The CEO stopped near one of the rickety docks and turned to face Rout. “CIA?”
“There is no hard evidence, but there is enough circumstantial that it has me wondering. There is an active field house there that many have speculated was involved with the Dubai government in the arrest of Viktor Bout. There has also been a lot of chatter from sources about CIA involvement. But nothing solid. Even if they weren't involved, if the records were stolen, they could simply have been sold.”
“Can they trace Operon back to us?” asked the CEO, staring out over the lake.
Rout frowned. “I don't believe so. The bank trails are all but impossible to follow: no connections to anything illegal. Operon is a subsidiary. Even they can't know all the smuggling that occurs inside their system.”
The CEO turned quickly, his expression suddenly hard. “What worries me is not the likelihood of exposure. We've controlled for that as well as possible. What worries me are the people searching. I'm sure we are insulated from the organizations — bureaucracies are lumbering and clumsy. But individuals within the organizations, well, that is a different story. All it takes is one devoted person, and they can unravel the best defenses. We need to find out who is looking and why. We need their names, their histories, where they live, and what shoe size their children wear. Do you understand what I mean?”
Rout kept his smile in check. “Yes, sir, I do.”
“Good. See to that, then. We need to contain this and not lose our focus on the next mission.”
“Regarding the mission, sir, the Brits have begun guarding the site.”
“How many?”
“We aren't certain yet, but it appears to be a British Section — a small infantry unit of about eight soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” he asked with interest. “They are taking this seriously.”
“Indeed, and it will complicate the mission significantly to have to neutralize that many trained men readied in defense of the structure. But we are making plans to solve that problem, and to do so without alerting their command structure, which, as you realize, is the complicated part of this.”
The CEO's face hardened. “I don't care what it takes. I want that target hit, and hit hard.”
“It will be, sir.”
“New York?” he asked.
“No, sir. Nothing. Since when did Homeland Security anticipate anything real? The other sites show no suspicions.”
He nodded curtly. “It would not do to lose even one. A harsh statement will be made. The map will continue to be drawn all the way to the desert sands.”
He paused, looking out over the water, the soft breeze ruffling the gray hair that shone in the light of the rising moon. His more kindly smile returned. “Now, come inside, and have something to eat.”
Rout suppressed a sigh. He'd rather get back to work.
40
For Savas and Cohen, things had become far more difficult in Intel 1. Their everyday interactions had always been somewhat restrained, a tension constantly between them, but it was one they both controlled within their separate and private shells. Intimacy had unleashed emotion that was freely expressed outside the office but that was caged again each morning. She passed by and he smelled her, heard the fabric of her clothes rustle as her body shifted positions, caught a glimpse of her eyes or saw her smiling and laughing with others. Each time it was a struggle to remain detached and distant. He longed to put his arms around her, both to relieve his need for her touch and also to claim her as his in front of others. It was primitive, and it was sublime.
Savas did not know where this would lead. His life was complicated enough without a constant deception. They agreed to keep their affair secret until she could transfer to another department, and that would not be until this case had reached some kind of ending point. For each of them, it was too important.
At the end of the day, the pattern was reversed. Each left separately, trying to stick to previous work patterns. This was difficult, because in the past, they had both tended to work later than the others and would often find themselves the sole members of Intel 1 working into the night. With their new circumstances, this was a dangerous pattern, so one started leaving earlier than the other, and both, despite their desire to work on the case, ended up spending less time at work and more time with each other. Competing needs, to be sure, but intimacy had been denied both of them for so long that it took some precedence.
This night, Savas had arrived an hour after Cohen. Her apartment was a mansion compared to his tiny studio in Queens. She swooped out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. Savas heard the sound of her closet door opening, unmistakable rummaging noises, an object falling and a grunt, then the door closing once more. She came out toward the dining table, her hair somewhat disheveled, grasping an old bronze candlestick holder. It was unusual, a style Savas had never seen before. There were two holders for candles, spread apart by about a foot and a half, each supported by a curved and decorated arm that arched up like the beginning of a heart-shaped form from the base. The base itself was also highly decorated, with prominent symbols carved into the bronze. He was sure they looked like Hebrew letters.
Cohen looked toward him expectantly. “So? Do you like it?”
“It's pretty. Is it something special?”
“It's a Maurice Ascalon, an original.” She took some candles she had shoved into her pocket and set them in place. She frowned at his lack of understanding. “Maurice Ascalon was one of Israel's most famous sculptors. He was famous in many areas but especially decorative arts. This was my mother's. She gave it to me a few years before she died.” Her voice trailed off, and she stared into the distance for a few moments.
“Anyway, they were packed up in the closet, and I haven't used them since. It's not that I would have had a reason anyway. I don't really hold to much tradition — something that always made her sad.”
Savas could see the pain in her face but did not understand. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I'm sorry, John. These are Shabbat candles.”
“Like Sabbath?”
She smiled. “Shabbat is the Sabbath, John. The Jews invented it, so we ought to know,” she said in an amused voice. “It's nearly sunset, so I got it about right, even if I forgot the flowers. She always had flowers. Friday evening meals, my mother lit the candles. We would have a special meal, and, when we were little anyway, we couldn't do anything fun. All the electricity was off, so no TV! My father, as man of the house, would say the prayers to welcome the day of rest after the candles were lit.”
Savas looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Cohen laughed. “Don't worry! My feeling all nostalgic doesn't mean you have to get religion tonight, John.” She lit the candles and whispered something he could not catch. She stood tall and recited.
“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat.” She paused and closed her eyes.
“It means: Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the Shabbat candles.”
She turned quickly and went into the kitchen, returning with a tray holding the food she had been preparing. “And now, we eat.”
Cohen placed the tray on the table and looked at him. There were tears in her eyes and rolling down her beautiful cheeks.