Ryan sat back on the edge of the table, next to the ticking windup clock. “A full military takeover?”

  “There are, I don’t know which ones, some high military officers committed. They delay only to try to convince other leaders to go along. They are primarily ground troops. They want the support of more air units. This kind of thing is kept quiet and secret. No details. No names. And, frankly, such rumblings for this have existed for years, off and on. Talk of coup in Turkey is like talk of soccer championships. But, this time, to me, it feels like more. If so, it will probably be started by units in the northern part of the country. That is all I know and I don’t even really know that. Not for certain.”

  “I want you to develop a list of every bank and every banker to whom you’ve ever sent or from whom you’ve ever received money, everywhere. You’ve aided and abetted these sorts of things for nearly twenty years, so I realize this will take you some time. Send it in a plain envelope addressed to William Donovan, Jackson Hole, Wyoming.” Ryan gave Benoit a single digit box number and had him repeat it several times. “I’ll be informed when it arrives. Put a single number after each name to indicate the number of times you’re aware of each banker being involved. Nothing more. If you need contact, sign it Lou. If you don’t need contact leave it unsigned. Do not foolishly think you can ignore this and it will go away.”

  Benoit nodded. “It may be two weeks before I get back to Paris to gather what I need to put it together.”

  “I’ll expect it by the end of next month. Do not fail to meet this demand.”

  Fifteen minutes later, El Sayed pulled up behind the Carlton Hotel. Ryan led again hooded Benoit out the back door. El Sayed pulled away without knowing who had been in the back of his van. Ryan removed the hood, leaving Benoit to find his own way back to his room.

  Ryan needed some sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

  11

  OVAL OFFICE:

  “Mr. President, did you read what Senator Dickerson said?”

  “Did he finally get off his ass and admit he’s running?”

  “Not exactly. Not officially anyway. But everyone knows his hat’s in the ring.”

  “Don’t overestimate the American people. You know these things, you’re my chief of staff. We live politics. Just what the hell did he say?”

  “His announced two positions, both clearly pandering to the senior vote.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. President, I’m paraphrasing, when Social Security was passed, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt promised the American people that Social Security benefits would never be taxed. Now they are, and, if he were president, he’d work to have that reversed so the senior citizen’s Social Security benefits will never again be taxed.”

  “That bastard.”

  Chief of Staff Carlson Bickersley threw his hands in the air at the president’s declaration. Then he refilled the president’s coffee cup and his own.

  “Bicky, I need to change the subject. There’s something I need you to do for me.”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Carolyn’s cat.” President Walker released his cuff button and pushed up his sleeve. “That damn fur ball hates me. Look at my arm! Sometimes I sleep with my arm dangling outside the bed, and that animal wakes me up scratching my arm.”

  Bickersley leaned in and looked at the president’s arm. “What do you want me to do? Can’t you get Carolyn to agree the cat sleeps outside the room?”

  “Not a chance. The cat has a sleeping pillow next to Carolyn’s side of the bed.”

  “So, what are you proposing?”

  “What I want is for that cat to mysteriously end up, accompanied by two bricks, in a gunny sack for a trip to the bottom of the Potomac River.”

  “Mr. President? You don’t mean that?”

  “I damn well do, in a New York minute. But Carolyn would just get another cat so nothing would be gained.”

  Bickersley took a sip of his coffee, crossed his legs and waited.

  “Christ, Bicky. We discuss how to deal with that immature twit in North Korea, not to mention Iraq and the rest of the damn world, plus that yahoo in Russia. This is a fucking cat.”

  “I serve at your pleasure, Mr. President. Give me orders and I will see that they’re carried out.”

  “Get the damn thing declawed.”

  “That’s usually done, when it is, while the cat’s still a kitten. Her cat is much older than that.”

  “So what. It can survive being declawed. Get it done. That’s an order.”

  “And how do I deal with the First Lady?”

  “I’ll deal with Carolyn. Just do it.”

  “When?”

  “She’s having her hair done tomorrow or the day after, I’ll let you know which one. In the morning at nine-thirty. Take it then. I’ll have it in its travel box—whatever you call those mobile cages. You just take it and get it done. Bring it back to me here. I’ll get it upstairs.”

  “I’m not looking forward to this, Mr. President.”

  “Can we move on?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Back to this asshole’s article in the journal. You said he made two points, what’s the other one?”

  “The cost of living adjustment to our seniors Social Security benefits currently works off the Labor Department’s Consumer Price Index for Urban Wage Earners and Clerical Workers. That index is derived from the spending patterns of about 28% of the U.S. population. A more appropriate index would be the Consumer Price Index for All Urban Consumers which is derived from 87% of the population.”

  “Is he proposing that change?”

  “Hell no. He goes further to support the use of the Consumer Price Index for the Elderly sixty-two and older, which takes into consideration the faster acceleration of health care costs which are a major element in the cost of living for our seniors. Truthfully, it’s far more applicable to seniors than the other indices.”

  “Why haven’t we adopted that position?”

  “Over time, it would raise our social security payouts considerably. I’m sure you don’t want that, Mr. President.”

