“I forgot you were a linguist. Quite right. Would you say it’s an unusual choice from a Jew?”
“Not one who is known as a wine connoisseur.”
Wurlin laughed. “I see that the CIA has been extra diligent in its research, too.”
“Always.”
“Well, to the fruits of our labors.”
D’Angelo did not raise his glass and join Wurlin in the toast.
Wurlin ignored the slight and examined the color — a rich, brilliant red. The Israeli then inhaled the bouquet. “Very nice,” he offered. He took a sip and swirled it across his taste buds. “Umm. Real original flavors to this rosso.” He swallowed and took another, deeper taste. “I like this. Did you know that the grapes are descended from vines brought to southern Italy by the Greeks twenty-five hundred years ago?” He enjoyed another sip. “Are you sure you won’t try it, Vincent?”
“We have business, Ira.”
“In time, my friend.” He savored the next sip. “Ah, plum and cedar. Black fruits. It’ll go well with anything on the menu. But more than just the wine, its origin fascinates me. Not to bore you, but the grapes are harvested at the base of Mount Vesuvius. As legend has it, the wines of Vesuvius were named because Lucifer was cast out of heaven here, causing Jesus to cry.”
D’Angelo swirled his glass, though he didn’t take a sip. However, the subtle spices called to him.
“A wine called De Angelis,” the Israeli noted. “It’s so similar to your name. Quite a coincidence that you’re here?”
D’Angelo reached for the bottle and turned the label so he could read it. De Angelis Bros. 2003. “There are no coincidences in our work, Ira. I must congratulate you on your ability. You correctly deduced that Evans would send me.” He spun the bottle around so the label again faced Wurlin. “Very astute. Or maybe it wasn’t a deduction at all. Perhaps the Mossad has eyes and ears deep inside the United States.”
“Oh, Vincent. You give us too much credit.”
Chapter 28
The black, streamlined Sea Quest Thruster flippers propelled him under the Charles. Ten kicks, then a simple glide. He counted and repeated. The flippers’ center blade channels guaranteed maximum propulsion when he needed it. Right now he was in no particular rush. He was a good swimmer. He had time, and he had the air. He carried a pair of 3000 psi tanks on his back, good for 50 minutes at shallow depth. They were strapped into his Mares Jubilee backpack, which gave needed tank stability against the twisting moves he was bound to make.
His principal concern was staying low enough not to get swiped by the hull of the boats above. It became particularly tricky when he had to pop up to get his bearings, look for the woman’s Laser, only to quickly drop back down. He’d already come close to her, about twenty feet, but he wanted to wait until she was feeling tired. He also plotted where she liked to make her turns. His best opportunity would be about three-quarters of the way across the river, just as she came around the Cambridge side. There, the woman slowed for the first part of her turn, timed her cross under the jib, then shot back, pulling the line hard and leaning over the side. That’s where she would be the most focused and the most off-balance.
He kicked again through the murky, but no longer toxic, Charles.
Katie brought her boat around, setting a course toward the Longfellow Bridge, near the dam that held back the salt waters of the Atlantic. The warm wind blew through her shoulder-length hair. It felt like Scott’s fingers. She wished he had joined her on the Charles. Maybe one day.
Roarke figured everyone at the White House was busy with the transition. That’s why he hadn’t been called. But he resolved never to be so disconnected from work again. He should have checked in or at least listened to the news. Louise wanted him to get a Treo or Blackberry, but he really hated e-mails and text messages. Too many distractions. Now he realized he needed a better way to stay in touch. There was one thing that nagged at him since Walker gave him the news. If the FBI wasn’t already on it, they needed to be.
Roarke checked his watch. 1245 hrs. He could grab a seat on the two o’clock American flight with or without a reservation. Better write a note, he thought. He stopped at Katie’s desk at the far end of the living room, a few feet from the apartment entrance. He used her stationery and pen and wrote, Sorry, honey. Got some news. You’ll hear about it. I’ll call you tonight. I love you…more.
He taped the note to a pillow and put it on the floor of her hallway. He felt guilty about rushing out without saying goodbye. Another new feeling. Was it complicating his life or making it better? Better, Roarke told himself.
The scuba diver was barely fifteen feet from Katie on the last pass — close enough to make it in seven or eight kicks. But not this time. Another boat forced him to plunge down and abort.
Katie had been out for almost forty minutes. She was more tired than usual. She felt it as she ducked under the mast and leaned back to balance her craft. Then it came to her. Scott. They’d been up for hours during the night, playing, loving, talking. She really wished he was here now. No, I wished I’d stayed with him. The thought evaporated with the sound of what she believed was a hard knock against her Laser. What? She let out the sail and turned to the left. Simultaneously, an unseen hand came up to her right side, but missed her due to her turn. As the boat picked up speed, the hand, and the diver attached to it, slipped back under the water to wait a few minutes more.
Katie was sure something smacked her hull, but nothing was there. Probably a piece of wood. She looked around to make sure. Only the wake of her boat with the telltale bubbles was behind her.
The diver shook off the vibration he still felt when the woman’s boat hit his air tank. He was lucky. And he learned something. Hands first, not back. The next time he would be more careful. He would do his job and collect his money. He checked his regulator. Twenty-three more minutes of air. More than ample. He’d only need fifteen. He’d go down again, wait the eight minutes or so, and then kill the woman in the Red Sox T-shirt.
The interior of Chez Black was empty. The Mossad agent paid the proprietor to keep the interior clear. A “Private Party” sign went up at the entrance. For the next hour, patrons would have to be content sitting outside.
Wurlin’s men also circled the perimeter of the restaurant, observing everyone. Other unseen agents looked through the telescopic sights on their rifles.
D’Angelo leaned forward. “You want to hear it the statesmanlike way or in my words, Ira?”
“I think we can suspend with the formalities,” Wurlin replied.
“My sentiments exactly. Your presence in my country is not acceptable.”
“I could say the same…”
“Stop,” D’Angelo said emphatically.
Wurlin was completely prepared for a dressing down, but not the anger that D’Angelo brought to the table. After all, this is how the game was played.
D’Angelo inched closer. One of the Mossad agents keeping tabs from across the room got concerned. He took a step toward D’Angelo. Wurlin instinctively saw him and shot a sign not to worry.
“Jacob has gone too far this time,” D’Angelo said. “He’s risked everything, and he’s lost. We will demand that he step down, that Israel make a formal, public apology, and that you immediately withdraw all of your other agents operating within our borders.
“Recruiting this Meyerson woman was an unconscionable act of espionage. Within the White House, no less! Never has there been such a blatant attempt to spy on an ally. Never!”