Jet

Chapter 23

“Are you ready for a boat ride?”

“What are you talking about?” Jet replied.

David closed the hotel room door and approached her, then set a pair of nail clippers on the table, where she was munching on some fruit. The morning sun streamed through the gauze curtains, warming her as she reached for the clippers.

“We have to be at the dock just before nightfall. At the private yacht marina in Haifa harbor. The story will be that we’re going night fishing for shark. Money may have changed hands between the patrol boats and my contact’s captain — who knows? But he’s got a fifty-foot sports fisher that can make it to Cyprus in eight hours, easy, at which point we’ll be on our own.”

“That’s great news. The sooner we’re off Israeli soil, the better. I’ve been watching the news, and all they’re talking about are the shootings. No mention of Eli.”

David nodded. “No surprise there. He didn’t exist as far as the public is concerned. Just another anonymous bureaucrat. The Mossad will cover it all up — his body probably won’t be found for weeks, and then if he’s lucky, his passing will warrant three column inches on page eighteen mourning his demise following a domestic accident. He’ll be described as a deputy director of public safety or something like that. We all know how it works when we sign up.”

“If there’s anything good to come of all this,” Jet reflected, “it’s that you’re off the radar now. Any search for you will lose steam over time. And with some plastic surgery, nobody would recognize you.”

“That reminds me. Did you get something done? You look a little different.”

“Got my nose narrowed. The effect is subtle but effective.”

“If anything, you’re more beautiful than before. If that’s even possible.”

She snipped at the hand stitches and quickly pulled them free of her skin. The scar would be barely noticeable within a week.

Jet rose and walked over to where he was standing and put her arms around his neck, then kissed him long and deep. When she pulled back, she was smiling.

“Are you angling for more lovemaking, David? Because compliments are never a bad way to go about it.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“It’s not a negative. It’s about the only thing I can read about you. Everything else, you’re the sphinx. Inscrutable.”

“You have a lot of that going on, too — the inscrutable thing.” He kissed her again.

“How’s the stomach? You sure you can handle another round?” she asked, already pulling her top over her head.

“The doctor did say to get some exercise.”

~ ~ ~

Jet’s only project for the day was to trim her hair — she needed to alter her appearance, and a short cut was the perfect way, especially since all the photos she knew about had her with a long or medium-length cut. She had bought a pair of scissors in the gift shop and set to chopping away. After half an hour, the result wasn’t encouraging. Apparently, becoming a cosmetologist wasn’t part of her calling.

She left David to his own devices in the room and went for a drive, looking for a hair salon that could fix her experiment. Near the center of town, she found two within a block of each other, and selected one based on the decor. The stylist, a pert young woman with a contemporary hairstyle, surveyed her hair with a disdainful look.

“I’m afraid I might have butchered this,” Jet confessed once she was seated in the chair.

“It’s, uh, different. So what did you have in mind?” the woman asked, preferring not to dwell on how Jet got there.

Jet studied the woman’s cut.

“I really like yours. Do you think you could do something like that?”

“It’s a lot more edgy than the bob it looks like you were shooting for. You sure you want to go that direction?”

“I like edgy. Why not?”

“I’ve found it’s a good idea to check before I start cutting. There’s nothing worse than a client who hates her cut once I’m done. That’s not the kind of advertising that builds your business.”

“Don’t worry. If I look freakish, it will be my fault, not yours.”

Forty-five minutes later, Jet examined the new her in the mirror and nodded, satisfied. It would be hard to recognize her. Amazing how much difference a hairstyle change made.

“It’s perfect,” Jet proclaimed.

The stylist smiled. “It does look good. You’re very lucky. You have a great face to frame, so almost anything would look great.”

David was impressed upon her return.

“Wow. You’re hot. I mean, seriously. That’s a great look.”

“Thanks. But the main goal was to radically change my appearance.”

“It worked. Come here. Let me play with your new hair.”

They elected to have a late lunch in the hotel restaurant, and David took the opportunity after they ordered to make a call to his American contact. When he returned, he looked troubled.

The waiter arrived with their sandwiches, and he took a bite before gazing around the dining area.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Not so good. My CIA buddy said there’s been considerable agitation over the Belize situation recently. There have been a series of suspicious deaths, including the shooting of a public figure — a vocal advocate of nationalization of the nation’s oil reserves — and the untimely death of the governor general. An accidental drowning, but given the circumstances, I wouldn’t bet money on it.”

