Was that it?
Was that what the President was telegraphing? He hadn’t shut them down. He had simply established a bright line. One that for now, they would all have to abide by.
Switching to strategy, they remained for a few more minutes to discuss roles and who was going to do what next.
After discussing the Israelis and Ben Mordechai, they agreed to talk again in an hour, and exited the Situation Room en masse.
Halfway up the stairs, Harvath’s phone began to blow up, chiming with a string of texts—all of them from Nicholas, telling him to call in.
As he hit the exit for the West Wing, his phone sprang to life once more, this time with a call. “Atomic Dog” by George Clinton.
The Old Man looked at him.
“Nicholas,” Harvath responded.
“Answer it.”
CHAPTER 38
I
t was a torrent of bad news. “Six more cases have been reported,” said Nicholas.
“Where?” Harvath replied.
“San Francisco, Cedar Rapids, Atlanta, Philadelphia, New York City, and Washington, D.C.”
Washington?
Harvath shouldn’t have been surprised. D.C. and Northern Virginia had large Muslim populations. He just hadn’t expected this thing to spread so quickly, much less wind up on his own doorstep overnight. But it was there, and they were going to have to deal with it.
“Has the media gotten ahold of this yet?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Nicholas. “And in the last two hours, health ministries from eleven other countries have reached out to the CDC. They’re trying to control the information flow in order to prevent a panic.”
Good luck with that,
Harvath thought. In his experience, life was predominantly made up of three distinct groups: sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves. And if there was one thing he had learned from a lifetime of hunting wolves and protecting sheep, it was that sheep had two speeds—graze and stampede. Now that word was out that the virus was loose, all bets were off. Very soon, chaos was going to ensue.
“What else do you have?” he asked, bracing himself for more bad news.
“The pharmaceutical companies Damien’s involved with appear pretty benign. One focuses on dementia medication and the other on birth control drugs.”
Go figure.
“I think you were right about the Congolese Muslims, though,” Nicholas continued. “There was a group of thirty. They arrived and departed Saudi Arabia via the same privately chartered aircraft.”
Finally, some good news.
“Any passport photos or CCTV footage?” he asked.
“All of it has been transmitted to the Solarium. Vella is personally going to go through it with Hendrik.”
While it wouldn’t move the ball down the field, at least it would confirm his theory. “Anything else?”
“Mordechai’s asset made contact.”
“The woman with Damien?”
“Yes,” Nicholas replied. “She thinks she captured his password.”
“That’s even better news.”
“And it keeps getting better. The keystroke logger captured activity from multiple devices in the room, one of which we were able to ID.”
“Which was?”
“A laptop belonging to Linda Landon from the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Have you reviewed all of the keystrokes they caught?”
“No one has seen them. Not even Mordechai. Without access to secure comms, his asset isn’t transmitting the data. She and Damien are having lunch today at some place called La Niçoise in Winchester. She’s going to pass the actual memory card to Mordechai there.”
With all the tech the Israelis had, he was a little surprised they couldn’t have equipped her with some way to encrypt and transmit the data. But by the same token, this was an incredibly important operation. They were risking a ton just sending her in with the keystroke logger. There was no telling what Damien or his people might have done if they had discovered any of it.
He also needed to keep in mind that Mordechai’s operation had revolved around the City of Geneva, where it wouldn’t have been a big deal to pass off the memory card on her way to work, or to a store, or something like that. Now that she was at Damien’s rural Virginia estate, she was much more isolated.
There was no telling how secure his WiFi was and what possible
digital eavesdropping measures he had in place. He was known to entertain wealthy and extremely powerful people. Did he eavesdrop on any of their communications?
The restaurant was a good play. The handoff would be low-tech, old-school Espionage 101. What he didn’t like, though, was that they’d be burning hours in a battle where every second counted.
“Where’s Mordechai now?” Harvath asked.
“Still at the canal house. The team that’s on him is about to rotate off.”
“Who’s up next?”
“Sloane Ashby and Chase Palmer are back on.”
Harvath put the phone on
mute
, spoke to the Old Man for a couple of seconds, and then returned to Nicholas. “How would you like to get out of the SCIF for a little bit?”
