DUBAI, UAE—20:50 / 8:50 P.M. GST
The cab driver’s eyes once again darted up to the rearview mirror.
Nicole scowled at the man, and his gaze returned to the road. This fool is going to kill us both. Who thought the most dangerous part of my trip would be riding in this nasty cigarette- and sweat-smelling taxi?
Just yesterday, Nicole was at her flat in Milan packing her bags to stay in London for a month. Fashion Week was coming up in February, and there were always plenty of modeling gigs to pick up at smaller shows leading up to the big event. But then came the call. She was needed in Dubai. So she’d pulled the sweaters and jackets out of her bag and returned them to her wardrobe, then set a small overnight bag on her raised bed and folded in clothing for a much warmer climate.
But January in Dubai wasn’t quite as hot as she thought it would be. In fact, she was a little chilly this evening in her sundress. The city itself was also not what she expected. Skyscrapers were everywhere, and the whole metropolis spoke of new and wealthy. As she watched the lights as they passed by, she wondered what in the world she was doing here.
This was the first time they’d used her. Her training as an agent had been minimal—a few weeks. And half that time seemed to be just filling out paperwork and listening to lectures about the unpleasant things that would happen to her if she went rogue. She felt ill-prepared and on edge, but at least her undeniable computer skills gave her some confidence. That was good, because she’d been recruited to do nefarious things. In this case, breaking into a hotel security system.
I can do that. In fact, I have done that. It’s not like I’ll be dodging bullets—although I guess I’ve already checked that one off my bucket list.
The cabbie was staring at her again. Nicole understood why. Her straight, bright-red hair and emerald-green eyes made quite the statement. This man would probably tell his friends—and anyone else who might possibly ask her—all about the good-looking, redheaded fare in a sundress he drove the short distance from the Atlantis resort on Palm Island to the Burj Al Arab. That was exactly what Nicole had intended.
She met the man’s gaze, then subtly circled her finger to indicate he should put his eyes back on the road. The driver complied, then laid on the horn, no doubt taking his embarrassment and frustration out on the car in front of him. Nicole was still early in her Arabic studies, but she recognized a few of the words he used.
She smiled. In a country where it’s illegal to insult another person, I think this cabbie just earned himself seven to ten years in jail.
The cab turned left onto a long drive, and soon the buildings to either side disappeared and the road elevated over beach and then water. Nicole marveled at the beauty of Burj Al Arab as they approached it. She’d read that the 321-meter hotel was the third tallest in the world and it was designed to resemble the sail of a ship. Rising straight up in back, the front bowed forward as if caught by the wind, giving the whole structure a sense of movement. This view of the building, set on a man-made island just off the coast, and the Persian Gulf surrounding it was unique to anything she’d ever seen.
The car orbited a large fountain before pulling up to a drop-off zone. Nicole lifted her large Christian Louboutin straw tote off the seat next to her and stepped out when the driver opened her door. She passed him the agreed-upon fare with a generous tip and walked into the hotel entryway, feeling the stares of the cabbie, the porters, and the doormen. That was good, and she shifted her walk into model mode. Being seen going in was the plan. Coming back out would be a different story.
The resort was five-star all the way—high ceilings, massive chandeliers, and an enormous cascading water feature that was truly a work of art. Nicole wished she had time to explore the luxury of this top-end hotel, but that’s not why she was here. Walking to the right of the waterfall, she rode the escalator up to the main level, admiring the hundreds of tropical fish in an aquarium that ran the full length of the wall. Again, keeping to the right, she bypassed a dancing waters fountain and the check-in desk in the lobby, then entered a women’s restroom.
