The Lance (The PROJECT: Book Two) (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Back in her rooms at the Mayflower, Selena dressed in a yellow sport bra and workout pants. She put on a light over shirt to cover her holster and a pair of running shoes. Rule one at the Project: never go anywhere without your gun. Time to go for a run, go to the gym, clear her mind.

She exited the building and headed for DuPont Circle. She didn't see the blond man across the street taking pictures of her with a telephoto lens. She ran along the busy streets, dodging traffic, feet pounding on the pavement, the sweat building, waiting for the burn. She ran, circled back, slowed, came to the gym. She went inside.

The place was cool with air conditioning. Filters tried to take away the odors of testosterone and sweat. The A/C couldn't quite pull it off. There was a faint, sour smell of deodorant and mildew in the air. She walked over to a heavy stationary punching bag. She paused in front of the bag, closed her eyes and centered herself, as she'd been taught. She opened her eyes and began hitting it, quick jabs, picking up speed until her arms were pistons, quick blurs of motion. Like a striking cobra. Or whatever snake was so fast, the motion blurred and you were down before you knew what had happened.

She began throwing side kicks, leg straight out, heel extended, balanced so the full strength of her body traveled down the bone and into the bag. The heavy bag rocked and shuddered with each blow.

She thought about Nick. She loved his hard, scarred body, the way he took her. But he never relaxed, even after they'd made love. He always acted like he expected something to jump out at him. He never stopped watching, observing. His gray eyes were always moving. He never sat with his back to a door or window. He always walked away from walls. He always carried a pistol.

She did too, now. She felt the hard shape moving against her hip.

Damn him. The fury of her kicks increased. She forced herself to slow down, to focus. Being with Nick was like being with two or three different people. He was moody as hell. He got headaches and sometimes he had a far away look in his eyes like no one was home. Relationship, as in a real relationship with a woman, was like a foreign concept to him. At least as far as she was concerned.

Then there were those nightmares. She'd asked him about them. He dreamed about Afghanistan, where a child threw a grenade that almost killed him.

He dreamed about things that hadn't happened yet. It was something passed down in his genes. Sometimes the dreams came true, although not always the way he thought they would. It was weird, beyond weird, spooky.

He dreamed of his dead fiancée. Sometimes when they were in bed she felt like there was a third person in there with them. Megan. All Selena really knew about her was her name.

Thirty minutes later she was back in her rooms. She stripped off her sweat stained clothes and headed for the shower. She stood under the stream and let the hot water run down. She held her face under the shower and ran her fingers through her the hair while the water beat on her breasts.

She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself off. She stood naked and considered her body. Five ten, a taut hundred and forty pounds. She wasn't into the anorexic thing. She worked hard to keep herself in shape. It let her do things that made life interesting, like sky diving and scuba, her martial arts.

She looked in the mirror, touched her face, the high cheekbones, brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead. She turned on the dryer and thought about the Project while she mussed her hair.

Before she'd met Harker, she'd consulted with NSA and worked the academic circuit. She was a world class expert on ancient and oriental languages. She was more than accomplished in martial arts. She was rich. She could jump out of airplanes and hit the center of a pistol target from fifty yards. She could run must men into the ground. She could do most anything she wanted to. And she had been bored.

Before the Project, life had been predictable. A lecture. A consulting assignment. A translation. Then she'd met Nick and Elizabeth Harker and found herself caught up in a world where people  tried to kill her.

Now she was part of the team. Now she carried a Glock .40 mm in a fast draw holster instead of a pen. She was sleeping with Nick and wondering where the hell it was going, or if it would go anywhere. Her life had turned upside down.

She looked in the mirror and smiled. At least it wasn't boring.

CHAPTER SIX

F
luorescent light glared off scarred yellow walls. The cement floor was painted dull gray. The room was bare except for a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs. A camera watched from one corner. A large mirror took up a portion of one wall.