“That depends,” the little man said. “What do you have in mind?”
“Lunch. I’ll buy.”
•••
Nicholas’s gray Sprinter cargo van was a rolling TOC. It had satellite communications equipment hidden in the roof and was packed with racks of electronics inside. Special hand-controls had been added that allowed him to drive the van himself.
They arrived in downtown Winchester well before the lunch rush and found parking half a block down from La Niçoise on the other side of the street. Its awning promised Mediterranean and French cuisine—two of Nicholas’s favorites. Harvath exited the van and came back fifteen minutes later with Thai.
“What the hell is this?” the little man complained.
“Pad See Ew.”
“I’m not eating this.”
Harvath took the container back and set it on the dashboard.
“That’s it?” Nicholas asked. “No Champignons Sauvages? No Pâté de Campagne? No Escargots Bourguignons?”
Harvath looked in his bag from Thai Winchester. “I guess they forgot.”
He shook his head. “Less than fifty yards from a French restaurant and
you
stumble around until you find Thai food.”
“Who doesn’t like Thai?”
“Don’t play stupid with me,” Nicholas replied. “You’re so much better at it.”
Harvath laughed and reached inside the bag. “That’s what I love about you. You never look down on anyone.”
The little man fixed him with a stare. “Is that a short joke?”
“Maybe,” he replied, handing him a styrofoam container. “Gourmet bison burger, rare, with caramelized onions and blue cheese.”
Nicholas’s stare softened into a smile.
“We good?” Harvath asked.
“It’s not Gigot D’Agneau,” he said, lifting the lid and admiring the sandwich, “but I’ll take it. Did you bring back anything for the boys?”
Harvath looked into the back of the van at Argos and Draco, their noses in the air, taking in the smell of all the hot food. “Sorry, they only took cash and I came up a little—”
“Don’t say it,” Nicholas smiled.
Harvath smiled. “You’re lucky I found someplace to get you a burger.”
“Thanks.”
In between bites of his food, Harvath said, “A TV was on in the Thai place. They broke from national news for a local report about another patient who had bled out at Georgetown University Hospital.”
“They’ll never contain this.”
“The illness or the story?”
Nicholas took a bite of his burger and let his silence speak for itself.
Harvath had no doubt that reporters from coast to coast were scouring hospitals, working their sources, trying to uncover additional cases. The one thing the government had going for them, for the time being, was that all of the patients thus far had contracted the illness abroad.
Harvath reached for a bottle of water as Nicholas’s phone chimed. The little man picked it up, plugged in his password, and read the message. He then opened the attachment and turned the phone so that Harvath could see the image.
“Here’s your escapee from the Ngoa facility.”
Harvath looked at the image. It appeared to be a scan of the man’s passport made by the Saudis when he entered their country. His name was Yusuf Mukulu and he was twenty-seven years old.
“Who’s that from?” he asked.
“Vella in Malta. Hendrik has confirmed that Mukulu is the man who escaped and ended up at the Matumaini Clinic.”
It was surreal seeing the man’s face—the person Colonel White had referred to as “Patient Zero.” If only there were one Patient Zero and not thirty.
“What happened to the rest of the pilgrims he travelled to Mecca with?” Harvath asked.
Nicholas turned the phone back around and thumbed through the rest of the brief message. “According to Hendrik, the Ngoa staff watched them die, then dug a pit, burned the bodies, and covered it up.”
“Literally and figuratively.”
The little man returned his phone to the console and turned his attention back to his burger.
Harvath checked his own phone for an update from Ash and his team back in Congo. An aircraft had been chartered to get them to Kinshasa. Another was sent to Bunia to retrieve the STAR team member assigned to work with them. So far, there was nothing.
They ate in silence until Nicholas asked, “If we don’t get a handle on this . . . if this whole thing spins out of control, what’s your plan?”
“It’s not going to.”
The little man looked at him. “Right, but let’s say it does. Let’s say the wheels come completely off the bus. Do you have a plan? Where you would go, what you would do?”
Harvath nodded. “A friend of mine from the SEALs has a place in Alaska. It’s cut off, remote, very tough to get to. But that’s where I’d want to ride things out. He’s a strategic guy. He’s laid in a lot of supplies over the years, just in case.”