As she’d hoped, the stalls’ modesty doors were floor to ceiling. She entered the one farthest from the door and locked it behind her, then took off her wig and popped the colored contacts out of her eyes. The sundress came off, and she replaced it with a designer T-shirt, low-cut jeans, and a cropped denim jacket. She shook out a wavy blond wig before placing it on her head, and rather than messing with another pair of contact lenses, she opted for Tom Ford aviator sunglasses. Who cared that it was nighttime? Fashion meant never having to say you’re sorry. The final touch was a wide-brimmed Boho wool hat, completing her transformation. With her original outfit tucked away in her bag, she flushed the toilet, then washed her hands, checked herself in the mirror, and walked out the door.
Nicole crossed the lobby and stepped onto the down escalator. No nerves. Walk like you own the place.
“Cars for hire?” she asked the doorman as she stepped outside.
“Would you like me to fetch you a car?” Even without the sundress, here was yet another man giving her a full body scan.
“No. Just point me the way.”
She followed his finger to where a series of taxi drivers stood next to their cars. To her relief, she saw that the cabbie who had just dropped her off was not among them.
All heads turned her way as she approached.
“How much to Jumeirah Beach Hotel?” she asked the first driver, loud enough to be heard over the fountain.
“Eighty dirhams.”
The fare was way overpriced for such a short trip, but she didn’t want to haggle. Besides, it wasn’t her money. She nodded her agreement, and the man opened the car door for her.
The hotel was within eyeshot of the Burj Al Arab, but she was determined to make use of the brief drive to rest and think. Once she arrived at her destination, she would be on the go for the next 24 hours—at least. Two years ago, her greatest goal was to make enough money to escape her life in Cape Town. Now, here she was practicing tradecraft—what her trainer had called maslul—while on assignment in Dubai for the Israeli Mossad.
Didn’t see that coming, she thought with a silent laugh. Not with the background I have.
Her mother had a one-night stand with the bass player in a band passing through Cape Town, and Nicole and her twin brother, Christiaan, were the result. But only 19 and stunningly beautiful, her mother wasn’t ready to give up her partying ways. So the two siblings spent most of their time with their grandmother, who was a barely functioning alcoholic. When they were four, her mother married some shady guy she’d met at a club. Her visits became more and more rare until she pretty much disappeared.
When Nicole and Christiaan were eight, two years later, she suddenly reappeared. Nicole couldn’t believe the change in her. She was incredibly thin, her beautiful skin was pocked and scabby, and her hair was matted and uneven. All her vibrancy was gone. When Nicole was older, she realized her mother had looked strung out and defeated. Thinking back to that day now, she figured if someone had put her mom on an anti-drug before-and-after poster, any teenager who saw it would have been scared clean.
When her mother opened her arms for a hug, Nicole had gone to her, but Christiaan held back. Nicole could still smell the sour odor of her body and the vomit smell on her breath when she whispered, “I love you, my little girl.” Nicole hadn’t replied.
The visit was short and ended in a screaming match between their mother and grandmother over money. Mom stormed out without saying goodbye. Less than 18 months later, she was dead of a heroin overdose. Christiaan and Nicole had talked many times about that last visit, and he admitted to feeling guilty for not hugging his mother one last time when he had the opportunity. Nicole was sure that was one of the many factors that went into his own current substance abuse.
But she and her brother were always close. Nicole knew that no matter what was happening around her, at least one person loved her unconditionally. This was true even when they hit their teens and their paths diverged. Christiaan followed their mom’s and grandmother’s footsteps, falling into the party lifestyle. Nicole was determined to make something better of herself. She didn’t want anything to do with the drinking and drugs. That life was not going to take her too.
She hadn’t been a recluse. She still spent time at the skate park or out on the waves. But whenever she wasn’t skating or surfing, she was in her room on her computer. It started with gaming. She was a good gamer but not great. Then an online friend told her how she could do a little recoding to a particular game that would allow her to absolutely dominate. Nicole tried it, and it worked. That was all it took; she was hooked.
What started with how to win computer games became how to game the system. She found she had an aptitude for finding or creating back doors into computer systems. The dark web introduced her to a small community of hackers who were always ready to share their new discoveries with one another. Soon Nicole found she could break into just about any system she wanted. While Christiaan found companionship at clubs and parties, Nicole’s friends lived in dark-web chat rooms.
