Kitabı oku: «Special Forces: The Operator», sayfa 3
“That’s a pretty dark view of the world,” she responded.
“I live in a country where every time you step out of your house you knowingly put your life at risk. And I don’t exactly have a boring, routine job.”
“Still. I try not to dwell on death. I would rather focus on being and staying alive.”
“On that we are in complete accord,” he murmured, ushering her across a blocked-off street crowded with pedestrians. They slipped into a dark little restaurant called The Adler, and the sudden silence was a relief from the noisy party outside.
The bay window of the restaurant held a large, carved wooden mountain with little wooden skiers mounted on its painted slopes, and a collection of cuckoo clocks hanging above it. She was going to go with this being a Swiss-themed joint.
They had no trouble getting a table and sat down in a booth in a back corner. A tea candle in a glass globe gave out most of the light, and the table had an odd well cut into the middle about a foot deep.
“What is this place?” she asked curiously.
“Fondue joint,” Avi replied. “Best cheese fondue this side of Zermatt, Switzerland.”
“Huh. I took you for a steak and potatoes kind of guy.”
He leaned back and grinned. “Perhaps you’re guilty of misjudging me as badly as I initially misjudged you.”
“What did you initially take me for, then?”
“A groupie who managed to sneak into the village to pick up hot athletes,” he answered frankly.
“Gee, thanks,” she replied sarcastically.
He shrugged unapologetically. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”
He wasn’t wrong of course. Just yesterday, the American delegation had chased out a half-dozen drunk Polish guys from the American athlete building. They’d claimed to be looking for an American high jumper who was also a high-fashion model and on the covers of all the fashion magazines these days.
“If you’re not a steak and potatoes guy, then how would you describe yourself?” she challenged.
A waitress came and Avi ordered quickly in German: some sort of meal package for two, and then Rebel’s limited German gave out as he and the waitress conversed in the tongue quickly and fluently, ending on a laugh. Rebel had to stop herself from glaring off the flirting waitress, which privately stunned her. She had never been the jealous type before, and it wasn’t like she had any claim on Avi Bronson, thank you very much.
The waitress brought a fondue pot filled with a creamy cheese sauce, a platter of bread cubes and a handful of long dipping forks.
“It’s hot,” Avi warned her. “Don’t burn your mouth.”
She nodded and dipped a bread cube in the smooth sauce that smelled lightly of wine and Emmentaler cheese. She blew on the bite and popped it in her mouth. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “That’s fantastic.”
“Told you.”
“I will never question your culinary recommendations again.”
He smiled a little as he dipped a cube of his own. “I take my food very seriously.”
“What else do you take seriously? You never answered my question of how you’d describe yourself.”
He shrugged as he swirled a bread cube in the pot. “I would like to think I’m on my way to becoming a Renaissance man. You know what I do for my work. In my free time, I enjoy art, music, reading and good food.”
“What kind of art?” she asked.
“Modern interactive art is my passion, but I enjoy a good Rembrandt as much as the next person.”
“Music?”
“Every kind. Except Nazi-metalhead.”
“Books?”
“That’s a bit tricky. I prefer history or dead poets, but I make myself read literature and pop fiction.”
“Why?”
“To be well-rounded.”
“That all sounds terribly intellectual and dry. What do you do for fun?”
He leaned forward, and a boyish smile hovered on his lips. “I kill people.”
“Oh, puh-lease.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You must suck at your job if you have to whack people often. The idea is to get in and get out without being spotted and without ending up in a fight. Or didn’t they teach you that part in Israel?”
He laughed outright at her pithy observation. “Well, damn. Most women are unbearably turned on by knowing I can kill.”
“Sorry. It’s just an unpleasant part of the job to me.”
The waitress removed their cheese fondue, which they’d mostly polished off between them, and replaced it with a bubbling pot of hot oil and a platter of meats and vegetables.
“What makes you happy?” Avi asked when they’d demolished most of the main course.
“Happy?” she echoed. “I don’t believe in happiness.”
“Why ever not?” he exclaimed.
