No Remorse (27 page)

What would Derek do if she told him? His one priority—
their
one priority, as he kept reminding her—was to know when Khalid had the nuclear canisters, so they could take action to recover them. Five canisters that could be exploded as dirty bombs relatively easily—or even made into nuclear weapons, if the buyer had the technological sophistication of an Iran or North Korea. Or maybe even Syria. Saddam hadn’t been able to achieve it, which is why he gave the canisters to his friend Abu-Bakr to hide. And now, once Khalid had them, he could auction them to the highest bidder.

What was one life against millions?

She knew Derek wouldn’t want her to do anything. She could hear his voice in her mind:
For God’s sake, don’t mention anything to Mac. We don’t want him on the warpath. If he thinks there’s even a remote possibility of his precious Sophia being cut up, he’ll probably go crazy and kill Khalid. Then the canisters will disappear and one’ll turn up in Manhattan. Think big picture here, Tal!

She closed her eyes and cocooned her face in her hands.

“You okay?” Rosco asked, getting up and filling the kettle. “Wanna coffee?”

She shook her head. No. She couldn’t do this. She punched the numbers on her cell phone. Her thumb hovered above the red button.

A weary male voice answered. “Hello? Bob here.”

She pressed the red button. She couldn’t ask. It would only cause the Bennetts more pain. And in any case, they needed to stop the operation regardless of who the donor would be.

She called Derek.

“Wisebaum.”

“Hi Derek. You okay to talk?”

“Yeah. Hey, Tal. We’re having a barbeque down by the lake. Beautiful day here. How’s Gay Paree? And by that, I don’t mean the night spots Rosco might take you to.”

She gave a quick laugh. “Derek, I think we’ve found further proof of Khalid’s Al Qaeda connections. An email from someone called Rockfire has asked him to arrange a liver transplant for a recipient who is an important member. We think it’s Zodhami. The transplant is due to take place in Andaran on the eighteenth. It seems like they’re intending to use one of the abducted children as a living donor. We have one week, Derek.”

There was a long pause, and she wished she could see Derek’s face to understand what he was thinking. “Derek? You there?”

“Sorry, just had to get away from the others. Have you told Mac? He’ll go fucking ballistic!”

“Of course not. That’s why I called you. Have you managed to trace this Rockfire yet?”

“Tried. The link’s untraceable. We’ll keep trying. Anything else?”

“No.”

There was a silence. She could hear Derek’s hand blocking the microphone, as though he were talking to someone.

Finally, he spoke. “Sorry. The Director wants to see me, Tal.”

“You think I should tell Mac our real mission? I believe he trusts me now.”

“Well, I told you he would if you played him right. Where’s he now?”

“He’s at a hair salon. He’s worried Khalid will have photos of us from Dubai. We’re having our hair dyed and cut.”

“Good idea. Look, just keep him close. And whatever you do, don’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know. That includes our real mission.”

The connection was terminated.

Rosco sat back and stretched. “Ah, thank Christ. I’m in at last.”

Tally stood up and watched over his shoulder as he navigated his way through the hotel’s server and copied the files for the internet portal. “Great job, Rosco. Anything I can do to help?”

“No, sweetie. I’ll send this over to Montreal and they can work on it overnight. Tomorrow, we should have our phishing site ready to intercept Khalid.”

“Well, I’m off to the stylist then. See you at seven.”

Rosco pulled a face. “Would you really, really mind if I don’t come along? I might just eat in. Want to make sure I get things tidied up before tomorrow. Besides, you two honeymooners deserve a night off after wiggling your bottoms at Colonel Boroni. Ha! I would’ve
loved
to have seen that, sweetie.” He winked at her. “Mac’s bottom, I mean. Go on, lovey. I’ll call if things heat up here. You need to let your hair down, so to speak...”

“Thanks, Rosco. You know what? I think I do.”

Ibrahim’s voice was a little scratchy through his cell phone. “We have just departed Jeddah on the
Alamohamadi
, Highness. Making a steady twelve knots. The weather is fair. We should arrive in four days.”

That was the agreed confirmation message. They had recovered the two buried containers and had them on the dhow. If the Israelis had followed the
Princess Aliya
to Karachi, they would be a thousand miles from what they were seeking. Now, they had to pray that Allah would deliver the cargo safely to Andaran.