When she was 15, she saw an online ad looking for models for a show at a local mall. All her life people had been telling her she had a certain look. “You should be a model. There’s just something about you.” Nicole didn’t see it. But if what people said about her was true, this might be the way to eventually get out of her grandmother’s house and out of Cape Town for good.
By the time she’d seen the ad, she was too late for the auditions. But five minutes and a couple hundred keystrokes later, the name Nicole le Roux was on the model list. She still felt bad for a girl named Gretchen Booysen, who was mysteriously dropped from the schedule. Gretchen and her mom had raised quite a stink when they arrived at the show only to be told the girl’s name was nowhere to be found.
Nicole shook herself back to the present as the cab passed from the artificial island to the bridge that traversed the water. Once they passed the beach, the car turned left.
“Go slow. I want to admire the view.” In truth, she was just stalling. She was excited but scared. The terrorist assault that almost took her life had been two years back. If Nir Tavor hadn’t been there to rescue her, who knows what might have happened?
Nir’s olive-skinned face came to mind. After the attack, she’d been shaken. It seemed impossible to have been that close to death and then be expected to live life as usual. She was reeling, so when she got the call from Nir, she jumped at his offer for lunch. She needed to spend time with someone who would understand what she’d gone through, who had heard the bullets and seen the dead people. Christiaan tried to console her, but he just didn’t quite get how it felt to have been so near to death.
She and Nir had a foxhole bond, but that wasn’t all that drew them together. She’d had a couple of boyfriends in her teens, and she’d dated a little since leaving Cape Town, but those relationships had been nothing like the brief connection she’d had with Nir.
And it was brief. Not long after he returned to Johannesburg, he grew distant. When his communication stopped completely, she wrote the relationship off. After all, long-distance relationships rarely work. Still, it hurt, and she wanted to know what happened. She needed some kind of closure. So she did a foolish thing that changed her life forever.
Late one night, she was bored and lonely, and her thoughts drifted to Nir. What happened that he just fell off the face of the earth? Didn’t he want to be with me anymore? Did I do something wrong? A new thought hit her. Or couldn’t he be with me anymore? After all, given his profession…
There was one way to find out.
Two hours later, in the server files of the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs, she’d discovered that Nir had been transferred back to Israel to work in Israeli intelligence. It took her almost to daybreak to finally gain access into the Mossad system and see that he was in training to be an agent.
Good for him. He’ll be good at that. She was relieved that work—work he couldn’t tell her about—had pulled him away rather than her somehow pushing him away.
The knock on her front door came three days later. Her grandmother was at work, and Christiaan hadn’t been home for a week. She was surprised to see two late-middle-aged men standing on her front steps, one with a familiar face. Her stomach dropped, and she felt nauseated.
“My name is Gideon Zamir,” the man said.
“I remember you.” She tried to remain cool. “Please, come in.”
You broke into the computer system of the world’s greatest intelligence service, you fool. Of course these men are here.
Nicole invited them to sit at a small, chrome-skirted dinette table in the kitchen.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, trying to be hospitable as her grandmother had taught her.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” Zamir said. “Come, sit. We don’t want to take much of your time.”
Hesitantly, Nicole pulled out a chair with a zigzag tear in the bottom cushion and sat down. She didn’t know if she was about to go to prison for hacking or if these guys were just going to make her disappear.
The men sat after her.
Zamir began. “Nicole… May I call you Nicole?”
She nodded.
“Good, thank you. I would like to know how you’re doing after you so admirably saved that woman’s life during the incident here in Cape Town.”
Incident? What a safe and sanitary way to describe a terrorist attack where people lost their lives.
“I’m okay. Nightmares every now and then.”
