“They think it’s coming,” Frankel said.
“Looks that way.”
“Let’s hope they’re right.”
Frankel had never before expressed an opinion about what they were doing. “Now you tell me,” Salome said.
He smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Everyone loves a good war.”
The apartment was a big two-bedroom with a view that stretched over central Istanbul from the Bosphorus Bridge to Topkapi Palace. All the wealth of a country in these blocks. Frankel brought up her bags and was about to leave when her phone buzzed.
Rand Witwans.
“Natalie.” His voice slurred, a day of drinks clogging his tongue.
Frankel opened the door to leave. She shook her head. She was sure Witwans would have unpleasant news. She was right. He didn’t want to tell her, but ten minutes later she had teased the story out of him. Ellis Shafer had found his name from a man in Nevada, some other South African fossil named Joost. Then Joost called Witwans like the tattletale he was. Playing all sides. Why couldn’t the old Afrikaners have the good sense to die?
“Don’t worry about it,” she said when he finished. Keeping him calm was her first priority. “What does he know about the program?”
“That I ran it. Nothing more.”
“Then you’ll be fine. And has anyone contacted you?”
“Besides Joost?”
“Yes. Called or come to the house.”
“The manor?” Even now he insisted on playing a country gentleman. “No.”
She had questions, but she wasn’t asking them over the phone. “I’m going to send someone to you.”
“There’s no need, Natalie.”
“Would you rather I come myself?” They both knew she terrified him. She clicked off, checked schedules. Turkish Airlines had an overnight flight to Johannesburg that left in a few hours. A lucky break. Frankel wanted to stay with her, as she knew he would, but she ignored his objection. She told him he was not to kill Witwans. He was there to watch the man, keep him from calling the police or doing anything dumb. If the police came, Frankel was to leave Witwans to them. Killing him would raise a red flag that even the CIA couldn’t ignore.
If Wells showed up, on the other hand…
Her mood darkened after Frankel left. She sat in bed, watching Italian game shows, big-breasted hostesses leering at the contestants. They didn’t soothe her. She was conscious of a creeping feeling that she pretended she didn’t recognize. The hole. Strange that her brain’s sickness began with physical symptoms. Her peripheral vision furred, as if the world’s edges were coming apart.
She shouldn’t be depressed right now. Excited. Or fearful that the tide was turning. Not depressed. All the years of scheming and hiding and lying were almost over. But, of course, the end of the mission was the problem. If she lost, she knew what would happen. A bullet to the temple, a needle in her arm. The prospect scared her only theoretically. But what if she won? What would replace the mad beauty of this double-triple-quadruple life? Nothing. She should have asked Wells in Volgograd how he walked away when his missions were done.
Of course, Wells had his own problems. No doubt the FSB interrogators were working him over at this moment. She imagined him enduring his punishment, blaming her, knowing that she had put him there. Would he ask for mercy if she came to Lubyanka? She would bet everything she had that he wasn’t the begging type.
Thinking of him chased the black from her mind. She settled back in her bed, turned off the television, closed her eyes, and slept.
The buzzing of her phone woke her. In her confusion, she imagined that Wells was calling. But the number was Israeli and included three eights, the code that meant it belonged to Duberman. She sat up, fully awake. 4:40 a.m. Outside, Istanbul was as dark as it would ever be.
“Shalom.”
“Did you hear?” he said in Hebrew. As soon as he spoke, she knew the news was good. When Duberman was pleased, his voice turned soft and guttural, like a late-night radio host’s. “They took the bait. The Americans. In Lebanon. You’ll see.” Then he was gone.
Duberman now had a half-dozen ex — Mossad agents on his staff, mainly to protect Orli. Salome assumed that one had passed along gossip about the United States attacking Lebanon. Meaning Hezbollah. The hit must have been big enough for Israel to find out quickly.
She gave up on sleep and spent the predawn hours flipping through news channels. By 6:30 a.m., the Lebanese Broadcasting Corporation had live footage of a building smoldering in the Bekaa. Soot-coated men tossed broken bricks into piles.
We are told that at least two senior Hezbollah officials were killed in an attack on this warehouse in Zahle early this morning. No word yet on who is behind this attack. Stay with LBC for more…
No wonder Duberman was excited. The FSB had Wells. Now the United States was bombing Hezbollah’s leaders, a move just short of attacking Iran outright.
They were going to win.
A few hours later, Buvchenko ruined her mood. Wells had talked his way free of the FSB. “They just wanted to be rid of him,” he said. “They didn’t know what he wanted or why he’d come, and they decided he was more trouble than he was worth.”
“I know the feeling.”
“They sent him to Amman. Not sure why. But don’t even try looking for him there. He speaks Arabic. Unless he wants you to find him, you won’t. Not there.”
She asked a few useless questions, hung up. She assumed Wells would land in Amman and board the next plane to Istanbul, less than two hours by air. He could easily track Buvchenko’s jet to Istanbul. He knew she had a safe house in Nisantasi.
She’d underestimated him too many times. She decided to hop to Bucharest, just a ninety-minute flight from Ataturk. Wells wouldn’t look for her there, and she could play the card she’d been holding for just this moment.
Jess Bunshaft.
She had nurtured her relationship with Bunshaft for three years. He had no idea she was behind this plot. But he knew who she was and that she worked for Duberman. She had met him years before. At the time, he was a mid-level civilian aide to Hebley, who had just earned his fourth star. Salome saw he was sensitive about his role. The Marines treated him like they treated all their male civilian employees, as a eunuch who didn’t have the guts to do what they did.
She took Bunshaft to lunch every few months, usually at the Capital Grille, which she couldn’t stand but he seemed to like. She was careful never to ask him for war stories from Afghanistan. Instead, they traded Jerusalem and Washington gossip, and she begged his opinions on geopolitics. No, Jess, I want to hear what you think… In all her years, Salome had never met a man immune to that flattery. She always kept her work for Duberman vague. I’m a consultant. A problem solver. Bunshaft never asked. He was more interested in talking about himself than hearing about her.
A year before, she pushed the conversation to Iran. At the time, nuclear disarmament talks were progressing in Vienna. “You know what my boss thinks about the ayatollahs,” Salome said. “Trusts them about as much as the Hitler Youth.”
“Scott feels the same.” Bunshaft loved to call Hebley Scott.
“But your side must believe the Iranians want a deal or you wouldn’t be going ahead with these talks. Your Guard sources—”
“Our Guard sources?” Bunshaft’s tone was ironic. “All those Guard sources.”
“That bad.”
He nodded.
“You know I can’t go into details—”