“Doomsday prepper?”
“He’s just a smart guy. He knows store shelves may not always be stocked. He also knows that if there’s ever a major disaster, the government can’t, and won’t, take care of everyone. You’ve seen enough since you’ve been in D.C. There are some good people in government, but by and large the government looks out for itself.
“They’ve spent billions making sure that if the wheels come off the
bus, they’ve got someplace safe to go with plenty of food to eat. They’re protected. You and me? Not so much. We’re on our own. So that’s why Alaska is my plan.”
“But you’d have to get there first,” said Nicholas. “That’s a pretty long way away.”
“I’ve got that covered. What about you?”
The little man looked at his two dogs and then back at Harvath. “I don’t know. I never really gave it much thought until now. I never felt like I had to. I guess it would depend on where the safest place was.”
“And then what?”
“Then I would figure out how to get us all there.”
“Meaning you, the dogs, and Nina,” said Harvath, referring to the woman in Nicholas’s life.
“Pretty much.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
The little man nodded.
“That’s a shitty plan.”
“I know,” he replied, “but it’s the only plan I have.”
“Well, we need to get you a new one.”
“Until we do, Alaska sounds good.”
“Don’t worry,” said Harvath. “It’s not going to come to that.”
“But if it does?”
“If it does, I’ll take you with me, okay?”
Nicholas smiled. Harvath was a good man, one of the only real friends he had ever had. “Thank you.”
Harvath was going to make a joke about stocking up on orange hair dye so they didn’t lose Nicholas in any Alaskan snowdrifts, when his phone rang. It was Palmer.
Activating the call, he said, “What’s up?”
“Look sharp. Damien and the woman are here.”
CHAPTER 39
W
hen the two black Suburbans pulled up in front of La Ni
ç
oise, members of Damien’s security team exited first. They were hard men, fit, well-trained, and obviously experienced. After looking slowly up and down the block, they opened the rear passenger door so Damien could exit, followed by Helena. He offered her his arm and the pair entered the restaurant together.
The owner rushed to greet him. They shook hands, Damien inquired after the man’s family, and then handed him a leather wine tote with two perfectly chilled bottles of 1978 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Montrachet.
It was fifty thousand dollars’ worth of wine and the owner, also an oenophile, knew it. Damien patted him on the shoulder. “When you bring our glasses, bring one for yourself.”
“My goodness,” the man responded, thrilled. “Thank you, Mr. Damien. That is very kind of you. Please, follow me this way. Let me show you to your table.”
Damien introduced Helena and once they were seated, the owner shuttled off to fetch his own personal wineglasses for these guests.
The restaurant was housed in a tiny brick building. The tables were covered with crisp linens, and the murals on the walls evoked the Mediterranean and the South of France. The music of Stéphane Grappelli poured like a warm café au lait from speakers hidden somewhere nearby.
If she had closed her eyes, Helena could have almost imagined she
was in France. There was just one thing preventing her—the sight of the extremely pretty young woman sitting at a table with Bentzi, on the other side of the restaurant.
Who was she?
Helena wondered.
Was she a Mossad operative? Was she another one of his assets? What was she doing here? Was he trying to send her some sort of message? Had he replaced her already? But Bentzi doesn’t even know yet that I am leaving him
, Helena thought to herself.
“Are you okay my dear?” Damien asked, snapping Helena out of her obsessive reverie.
She smiled at him. “The music, the smells from the kitchen, I guess I was daydreaming for a moment that we actually were in France.”
“Wait until we add the Montrachet to the picture,” he said with a wink.
“Two bottles, though, Pierre? You’re going to have to carry me home.”
The older man grinned. “I have always held that bottles of wine are like breasts. Three is too many and one is never enough.”
“Pierre!” Helena exclaimed, blushing. “Shhhh. We’re not the only ones here.”
“I don’t care,” he replied reaching for her hand. His smile broadened when his fingers intertwined with hers. “You have become very special to me.”
“I’m sure you tell that to all of the women you whisk away to America on your private jet.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You’re the first woman who didn’t want anything from me.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asked as she gently traced his palm with the tip of her finger.
“Besides that.”