“Because it’s a lie. People confuse pleasure with happiness, and most humans only want pleasure. Which is transient, fleeting and passes quickly. It’s not worth ruining my life in pursuit of a few moments here and there that constitute mere pleasure.”
“Wow. Cynical much?” he murmured.
She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy my work. I take deep satisfaction from it, in fact. But that’s because I’m doing something important that will improve the quality of the world... I hope.”
Avi shuddered. “What a dreadful way to go through life.”
“What’s dreadful about being committed to my career?”
“Nothing. I’m committed to mine, as well. Passionately.”
“Why passionately?” she followed up.
“Because I live in a small country surrounded by larger enemies. Israel’s ongoing survival is always an open question. Unlike your country with oceans on either side of it and no enemies on Earth who can match your power, my country is tiny and imminently crushable. It takes many people of passion to keep her safe.”
“Just because the United States is big and powerful doesn’t mean we can stop working at staying safe. We have lots of enemies, and our size and power makes us a prime target. Hence, the need for people like me.”
He nodded. “We have a point of agreement, then. Both of our countries need robust security forces to ensure their safety.”
“Speaking of which, when do you expect to hear from your people about our friend? I’m dying to know what they have to say about him.”
One corner of his mouth turned up sardonically. “Are you in such a big hurry to jump in bed with him, then?”
She frowned across the table at them. They might have to speak elliptically about Mahmoud Akhtar in public, but she wasn’t loving the sleeping with Akhtar analogy.
Avi grinned unrepentantly. “Lighten up a little, Rebel. It was a joke.”
“Again, you didn’t answer my question.”
He sighed. “You need to learn how to slow down. Relax a little. Like now. Enjoy the good food and exceptional company. There will be time later for business.”
Great. He was clearly determined to torture her.
Except when the dessert course came—a rich, silky, dark chocolate fondue and a platter of succulent fresh fruit, berries and delicate ladyfinger cookies—she forgot her impatience and lost herself in savoring the delicious sweets.
“Be careful, Rebel. You’re looking suspiciously close to happy over there.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like pleasure. Just that I don’t live for it.”
“I fear, mademoiselle, that you are missing out on most of the best things in life with that grim philosophy of yours.”
“I am who I am,” she retorted. She refrained from reminding him she didn’t owe him a blessed thing. After all, she was supposed to work with this guy and trade information. No sense in antagonizing him outright.
“That’s a rather Socratic take on life,” he commented. “How does the saying go—I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.”
She retorted, “I know I’m intelligent, because I know better than to read people like Socrates and let them put my mind all in a twist.”
Avi laughed warmly. “Touché.” He signaled for the bill and handed over a credit card before Rebel even had a chance to grab for the bill.
“Next meal’s on me,” she declared.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you buy me supper sometime,” he said evenly as he signed the check and tucked the receipt in his pocket. “But it’s not necessary. I won’t think any less of you as an independent woman because you do or don’t insist on paying your own way.”
“It’s a matter of principle for me,” she admitted.
“How so? Don’t you like being taken care of?”
“More like I don’t like being smothered.”
He paused in the act of standing up to study her intently. After a moment, he finished straightening to his full height and gestured for her to precede him from the restaurant.
Dammit. Too revealing a comment. She shouldn’t have said that. She slid out of the booth and headed for the front door.
The Adler was a narrow space, and as they slipped past a group of loud drunks at the bar, Avi placed a protective hand in the middle of her back. The touch was light, impersonal even, but it also declared clearly to all the men they sidled past to leave her the hell alone.
Lord knew, she could break in half most any man who groped her. But for some reason, she took comfort in Avi removing the need for her to be defensive for a change. Sometimes it got damned fatiguing having to be on guard against drunks, lechers and general idiots.
They’d left the restaurant and were strolling back toward the village through still shockingly crowded streets before Avi murmured quietly, “Who smothered you, Rebel?”
She opened her mouth to declare it none of his business, but surprised herself by saying, “Basically all the men in my life.”
“Even Gunnar Torsten?”