“You say the weather is fair?” Khalid repeated, wanting certainty with the poor reception.

“The weather is fair, yes, Highness. Masoud is with me, and we have brought Mahomet as you requested. We are soon to enter the Gulf. Have the pirates been dealt with?”

“Yes. But make sure the captain sails close to the French Navy ships, just in case.” Khalid supplied weapons to the pirates operating off the coast of Somalia, but they were such a loose group he had made a payment of $20,000 to the largest pirate group in the region—ironically calling itself the Ocean Salvation Corps—to allow the
Alamohamadi
safe passage.

“I will, Highness. Did you receive my text?”

Khalid looked at the screen of his cell phone. The text was a cell phone number. “This is for the child of the desert?”

There was a short delay in the reply. “As instructed, Highness. The child awaits your guidance.”

“Thank you, brother. Safe journey.”

“
Inshallah
,” Ibrahim said.

The connection ended.

Khalid smiled. The timing for exploding the first bomb was now in his hands. All he needed was an untraceable phone.

He was feeling in an upbeat mood since asking Sheriti to be his wife. She had clearly been surprised by his proposal, and explained that she would need a little time to think. But she promised him an answer soon. That was fine.

Meantime, he had plenty of other matters to keep him distracted. Rubi had arranged his meeting with Jing Ho for the early hours of tomorrow morning, to minimize the risks. He would retrieve his father’s treasures and have his revenge on the House of Saud, outfoxing his enemies just as his father had done.

He crossed the living room and opened the bedroom door. “Jamila, come! We will go for that walk now.”

“The FBI’s clammed up!” Bob’s voice was showing the strain he was under. Mac had called to update him. “They refused point-blank to discuss Khalid Yubani. I asked if they would be interviewing him. The fucking assholes wouldn’t even say yes or no. Anyone’d think he owned the fucking FBI or something!”

“Bob—”

“Christ, I feel like going to fucking Fox News. They’d get some answers.”

“No Bob, there’s a lot more to this, and I can’t say too much. But if there’s any publicity, I believe it will endanger the girls’ lives. Look, buddy, things are happening. You have to trust me on this. What did you used to say to me, coach? ‘Chin out, eyes ahead’?”

“It’s just so goddamn frustrating. I feel helpless. Impotent. Knowing this guy Khalid has her.”

“We don’t
know
that for sure, Bob. We believe he may have bought her. But when I searched his compound there were no kids, only signs that some had been held there. My feeling is that if they’ve gone to that much trouble to transport them there, they’d want to at least make sure they are okay. We’re following up a new lead. That’s all I can say at this stage.”

He couldn’t tell Bob about his plans to kidnap Khalid, especially not over the phone. The NSA could pick up something like that and have it over to the CIA or ASTA within minutes. But he had to give Bob something.

“You sound almost like the Feebs.” Bob uttered a big sigh. “Okay. I get the hint. I’ll back off. But please, Mac, let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

“I promise, Bob.” As soon as he hung up, he dialed Jog Khoury.

In the background, Mac could hear the barking of Jog’s two German Shepherds. “Scotty has just arrived. Would you like to join us for dinner? I’m sure Claudette can make sufficient…”

“Thanks, Jog, but I have some things to do before we meet. Did Scotty manage to get the GPS on Khalid’s car?”

He could hear some muffled conversation. Scotty came on the line.

“Ay, lad, I’ve got a tracker on the limo. Jog has Schmidt watching the Riston, and he’ll call if they leave. We’re not anticipating it. Khalid’s entire party is booked into the Riston restaurant for dinner. These guys like long dinners.”

“That they do,” Mac replied. “Give me a call if he leaves. And give me Schmidt’s number, just in case.”

The Hyatt’s Chinoiserie bar was elegantly modern, furnished with black leather sofas, gold-painted ornaments of Chinese origin, and a grand piano with a shiny-suited Sudanese pianist calling himself Samir, who seemed to have modeled his act on Sam from the movie, Casablanca. Mac was on his second bourbon on an empty stomach, which had relaxed him nicely. He needed to pace himself. It wouldn’t do to be affected by alcohol later on, if Khalid decided to go for a drive. He was dressed casual—boots, jeans and a black shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—and had positioned himself at the rear of the bar, where he could see who was coming and going.

