The Red Syndrome (34 page)

"Maybe I'm the one who should be jealous now?" I had to put an end
to the charade.

She raised her head in surprise. "Why?"

"Because I saw you passionately kissing another man last night. Now,
am I still the only one for you?" I asked in contempt.

Laura seemed defeated.

"Either you tell me the truth or my next call is to Hodson. You know
what that means?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Most likely indictment for
a whole array of felonies and termination of your employment with
Homeland Security."

"I can always stay in Europe," she said. The words were defiant, but her
tone signaled a possible surrender.

"You'd be extradited to the U.S. in no time. Laura, talk to me before it's
too late."

She reflected for a moment. "You'll have to promise to help me out of
it," she said. "I've gotten myself into a real mess here."

I backed myself to the television set, moved my hand behind it, and
secretly pressed the RECORD button on the transmitter.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Unplugging it," I said. "Did you hear it buzzing? It drives me crazy." I
showed her the loose cord.

Laura climbed to the bed and leaned her head against the headboard.
She was quiet for a moment.

"Tell me about the guy you were kissing last night."

"So you do care about me, you're jealous!" she said, striking a triumphant
chord but obviously still grasping at straws. When I didn't react she continued more quietly. "He's a guy I used to date, and now he's trying to
reignite our relationship. That's why he came after me to France."

"Who is he?"

"Just a guy."

"How did you meet him?"

"Why is it your business?"

"Everything is my business now. Tell me, what's his name?" I
demanded.

`Baird Black. What's so special about him that you're so insistent?

Either Laura was lying or he was using a credit card with a different
name. I ducked her question. "Tell me how you met."

"I was investigating a fuel-smuggling case in Brooklyn. He came to my
office to tip me off about a web of some Eastern European men who were
illegally importing women from Russia to work in brothels. When my
boss ordered an investigation, we discovered his information was good.
The ring members were arrested and indicted."

"Good for you," I said, "but then what?"

"We started dating."

"Dating?"

"Yes, you know, boy meets girl? I'd come from Kansas to New York. I
had no friends or acquaintances, nothing. All I did was work. He was very
nice. He complimented me, took me to dinners, sent me flowers, and
bought me nice presents. It was a romance."

"Did you fall in love?"

She nodded.

"And?" I was getting impatient when I should have been empathetic.
"I don't know what happened; we sort of grew apart. He was working
late most of the time and had less time to see me. We went from meeting
four to six nights a week to twice a week, and then barely once a week.
Finally I told him it was over. But then he started calling me again,
insisting that we were meant to be together."

"How did you end up in the task force?"

"Why?" she asked.

"Because on day one you said you volunteered."

"Yes, that's true. I'd heard of the opportunities in the office. I told Baird
about it, and he said that since he was getting into his busy season, he was
going to be working late."

"What does he do?"

"He exports flowers. He said I should take the opportunity, rather than
wait every evening for him. So I did."

"Was he also in my hotel room?"

"Who?"

"Baird, your friend."

Laura looked startled.

"Answer me!"

She hesitated. "Yes, I asked him to go over your stuff while you and I
were traveling to see if there was anything that would reveal what your
mission was."

"Why? If you were working for Hodson as you claim, he knows what
my mission is."

"Yes, but if I could find out what you were doing by going through your
things, thatd mean a breach of security on your part."

Well, all I needed from her here was an explanation I could pretend I
believed so that I could move on. This one wasn't plausible even for the
feeble-minded.

"He agreed to break into a hotel room just because you asked him?"

"He refused to at the beginning, but I said he'd have to prove that he'd
do anything for me. So he searched your room for me, but found nothing."

"How did he enter my room?"

"I asked the receptionist for a key."

"Why would she give a key to a stranger?"

Laura hesitated.

"Let me help you," I said. "Someone authorized the receptionist to give
out the key. Who was that?"

"Baird."

"Laura, I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Our deal is off and now I'm
going to call Hodson. Maybe he'll confirm you were working for him."

"Dan, please don't do that. He'll deny it to keep from alienating you
about not trusting you. I'm telling you the truth." She paused. "I need to
go," she said, getting up from the bed. "My flight leaves in three hours."