“Of course. It’s to be expected after so traumatic an experience.” He nodded to his companion. “This is my colleague, Asher. As much as I would like to ask you more about your well-being, his time is quite limited. He has some questions for you.”
“Um, fine.”
Nervously, she picked at one of the pits in the table’s surface. This Asher guy had the kind of dead stare that said he would likely ask her to dig her own grave before he dropped her into it.
After a short silence that seemed like an eternity, Asher said, “Nicole, I am with the Mossad. I would tell you more about who we are, but I think you already know.”
And there it is. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just—”
Asher held up his hand. “I am not here to punish you. I’m here to give you a job.”
Nicole burst out laughing. She wasn’t sure why. Shock, relief, or maybe just the absurdity of his words. “A job?”
“Yes, a job.” The left corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, acknowledging her amusement.
“But I already have a job. I model. That’s enough to keep me busy for now. But thank you for the offer.” Nicole slid her chair back to conclude the meeting.
Asher waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense. Hear me out.”
Reluctantly, Nicole scooted her chair forward again.
“First, your modeling career is one of the reasons we want you. We can use it to put you in places where you might be beneficial to us.”
Beneficial? Why would I care if I were beneficial to you? She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand again.
“Second, my dear girl, you must understand that I am not offering you a job; I am giving you a job. You will be joining us at the Mossad, where you will use your connections through modeling and your remarkable computer skills—skills that allowed you to illegally break into our server, which we were always told was impenetrable, and see files that, quite frankly, you never should have seen. Yes, you will now join in our efforts to protect the security of the sovereign State of Israel.”
Nicole couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was he actually blackmailing her into becoming part of Israeli intelligence?
“Is there an or else to your offer?” she asked, angry—and not only because he’d been so condescending.
Asher leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Talk of or else can get so ugly. Is it really necessary?”
“It is to me. You’re making veiled threats, and I want to know what I’m being threatened with.”
Asher shrugged and sighed. “Let me put it to you this way. When you broke into our computer system, you made yourself a liability. In our business, we are not comfortable with liabilities. Thus, I’m here to turn a liability into an asset.”
After more back-and-forth, Nicole had accepted the job. What choice did she have?
As the two men stepped onto her front steps, Asher turned around. “I have one more thing to ask. You and Nir Tavor had a…romantic relationship, correct?”
“Yes.” Why did she feel embarrassed?
“He is busy developing skills that could ultimately save his life. He doesn’t need any…how should I say it…complications. I’m asking you to not make contact with him. To do so could distract him and ultimately put him at risk. May I count on you for that?”
Nicole thought Asher’s reasoning sounded forced, but she got the sense that when Asher said he was asking, he was actually telling.
“Okay.”
“Good.” He turned around to walk away, but then he stopped one more time. “And, Nicole, stay out of our computers. This is a lovely city, but I don’t want to have to make a return trip.”
Three weeks later, she received a call from one of the more well-known modeling agencies saying they would be representing her and asking her to please make arrangements to move to Milan within the next two weeks. She was shocked; she’d never applied to any European agency. Then, just as she was trying to figure out how she could possibly afford a move to that incredibly expensive city, she received an encrypted email saying a flat had been arranged for her and a comfortable nest egg had been deposited into a bank for her expenses.
For two years she’d been establishing herself as a model in the European fashion world, the whole time waiting for a call to begin her Mossad work. That call had finally come yesterday.
The cab pulled up to the Jumeirah Beach Hotel. While the Burj Al Arab had been designed to look like a giant sail, the Jumeirah Beach resembled a wave slowly building up to its crest. It, too, was top of the line in all its amenities. Nicole walked through the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor. There was no need to check in; she’d done that two hours ago when she hacked into the hotel’s computer system from the lobby of the Atlantis. Then she’d slipped a blank key card into a little machine tucked away at the bottom of her tote and coded it to unlock the room.
When she reached room 632 at the Jumeirah Beach, she placed the card in the door’s slot, then opened the door and walked in.