Ice Cold Kill (39 page)

Belhadj’s blue-gray eyes hid all emotion. He waited, arms crossed.

“Golems were unalive, and, as such, unstoppable. But also uncontrollable. Eventually, their creators had to stop them. In one story, a rabbi wrote the Hebrew letters
Alef, Mem,
and
Tev
on the creature’s forehead.”

Belhadj said, “
Alef, mem, tev.
The Hebrew word
emet:
truth.”

“Yeah. To kill the creature, you erase the letter
alef
.”

Belhadj smiled. “Giving you
met:
death.”

“Yeah.”

Belhadj seemed to consider it.

John said, “There’s another legend among analysts in the CIA. The people on Operations side never bought into it. The legend is about a Group.”

Belhadj’s cheeks puffed out in a silent laugh. John wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Tell me about this legend.”

John said, “Bunch of folks formed in the 1960s and ’70s. Industrialists throughout the world. Guys who wanted Israel to have a fighting chance. These guys knew conventional war wouldn’t be enough. Even conventionally unconventional war wouldn’t be enough. They needed to think outside the crazy.”

Belhadj studied him without moving.

“This Group? If there was a Group? They created really, really,
really
good spooks. Who could do what Israeli intelligence wouldn’t or couldn’t.”

John could taste fear flooding his nervous system. He willed the hand holding the coffee cup not to shake.

“The Group created golems?”

John said, “Well, like I say … it’s a legend.”

Belhadj said, “
Emet
and
met.
Truth…”

John said, “And death.”

Belhadj nodded. He unfolded his arms and stepped away from the wall. John felt his heart rate spiral up.

“Thank you, Mr. Broom.”

“Sure.”

Belhadj stepped past him and opened the room’s door.

“If they come,” the quiet man said, peering out into the empty hall, “and they will come, it’s to erase the
Aleph
.”

The men stood about ten inches apart, shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions.

John said, “
Emet
to
met
. Truth to death.”

Belhadj nodded.

“Can we stop them?”

Belhadj stepped out into the corridor. He held the doorknob, the door almost closed. “Should we?”

John didn’t hesitate. “Hell, yeah.”

Belhadj eased the door closed. “Good answer, Mr. Broom.”

*   *   *

It took the U.S., French, and Italian authorities some time to realize that there were any number of charges that could be brought against Daria Gibron, but to prosecute her would require the various intelligence agencies to look like perfect idiots. Ultimately, none of the agencies wanted to risk it.

When she could, Daria toured the secure medical building that served Ramstein, the sprawling home of the United States Air Forces in Europe and a major NATO installation. The place had a drab, dank 1950s institutional feel to it. She found the perfect spot to get away from the doctors and the nurses and the Western intelligence agencies who wanted to question her incessantly. It was an indoor swimming pool dedicated to physical therapy. Daria memorized the daily schedule on the door to figure out the quiet times to sneak away and hide.

*   *   *

It took two more days for her visitors to arrive.

Daria was in the physical therapy pool room. She sat in a wheelchair, equipped with thick, gripping rubber wheels for use around the pool. She wore a hospital gown that tied in the back, with a long, coarse blanket over her legs. She had watched the last twenty minutes of a water polo match played by U.S. Marines injured in Afghanistan, laughing as they splashed her and flirted madly with her. Once they had been helped back to their wing of the hospital, the acoustics changed, the echoes grew louder.

Daria arranged her wheelchair at the far end of the room, near the deep end of the pool, where she could catch the late-afternoon sunshine, feeling the warm, humid air cling to her bones and frame, nurturing her like a sauna. The blue cement floor was covered in half-inch-deep puddles of chlorinated water.

Daria never heard the pool room door open. “Daria. Darling.”

A thin woman in a conservative pearl-gray suit and elegant heels had entered. Behind her stood two men, both wearing Gortex winter coats that forgave a multitude of sins, including concealed weapons. Both men wore lanyards and United Nations ID cards.

Daria said, “Hannah. My God.”

Hannah Goldman smiled warmly. She wore a simple gold chain around her neck and no rings. She had to be seventy, Daria calculated. At least. Her hair was cut short and had turned a shiny silver.

The two blond men made sure the door to the indoor pool was locked, as Hannah stepped close, gingerly avoiding the larger puddles where she could.

Daria said, “Dee Jean d’Arc…?”

The older woman shook her head. “Daria, you are burned. It was a warning. At the New York airport, I think?”

Daria nodded.

“That Asher. Never one for obeying orders.”

“Asher warned me off?”

“He tried to, yes.” After all these decades, she retained a hint of her childhood Austrian accent. “He had argued for leaving you out of the whole plot. When that failed, he resorted to melodrama. We were furious!”

“Was he punished?”

Hannah Goldman laughed. “No. He acted out of kindness. And love. You are like my own children. I find it hard to stay angry with either of you.”

Hannah stepped within two meters of Daria’s wheelchair. The blond men stepped closer, too.

Their voices took on a hollow tone, affected by the body of water and the thick concrete walls. “We need to talk about the future.”

Daria said, “The first time you came for me … for me and Asher, in that alley in Rafah. Do you remember? You pretended then to know the future.”

Hannah Goldman said, “I did know the future, that day in Rafah. And I know it today. For our nation to have a future, it needs strategists like Asher and soldiers like you.”

Daria locked the brakes on her wheelchair. Inches to her left, the surface of the chlorinated pool gently bobbed, splintering sunlight. “The Group was a dreadful idea. Raising children, radicalizing us, weaponizing us. It was sociopathic.”