I hesitated. I couldn't detain her. Even if Eric was here he'd have no
authority to arrest Laura. What could I do? Call the French police?
Reveal to them that the U.S. government was engaged in a clandestine
operation on their soil, but had forgotten to ask their permission?

"Are you going back home?"

"Yes. Dan, remember your promise to help me."

"What are you going to tell them about my mission here?" I asked.

"Nothing, that I discovered nothing." Finally, one word of truth.

"Wait," I said.

She turned around. "What?"

"Give me back my handheld monitor."

She put her hand into her purse, but instead of my monitor she pulled
out a mace canister, spraying my face and yanking her gun from my belt.
I rushed to the bathroom and furiously splashed my burning eyes with
water, but by the time I came to my senses, she was long gone with my
monitor. That bitch had outsmarted me ... but at least I could still watch
the video. I locked the door and checked the device behind the television.
It was all there.

An hour later when my vision had improved, I used my laptop to
connect to the Internet. I opened a new e-mail account in Yahoo as
"John6677878" and sent a plain-language message to Hodson's covert
e-mail address: "I believe I have discovered a possible red fur mole. I
suggest you run stop-loss efforts immediately. I cannot leave location or
speak with you until my assignment is over. Mole said to be returning
home tonight, but I cannot verify. She has an accomplice, one Baird
Black, aka Robert Meadway, possibly of Brooklyn, New York. Lan has
further details about him that I gave her."

I sent the file, purged the temporary Internet file I'd created, and
deleted the new e-mail account. I couldn't leave the hotel. I was sure I was under surveillance, and a trip to Eric's clinic or to the consulate to use a
secure phone would expose me. I was reluctant to use my cell phone,
which was completely unsecured and left a record with the telephone
company, and I definitely couldn't use the hotel's phone. I wanted to talk
to someone about Laura, but apart from the message I'd sent to Hodson,
there was nothing more I could do without jeopardizing my mission. I
was also expecting the hundred thousand dollars from Zhukov. In my set
of priorities, sticking to my mission was more important than telling on
Laura - not to mention confessing my own breach by inviting her to
France. That would have to wait until after my next meeting with
Zhukov and his men.

Early the following day, the phone in my room rang. Half asleep, I
picked up the receiver. A person with a slight French accent said, "This
is a message from Mr. Henderson. He asked that you meet him now at
Saint-Victor Abbey."

Finally. "Where is that?"

"Take a cab, the driver will know. Once in Saint-Victor Abbey, go
inside. Mr. Henderson will be waiting for you." He hung up. The call
alleviated my concern over why I hadn't heard from Eric. There was much
to discuss now. For the first time I was looking forward to meeting him.

Saint-Victor Abbey was a towering fortress. I entered the huge, cool
foyer and looked around, but there was no sign of Eric. Then a woman
passed by and discreetly signaled me to follow. She walked quickly down
the stairs toward the crypt. I could see a tour guide down there telling a
group of Japanese sightseers about the third-century sarcophagus of Saint
Maurice. I thought perhaps Eric was shadowing the group, but the tallest
person in it was little more than five feet - no match for the six-foot
Eric. When I looked back, the woman who'd signaled to me had disappeared. I turned to walk back up the stairs to the main entrance. A big
mustached man squeezed past me in the narrow passage, forcing me up
against the wall. I was just about to protest when a door in the wall suddenly opened. It was actually a stone door on hinges, leading to another
part of the crypt. Two other men pulled me from the inside, pushing and
closing the door immediately.

I looked around. Five men were staring at me; two of them were holding
my arms and the others were pointing guns at me. I had no escape route.
They were guarding both doors of the small hall. There were no windows.
I wasn't armed; they were.

"Game is over," said the mustached guy. In fact, everyone in the room
had mustaches. They looked Arab. They weren't big men, but there were
five of them, and I was by myself. Mustache Guy-as I'd come to think
of him -nodded by way of command, and the men holding me frisked
me. I had nothing suspicious on me; in fact, everything substantiated my
claim that I was Neil McMillan: a wallet, Neil McMillan's Canadian
passport, his business cards, a Visa card with his name and my picture,
343 Canadian dollars along with 29o euros, and my hotel card key. A
search of my room and my laptop computer would yield
nothing-even if they did manage to break my twelve-digit password.

