SIX DAYS LATER
CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA—JANUARY 28, 2008—13:00 / 1:00 P.M. SAST
The scents coming from the restaurant reached Nir even before he opened the front door. Some sort of meat was definitely roasting inside, and it was quite evident that fresh naan was baking. But the smell of curry overpowered all others.
This will be a good meal.
The Bo-Kaap district of Cape Town was like nothing he’d seen. Blocky, flat-facade houses lined the streets, each one painted more brightly than the last. All shades of blue, yellow, red, and green were represented with no apparent plan or consistent color scheme. Evidently, each homeowner simply decided what their favorite color was, then ran down to the paint store. The only common bond he could find beyond their boxy shape was the bright-white cornice that surrounded many of the houses. That simple touch was enough to give the randomness some kind of unity.
This unique neighborhood reminded him a bit of home, though. The minarets of the old mosques that reached up into the blue South African sky were familiar, and he had no doubt that the sound of muezzins calling the Muslims of this area to prayer would be echoing throughout the district in the next few hours. Where this experience diverged from home was that he’d keep his head on a swivel and his hand near his pistol if he was wandering alone in the Muslim quarter of Jerusalem. Here, though, he felt no need for concern. If any sort of threat from the local Muslims existed, he would have been briefed back at the office in Johannesburg.
The office. What a train wreck that place is right now.
By the evening of the day of the attack, Nir, Zamir, and Baruch were back up in the safety of their compound in the capital city. The South African government had posted some military units around the walls until a team from the Israeli Defense Forces had time to arrive, and Baruch was handling the attempt on his life with the matter-of-fact practicality expected from a battle-hardened veteran who had lived much of his life with a war injury. Being Israeli just added to his stoicism. But he wanted answers, he wanted to ensure the safety of embassy employees, and he wanted to make sure this event didn’t in any way derail the progress in South African and Israeli relations.
Commander Zamir was determined to oversee the security of the Johannesburg compound himself, so he sent Nir back down to Cape Town to liaison with the investigation. Nir was only too happy to go. First, it would get him away from the circus of the compound with the constant calls from cabinet ministers, members of the legislative Knesset, and the press. Second, it would let him return to where he might be able to track down a certain female he’d recently met in a distressing situation.
He’d been looking forward to this meeting ever since he’d made that phone call two days ago. After walking through the restaurant’s door, he spotted her right away. Somehow she was even more gorgeous without the professionally done makeup and the fashion-forward dress.
She was seated at a table facing the doors, next to a floor-to-ceiling window that gave a view of the Bo-Kaap below and the hills beyond. As he neared, she stood.
“Nicole.” He leaned forward to greet her. As his cheek briefly touched hers, the fresh smell of citrus overtook the spicy scents coming from the kitchen. “You look beautiful.”
She was wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, and her dark, wavy hair hung loosely past her shoulders. She smiled as she pulled back. “I wish I could say the same for you.”
Nir laughed. His face was still a mess from the hand-to-hand combat of nearly a week ago. But at least he could breathe through his nose again, and the blackish purple surrounding his eyes was beginning to fade.
“You should have seen the other guy,” he said, then immediately regretted the joke. Nicole had seen the other guy as he was firing an automatic weapon at her and the rest of the crowd that day. In the military, gallows humor is standard operating procedure. Not so much with a fashion model—perhaps especially with one he’d learned was just 20 years old. “Sorry.”
Nir held Nicole’s chair for her as she sat, then took his place on the other side of the table.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me after everything that happened,” he continued. “I was hoping to get a chance to thank you for what you did when it was all going down, but everything was so crazy, and then you were gone.”
Nicole remained silent, so Nir forged forward. “I tracked down your number from our records. I’ve got to tell you, how you handled yourself was amazing. You likely saved that woman’s life.”
Still silence.
This is not going well.
Nicole pointed out the window. “That peak over there is called Lion’s Head.” Nir spotted the large hill a distance away from them. “The rise that comes back our way is Table Mountain. It looks a lot like the body of a lion. Where we are is called Signal Hill. Now, if that over there is the lion’s head and between us is the lion’s body, then where are we?”
“Uh, the lion’s backside?”
“Exactly.” She smiled. “That’s why another name for Signal Hill is Lion’s Rump. So lunch today will be served on the lion’s rump.”
Message received. You don’t want to talk about the attack. That’s fine by me.
“Did you recommend we meet at this restaurant just so you could tell me that story?” He laughed.
“Maybe.” Now she had a mischievous glint in her eyes. “That, and they serve the best bobotie in the city.”
“Fair enough.” Nir had tried the minced meat curry dish numerous times up in Johannesburg, and he wasn’t really a fan. But that didn’t matter. He’d eat fried grubs if it allowed him to get to know this woman better.
The server came and greeted them, then looked at Nir.
“I’ll defer to the lady,” he said. “I am completely at her mercy.”
Nicole smiled her appreciation, then ordered a bobotie platter for each of them and a samosa appetizer to share. “And a sparkling mineral water for each of us,” she added. When the server left, she said, “This restaurant is halal, so no wine is served.”
“Are you—”
“No.” She laughed. “If you saw most of the clothing designers put me in, you’d know my profession would never fit the lifestyle of a good Muslim girl. But the food here is good, the view is good, and, hopefully, the company will be good.” The lift in her eyebrows caused Nir’s adrenaline to kick up a notch. He couldn’t believe he was sitting across the table from such a beautiful woman—someone he considered out of his league.
