In the temporary French laboratory that belonged to Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines, the only thing that stood between the mutual annihilation of two countries was olives, wheat germ and shark liver oil.
As two long-time enemies stared each other down with bio-weapons and the threat of nuclear destruction, one biomedical researcher prepared to out-maneuver them both with shark liver oil. It was all on Leslie Raines’ shoulders.
37
Four Seasons Hotel
Amman, Jordan
Camp got his locker key and was issued a large white, Turkish towel from the spa attendant and quickly got undressed. The hiss and whoosh sounds of the nearby steam sauna already felt good on Camp’s deep tension.
The sounds of another man in the locker room were distinct and clear. He wasn’t alone.
For a split second, Camp thought about the defensive moves he’d take if the man was in fact Omid, and if Omid had arranged this elaborate meeting scheme just to eliminate a man who knew too much.
No one emerged from the other aisle of lockers. No knife appeared from around the corner. Camp covered himself with the towel, walked over to the steam sauna and pulled on the glass door.
He stepped up to the tiled upper level of the sauna and moved to the corner of the intersecting walls. He was at the farthest point away from the only door, his only avenue of escape. And he was all alone.
Camp’s mind wandered off as tension and fatigue began to melt away. His nostrils and airwaves opened up magically as the eucalyptus penetrated his every pore.
The glass door opened, sucking the humidity and relaxation out before restoring them both on closing.
Camp never opened his eyes. His face was clearly visible. If this was Omid, he would recognize Camp. If it wasn’t, he didn’t really need to gaze at a naked man covered in a white Turkish towel anyway.
Several minutes passed. Eyes were closed. Hiss. Whoosh. Hiss. Whoosh.
“You shaved your beard.”
Camp smiled. It was Omid.
“I wanted to get pretty again.”
“Nice hotel, isn't it?” Omid asked.
“It is. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“Do you eat breakfast?”
“Occasionally.”
The door opened, and two more men walked into the steam sauna. They passed Omid who was sitting next to the door and sat on the upper tiled bench between Camp and the wall. They spoke to each other in German.
“Then you really should try Caffe Mokka on Al-Qahira Street. Incredible patisseries, and they start serving sweet cakes at eight in the morning.”
“Thanks for the idea. I may give it a try.”
Camp and Omid remained silent for another 20 minutes as the Germans continued to talk and laugh. Camp stepped down off the tile bench first and out through the glass door. He changed in the locker room, returned his key, and rode the elevator up to the ninth floor where he called Billy Finn.
Camp was soon sound asleep when his cell phone rang at nearly three in the morning.
“Yes?”
“Shepherd’s Pie?”
Camp sat up fully awake with an instant jolt of electricity.
“Hello Molly Bloom.”
“What did you want to order from the menu today?”
“Three orders of Gesher, to go, right about noon.”
“Three?”
“I’m hungry.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong Molly Bloom. It’s very possible. Three orders of Gesher, to go, around noon. I’m very hungry and I’ll do anything to have this meal. I said… anything… I’ll call the waitress as we’re pulling up.”
Camp closed his phone and threw a pillow over his head.
Caffe Mokka
Amman, Jordan
Billy Finn drove the car that he and Camp rented from the Four Seasons Hotel. Within 30 minutes, they had navigated morning rush hour traffic and pulled curbside in front of the Caffe Mokka restaurant.
Through the restaurant windows they could see many customers seated and eating. School children passed by on the sidewalks as the elderly and several women in full burka’s stopped and chatted with each other.
“So are we going in or what?” Finn asked.
“I don’t know… he didn’t say… let’s wait here a few minutes.”
A woman in a black burka, leaning against the wall of the Caffe Mokka, walked toward the car carrying a vegetable bag. She grabbed the backdoor car handle, opened it and got into the backseat behind Finn and Camp.
“Drive,” the male voice said from beneath the burka.
Finn put the car in gear and followed the second set of GPS coordinates that Camp had entered at the hotel. Twenty miles past Naour and heading southwest on Highway 40, Finn turned north on Highway 65.
“We’re out of the city,” Camp said to his backseat passenger.
Omid pulled the burka up and over his head, straightened his hair and put the sunglasses and a New York Yankees baseball cap on that were inside his vegetable bag.
“You can pull over anywhere along here. We should be good,” Omid said.
“We’re gonna drive for another hour… just to make sure,” Finn said as he looked into the rearview mirror. “Nice to see you again, Omid.”
“Good morning, Mr. Finn. I hope you didn’t mind that I contacted Susan Francis. I had no other way.”
“Susan is the best. She uses the utmost discretion as I’m sure you already know.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“So what’s this all about, Omid? You looking for some more freelance business and thought you’d try your two favorite Americans first?” Camp asked.
Omid laughed.
“Yes, I’ve really developed my cricket skills as of late and was hoping you could arrange a try-out with the Yankees.”
“The Bronx Bombers are always looking for a good second baseman in a pinstriped burka,” Finn added.
The three enjoyed some small-talk banter as they drove up Highway 65. They talked about the Hindu Kush, US Army Major Dean Banks and the latest sports news. The northern most end of Highway 65 was coming into view as dirt roads started to split off on each side.
“This is the end of the road, Finn. I’ve been up here before,” Omid said as he examined the countryside outside of his backseat window.
“Officially or unofficially?” Camp asked.
Omid smiled. “Seriously, we need to pull-over and talk. I’ve got some things I need to talk through with you both.”
Finn turned west onto a dirt road as Camp pulled out his phone. A woman answered the call.
“Tell Molly Bloom that we’re ready for lunch,” Camp said as he closed the phone.
Finn pressed harder on the accelerator.
“There’s no restaurants out here, Camp,” Omid said with tension rising in his voice.
“Not true,” Camp said as Finn’s speed increased.
Omid was panicked.
“What the hell are you doing? There’s an Israeli check-point in less than a mile.”
“Gesher?” Camp asked.
“Yes, Gesher… PULL OVER!”
The car cleared the narrow dirt road and into an open clearing that was blocked by a fully-armed Israeli checkpoint. Omid slid down to the backseat floorboard. Finn slowed the car and cautiously approached the first security officer. The man did not approach the car. He didn’t even look inside the vehicle. The first gate was raised. Finn drove slow to the second gate which was raised as well. Finn drove the rental car through a zigzag pattern of cement barriers where two men stood in front of the third and final gate.