Hannah studied her sadly. One of the blond soldiers squatted and reached his hand into the pool, down to his first knuckles. He stirred the water.

“The CIA has declared you persona non grata, darling. You embarrassed them. That’s simply not done. You won’t be allowed back into the States. Not ever.”

Daria nodded solemnly. She expected as much.

“Israeli intelligence will leave you out in the cold. They know better than to defy us. France and Italy have their own reasons for wanting distance between you and themselves. The other Western powers will do as the CIA instructs. That leaves … who?”

Daria pondered the question. She adjusted the blanket over her legs. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Then come back to us. Israel’s darkest days lay ahead of her. Our purpose is to provide—”

“Golems.”

Hannah bristled. “Golems! Certainly not. Never. We—”

“Unstoppable monsters. Who, having performed their mission, run amok, and must be put down.”

Hannah looked resigned. And saddened. The kneeling soldier touched the pool water with his fingertips. His eyes darted to the wheelchair. The standing soldier gripped his holstered auto.

Hannah said, “I beg you to reconsider.”

Daria sighed. “It’s a bit late for that.”

She whisked away the blanket on her lap to reveal a coil of electrical wire. One end snaked around Daria’s waist behind the wheelchair and was plugged into the wall. The other end hung between her legs. She had peeled back the insulation, revealing copper wire that dangled an inch above the standing water.

Daria let it drop into the puddle.

The crouching soldier with his hand in the water convulsed without a sound. His muscles rigid, he fell, splashing into the pool.

The blond standing amid the swimmers’ puddles shuddered, frozen in place, keening a high-pitched scream muffled by his locked jaw. His knees buckled. Even down, he continued to spasm.

Hannah Goldman simply dropped like a stone.

Daria lifted the power cord out of the puddle, reached back and yanked the plug out of the wall socket. She rose from the rubber-wheeled chair, sneakers in the splashed water.

She knelt by Hannah and checked the woman’s pulse. It was weak but steady. There had been a better-than-even chance the brief electrocution would stop the older woman’s heart.

Daria moved to the soldier by Hannah’s side. She removed his Glock, lifted his head out of the puddle, and yanked free his lanyard and faux-UN identification. Before standing, she shoved him into the pool to drown with his friend.

She paused a moment to touch Hannah’s cheek. The woman’s skin was dry and powdery. She breathed, her eyes darting beneath their thin, veined lids.

Daria stood and crossed to the pool room door. She tucked the Glock up under her T-shirt, by her spine. She hurried through the halls to an exit she had identified days earlier.

She found a BMW X5 suburban utility vehicle with good, German snow tires and United Nations plates, parked in a little-used alley behind the base laundry.

Khalid Belhadj met her halfway down the alley. He, too, wore a fake UN security lanyard. He looked fatigued.

He looked at his watch and sighed. “Be honest. You were making a speech.”

Daria held her forefinger and thumb a few millimeters apart:
a little one
.

She said, “I got your message. Through John Broom.”

“He’s not bad, that one.” That was one hell of a begrudging compliment for the Syrian to give a CIA analyst.

“The Group sent two soldiers inside for me. Only two. I’m insulted.”

“I took care of two more.” Belhadj nodded toward a Dumpster. Daria didn’t need to ask for details.

Belhadj tossed her keys. Daria peered down the alley at the BMW and noted paperwork on the dashboard that would get her through security.

Belhadj said, “What now?”

Daria tucked hair behind her ears. “The Group has blackballed me with every Western intelligence agency. I am, as they say, out in the cold. You?”

He shrugged. “Syria is in trouble. I head back to Damascus, make amends.”

“They’ll either promote you or shoot you.”

Belhadj nodded. “Or both.”

She said, “You know about the others now. What you called the Group.”

“Do I?” Belhadj gave his soundless laugh. “What do I know? What do I tell Syrian intelligence, when I don’t know who
is
Syrian intelligence from day to day? And what evidence would I have to give them.”

He paused a moment. His gray eyes raked the industrial buildings. He turned back to her. “You?”

Daria rested a palm on his chest.

They stood a moment. The rest of the army base was bustling but Belhadj had chosen this alley with care. They had the space to themselves. But that wouldn’t last forever.

Khalid Belhadj thought about it long and hard, then stepped in and kissed her. She kissed him back.

He studied her a moment and allowed himself a quick, wistful smile.

“Well then … good-bye.”

Daria nodded.

They pivoted, Belhadj nearer the alley entrance, Daria nearer the car. They stepped away from each other, both walking backward.

They smiled. Then they turned after ten paces. Just like duelists.

Acknowledgments

I am forever thankful for the tremendous help of the following Oregon Health Authority officials: Dr. Grant Higginson, M.D., MPH, former state health officer and deputy administrator, Public Health Division; Dr. Michael Skeels, Ph.D., MPH, director of the Oregon State Public Health laboratory; and Dr. Katrina Hedberg, M.D., MPH, state epidemiologist and chief science officer, Public Health Division.

Also, my gratitude goes to everybody at St. Martin’s Press for their faith in this project. To my editor, Keith Kahla, for his unparalleled understanding of how to make a story better. And for my agent, Janet Reid of FinePrint Lit, for blazing the trail.

Also by Dana Haynes

Crashers

Breaking Point

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DANA HAYNES, author of the acclaimed thrillers
Crashers
and
Breaking Point
, spent more than twenty years as a journalist and editor at several newspapers in Oregon. In addition to writing novels, he’s currently the communications director for the mayor of Portland, Oregon, where he lives.