The stylist had changed his hair to a sandy brown, and it was sticky with wax. He was wearing disposable blue contact lenses. He almost didn’t recognize Tally when she appeared in a black cocktail number with spaghetti straps that revealed a delicate hint of cleavage and acres of leg. She was now a brunette, with her hair straight and short, with a fringe. French coquettish. She was a knockout, blonde or brunette. He gulped down his feelings, put down the glass, and signaled.

“
Mon Dieu, mon cheri!
You’re so different,” she said, sitting next to him on the wrinkled leather sofa. “I didn’t think Rambo would recognize me.”

“Rambo knows legs. Nice dress. Your haircut changes the shape of your face. You look…good.” He handed her the cocktail menu.

She made a tiny smile. “My round, I think.
Garçon! Moët, s’il vous plaît.
”

“I’d better stick with bourbon.”

She downed the champagne and ordered another. “Ah…that’s better. What a day!” She picked up a bowl of mixed nuts. “Yours?”

He tried to think of some clever repartee, but all he could think of was: “Help yourself.”

Tally pulled a pained expression and took a handful of pistachios, cracking the shells and tossing kernels into her mouth. “Mmm. A little salty, perhaps.”

He leaned back and chuckled. “Where’s Rosco?”

“Eating in. He’s a control freak. Where’s Khalid?”

“Dining with the rest of them at the Riston. I guess we have the night off.” That is, unless Jog calls, he thought.

Tally grinned and held up her glass. “And where better than Paris?” She clinked the glass against his and shook her hair. “It feels so different, this short.” She tilted her head slightly, closer. “You know, you aren’t nearly as grouchy when you’re off duty.”

“Who says I’m grouchy?”

“Derek. He figures it’s pent-up aggression.” She patted the head of a golden carved figure of a crouching tiger on the bar table, its teeth bared and amber eyes glaring.

“Mmm. Friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance. He’s unpredictable, violent and dangerous when roused. Know anyone like that?” Tally’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she stroked the animal’s back. She took the strawberry from her glass and parted her lips around it, then bit it in half.

He wondered if she’d had a couple before she arrived at the bar. “Dangerous can be exciting.”

She leaned towards him, causing a strap to fall off her shoulder. “Dangerous can be dangerous. Are we eating? Or are you just trying to get me drunk?”

“There’s a little place around the corner I managed to get a table.”

She held up her left hand, flashing the wedding band she’d been wearing since Andaran. “And just so we’re clear, Rambo, this isn’t a passport to privileges, even in Paris.”

He laughed. “Come on. Our table should be ready.”

The sidewalk was a jostling mass scurrying to dinner through the drizzling rain. Strands of lights twisted around the trees along the sidewalk made the street pulsate with life.

“Did you know there are one hundred thousand trees lining the streets of Paris?” Tally said, a little unsteady as she walked. Maybe she didn’t wear high heels very often. “Every tree has a computer chip linked to a database so the maintenance people can monitor their condition. Such a beautiful city.”

“If you stay under the trees you won’t get so wet.”

Tally grabbed his arm as an anchor against the jostling crowd. They turned into Rue Royale. Up ahead was the Place de la Concorde. He stopped at an ornate timber and glass door under a maroon awning.

“Maxim’s! My God, how did you manage that?” Tally squeezed his arm as they walked inside the iconic restaurant.

He tapped his nose twice. He hadn’t planned it, but he’d struck it lucky when a booking cancelled just as he dropped in on the way to the hairdresser. A very generous tip helped. Their small round table was tucked away in a back corner where the lighting was dim, which pleased him. He checked the exits and toilets anyway, much to Tally’s amusement.

“You think Khalid’s men will find us here? With our new look?”

“There was a politician in Kandahar who had a laid-back attitude to his personal safety. Allah’s will, he would say. Twice I saved him from getting killed. Third time, I wasn’t around.”

She stopped laughing. “Oh, come on, Mac. We’re off duty. Just for once, let your guard down.”

Something in the way she said that made the hairs prickle on his arms. He studied her face for hidden meaning, but she was browsing the menu. He knew he took himself too seriously and he enjoyed her provocative gibes, but he was also wary. The last person he’d trusted to toy with his feelings was Susan. Were they moving into dangerous territory? Then again, he’d trusted her enough to talk about Cyn. He took a deep breath and began reading the menu. He could do a lot worse than dining at Maxim’s with this stunning, complex woman.