Ari Herzog, senior Shin Bet agent in Jerusalem, watched through the one way mirror. The man in the room was around six feet tall, about two hundred pounds. He had black hair and eyebrows, wolf-like eyes, and a hard, square-jawed look. He needed a shave. He sat quietly, waiting for whatever came next. There was no fidgeting, no nervousness. The medic had dressed his knife wound an hour before.

"He's a cool one."

The comment came from a tall man with black eyes and sallow skin and big ears. His face was weathered from the desert sun with lines that made him look older than his forty-eight years. He wore a short sleeved white shirt, black tie, crisp blue pants and black shoes. Silver insignia of the National Police glittered on his shoulders. A name tag on his shirt identified him as Ben Ezra.

"Eighteen stitches for that gash in his thigh, no anesthetic," he said. "He didn't even flinch. While he was being sewed up he worked with the sketch artist. We're running it through the database now. So far, no hits."

He held out the artist's rendering of the man Nick had followed into the alley. Herzog looked at the drawing, then opened a Shin Bet dossier he carried in his right hand.

"Nicholas Carter," Herzog said. "Former Major in their Marines, Force Recon. That's part of their Special Operations Command now. He's supposed to be part of an advance party for the US President's visit."

Herzog continued reading.

"Silver star, bronze star with cluster, three purple hearts, tours in South America, Persian Gulf, Iraq, Afghanistan. Redacted records. High security clearance. Part of a covert unit that answers to their President and specializes in targeted operations against terrorists."

"Sounds a little like one of yours, Ari." The policeman scratched under his armpit.

Carter's effects were in a box on a nearby table. Herzog looked through them. Airline ticket. Rental car keys. A wallet with driver's license, credit cards and two thousand dollars in currency. There was a picture in the wallet of a dark haired woman standing in front of a restaurant, blowing a kiss at the camera. Carter's passport was full of stamps from all over the globe.

There was a state of the art, encrypted satellite phone. A small pocket knife and flashlight, locally bought. A flat, black credentials holder with Carter's ID. A room key for the King David Citadel Hotel.

Carter's pistol, a Heckler and Koch .45, had been sent forward from storage at Ben Gurion airport. Herzog picked up the gun, examined it. He eyed the three fifteen round magazines and the shoulder rig.

"Big pistol. Custom hollow points. This one doesn't fool around." Herzog set the pistol down.

"You think it's a coincidence he was there when that bomb went?"

"What does he say?"

"That he was having a cup of coffee when the bomb exploded. He says he saw a man talking on a cell phone. In his opinion the man was involved with the bombing, so he went after him. When he did, two others attacked him. The one with the phone got in a white Volvo and was driven away. Then my men showed up and took this one into custody. We're on the lookout for the car, but there are a lot of white Volvos."

Ben Ezra scratched his arm. "One of the men he fought is dead. The other is in a coma. The one he killed was in our files from demonstrations in the West Bank. No ID on the other yet. When he comes out of it, if he comes out of it, we'll encourage him to answer some questions."

"Mmmm."

Ben Ezra continued. "We found two knives in the alley." He gestured through the glass. "This one was unarmed. Except for that little penknife. It was in his pocket."

"Not bad, against two with knives. We're sure he's who he says he is?"

"Confirmed."

"Their President gives his speech two days from now. Why send a covert operative here, using his own name, claiming him as part of the Presidential party?"

"Maybe we should ask him."

"Let's do that."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Carter looked up as two men entered the room. The first was about forty-five, dressed in a crumpled dark blue suit, white shirt with no tie, and black shoes. His hair was curly and black with touches of gray. Around five ten and a hundred and seventy, his eyes were dark brown, intense and bloodshot. He looked tired. Lines of stress were grooved into his cheeks and forehead. He was wearing a wedding ring and carried a folder in his left hand.

The blue l
ogo of Shin Bet was prominent on the credentials he held up for Nick to see. Shin Bet's motto translated as "The Invisible Shield". In the covert war zone comprising all of Israel, Shin Bet was the front line.

Standing next to him was a ranking policeman
with silver pips and a leaf on his shoulders. A cop in uniform entered the room, closed the door and stood by it.

