Dark Waters (27 page)

Grabbing a handhold, Jordan jumped down to the rubble. The slabs shifted and rocked under her weight. She dropped to her hands and knees. Crawling over to the phone, she hit the disconnect button just as a voice said,
“Shalom.”

Jordan stared at the phone as the screen went dark. Had she been fast enough to save Lucy? Or was the call itself the signal to dispose of the child?

One final shot rang out, jarring Jordan from her trance. She stood on the unstable slab and looked toward the tunnel. Ganani walked toward her. Lotner lay sprawled on the tunnel’s hard earth floor. Taylor reached down to help her out of the cistern.

T
he Sapir Pumping Station had been locked down. Ganani was put in charge of the investigation. She’d been the highest-ranking officer on scene and she deserved it.

Haddid had disappeared. No one had seen him after he’d called out his last warning. Jordan liked to think he’d gone back to his wife and his son and that they were living happily ever after somewhere deep in Palestine, far from Zuabi’s reach. If anyone deserved a fairy-tale ending, it was him.

Walker announced that he had six months left on his current tour, and then he was heading back to MIT. He might be the oldest one in his class, but he was convinced his talents could be used more effectively hacking into enemies’ IT systems than standing guard at embassies. All he required was a little more training.

An hour after the attack, Lucy had been found sleeping on a bench outside a trendy café along Tel Aviv’s iconic Sderot Rothschild Boulevard. The child couldn’t remember anything that had happened. Doctors suggested that she had been drugged. Other than her memory loss and some dehydration, she appeared to be fine.

The number on Lotner’s phone was traced to a high-rise apartment building at the corner of Allenby Street and Sderot Rothschild—a building where Brodsky occupied two thousand
square feet on the twenty-third floor, northwest corner. Police were dispatched to the location and a burner phone had been fished out of the dumpsters.

“I’m telling you, Daugherty, he’s our guy,” Jordan said. They were sitting in his office. He was drinking coffee. She was doing her best not to pace.

“He’s Shin Bet and you need proof to accuse someone.”

“The evidence is all right there, sir. Brodsky knew about the plan from the start. Ganani will testify to that. He ordered her to be at Dizengoff Square for the initial hand-off.”

“Circumstantial. He collects a lot of intel. Maybe he heard something was going down and assigned her to follow up.”

“He ordered her to al-Ajami to pick up both drives. He sent her to my office, for God’s sake.”

“Again, circumstantial. He probably figured there was something on those drives that was a threat to the State of Israel. As it turns out, he was right.”

Jordan leaned forward across Daugherty’s desk. “Lotner was Brodsky’s mole. The detective was feeding Brodsky information. Lotner kidnapped Lucy Taylor, and she was found near Brodsky’s home. The burner phone was found in his apartment building’s dumpster.”

“Can someone corroborate your allegations?”

“You know that they’re all dead.”

“Jordan, anyone could have pitched that burner.” Daugherty set down his coffee mug. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Lotner was manipulating Brodsky? Lotner was the one with the connection to Cline. Their wives were good friends. Lotner was involved in the specifics of the investigation all along. What makes you so sure Lotner wasn’t the mastermind?”

All the things I can’t tell you, Jordan wanted to say. She wanted to divulge the information that Alena Petrenko had shared that
day in her office, but that would only raise questions about Jordan’s father and likely get her removed from her job. She had only told two people what she knew about Ilya Brodsky: Weizman and Ganani. And Weizman was dead.

“Ilya Brodsky is a patriot. You’ve got nothing against him but a lot of circumstantial evidence tied up by a gut feeling. Let it go, Jordan, for your own sake.”

Was Daugherty right? Had her focus on Brodsky become a witch-hunt driven by threads of a past she was just beginning to unravel? There was no doubt in her mind that he had something to do with her father’s murder, no doubt as to the veracity of his past ties to the KGB. But Daugherty
was
right. She had no tangible proof of Brodsky’s involvement in the Sapir Pumping Station attack—just a burning in the pit of her stomach that reminded her he was evil.

“Look at it this way, Jordan. You’re a hero. Enjoy it.”

*

The next day, Jordan dropped by the hospital to check on both Posner and Lucy. Posner was out of danger but facing months of rehab. Lucy was there for observation and scheduled to go home the next day. Jordan found her sitting up in bed talking to her father and Alena.

“Hey,” Taylor said when she walked in.

“Hey,” Jordan said. He looked good. She handed Lucy some cut flowers. Taylor snatched them up and took hold of Jordan’s elbow.

“Lucy, you stay here with Alena for a minute. Agent Jordan and I are going to go down to the kitchen and look for a vase.”

“Will you bring back some ice cream?”

“Sure.” Taylor steered Jordan into the hallway and led the way to a small room with some cabinets, several vending machines,
and a refrigerator. He pushed the door closed and then pulled Jordan toward him, kissing her hard on the cheek. “Thank you for saving Lucy.”

Jordan stepped back in surprise. “I really didn’t do anything.”

“If you hadn’t stopped the phone call . . .”

“I’m not sure I did.” Someone had been holding Lucy, and that person had gotten away. It didn’t feel right to be praised. “I’m just glad she’s okay. She is okay?”

“She’s doing fine. It annoys her that she can’t remember anything, but I think, at least in this case, it’s better that way.”

Jordan tended to agree. “I’m the one who should be thanking you—for putting your life on the line out there.”

Taylor found a vase in the cupboard. Jordan arranged the flowers. When she was finished, she stepped back. “Done.”

“Perfect,” he said.

They found some ice cream cups in the freezer of the refrigerator and snagged a few spoons. On the walk back to the room, he reached over and held her hand. “You need to know we’re going to be leaving at the end of the week.”

