, the flight to the secret location.
“The security forces are former Janjaweed and I’m convinced they are behind the Mahdi attacks,” she concluded, “but what is going on underneath the warehouse is unknown.”
“What’s your next move?” Noam asked.
“If I can get close enough, I’m going to clone his phone and insert a tracker program. Maybe we can figure out where the site is located.”
“Bold move.” Noam didn’t bother with pretenses about her safety. He trusted her.
“It’s only a bold move if it works. I’ll be in touch.” Rachel hung up and resumed walking.
She turned down the first side street, a lane full of luxury stores, and pretended to window-shop. A few pedestrians wandered through the shade of the cobbled lane. The street felt a million miles from the heat and dust of the crowded thoroughfares only a hundred meters away.
Dinner with JP called for a new dress, she decided, something spectacular to distract the man from his phone for a good half hour. A bloodred Christian Dior dress appeared in the very next window.
Rachel let the grin spread across her face.
Noam was about to buy her a new outfit.
Rachel surveyed her image in the full-length mirror and liked what she saw. The straps of the red silk dress fastened behind her neck, the fiery color a perfect complement to her dark skin. The plunging neckline and open back showed the perfect amount of skin.
It was a daring choice. Sexy, classy, and she looked gorgeous in it. She unboxed the black Manolo Blahnik sling-backs, giggling to herself at the sight of the slender stilettos. After the Mozambique job, she would never look at high heels the same way again.
She wore her hair up off her neck, which made the occasion feel exotic to her. She replaced her typical silver stud earrings with dangling gold pendants.
Rachel took one last turn in the mirror. Noam never realized he had such good taste in fashion.
Perfume? Her instinct said no.
Her stomach fluttered, as it did before every operation like this. She would be on JP’s home turf. If her true purpose for being there was discovered, he would have the advantage on her. Weapons or no, he was a dangerous man.
Finally, she checked her phone again. The cloning program was hidden in the clock function of the device. If she touched three apps on the home screen in quick succession, it would synchronize with any discoverable device within six inches. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, she would have a complete clone of his phone and a tracker program installed. The only catch was that his phone would be unusable during that period.
She used the elevator ride to JP’s apartment to calm her breathing. Zula’s performance needed to be flawless tonight. In this setting, she would not have the security job to give her emotional cover. She would need to be herself—or rather Zula—and it would require ultimate concentration.
When she stepped out of the elevator, the lights in the apartment were turned low.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” JP called from the kitchen.
The tall, colonial-style windows in the apartment stood open. Gauzy white curtains stirred in the breeze. Rachel pressed her hips against the windowsill and stared into the night.
The lights of Khartoum lay before her like jewels spread across a velvet carpet. A few blocks away she could see the Nile gleaming between gaps in the buildings as the river made its slow way north. The darkness sanded the rough edges from the squalor of the city, softened decay into quaintness. The freshened breeze took the edge off the heat and carried the sounds of the city to her as a murmured cacophony. On the horizon, a quarter-moon hung in the clear sky.
JP appeared by her side and handed her a glass of chilled white wine. The taste of apples and citrus exploded on her tongue, followed by a subtle melon aftertaste.
“This is exquisite,” she said.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he replied. His eyes drank her in, and she felt a heat rise up her neck. “You look beautiful.”
“I was talking about the wine.”
“Pinot blanc, from the Alsace region of France.” He took another sip, studying her from over the rim of the glass. “My mother grew up there. And I still think you look beautiful.”
“That was the effect I was going for.”
JP laughed. “There’s no pretense with you, is there?”
Rachel turned her back on the city. “What’s for dinner?”
“Omelets. I only make one thing, but I do it well. Something else I learned from my mother.”
Rachel followed him to the kitchen. “Tell me about her.” His phone was in his hip pocket.
JP set his wineglass on the stone counter and turned on the stove. He put a well-used omelet pan over the bright blue flame and tossed in a chunk of butter. He watched it melt.
“My French mother fell in love with a mysterious man from Sudan and that’s how I came to be. What about you, Zula Bekele? I’ve seen your résumé and watched you work. Tell me the rest of the story.”
Rachel pretended the wine had gone to her head. The story she spun for JP hewed as closely to the truth as she dared. Born in Ethiopia, pursued a degree in African languages and literature, then found the martial arts. Security work paid better than college professor and she enjoyed the finer things in life. She laughed when she said the last bit and plucked at her dress.
As she spoke, JP cooked. He cracked two eggs and whipped them in a bowl while vegetables sautéed in the pan. The beaten eggs covered the vegetables, and he prodded the mixture until almost firm, then flipped the contents, added a handful of cheese, and expertly rolled it onto her plate.
He presented it to her with a bow. “For you, mademoiselle. We’ll be eating by the pool.” He pointed through a doorway at the back of the kitchen.
Rachel carried her glass of wine and her omelet down the narrow hallway to find a hidden garden area at the back of the apartment.
The pool was lined with sky-blue tiles and lighted from underwater. A small fire burned in a ceramic fire pit on the far side of the pool, and a waist-high stone wall shielded the garden area from the outside world.
Nestled between two palm trees was a table for two and a second bottle of wine chilling in ice. Rachel lit the candles on the table and took a seat, sipping her wine. The deep pool was square, maybe five meters on a side. Soft underwater light rippled in waves across the secluded scene.
JP appeared in the doorway carrying his own plate and wine. He sat down across from her. “Bon appétit.” He laid his phone facedown on the table next to his plate.
The omelet practically melted in her mouth, with the cheese and vegetables grilled to perfection.
“Delicious,” she said.
“Try it with the wine.”
Rachel sipped her wine. The melon overtones in the wine amplified the egg dish. “Amazing. Your mother taught you well.”
After the last bite, Rachel opened her purse and slipped out her phone. She touched the sequence to start the cloning process.
“Thought I felt a text,” she said. She dropped the phone back into the clutch and snapped it closed. She placed her handbag on the table.
JP stood and collected her plate.
“You should see what I have for dessert.” When he left, his phone remained facedown on the table.
Pulse hammering, Rachel pushed her clutch across the table until it rested next to JP’s phone. Now all she needed was to keep JP away from his phone for twenty minutes.
As if on cue, he appeared in the doorway. “Let’s go back inside and…”
His voice trailed away as his eyes locked with Rachel.
She stood, tugging at the clasp of the dress behind her neck. The silk slid down her skin like a whisper. She heard JP suck in a breath.
Rachel stepped out of her shoes, the stone of the patio rough under her feet. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, blocking out the distant sounds of the street far below them. A strange, quaking emptiness formed in her belly and when she spoke her mouth was dry.
“I think we should have dessert later.”