“You have to admit he’s an intimidating man. Hard to know. Demanding. While I wouldn’t say he smothers any of us, he is challenging to work with. But at least he believes women have a place in the...community.” She omitted the words Special Forces, but Avi would know what she’d meant.
“It’s an interesting idea, building an entire team of women operators. I’d love to talk with you about it sometime, hear more about what you do.”
She shrugged. “Major T. obviously thinks you have the clearance to know about it, so I have no problem talking with you.”
“Perfect. What are you doing for dinner tomorrow?”
Gulp.
Chapter 3
Avi showed up at the American security center exactly five minutes early for his date with the fascinating American woman, Rebel. He was beginning to think her name fit her better than her parents could have imagined when they gave it to her.
He’d worked with enough American Special Forces teams over the years to know that in the American military, if a person wasn’t five minutes early, they were late.
Rebel was seated at a computer, frowning intensely at it when he stepped into the busy space. The Israeli command center had been hopping most of the night as well, tracking which of their athletes had been injured in the pool accident and rescheduling preliminary competitions for them. The IOC had been more understanding that he’d expected, actually. But then, the accident in the pool had been the host committee’s fault.
“Hi, Rebel,” he said quietly so as not to startle her.
She glanced up at him just long enough for color to bloom on her cheeks. Interesting. An autonomic response to him, huh? Good to know. Particularly since he was deeply intrigued by her, too.
“Whatcha working on?” he asked.
“Check this out.” She handed him a crude diagram she’d drawn on a piece of paper. A rectangle took up most of the sheet of paper, and it was filled with tiny numbers—hundreds of them from zero to nine.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
“I’ve spent the day asking every injured athlete I can get a hold of how bad their injuries are—I developed a scale from zero to nine to log the severity of their symptoms—and where they were in the pool when they first noticed them. Then I mapped all of that information in a rough diagram of the pool. Notice anything interesting?”
It leaped out at him right away. All of the nines were clustered tightly together about halfway down the east side of the pool. The eights and sevens clustered around that bunch of nines, and the numbers grew steadily smaller the farther away the victims had been from that spot of origin on the east side of the pool.
He looked up at Rebel. “What do you make of this?”
“I don’t think the excessive chlorine in the pool was introduced through the automated chlorination system. I think it was put in the pool by an individual standing beside it, right about there.” She jabbed at her drawing where all the nines were centered.
“The IOC has already closed the investigation,” he commented.
“Of course they have,” she replied scornfully. “They don’t want any hint of sabotage or an attack of some kind to sully their games.”
“They also don’t want to panic anyone by having wild rumors or unsubstantiated accusations floating around,” he observed.
She looked up at him, her gaze frustrated. “I get that. But I think the evidence is clear. We are, in fact, dealing with an act of sabotage. Combine that with my spotting Mahmoud Akhtar and Yousef Kamali at the east side of the pool last night, and you do the math.”
He sighed. “We don’t have a positive ID on either man. We can’t even confirm they’re here.”
“Is that what your Mossad contacts said?”
“They said they’ve heard nothing to indicate that Akhtar or Kamali is outside of Iran, let alone here and active.”
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t here. It just means your people don’t know they’re here,” she countered.
“What does the CIA have to say on the subject?”
She shrugged. “Zane is due to land in about an hour. I’ll let you know what he says.”
Tonight, Avi had chosen a more formal restaurant for them. He’d made a reservation for seven thirty, and it wasn’t the kind of place that held a table for a party if it was late. “We need to go,” he announced.
Rebel stood up, and he glanced at her dark, tailored business suit. It was expensive fabric and well made, but it did nothing to enhance the body beneath it.
They were outside the village and close to the restaurant before he asked, “Why do you wear suits like that? Do you want to make yourself look like a man?”
“I find that men are easily distractible creatures. Also, as a group, they’re not generally taught to judge a woman by her intellect or skill at her profession, but rather to judge her by her looks. If I want them to think of me as a professional, I have to look like one. And that means not girl-ing up.”
“You don’t think it’s possible for a woman to be attractive and do a job?”
