The silver knife blade flashed, slashing through the air aimed right at him. A quick parry and dodge to the side altered the weapon’s path, narrowly missing Stephen’s throat. The follow-through utilized his new skills to grab the wrist holding the knife and pull in the same direction as the thrust. With a twisting motion, Stephen wrestled the man’s arm down and around, coming up behind the man’s back, and held it with his left hand. Bringing his own right arm up and around, Stephen brought his forearm against the man’s throat and applied pressure.
“Good move.” Pleased, the instructor added, “Great job, Stephen. Your training is paying off.”
Stephen relaxed his hold, and the other trainee gasped for air. He turned to face Stephen, tried to smile, and with a slight bow, offered his hand in congratulations.
“That will end our lesson for today. Good job, both of you. Time to hit the showers.”
The refreshing shower relaxed him and brought a multitude of thoughts, including how well he was doing with these hand-to-hand combat lessons for self defense. Then she appeared. Samantha Sorkin. He recalled her warning that he should seriously learn how to fight, to defend himself. And her words concerning the CIA. “Since they came to you for help once, they’ll come back to you again.” So far that had not happened, but he acknowledged that it was a possibility.
Dressed and exiting the locker room, Stephen heard his name called, along with, “Phone call.” Walking into the gym’s office, he picked up the phone. “Dr. Grant.”
“Stephen, how’s the self defense training going?”
“Peter,” he replied. “Pretty well. I think I’m finally learning enough to not get myself killed, at least in the first few minutes. So how are you doing? What’s up?”
“I thought if you’re up to it, we might have lunch. You still taking the afternoon off?”
“Yes, I am. And if you’re going to enjoy an afternoon off, I know just the place to go. I’ve wanted to go back to a special restaurant, and I’d be delighted if you would be my guest.”
Khan placed the black attaché case on the floor next to him. With his foot, he pushed it against the wall at the back of the booth.
He snickered as he visualized the Israeli Ambassador and his aides sitting around one of the small tables, placing their food order with a waiter. His thoughts were like a knife stabbing at them. They are so smug, so proud, so falsely secure. Just wait. Your reward is coming soon. He laughed out loud.
Sitting across the table, Leena and Saleem peered at him. “What is it, Kamran?”
“Just thinking about what is going to happen.” He nodded. “So richly deserved.”
Glancing over at Leena, Khan smiled. “Try not to kick the case, Leena, That’s the Ambassador’s present.”
Saleem offered, “You don’t even know where he will sit, Kamran.”
“There is enough plastic to not make any difference. It will be sufficient if he is inside the restaurant.”
Khan pictured the Ambassador’s face. He’d obtained photographs from the ISI and found several more on the Internet. His eyes narrowed as he thought about the surprise Daniel Shavit would experience and how his expression would morph into a look of sheer horror. Khan’s mouth formed a sinister grin as he felt the mounting satisfaction that would be his. Not just revenge—retaliation! Shavit would pay with his life today. He would not be a hero any longer. He would be dead.
Picking up a menu, Khan said, “Since there is lots of time, what would you like to eat?”
Leena whispered, “The food here in this restaurant is so expensive.”
Khan countered, “This is New York City. Everything is expensive.”
“Ready to go, gentlemen?” he asked the three men waiting. Daniel Shavit did not think the meeting with these businessmen would generate anything positive, but he could not afford to take that chance, so he agreed to go. If these businessmen were correct and proved to be successful, it would mean a great deal to Israel and them. However, he had heard so many wishful ideas from American dreamers that he became doubtful about the reality of most of those ideas. It would most likely be a waste of time. He would be glad when it was over.
“Mr. Ambassador?” The clerk held the phone with his hand over the mouthpiece. “The U.S. Secretary of State is here. She is downstairs.”
With a questioning look, Shavit said, “Her appointment is not until three o’clock. Sure she is downstairs now?”
“She offers her apologies. Said she had to rearrange her schedule at the President’s request. She will be meeting with him this afternoon.”
Exhaling a deep breath, Shavit answered, “All right. Ask if she could come up to this office.”
Turning to the other men, he spoke to his assistant. “Gil, you’re going to have to take this one for me. I’m sorry. The meeting is at the Midtown Steakhouse on 53rd, right across from the New York Sheridan. Find out what their business is, see if you can determine anything about their financial stability, and if this is a business that would benefit the Haifa area. See if they have any new ideas that might make this work for them and us. Remember, don’t agree to anything. Tell them we’re interested, but we need to discuss it. And thank them for the meeting.”