“I think that’s the reason why you brought
two
bottles of wine. You want to get me drunk, so you can take advantage of me when we get home.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Did you see what year the Montrachet is?”
She shook her head.
Damien looked up to signal the owner, but he was already on his
way over. After setting down three glasses, the man presented the wine to Damien, and upon his approval, produced a corkscrew and carefully went to work opening the bottle.
After cellaring for so long, there were a million things that could go wrong with the wine. The cork, though, was perfect; not even a hint of taint. The owner placed the cork on the table so Damien could inspect it.
Once he had, he encouraged the owner to pour the first taste for himself.
The man took his time admiring the color and then savoring the aromas and bouquet. When he finally tasted it, his eyes remained closed for several moments. Upon opening them, he proclaimed, “Absolutely amazing,” and poured glasses for Helena and Damien.
Laying his hand lightly on the bottle, he gauged its temperature. The great white wines from Burgundy drank more like reds. You didn’t submerge them in a bucket of ice. Their flavors were best enjoyed between 60 and 65 degrees Fahrenheit. The Montrachet was right on the money and needed no additional assistance.
Damien encouraged the owner to pour himself a proper serving, instead of just a taste, which he did. After detailing the lunch specials, he excused himself, and went to check on his other customers.
Damien looked at Helena and turned the bottle so she could read the label. “Nineteen seventy-eight,” he said.
“The year I was born.”
“I know. That’s why I chose it for our lunch today.” Raising his glass, he proposed a toast. “To moderation in all things, except in love.”
Helena touched her glass to his. She was dumbfounded. She didn’t know what to say. Did Damien just tell her that he loved her?
She took a sip of her wine, buying time so she could collect her thoughts.
“I have something for you,” he said.
Reaching down to the outer pocket of his wine tote, he removed a velvet jewelry box the size of a salad plate.
Lifting the lid, he presented it to her across the table.
It was the most exquisite diamond necklace she had ever seen. It had to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“May I?” Damien asked.
Helena was speechless. All she could do was nod.
Rising from his chair, Damien took the necklace from its case and walked over and stood behind her.
He laid the necklace against the soft cashmere of her turtleneck sweater, the heavy central diamond coming to rest right between her breasts.
She swept her hair up so he could fasten the clasp. When he was finished, he returned to his seat and once again smiled at her.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied.
Pressing the necklace against her sweater, she asked, “Is this where you went this morning? To get this for me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“Pierre, look at this necklace. It’s gorgeous. Men don’t just give jewelry like this to anybody.”
“You’re not just anybody,” he replied.
She smiled and looked at him lovingly. “Don’t do this to me, Pierre.”
“Do what?”
“This,” she said with one hand still on her necklace, the other lifting her glass. “The trips. The necklace. The wine. I don’t want to get used to this.”
“But could you?”
“You have me, Pierre. You don’t have to do all of this.”
“I like doing it.”
“And I like that you like doing it, but don’t make it complicated. Please.”
Damien stared at her for several moments. “When my wife died, it was a pain like nothing I had ever experienced. I swore that if I survived it, I would never allow it to happen again. And then I met you and everything changed.”
“You’re drunk already,” she said, winking at him.
He smiled at her. “You have a perfect sense of humor, do you know that? Everything about you is perfect.”
“You
are
drunk, because I am far from perfect.”
“You are perfect to me. We are perfect for each other.”
She looked at him. “Pierre, are you proposing to me?”
Damien laughed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that I cannot imagine being without you.”
Helena reached across the table and took his hand.
He held her hand tightly. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”
It was an amazingly tender entreaty. She squeezed his hand right back and replied, “I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat, like two lovesick teenagers, staring into each other’s eyes and laughing. Damien refilled their glasses and ordered appetizers.
Between their salads and the main course, Helena said to him, “I have a confession to make.”
Out of instinct, he braced. Suddenly, there was a flash of that pain that he hadn’t known for decades—a taste of what he prayed wasn’t to come.
“What is it?” he asked.
“When I told you I wasn’t going anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t being completely honest with you.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
It took a fraction of a second, but he got the joke and his look of concern evaporated into a smile.
Helena walked over to his chair, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him. “Thank you for this,” she said. “For all of this. The necklace, everything.”