“Of course I think it’s possible. I just don’t think it’s possible for men to perceive an attractive woman as a professional.”
“That’s a pretty dim view of men, Ms. McQueen.”
She shrugged. “I call it as I see it.”
“You really have been surrounded by stupid chauvinist jackasses, haven’t you?”
Her gaze jerked up to his.
“Why do you look surprised that I might have liberated views of women?” he asked. “Women have served side by side with men in the IDF since the founding of Israel in 1948.”
“Apparently, I was born in the wrong country,” she responded dryly.
“A mistake that can be rectified. I’m sure there’s a place in my country for a woman with your special abilities.”
She laughed. “Thanks, but I’m good with where I’m at. The Medusas are unique.”
“Other countries are training women Special Forces operatives.”
“True. But none of them are fielding entire teams made up of women who do the same sorts of missions as men. Most add a single woman to a team here and there. Also, not many countries are giving women full SF training. They’re modifying the training for women and not making them meet the same standards as men.”
“You had to meet men’s standards?” he exclaimed, startled.
“What would be the point if we didn’t?” she snapped.
He absorbed that in silence as they reached the restaurant. He held the door for her, and as she slid past him he muttered, “All the men’s standards?”
“All of them.”
“But...you’re so tiny.”
“Lower muscle to weight ratio for me to overcome. And I fit into small spaces my male counterparts don’t. Makes for great sniper nests that hostiles don’t spot.”
“You’re a—” He broke off, realizing belatedly that they were standing in a posh restaurant, and it probably wasn’t the ideal place to blurt out that his dinner companion was an assassin.
“Not my specialty,” she murmured. “I’m mainly a photo intelligence analyst. I look at live video images from drones and interpret them in real time.”
“So you have an eye for detail?”
“You could say that.” Her voice was as dry as the Negev Desert.
Their table was ready, and he followed Rebel and the maître d’ into the private dining room Avi had reserved for them. The decor of the room was dark, with paneled walls and burgundy carpet. Crisp white linen covered their candlelit table, though, and the places were precisely set with Limoges china and Lalique crystal. The table looked like a glittering jewel nestled in a bed of dark velvet. It was impossibly romantic.
Which was exactly the point. He’d set a personal goal of teaching the overly serious American commando how to loosen her collar a little and enjoy the finer things in life.
The maître d’ seated Rebel and then retreated, leaving the two of them alone. He sat down across from her and unfolded his crisply starched linen napkin, spreading it across his lap in anticipation of the culinary delights to come.
“Where have you brought me?” she asked in alarm. “I’m afraid to breathe hard, lest I break something.”
“The food is outstanding, and we can speak in private, here. And my government is picking up the tab, so don’t worry about the cost.”
“Cost? I bet his place doesn’t even put prices on the menu.”
He smiled. “They don’t. Shall I choose a wine for us?”
“You’d better. All I know about wine is it’s bad if it’s still bubbling.”
He laughed, shocked. “Still bubbling? That’s obscene.”
“That’s Boone’s Farm in a box.”
“Boone’s Farm? That’s not actually wine. It’s—” he searched for a proper description “—corn syrup, food coloring and rubbing alcohol.”
She laughed, and he stared, shocked at what happened to her face when her customary intensity gave way to actual joy. Her eyes sparkled, color came to her cheeks, and the fineness of her bones, the soft perfection of her skin came to life. It was as if her entire being smiled for a moment.
“You should laugh more often,” he declared.
The laughter faded from her eyes, and determination to make her laugh again came over him. But first, their waiter arrived, and Avi ordered a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine to go with the chef’s choice.
The waiter left and Rebel leaned forward, looking distressed. “What are we eating tonight?”
Avi shrugged. “Whatever the chef serves to us. I’ve eaten here several times and he has never disappointed me.”
“But what if it’s something weird?”
“I thought you Americans do a half-decent survival school. After eating bugs and worms, are you really that worried over what a Michelin three-star chef is going to make for you?”