“So soon?” She was surprised that it bothered her—surprised how much she liked holding his hand. “I thought Lucy had another two weeks of treatments.”

“We have to cut it short because Alena is leaving. Sarah wants Lucy home.”

“When is she leaving?”

He nodded. “In a couple of days.”

“How will that affect Lucy?”

“I think she’ll be okay. Alena plans on giving her extra treatments while she’s here, and then she’ll treat her from a distance.” He let go of Jordan’s hand, and she found that she missed the warmth.

“Is it because of what happened in Bethlehem?” she asked.

“I imagine so. You’ll have to ask her.” He held the hospital room door open for Jordan and then followed her in, brandishing the flowers with flourish. “Here you go, Luce.”

“And here’s the ice cream.” Jordan set the four small containers on the bedside tray. “We brought chocolate.”

“Yay,” said Lucy.

Taylor smiled at Jordan. “Lucy and I want to have you over for dinner before we go.”

Lucy handed Jordan a container and spoon. “Will you come?”

Perching on the edge of the bed, Jordan slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I’d love to.”

“Good, then I can beat you in chess.”

They ate ice cream and chatted for a few minutes longer, and then Jordan stood up to leave. “I don’t want to tire out the patient.”

“We like the company,” Taylor said, the crow’s feet punctuating the smile in his eyes.

“Still.”

Jordan said her good-byes, and then Alena offered to walk her to the elevator. In the lobby, she pulled her aside.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said in Russian, settling into a small alcove in the back of the waiting area. “Did Ben tell you that Yury and I are leaving?”

“He did, but he didn’t say why.”

“It’s Brodsky,” Alena replied. “The man is dangerous.”

“Has he threatened you?” Jordan’s question sounded stupid, even to her. “I’m working on proving his involvement in your kidnapping, in Lucy’s abduction, and in the attack on the Sapir Pumping Station. He needs to be held accountable.”

“
Nyet
.” Alena fingers dug into Jordan’s wrist. “Promise me you will stop.”

Jordan pulled her arm away and massaged her skin. “Why? That man deserves to be brought to justice.”

Alena leaned forward to whisper, her soft, dark hair brushing against Jordan’s cheek. “There are things you do not know, Raisa. Things about your mother and father. You must be careful. Promise me you will leave it.”

“I can’t make that promise.” Jordan knew herself. She would never be happy until she learned the truth. She didn’t understand why Alena didn’t feel the same. “I want to know what his involvement is. I need to know the things you know.”

“Have you heard of the old adage ‘Be careful what you ask for’?”

“Regardless of the consequences, I intend to see justice served.” Even if it meant living in fear, not just of losing her career, but for the family and friends and country she loved. She had sworn an oath to serve, and Brodsky had threatened the safety of people she had vowed to protect. “I’d like to set up a time to talk with you before you leave, Alena.”

“You are so much your father’s daughter.” Alena reached up and touched the side of Jordan’s face. “I’m sorry, there isn’t time.”

Jordan studied Alena’s expression. “Or is it that you’re not willing to talk to me about him?”

“As I said before, there are things you don’t want to know.”

That wasn’t what she had asked. “If you are trying to deter me, trust me, it won’t work. Olek Ivanova was my father. Good or bad, I have the right to know who he was as a man.”

“Even if it tarnishes your impressions? You seem to idolize him.”

“What could be so bad that you would keep me from knowing my father?” Jordan pushed up from the chair. “Whatever it is you don’t want me to know, it won’t stop me from seeking the truth. Nothing you say will convince me it’s better to live with blinders.”

“Then promise me something?” Alena waited for Jordan to nod. “Promise me you will always remember two things.”

“Which are?”

“Remember that, no matter how close they once were, your father never, ever trusted the man you know as Brodsky.”

“And the second thing?”

Alena looked grim. “Sometimes it is better to let the dead sleep.”

I
t has been said that writing is a solitary endeavor, but there is always the backup team!

My forever love and gratitude to my family, especially Wes for his unflagging confidence and support and Mardee, Danielle, and Addie for helping me explore Israel and their boundless enthusiasm for this book. To my BFFs: Laura Ware for being the best cheerleader on the planet, Cynthia Harbert for the chants, Anne McHugh for the goose bumps, and Janet Chapman for campfires and boat rides.

A big thanks to Gayle Lynds and David Morrell for being terrific mentors. To Twist Phelan, who bled red ink all over my pages. To my critique partners, who listened, advised, and sometimes slaughtered my first drafts, especially Don Beckwith, Tom Farrell, Marlene Henderson, Tom Holliday, Chris Jorgensen, Jedeane MacDonald, Mike McClanahan, Bruce Most, Piers Peterson, Suzanne Proulx, and Laurie Walcott. To my friends at the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and the WRW family, with a special shout-out to Roman White for his “Kill the Girl” campaign. And to my Think Tank pals: Kay Bergstrom, Carol Caverly, Chris J., Cheryl McGonigle, and Leslie O’Kane for their sage advice about the publishing world.

I would be remiss not to mention the experts who helped along the way: Dwayne from Remington; the S.W.A.T. guys, who at
their request will remain nameless; and my dear friends Moshe and Sandra Kafri, who helped add to the color. Thanks to all the people of Israel and the West Bank who showed me their country and shared their struggles. A special debt to Peter Rubie, who is as much my friend as my agent; Matt Martz, who saw the thriller in my manuscript and helped me to bring it out; and Nike Power, his assistant and copy editor extraordinaire.

Last, my undying gratitude to Irena, whom I can never repay. Thank you for a most precious gift.