The man put his credentials back in his jacket pocket.
"My name is Ari Herzog."

"
Nick Carter." Nick rose and held out his hand, trying not to wince at the pain in his leg. Herzog looked surprised. He hesitated, then shook. His grip was firm.

"
This is Commander Ben Ezra. We'd like to talk with you." He gestured at the chair.

They sat
down. The cop and Ben Ezra remained standing.

Carter looked at the folder under Herzog's arm. The only way he'd get out of here was cooperation. He decided to play it straight. "Y
ou've checked me out by now," he said. "What is it you want to know?"

Herzog and Ben Ezra looked at one another. Herzog cleared his throat.

"Many things, Mr. Carter. Beginning with what you were doing at the mall earlier this evening."

"
I was having a cup of coffee."

"
At the exact time and place of a terrorist attack."

"
Wrong time, wrong place. But yes, having a cup of coffee. Do you think this attack had something to do with me?"

"
Not necessarily." Herzog glanced at the folder. "You were sent here as part of an advance detail prior to your president's visit?"

"
Yes."

"
For what purpose? You're not Secret Service."

"
My boss thinks there could be a terrorist attack timed to coincide with Rice's speech. We have a source in the Old City. I was sent to see if I could find specific facts to back up that intelligence. That's why I'm here."

"
Armed."

"
I was, until your people confiscated my weapon. If I'd had it tonight, your terrorist might be sitting here instead of me."

"
Or not. One of the men you fought is dead, the other is badly injured. He's in a coma."

Nick shrugged. "
I didn't have many options."

"
How were you to obtain the facts needed to, as you say, back up your intelligence?"

"
I was going to connect with your organization after I'd scouted around a bit. This isn't the kind of meeting I'd pictured, though." He gestured at the room.

"
What had you planned to do next?"

"Meet with
our source."

"
When was this meeting to take place?"

"It's today at nine.
I'd hoped yesterday, but no luck. My instructions were that if I discovered anything definite to let your people handle it."

"
Mmm." Herzog was non-committal. "You are willing to share this source with us?"

Carter thought about it. He'd never given up a
contact. But Israel was an ally and what counted was the success of the mission. 

"
Yes. But I think it's better if he doesn't know you're involved."

"
You're proposing that you and I work together?"

"W
e've got a common interest. Tonight's attack could be part of some bigger terrorist scenario. I'll bet you've already had to divert manpower from Rice's visit to handle it. Put me back out there and I can help."

Herzog gave
him a long look. He turned to Ben Ezra.

"
What do you think?"

The policeman let out a long breath. Scratched under his arm.

"It's your call, Ari. We're stretched thin right now. If you trust him, maybe he can help, but we need him on a tight leash."

"
Mmm. Mr. Carter, if we do this you must remain under my operational supervision. No 'cowboy' stuff, yes?"

"
Agreed. One thing, though."

"
Yes?"

"
I'd like my weapon back."

"
You think you need it?"

"
If you trust me, there's no reason not to return it. I'd take it as a sign of good faith on your part."

"
That's a lot of faith."

"
Isn't that what Jerusalem is all about?"

Herzog smiled.

"All right, Mr. Carter." Ben Ezra didn't look happy about that.

"
Please. Nick."

"
Nick. Tell me, what is the name of your contact?"

Now it was
his turn to demonstrate faith.

"
Arslanian, Arshak Arslanian. He has a shop in the Armenian Quarter." He gave Herzog the address.

Herzog took a card from his jacket, wrote on the back of it.
"My number. I suggest you return to your hotel and get some sleep. A car will pick you up at 0700. We will start our joint effort then, beginning with your contact."

"
Understood."

It felt good to
stand up after hours of sitting. The stitches hurt. Outside the interrogation room, Herzog gave him his possessions and his pistol. Nick strapped it on and breathed easier. He was spattered with blood from the mall, his head hurt and he needed a shower and about ten hours of sleep he wasn't going to get.

A police car took him back to the hotel.