Rules of Betrayal

17

Jonathan had exchanged the blue of the Persian Gulf for the brown of the Negev Desert. The F-18/A landed at exactly twelve noon at Tel Nof Air Force Base south of Rehovot, Israel. The aircraft taxied past the control tower, past a squadron of F-16 Falcons, and past a dozen hangars, continuing to the farthest tip of the airfield. The pilot pushed back the canopy but did not kill the engine. A ground crew of one waited beside a white utility truck. Without delay, he positioned a ladder against the fuselage and helped Jonathan unbuckle and descend from the cockpit. The pilot slotted the canopy, pushed the plane through a tight 180-degree turn, and took off to the south. The ground crewman climbed back into his truck and drove away. Sixty seconds after setting foot on the tarmac, Jonathan stood alone, wind peppering his face with dust and grit.

And then, in the distance, a glint of blue beneath the midday sun. An automobile approached and stopped next to him. Two men got out.

“Welcome to Israel,” said the driver, who was short and stocky and had curly black hair.

The other man was short and stocky and bald, and reminded Jonathan of an artillery shell. He held open the rear door.

“Are you Frank Connor’s friends?” Jonathan asked.

The answer was an incline of the shaved head toward the open door. Jonathan got in.

They drove for an hour, climbing out of the desert on a series of long switchbacks, and then descending toward the coast and the Mediterranean Sea. Road signs read, “Tel Aviv,” “Haifa,” and “Herzliya.” Jonathan tried several more times to engage the men in conversation, but neither responded.

The car left the highway at the town of Herzliya. Five minutes later they pulled into the forecourt of a small, whitewashed building. A sign on the facade advertised it as the Hotel Beach Plaza, but there was no beach to speak of, rather a stone promontory plummeting into the sea and below, at water’s edge, a jetty of sharp, inhospitable rocks.

They passed through the lobby and went directly to the elevator. No one at the front desk uttered a word, or even glanced in his direction. Check-in had been taken care of. Jonathan’s room was on the third floor. In the hall, the men handed Jonathan the card key. The driver stood with crossed arms, looking Jonathan up and down. “Suit, forty-two long. Pants, thirty-four by thirty-four. Shoes, size twelve.”

“Thirteen,” said Jonathan.

“Boats,” said the artillery shell.

The men left without another word.

Jonathan noted that the door to his room was ajar. He knocked and pushed it open. “Hello?”

A cleaning maid was dusting the night table. “One moment,” she said in accented English. “Almost done.”

Jonathan entered the room, feeling strangely shy without any bags. “It’s fine,” he said. “You can go. I’d like to get some rest.”

The maid smiled and promptly ignored him, returning her attention to an already immaculate desk and countertop.

Jonathan sidestepped her and opened the glass doors that fed onto a narrow balcony. The temperature was a balmy seventy degrees. A few hundred meters up the coast, the rocks gave way to sand and he could see several sunbathers lying on colorful towels. A gull swooped by, cai -ing lustily. The wind was steady, and he observed a line of sailboats tacking against the current. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sun, and realized that he didn’t know what day it was. Friday? Saturday? The last week of his life had woven itself into a violent tapestry. He saw Amina stretched out on the table and Hamid drawing his blade across Abdul Haq’s throat. He saw the top of the Ranger’s head blown clean off and the hardened captain named Brewster shuddering as the machine-gun bullets stitched his chest, and then Hamid again, as he dropped from Jonathan’s grasp. Jonathan jolted, as if awakening from a nightmare. Opening his eyes, he saw that his arm was extended, his hand still searching for Hamid’s. Yet even as he stared out at the diamonds sparkling on the ocean, the pleasant breeze ruffling his hair, he felt a pair of black kohl-lined eyes challenging him from beyond the horizon, silently declaring him a coward and vowing revenge.

Jonathan walked inside, closing the doors behind him. Happily, the maid had left. He checked that the thermostat was set to low, then drew the curtains. The air conditioner rumbled to life, and he raised a hand to check that the air pouring from the vent was cool. His time in Afghanistan had accustomed him to sleeping with a cold head and warm body. He took off his watch and laid it by the bed. He had no idea what the agenda was, but no doubt Connor had everything planned out. For the moment, he was too tired to care. Still standing, he removed his pants and his underwear. He thought about taking a shower, then decided against it. The bed was too inviting. He pulled back the sheets.

Without warning, a sharp blow pounded his kidney. He gasped, feeling the presence of someone close behind him. He spun and saw a flash of powder blue, but before he could turn halfway, iron hands clutched his arm and threw him to the ground. He landed belly down, his left arm wrenched behind him in a police armlock.

“Never turn your back on a stranger.”

“Let go,” grunted Jonathan, his face mashed against the carpet. “You’re breaking my arm.”

“Did you see me leave the room?”

Jonathan recognized the accented English. “No,” he managed out of the side of his mouth.

“Did you notice if there was a service cart in the hallway? See my nametag?”

“No.”

“What about downstairs? Many guests milling about? Lots of cars in the parking lot?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Any reason why I should be servicing your room so late in the afternoon if the entire hotel is empty?”

“Ummm… no.”

“So are you naive or just plain stupid?” A twist of the arm emphasized each adjective. “Never trust anyone.”

“Get off of me.”

“Make me. You’re a strong man. Go ahead. I weigh one hundred and twenty pounds. Surely you can free yourself.”

Jonathan struggled to flip her off his back. Then he tried to get his right arm beneath him and raise himself to his knees. He was no martial arts expert, but over the years he’d picked up a little jujitsu here, some Krav Maga there. And he was strong. Yet his every attempt was stymied with a hold more painful than the last. “Enough,” he said, his cheek wedged against the floor once again.

“Look around you. Ask yourself why, where, how, what if. Don’t just look but see. Observe.”

His eyes focused on the carpet less than an inch away. He observed that it was blue, with green speckles.

The armlock relaxed. The weight on his back lifted. Jonathan lay still, catching his breath. The maid walked to the curtains but, true to her advice, never completely took her eyes from him. “Get up and put something on.”

Jonathan pushed himself to his feet and limped into the bathroom. By the time he returned with a towel wrapped around his waist, the maid had removed her apron and let down her hair. She was tall, more handsome than pretty, maybe thirty-five years old, with weathered skin, blue eyes, and black hair as straight as straw.

Often Jonathan was able to guess a person’s nationality at first glance. Not her. She could be American or French, Argentine or Swedish. The perennial wanderer in him sensed a kindred spirit. Like him, she was at home anywhere in the world. She wore little makeup, and her lips were chapped. Her arms were toned, with the veins running down chiseled biceps. She didn’t need to be a black belt to hold him down-she had enough raw strength. Her nails were trimmed, her fingers thicker than most women might like. It was no wonder the jab to his kidneys had hurt so badly. He also sensed that, like him, she preferred life away from the madding crowd, and that time spent in cities was a down payment against the next foray into the wild. His flash of perception troubled him. He’d felt the same way about Emma.

“What happened to the lei and a welcome cocktail?” he asked.

“This isn’t a holiday, Dr. Ransom. School is now in session. We don’t have much time, and from what I just saw, we have far too much work to do. Now get some rest. I’ll be by at six to take you to dinner. Your clothes will be here by then.”

“Do you have a message for me from Frank Connor? He told me I’d hear from him.”

“Who?” The blue eyes bore down on him. It was not a name to be said aloud.

“No one,” said Jonathan, backpedaling. “I was mistaken.”

“I thought so.” The woman came closer and extended her hand. “I’m Danni. I’ll be your trainer.”