“So the game’s afoot already. We knew it would be.”

“True, but he also says that there’s satellite evidence of a new compound being set up in the jungle down by Punta Gorda, in the southern portion of the country. Apparently, the locals are afraid to go near it, and there are rumors circulating of a cartel moving into the area. It’s extremely remote, in an uninhabited section down by the Honduran border. That sounds like something Grigenko would be behind. It has to be. Nothing else is happening in Belize. The footage shows three main buildings with a perimeter that’s been cleared, and as of this morning, several large SUVs and signs of habitation.”

“Okay. So Grigenko’s got something going on in Belize. Question is whether it can help us or not. I was more in favor of heading to Russia to deal with him,” she reminded him.

“Like I said, that could be a major problem. He’s got more security in Moscow than most heads of state. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“How many missions have I carried out where I didn’t stand a chance? Come on. That’s almost routine.”

“This is different.” David took another bite of his sandwich and leaned back, signaling to the waitress for another iced tea.

“Then what do we do, now that we have this new development?”

“I’m thinking that we go to Belize. Whatever is happening there is obviously critical to Grigenko. He’s spent years on it, no doubt tied to the oil reserves he discovered. If we disrupt his scheme there, we may be able to draw him out. As it sits, he’s unassailable in Moscow, so we need him to make mistakes. If we can get him to Belize…”

“So we’re doing the jungle thing? Malaria, humidity, toucans?” she asked.

“I can’t see any better options. Belize is a strong lead, and we know it’s a big deal for him. I say we throw a grenade into his little fiesta there and see what happens. Do you have any better suggestions?”

“I suppose nuking his headquarters is impractical?”

David smiled. “Always the subtle one, huh?”

“Okay, you win. Belize it is. How do we get weapons? I’m assuming we can’t stroll in with the toys we just bought.”

“It sounded like the American could help with that. I get the sense that the CIA has some feet on the ground there.”

“You sure you’re up for this?”

“No problem. I’m strong as a bull now. Healthy living and the love of a good woman…”

The joke silenced them both.

He slid his hand over the table and took hers.

“I’m glad, whatever the circumstances, that you came back.”

She stopped eating and held his gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, and then hesitated, as if pondering something he wanted to tell her, and then reconsidering.

“It does indeed.”

They checked out of the hotel late and meandered around Haifa, looking for an appropriate place to dump the weapons. Ultimately, David decided it would be best if they dropped them off the back of the boat before getting underway — there was no way of knowing for sure whether they would still need them up until then.

As the remains of the afternoon drifted into dusk, they negotiated their way to an intimate waterfront restaurant that David had eaten at before, and savored their last meal in Israel — probably for the rest of their lives. They watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea and drank coffee, each mentally preparing for the journey ahead.

The burner cell they had acquired rang with a startling intensity. David glanced at the incoming number before stabbing the phone on.

“Yes?”

He listened intently, then hung up.

“Change of plans. The boat we were going to take has an engine problem. So now we’re going to be on a commercial fishing boat. It’ll leave as soon as we get to it, and then we’ll do a transfer at sea to a Cyprus boat — the fishing boat will average seventeen to eighteen kilometers an hour, so by dawn we should be around a hundred forty five kilometers from the island. He’s got an associate that can make that distance in a boat from the St. Raphael marina on the southern coast, no sweat, so we’ll do the handoff at sea.”

“Where do we leave the car?”

“They’ll take care of that — they’ll return it to the rental agency so your credit card doesn’t get shut off.”

“Same plan on the weapons?”

“Yup. Over the side.”

David paid the bill, and a few minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot near the marina.

“A dinghy will take us out to the boat,” he explained. “It’s sitting just outside of the harbor mouth so it doesn’t have to deal with the police. He’s already been cleared.”

They parked where they had been instructed to, and Jet shouldered the weapons sack. A chubby man with a shaved head met them by the dock and wordlessly directed them to a waiting inflatable near the end of the long row of sailboats. The motor was putting quietly. The man helped them in, then climbed in himself after untying the line. Soon, they were tearing over the water. Halfway across the harbor, Jet tossed the duffle overboard, watching it sink out of sight into the depths.