He looked up and smiled at her and then watched as she walked away to the ladies’ room. She was an incredible creature. He had made the right decision bringing her. He could feel it in the deepest recesses of his heart.
•••
The security operatives followed her with their eyes only. They had no reason to accompany her to the restroom. Damien was their primary, not her.
The necklace was beyond incredible. She wanted to stare at it in the mirror, but there would be time for that later.
Locking the door, she pulled out her phone and took care of her business first. There were so many damn apps on her phone that it was hard to find the one she was looking for. But that was the point. If Damien or any of his people had ever picked it up, and someone probably had, there was nothing unusual about any of it. Not even the banking apps.
In fact, she had noticed a story in one of Damien’s financial newspapers one morning and had made a throwaway comment about what she thought a certain Eastern European country might do if Russia cut off its natural gas supply. She finished with her opinion on how it might affect the markets.
It had impressed him. When he asked how she had come to such an erudite conclusion, she took the opportunity to tease him, explaining that she had dated a British investment banker for a while. The thought of her with another man drove him crazy and only made him want her more. All she had done was set the table. It was Damien who sat down and gorged himself on her.
Finding and opening the app she wanted, she placed her bets. This would turn out to either be the smartest thing she had ever done, or the most foolish. She would know soon enough, and she consoled herself with the knowledge that as bad as things might get, she had lived through worse, much worse, and it had only made her stronger.
Closing the app and tucking the phone back in her purse, she removed a tube of lipstick and a small travel pack of tissues.
Unscrewing the false bottom of her lipstick, she removed the tiny memory card from its hiding spot, and placed it between her teeth. Peeling off the sticker that held the tissue package closed, she placed the memory card in the center and then reached down and stuck it under the vanity, behind the sink.
Bentzi’s little blonde was going to have to work to find it, but Helena couldn’t have cared less. She had completed her assignment. The Mossad would have Damien’s damn password. Once it was confirmed, they would give her their file on Enoch and she would simply disappear.
At some point she would take her revenge on the man who had been responsible for stealing her away from her family and subjecting her to so many unspeakable horrors. There was always the possibility that the
Mossad would try to double-cross her, but not Bentzi. She knew him well enough to know that he would honor his promise. He was a man of his word, if nothing else.
Standing in front of the mirror, she applied fresh lipstick and fixed her hair. The necklace was amazing. She would find a buyer for it somewhere in Central or South America at some point. There was no rush. She had nothing but time.
Smiling at her reflection, she decided to leave Bentzi a note and pressed her lips up against the mirror and left a lipstick kiss.
He was going to be upset at her leaving. No one left the service of the Mossad without being granted permission. But it would go deeper than that with Bentzi; he would take it personally. It would be an affront to him, like having a weekend guest who never sent a thank-you note.
His problem was that he had always seen himself as her savior. In the beginning, that’s how she had seen him too. In fact, to such a degree that she had fallen in love with him. But as time wore on, and he sent her on assignment after assignment—making it perfectly clear the lengths he expected her to go for Israel—her feelings for him shifted.
She had traded one jailer for another. As a sex slave, she had been physically abused and threatened with death. As Bentzi’s asset, she had been psychologically abused and threatened with prison.
Like her desperate hope that the pimps would eventually stop and let her go free, she had grown to begin hoping the same thing under Bentzi. And then she finally realized that she would have to facilitate her own escape.
Bentzi’s anger at her leaving would be his own problem. He had more than gotten his money’s worth out of her. She was ready to disappear. She had put all the pieces in place. He had taught her well, and now the student was preparing the final lesson. Trail after trail would end in dark alleys and dead-end streets. Bentzi and the Mossad could spend the next twenty years looking and they would never find her.
Considering all she had done for them and all that she knew, she hoped that they wouldn’t come looking. They owed her that much. They owed it to her to leave her alone. There were other girls out there—younger, worse off. Replacing her wouldn’t be a problem.
Adjusting her sweater, Helena opened the door and exited the ladies’ room. She only had to keep Damien happy for a little while longer. As soon as she had everything she needed, her new life could begin. And once that new life began, the only thing that would matter would be what
she
needed.