The Ambassador started to turn away, but stopped. “And guys, no one talks to the press about this. Understand?”
“So what do you think, Peter? Pretty nice place, right?”
“"Yes, it is. I love the ambience. Busy, but very nice.” Best friends, Dr. Stephen Grant and Dr. Peter Standish relished their lunch break away from everything. “I’ve never been to the Midtown Steakhouse before.”
“It’s convenient, but far enough away to provide a pleasant respite. No classes, no students, and no UN.” He looked at Peter, and the look on his face revealed the deep respect and warm friendship they held for each other. Stephen motioned, “Enjoy finishing your steak.”
“I will. This is a great steak, and it’s seasoned just right. It’s delicious.” He raised his eyebrows. “And it’s cooked to perfection. Done, but still pink in the center. Just the way I like it.”
Smiling, Peter lifted his cocktail glass in a toast. “I’m glad we took the rest of the day off. Here’s to a pleasant, lazy afternoon.”
Stephen picked up his glass and reached over to clink it against Peter’s. “Hear, hear.”
Sitting back in his chair, Stephen luxuriated in the cool liquid slowly flowing down his throat. “I have an idea.” He motioned for the waiter, and requested the bartender come to the table.
“We’d like you to try to make our favorite drink. Here, I’ve written down the recipe.”
The bartender took the napkin. “Hmm. Three parts vanilla vodka, one part white chocolate liqueur, shaken over ice, and garnished with a cherry.” The bartender smiled. “Okay. I have all that. Let’s try it.”
Peter raised a finger. “And what we really need is a bowl of mixed nuts. If you don’t have that, peanuts will do.”
Still smiling, the bartender strode back to the bar.
Pleased, Peter added, “Now we’re talking,” and again lifted his glass in mock salute.
After the new cocktails were delivered along with a bowl of peanuts, Stephen inquired, “How is your new wife doing, Peter?”
“Great. Married life is wonderful. I think Olivia likes being Mrs. Standish.” Grabbing a handful of peanuts, he put several of them in his mouth and took pleasure with each bite. He grinned and said, “I enjoy her delight and happiness. I like being married.”
Stephen nodded. “That’s a good thing.”
Peter asked, “How are things going with you and Sheryl?”
Olivia Newman, now Olivia Standish, was best friends with Sheryl Hauser. She had asked Sheryl to be the maid of honor at her wedding. The four of them shared an occasional late-night dinner at a north side restaurant.
“I think we’ve turned a corner. We said we love each other.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, but ...” Stephen put his head down. “I don’t know, Peter. She keeps doing things that remind me of Becky, then she says something just the way Sam would.” He shook his head no. “It makes it hard.”
“I’m sure it does.” Peter sat back in his chair and smiled. “But you have to get beyond that. You’re going to have to do that no matter what.” He paused, took a deep breath and reached for more peanuts. “Does Sheryl know?”
“I think so ... I don’t know.”
“In order to get on with the rest of your life, you must get over this. You have to move on. Stephen, there will always be someone doing something that reminds you of Becky or Sam.” Peter shook his head. “Neither of them are physically in your life anymore. They can’t be. They’re only part of your past. Put it behind you. Let it go, Stephen.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m trying.”
Three people were waiting in the maroon SUV parked a few cars down the street when a dark limo stopped in front of the restaurant, and the Israeli delegates exited the car. “Wait until they get inside,” Tariq cautioned.
The Israelis walked to the front door of the Midtown Steakhouse without speaking. As Gil reached for the handle, the door swung open. Two men leaving the restaurant stopped and stepped back to allow the Israelis to enter. As they did, the door closed. Gil smiled, “Stephen, it is nice to see you.” He offered his hand.
Stephen accepted and shook his hand. He introduced Peter to the others and wished them a pleasant lunch. Smiling, he pushed the door open for he and Peter to leave. As they emerged from the restaurant, thinking it was a wonderful afternoon, Stephen remembered the papers.
“I have to go back, Peter. I left the folder with my papers on the table. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
Stephen turned and walked back toward the door to the restaurant.
Several feet away in the opposite direction, holding the remote in his hand, Khan said, “Now,” and pushed the button.