The fishing boat was a creaky commercial scow that smelled of decaying fish and oil. They sidled up to it, and Jet and David climbed onto the transom as the craft eased up and down the gentle swell. A swarthy seaman pointed them below deck to the bunks, and before the dinghy had pulled twenty yards from the stern, they were moving, bow pointed northwest to where Cyprus jutted out of the middle of the Mediterranean a hundred and sixty-eight miles away.

The crew stayed above deck, avoiding any contact with Jet and David, which was fine by them both. The stink of the vessel was bad enough without having to contend with curious fishermen. Jet stowed the backpack she had bought earlier, which served as a combination travel purse and clothes bag, and climbed into the lowest of the bunks — little more than stained wooden slats with squalid foam mattresses. The ancient diesel engine thrummed and clattered steadily, and the gentle rolling motion was vaguely relaxing.

“I hope I don’t catch something lying on this,” she remarked.

David smiled before climbing onto the bunk above her.

“Probably unlikely that there’s anything worse than fleas or lice. You should be good.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“No need to thank me.”

Her eyes drifted shut as she dozed, and the next thing she knew, she was being surprised awake by someone shaking her. She bolted upright, only to see David’s face near hers.

“We just got the word. The Cyprus boat should be on top of us in ten minutes.”

She rubbed her face and nodded. “It’s really been nine hours?”

“They say you never sleep as well as you do on a boat.”

Jet rose and used the little toilet and then retrieved her bag, joining David at the base of the ladder that ascended to the main deck. They climbed the rungs and emerged into the first glow of dawn, the orange hue of the sun creating a dazzling display on the water.

In the distance they could hear the chanting of big motors moving towards them, and they watched as a sixty-foot euro-styled motor yacht pulled alongside, bumpers in place to prevent the hulls from scraping. There appeared to be only two men on board the new arrival — the captain and a deckhand, who lashed a line around a stanchion and gestured for them to come aboard. Jet hopped easily from the fishing boat over to the motor yacht. David threw her his bag and made the leap, wincing as he landed on the far deck.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned that he was nursing his stomach.

“Just a little reminder to be careful. It’s nothing.”

She looked at him skeptically, then turned to the deckhand.

“Allo. Welcome aboard. We will be near the island in three hours, and then I will take you to the marina in the tender. This boat will remain at sea until nightfall. I hope you are hungry. I have prepared a fruit plate and some pastries, and there is fresh coffee brewed,” the man said in accented English.

Jet noticed he didn’t offer his name, and didn’t ask theirs.

“Thank you. We’ll just go inside, then,” David said.

As they carried their bags into the salon, the big boat surged forward, accelerating until they were cutting through the beam sea at a steady twenty-two knots. The anonymous deckhand poured them coffee in tall non-spill thermal cups and then made for the stairs to the bridge to join the captain, who they hadn’t seen as anything other than a silhouette from the fishing boat.

The two craft couldn’t have been less alike. Whereas the commercial trawler was all peeling paint, rust and malodorous rot, this boat comprised highly polished exotic woods, leather sofas and plush carpeting. The air-conditioning hummed silently, keeping the interior of the salon at precisely seventy degrees.

“I could get used to this,” Jet commented.

David nodded. “You don’t want to know what it cost.”

“What do we do once we’re on Cyprus?”

“Make our way to Larnaca airport and get away from this region of the world. I don’t know what the schedule is for flights to Belize, but my sense is that most of them go through the United States, so we’d be better advised to fly through someplace with less sophisticated computers, just in case my mug is on Interpol. Same for the connection from Cyprus. Maybe through Milan or Madrid or Athens rather than France, Germany or Britain.”

“Into where? Mexico City?”

“Seems like the most prudent hub, and from there we can fly into any number of nearby cities — Cancun or Chetumal being the most obvious.”

Jet sipped her coffee and watched the foaming water race by the windows.

“We’re going to be traveling for at least another twenty-four hours. Did you get any sleep on the boat?” she asked.

“Some. Not a lot. Someone had to keep a lookout and make sure the crew didn’t try to sneak in and ravish you.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, we have three hours to kill. I’ll bet this thing has some seriously nice staterooms. Locking staterooms.”

“Always thinking of me. You suggesting I try to get some sleep?”

She stood and moved towards the front of the boat.

“Something like that.”