  “Of course not. But I also don’t want to hand my opponent an intuitively fair position on something that has appeal to all seniors. You know the percentage that vote among seniors is much greater than any other segment of our population. And, our population is aging.”

  “Yes, sir. I fully expected that some candidate for the office of president would eventually take this position. It’s easily defensible. The senior index directly addresses the changes in the costs of living for seniors—an apple to apples comparison. The appeal of it is not just to seniors but also to middle-aged voters with parents on social security. I just didn’t expect Senator Dickerson to grab it for the upcoming election.”

  “I’m not looking forward to any of this. I can sure as hell tell you that Carolyn isn’t either. The first lady would be quite happy to stop living under a microscope and return to our penthouse in Manhattan. But I must see this job through the second term. And Carolyn must accept her time as first lady is not over. We need to keep an eye on that woman, Carlson. We must. At least through my reelection.”

  12

  Room service brought Linda half a grapefruit, coffee, and a poppy seed muffin; the day’s edition of the Portland Oregonian was on the tray. She fixed her coffee, took a bite of grapefruit and picked up the newspaper. The front page was full of the usual happenings of crime and politics. She reflected for a moment on whether or not politics had rotted into the latest racket in white-collar crime.

  The real drama in Linda’s morning was not in the newspaper. She’d received a call from Brad, the man who previously told her she would never hear from him again. She was to drive north on Interstate 5 to exit 14. There, she was to get off and enter the parking lot of the truck stop, park near the back of the center building on the left hand side, and wait five minutes. Then get out, walk past the front entrance to the combination convenience market and fast food restaurant. She was to continue around to the back right hand side of the building where she was to get into the front passenger seat of a parked black SUV.

  For now, Linda decided she had no option but to play along. They had bigger plans for her than simply visiting some form of violence upon her. If that was their purpose, it would have already happened. This involved Steffi’s safety. She had to find out what this was about and who was pulling the strings. Only then could she devise a counter play, if there was one.

  If that didn’t somehow work out, her only option might be to murder the man they wanted her to kill. At any cost, she had to save Steffi. She also knew that whether or not he deserved to die, if she killed the man she would belong to them. They’d have her kill again and again. She’d become a paid assassin and the pay would diminish from the quarter of a million they were promising for her introductory voyage.

  Before leaving her room, she again dialed Ryan Testler’s phone, carefully counting her ten strikes of the digit one on its keyboard. Again, he didn’t answer. Again, she heard the same recorded message: he was occupied and would not reply for approximately a week. A damn week that ended who knows when. A week that could have already ended or, maybe, barely begun.

  The recorded message really said at least a week, not just a week. All she knew was at least two days of that week had passed because she first heard this message two days ago. A part of her wanted to throw the phone against the wall, but she wouldn’t let that part make the decision.

  I need to keep this phone with me until I can get through to him. I can’t go to the police. Ryan’s my best hope. Steffi’s best hope.

  Linda recalled Ryan having told her once, early in their first adventure, “Always go to bed expecting that I could be there with you when you wake.” The thought had, at first, angered her. Then it mellowed into being unsettling. More recently, she now and again remembered it and smiled. Last night, after calling him before going to sleep, and again getting no answer, she slipped into a pair of orange, lace-trimmed bloomers that were blousy in the rear. Orange was one of Ryan’s favorite colors. Orange had also been one of Frank Sinatra’s favorite colors, but Ryan was no singer. He was a killer, an independent contractor with a conscience. In that business, she imagined, a conscience may often get it the way. It had when they first met. When Ryan was under orders to kill her, he didn’t, so from her perspective his having a conscience was a good thing.

  After dressing, she put the room service tray in the hallway, and headed downstairs to her car at the side of the Red Lion Inn. It wasn’t raining when she got in behind the driver’s wheel, but the sky was gray and drab. The clouds were heavy, adding to her feeling there were sandbags on her shoulders. She tossed her umbrella onto the passenger seat and pulled out of the hotel lot. She knew the way back to Interstate 5 and would head north as she had been instructed. North to hopefully learn more about what they had in store for her.

  13

  When Ryan returned to his room, the Mossad agent sat with her back angled into the corner of the arm rest and the back cushion of the brown couch, away from the bed. She had a pretty face, but was not stunning. In the States she’d be a seven. Here in Syria, where the local women wore head scarves, high necklines, and covered legs, the men probably graded her as a nine, if intensely horny, a ten. The Mossad agent had, undoubtedly, been trained to project herself so she would be perceived as she chose to be.

  He flipped the wall switch that turned on the lamp next to the bed. The drapes were drawn; he had left them open. They were alone. He inhaled before acknowledging her. Far as he could tell, she wore no perfume or odiferous hair spray. The only aroma was the faint undefinable mixture of the dust of destruction and the decay of death, mingled with sweat, and the constant smell of fear that rode the local wind or floated in stillness—war zone fragrance.

  He walked toward her. Her hand was on her lap, under her purse. He angled away from the couch and sat in the chair, viewing her from the side. He put his feet on the coffee table that ran sideways between them, a non-aggressive position. She took her hand out from under her purse.