She leaned back, looking disgruntled. In a heartbeat, she’d gone from stunningly beautiful to fluffy kitten cute.
“You’re quite the chameleon, Rebel.”
“How so?”
“I’ve identified at least four versions of you so far, and each one is entirely different.”
“Do tell.” She sipped the wine the waiter had poured for her, and abruptly, her attention riveted not on him but on her glass. “Holy crap,” she muttered.
“Is it ruined?” he asked quickly. “Cork in the wine? Soured?”
“No. I had no idea wine could taste like this. I don’t even like wine. But this is...amazing.”
He leaned back, grinning. “Ahh. Welcome to the civilized world. Where pleasure is more than fleeting and people achieve actual happiness.”
She scowled at him, back to being a hedgehog—prickly, but still adorable.
He sipped at his wine, savoring the complex bouquet. “So tell me this. Why would men like Mahmoud and Yousef bother dumping chlorine in a pool? It’s a far too low-level attack—too amateur for men of their training and skill.”
“Agreed. Unless it was some sort of test run. Maybe they were checking the emergency response. Or maybe they wanted to see if any sophisticated monitoring and detection equipment was brought out and used.”
An interesting theory. He replied, “It’s not as if poisoning a bunch of people with a chlorine attack is likely to succeed without being detected. It stinks to high heaven, and people have some time to run away from the fumes, and in this case skin burns, before they’re seriously injured or killed.”
“Obviously,” she retorted. “But what if they’re planning to use some other poison gas in a larger attack? Why go to all the trouble of setting up a lethal attack if you know the Olympic security team is prepared to detect it and stop it?”
“But we are prepared to identify the usual nerve gasses.”
She shrugged. “I know that, and you know that. But do the Iranians know that? Or are they testing the edges of our defenses to measure what we can and can’t respond to?”
“Or maybe a few drunk hooligans thought dumping a bunch of chlorine in the pool would be a funny joke.”
She studied him long and hard enough that he began to wonder what she was thinking about him. Only perverse stubbornness stopped him from asking. The same stubbornness frustrated his parents to no end, but had also saved his life on countless occasions when he refused to give up in the face of impossible odds. Hell, he was beginning to think getting this woman to relax and enjoy herself a little was one of those damn near impossible tasks.
Clearly, she intended to keep the talk over dinner entirely business. So be it. For now.
“Fine,” he conceded. “If it was, in fact, an attack, you’re likely right. It probably wasn’t random drunks. Have you considered the timing of the attack? Could it even have been your terrorists?”
She shrugged. “Mahmoud and Yousef left the pool about thirty minutes before everyone started reacting to the chlorine. They would have had to use some sort of dissolving packaging or pellets that melted slowly for the timing to work.”
“Okay,” he replied. “That’s a plausible hypothesis. Do you have any proof of it?”
“There are no lights in that pool, hence no underwater video. I’ve checked the security cameras for last night, but the crowd is so dense around the pool I can’t make out anyone who might have dumped anything in the water.”
“So your theory will have to remain just that. A theory.”
“A scary theory that you and my bosses would do well to take seriously,” she retorted.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry,” he murmured.
“I’m not angry. Just worried.”
“Fair enough. If you’re worried, I’m worried,” he responded gallantly.
“Really?”
He met her gaze squarely. “Yes. Really. Even if I don’t know you that well, yet, I do know Gunnar Torsten. And anyone he trains is someone to take seriously.”
They waited in silence as the first course of their meal was served, hors d’oeuvres of wild mushrooms stuffed with crab, escargot and truffle paté.
He silently took pleasure in watching the orgasmic expressions crossing Rebel’s face with each new flavor she encountered. She was a great deal more expressive than she likely thought she was. But then, a man like him was adept at catching every nuance of facial and body language, too.
Eventually, he leaned forward. “I did get one interesting piece of intel from my people this afternoon.”
She looked up expectantly from her potato-leek soup, abruptly all business, food forgotten. He sent a silent mental apology to the chef.
“I’ll share it with you, but on one condition,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
He stood up, went around the table and held out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”