"What game?" I demanded, trying to sound more confident than I felt
as the blood left my face on its way to my feet, which by now were
cement-heavy.

Nobody responded.

"What's going on? You want my money? You can take it."

I was not dignified with an answer. I knew, of course, that money was
not the reason I was here. And they knew I knew it.

Mustache Guy snapped something in an unfamiliar Arabic dialect,
quite different from the Palestinian Arabic I understood well. My heart
was hammering, my stomach convulsing. I'd been had. I should have been
more careful. All the precautionary measures I'd been taught at the
Mossad and during my weeklong crash course at The Farm had been in
vain ... and I had no one to blame but myself. I'd violated the Eleventh
Commandment of the trade: Thou shall notget caught.

I thought about weighing my options, but I didn't have any: My
future was in their hands, and it didn't look bright. I heard my captors
talking, again in that strange dialect. I could pick up a few words, but
not whole sentences. Who were these guys, and what did they want? I
refused to admit-even to myself-that I knew exactly why I was in
this mess. Nor would I concede the unavoidable truth that someone had outsmarted me. The self-proclaimed invincible American-Israeli
attorney and Mossad veteran, with years of investigative experience on
behalf of the U.S. Department of Justice, had been brought to his knees
by a bunch of ... well, something lower than lowlifes. I was now lower
than them.

I felt a sting in my right arm, and I blacked out.

It was the urge to scratch my face and neck that finally brought me out
of unconsciousness. I tried to move my hand, but it didn't go far. I was
chained to a bed. A bed. I'm lying in bed. That means I'm alive. A positive
sign. I couldn't see anything, though. A jute sack over my head blocked
my sight and made it difficult to breathe. As I came to, I registered other
sensations: the heat of the room, the smell of urine, the itch of the sack
against my skin. I moved my legs. They were still in place. Then I felt the
headache, a deep-rooted pain in my forehead, just above my eyebrows. I
wished I could touch my head to soothe it.

I heard noises and a door opened. A man said in Arabic, "He is awake,
take the sack off his head." This time I understood the dialect: It was
Palestinian Arabic. Someone approached and aggressively pulled the sack
from my head, scratching my ears. Strong daylight flooded my eyes. I
instinctively shut them but the world still shone red through the lids.

A man came closer and said in Arabic, "Here is water." Eyes pressed
shut, I felt the cup brought to my lips. I drank it slowly. Some of it
trickled down my chin.

"Shukran, thanks," I said, slowly opening my eyes. I was on a bed in a
small room with a high ceiling. The only window had French shutters,
and there were no bars on it. Maybe I was still in France.

"Sit up," said a voice on my left. My vision remained blurred, but I could
see the speaker. A man in his early thirties, dark-complected, with Arab
features. I tried to sit but the chain held me back. Another man unlocked
my handcuffs but left my legs chained. I sat up in the bed, feeling dizzy.
The room was swinging around me. I closed my eyes as I lay back down.

"Who are you working for?" the voice asked.

"Transcontinental Money Solutions," I answered. My face was imme diately thrown to the left from the blow to my right jaw. I felt the taste
of my blood dripping from my mouth.

"I ask again, who do you work for?"

"Transcontinental Money Solutions," I repeated, closing my eyes in
anticipation of the next blow. It came as expected. Hard and severe. I felt
my face swelling. My heart was racing. Calm down, I said to myself, this
is still the easy part. I knew that giving only a three-word answer would
suggest that I had had some kind of military or intelligence training,
because of both the terseness and the repetition of a single phrase. I could
play the role of a kidnapped civilian - asking what my kidnappers
wanted, whether they wanted a ransom, then begging them not to hurt
or kill me, insisting there had been a terrible mistake, and pleading for
release. But I decided to take a different tack. Stoic behavior would not
necessarily mean I was a government agent. Perhaps I was a con man
who'd been through many police investigations, even served time.