“Gorgeous,” Duberman said.
The colonel drove them to the main terminal, where they boarded a Saudi Arabian Airlines 737. Salome had figured they’d be given a private charter, but this was a standard public flight to Amman. More evidence that the Saudis wanted to resolve their detention without fanfare.
The colonel and a nameless man in a suit whom they’d picked up in the boarding area walked them into coach. Despite herself, Salome had to smile. She wondered when Duberman had last sat in cattle class. Three empty seats awaited them near the back. Salome took the window and smirked as the man in the suit gently steered Duberman to the middle seat.
“I’m sorry we weren’t able to grant your request,” the colonel said. “Gabir will accompany you to Amman. After that, as we’ve discussed, you’re on your own. Safe journeys. Ma-a salaama.”
Gabir didn’t speak during the two-hour flight. Salome and Duberman didn’t, either. It seemed safe to assume he was a mukhabarat officer who spoke Hebrew and English. But when they landed, he disappeared and the Jordanians treated them like ordinary passengers.
Now they were back in the world. It was just past 6 p.m. A day had passed since Wells kidnapped them, eighteen hours since he dumped them in Riyadh. If he and Duto had flown to Johannesburg overnight, they could already have found Witwans. Worse: They might already have grabbed him. They might already have put him on a plane to the United States.
“You call South Africa,” Duberman said. “I’ll call home, get us a jet.”
Salome punched in Frankel’s mobile number, wondering what she would do if he didn’t answer. After five rings, the phone went to voice mail. She reminded herself that he would be seeing a Jordanian number on his screen, called again. One, two, three—
“Shalom.”
“Amos.”
“Adina? Where have you been?”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s important, do you still have Witwans?”
“Of course.” He sounded surprised at the question.
“Can you control him? He’ll do what you say?”
“Without a doubt. He’s been drunk since I got here, and he’s scared out of his mind.”
“Take him and go.”
“Where?”
“Cape Town, a safe house not far from the airport. I’ll fly down, meet you there.” Witwans’s mansion was in the Free State province, the middle of South Africa. She guessed it had to be eight or ten hours by car to Cape Town. The city was on the Atlantic Ocean, in the country’s southwest corner. She had a safe house in Johannesburg, too, but keeping Frankel and Witwans on the road as long as possible seemed smart. For her, the difference was immaterial. Depending on how quickly Duberman arranged the jet, she would arrive in Cape Town a couple hours after Frankel and Witwans.
“That must be a thousand kilometers from here. More. You want me to leave now, drive all night? Why not just let me shoot him?”
“Wells is on his way to you. Get out of there. No bodies. Nothing to find. Give Witwans a few more drinks, he’ll sleep the whole way.”
“He smells terrible, you know. Old shicker—” Yiddish and Hebrew slang for drunk. “Probably throw up in the seat.”
“Amos. Go.”
“The address.”
“I’ll text it.” She hung up.
Beside her, Duberman cooed into his phone in Hebrew, “No, everything’s fine… I’ll explain as soon as I’m home… I love you, too, babe. Bye.”
Babe. She supposed she was happy to hear that he was as banal in love as everyone else.
“They were waiting for us to call. There’s a jet fueled up at Ben Gurion. Be here in half an hour, forty minutes.”
Salome explained the call with Frankel.
“So you’re going to Cape Town?”
“Yes.” She wanted to ask him to come, though she knew he wouldn’t possibly.
“We’ll stop at Tel Aviv, drop me off. Gideon has four guys on the jet. You can have two, I’ll take two, just in case you’re wrong and Wells somehow got back to Israel.”
Wells wasn’t in Israel, and Duberman no doubt had another squad of guards at his mansion anyway. But two reinforcements was better than none.
Ninety minutes later, they were back in Israel, their round-trip complete. Salome suddenly was certain that she wouldn’t see Duberman again.
As the cabin door opened, she hugged him, too long and too close. She bent her head to his chest and smelled his musk, his scent true and ripe after almost two days without a shower. “Aaron.”
“Adina.” His voice was gentle and as distant as the break of the ocean. She would have told him she loved him, but why? He didn’t love her. The words would have been just one more coin for his fortune. So she pulled away, unwound her arms.
“I’m going to find him,” she said instead. “And I’m going to kill him.”
26
The countdown clock was more than ticking now.
Flying Riyadh to Johannesburg took eight hours. Even after gaining a time-zone hour, Wells and Duto didn’t clear South African immigration until 4 p.m. local. Worse, they didn’t have the prearranged help that would have come if they’d been on agency business. No car waiting in the O. R. Tambo International parking garage. No dossier with Witwans’s address. Most important, no pistols, silencers, or box of ammunition in the trunk.
They solved the first two problems easily enough, thanks to Avis and the Internet. Thirty-five minutes after immigration, they had an Audi A3 and turn-by-turn directions to Witwans’s mansion. He lived in farm country a couple hundred kilometers southwest of Johannesburg. The location was a blessing and a curse. They would waste at least three hours getting there. But once they did, they wouldn’t have to worry about neighbors or a quick police response.
Their lack of weapons was far more serious. The bag that Duto had brought to Wells had all manner of helpful paraphernalia, including several pieces he’d already used. What it didn’t have was a pistol. Wells hadn’t packed one because he feared losing the entire bag to an airport screen. He hadn’t known in advance Duto would be bringing it to him, or flying private. As a result, they had only one pistol, the Sig P238 that Duberman’s bodyguard had handed over in Tel Aviv. It was an undercover weapon, small, underpowered, and with just a six-shot magazine. Salome’s bodyguard would be waiting on them, and they didn’t know how many guys he had with him.
“You have anyone who can hook us up?” Wells said.
“Not on this continent.”
“Then let’s find a gun shop.” Given South Africa’s crime rate and hunting culture, Wells expected that they could legally pick up a rifle or shotgun. He scrolled through the phone he’d picked up at the airport. “How about this one? Great Guns of Sandton?” Sandton was a wealthy white neighborhood north of downtown Johannesburg.
But Wells was wrong. The Great Guns manager explained that South Africa had strict firearms laws. Police performed background checks on all buyers. “Backlog is years now. Typical of this regime.”
The man’s contempt for the black-run government gave Wells a glimmer of hope that he might break its laws. “Any way around it?”
“I wish,” the manager said. He had the friendly but wary expression that Wells had seen before on gun enthusiasts. Sure, we’re buddies. For now. “Why the rush? Come to Joburg on business, now you want to hunt the mighty dik-dik? Your guide will gladly supply everything you need.”