  “Hello, Mr. Testler.”

  “Ryan will do.”

  “Ryan. My name is Jewel Selinger. You know who I’m with.”

  “Adi, your given name?”

  “You know Hebrew?”

  “Enough.”

  “Call me Jewel. Everybody does.”

  “The why is obvious.”

  Jewel returned Ryan’s smile. “Okay. Let’s get down to business. I can’t be here long.”

  “Whatcha got for me?”

  “Go to the bar between nine and ten, Saturday, the night before your mission. When you return, the rifle, broken down in a backpack, will be here waiting for you. It will be tested and calibrated for one thousand yards. The position from which you will take the shot is for you to determine. Over the past two weeks, I’ve casually observed the area around the Astarabadi home. I think one thousand yards will work nicely, but that’s for you to decide. If you alter the distance of the shot materially, some adjustment may be needed. The occasion will be the reception which, as is traditional for many families here, will be at the home of the groom’s parents. Have you determined your spot?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to be noticed in the area for a couple of days before, so I did my recon and made that decision before I checked into the hotel. One thousand yards will be fine.”

  “You won’t see the person who leaves the rifle here. It won’t be me.”

  Ryan nodded. “And afterwards?”

  “I was told you chose to make your own arrangements to depart Syria.”

  “That’s correct. As a fallback, I was informed that you’d provide me with the names and addresses of four individuals over a wide geographic area. People who could be of help, should I need it, as long as I’m not under immediate pursuit.”

  “We can do that now. Are you ready?” Ryan nodded, furrowed his eyebrows, and focused intensely on Jewel’s mouth. She told him the four names and where and how to find them.

  “Repeat, exactly in the same order.” She did. “Repeat.” She told him all of it a third time.

  “Okay. I’ve got it. May I ask a question?”

  She nodded and placed her hand on top of her purse.

  “Why didn’t Mossad simply use missiles fired from one of your ships in the Mediterranean? Take out the household, including Astarabadi. From what I’ve read in your reports some in the Astarabadi family are members of ISIL or sympathizers, what you in Israel call Daesh.”

  “That decision is above my pay grade.”

  “Hypothesize.”

  “Aside from their sporadic terrorist strikes in your country, and Europe, Syria is being consumed by what is primarily an Arab on Arab war. Some of our Arab neighbors are losing patience with ISIL We’d like that to continue. Many of the real fanatics migrate from other countries to join ISIL. This means they’re drawn into a more concentrated area—Syria and Iraq. The collateral damage that results from long range missile strikes can cause a wider circle of Arabs to foster the idea that your country and mine are the common enemies of the Arab world.

  “From another viewpoint, Israel’s relationship with Turkey is warming again, some anyway, and, to the extent possible, we’d like to not alienate them. Turkey, like Syria, Qatar and Saudi Arabia is predominantly Sunni Islam, however, Syria is ruled by Al-Assad who is Alawite Shia. Turkey is interacting better with Qatar and Saudi. We’d like that bonding to become stronger. Hopefully, one day, Turkey can assist us in fostering closer relationships with those two Sunni countries. Ideally, over time, we’d like to see Shia Iran and Iraq, along with Shia ruled Syria isolated with both of our countries loosely aligned with the Sunni nations. I might add that Pakistan is also largely Sunni.

  “This is only my guess, and not intended to speak for the reasons my superiors decided in favor of a scalpel, as opposed to a hammer launched from the sea. And, speaking of our superiors, I just saw that your President Walker has formally announced for reelection.”

  “Yeah. No surprise there. The opposing candidate isn’t clear just yet, but soon.”

  Jewel pursed her lips and nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. You have anything for Mossad?”

  “When you were in the bar downstairs, did you see a man you recognized? One you didn’t expect to see?”

  Her eyes fixed on Ryan’s eyes. “You mean Benoit?”

  “I mean Benoit.”

  Jewel crossed her legs, her right hand, palm down on the rough brown tweed fabric of the couch.

  “Did Mossad have him under surveillance before you saw him in the bar?”

  “No. Does your CIA have anything on what he’s up to?”

  “Only a rumor. We heard he brought a quarter of a million dollars to someone. I was hoping the Mossad might know more about that.”

  “Sorry. No help. I didn’t know he was in Syria until I saw him in the bar.”

  “So Mossad has nothing going on with respect to Benoit? Nothing at all.”

  She shook her head. “Not that I am aware of, and I would be.”

  “After seeing him, did you put him under surveillance?”

  “The manpower we have here at the moment is limited, and focused on your mission. So, no. Why?”

  “I have an idea.” Ryan ran his open hand down over his mouth. “It’s too early for any details. Maybe nothing’ll come of it. If it does, I expect the CIA will share it with Mossad.”

  “You’re here on our nickel. Don’t get distracted. You’re to complete your mission.”

  “I plan to do just that. It’s priority one. Benoit won’t distract me from completing that mission. Beyond our agreement, I’m a free agent.”

  Jewel shrugged slightly, stood, took her gun from her lap and put it in her bag, and walked toward the door. Ryan moved ahead of her.