“Tell me about yourself, Nicole. Have you always lived in the Cape?”
“Born and raised. My family has been here for generations.”
“Are you Boer, then?”
“No, the le Roux name is Cape Dutch. Two or three hundred years ago, people started migrating north from here, settling the Orange Free State and Transvaal. Those are the Boers.”
Nicole continued to talk in her alto voice that sounded years older than her actual age. But she gave few details about her upbringing, deftly deflecting any probing questions Nir asked. It quickly became obvious that home was not a good place and she would rather focus on happier subjects.
The modeling had begun when she was 15. “I had no interest in school, and certainly not in higher education. I just wanted a job that gave me the time and money to do what I really love doing.”
“Which is…”
“I’m a keyboard geek.”
Nir laughed. “First, nothing about you says geek. Second, don’t you need university to get into all that IT stuff?”
“Well, all that IT stuff isn’t what I’m into,” she whispered with the tone of a conspirator. Then grinning, she made a show of looking left, then right. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, since you’re kind of in international law enforcement—”
“I’m not law enforcement.”
“Oh? Do you shoot people?”
Ouch. Too close to home. “Occasionally. So what do you do that might tempt me to arrest you?”
“Let me put it this way. The records show I passed my matriculation exam with distinction.”
“Okay. Congratulations.” Nir had no idea where this was going.
“Thank you. The thing is, while my exam was taking place, I was out surfing.”
“Then how… Oh, I get it. You naughty girl. You’re a hacker.”
Nicole pulled back, feigning offense. “Hacker. Such an ugly name for the beauty of my craft.”
This girl just keeps getting more and more intriguing.
The waiter brought the samosas, setting the plate in the middle of the table.
“You first,” Nicole said.
Nir lifted a puffed triangle from the small stack and took a bite. Inside the flaky dough was a mixture of beef and onions spiced with an aromatic blend of curry, turmeric, ginger, and just enough heat to let Nir know the chef meant business.
“Do you like it?” Nicole asked.
“This is amazing.”
“When I was growing up, a lady named Abaasa would stop by to visit my grandmother. Sometimes she’d bring along some groceries. She was a Cape Malay.”
“Cape Malay?”
“The Cape Malays are the descendants of Muslims who moved to the Cape region back in the nineteenth century. All the colorful houses you saw as you drove in? They all belong to the Malays.”
“Hence, the minarets and the halal restaurant.”
“Exactly.” She lifted a samosa and took a bite. “Anyway, Abaasa would sometimes bring samosas for me and my twin brother. I’ve loved Malay cuisine ever since.”
“I can understand why.” Nir took another samosa from the plate, wondering what a twin male version of Nicole would look like. “So back to your criminal activity. Just how good a, uh, keyboard artist are you?”
Nicole grinned. “Let’s see. Nir Avraham Tavor. Born October 27, 1983. Father’s name Avraham; mother’s name Rivka. Grew up in Kibbutz Yizre’el in the Jezreel Valley. A satisfactory student, although you didn’t matriculate with distinction like someone else we know. Mandatory service in the Israeli Defense Force from 2002 to 2006. Employed by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ State Security System since 2007. Stationed in Johannesburg since November. Likes puppies, Taylor Swift music, and long walks holding hands in the rain.”
“Wow, stalker much?” Nir was stunned. He didn’t know if he should feel impressed or violated.
“Rude.” But she’d said it with a soft grin. She looked down and began tracing circles on the rim of her water glass. “I made up that last part,” she added in a tone that lacked the self-assuredness she’d had from the beginning of their conversation.
Nir realized the risk she’d just taken. She was laying herself out before him, showing him the real her. How he responded in this moment would determine whether their connection would go any further.
With a firm voice, he said, “Nicole, as a member of the State Security Service, duly authorized by Interpol and the International Court in The Hague, I place you under arrest for hacking…uh, for inappropriate criminal keyboard artistry.”
Nicole’s relief was evident as she looked up. Then she batted her eyelashes and said in a vapid voice, “Oh no, Officer Tavor. I promise I’ll never do it again. Is there anything I can do to get out of this predicament?”
He had no problem playing along. “Hmm. Let’s just see how the day goes. I’m sure I can come up with something.”
THREE MONTHS LATER
AROMA ESPRESSO BAR—TEL AVIV, ISRAEL—APRIL 19, 2008—08:15 / 8:15 A.M. IST
Nir sat alone in his favorite Tel Aviv coffee bar, watching the people go by and wondering where Nicole le Roux was this morning. Home in Cape Town? Modeling somewhere? He sighed. He’d tried to put her out of his mind, but her image often formed unbidden.
After their lunch in the Bo-Kaap district, they’d spent the rest of the day together—and the next and the next. The investigation into the assassination attempt on Baruch was lengthy and detailed, keeping him in Cape Town for another three weeks. Other than the four days when Nicole had to fly to Saint-Tropez, France, for a modeling gig, they’d spent as much time together as they could.
When he was called back to Johannesburg, they vowed to keep the relationship going. After all, it was only a two-hour flight between Cape Town and the capital. But a week later, Nir was told to go to a conference room, where he found a mystery man sitting at the long table.
He motioned for Nir to sit down on the opposite side, and then without a greeting or even an introduction he said, “I’m from the Mossad. We’ve heard about your performance in Cape Town, and I’ve come to talk to you.”
