Dead Ringer Page 18
The sleek car pulled to the dock, and the driver got out with an umbrella, holding it while Ricco pulled her from the backseat.
She reached for Daniel.
Ricco pushed her hand away. “Lorenz, bring the boy to the launch.”
Daniel’s tiny brow scrunched into a frown.
She smiled and nodded to him. “It’s OK.”
His expression cleared, and he flashed a weak smile.
The thug beside him pulled an umbrella from a rack and lifted the child into his arms.
A covered launch waited at the end of the pier.
Still holding her arm, Ricco shoved her onboard.
Lorenz sat Daniel beside her.
Wind whipped drops of rain under the covering as they pulled away from the dock, dampening their clothes with a fine mist.
Mercy pulled Daniel close, trying to shield him from the worst of the spray. Chills surged through her body, not entirely caused by the weather. She noted the yacht’s name as they stepped onboard the Fleeting Fortune.
She and Daniel followed Ricco below deck. He opened a compartment door and stood beside it.
“Make yourselves comfortable. You’ll find a few clothing items you left behind in the closet. I have nothing to fit the boy. Have him remove his things and we can dry them in the ship’s laundry. I’ll have hot drinks sent down for you.”
She gritted her teeth.
The perfect host.
The cabin was a two-room suite, a bedroom and sitting room, plus a nice size bath with a dressing table, rather than the usual tiny shower and toilet. The sofa and chairs were cream-colored with bright yellow pillows. Seascape paintings formed a collage over the sofa. A large vase of yellow roses sat on a nearby table, and a flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall opposite the couch.
In the second room, a yellow floral comforter with white lace pillows and bed skirt covered the queen-sized bed. An overstuffed chair and reading lamp stood in the corner. All furniture was bolted to the floor. Under different circumstances, the cabin would have been cheery.
Mercy sent Daniel in to get out of his wet clothes and turned on a hot shower. While he bathed, she slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt that presumably belonged to Traci Wallace. When Daniel came out wrapped in a large white towel, she gathered his damp clothes and placed them outside the door.
A knock sounded, and a white-uniformed steward entered, his jacket brilliant against his dark skin. His dark eyes seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. He bore a tray with tea, hot cocoa, and sandwiches.
She handed Daniel the hot drink and fluffed pillows around him in front of the television. The cartoons were in Italian, but he didn’t seem to mind. A thought suddenly occurred to her.
“Daniel, do you speak Italian?”
He nodded.
“Any other languages?”
He nodded again. “Yes, ma’am. French.” He must have his father’s gift for languages. So far, he hadn’t asked questions about why they were here and who these men were, but he was intelligent and would soon notice her anxiety.
Mercy pulled the chair over and looked out the porthole. The ship lay anchored about a half mile from the dock. The buildings and lights were visible along the shore.
No way to tell how long they would remain in port, but if they headed out to sea, she would have no hope of summoning help to get Daniel to safety.
Tel Aviv, Israel
Wednesday, July 5
The day wasn’t a good one for a funeral, if there was such a thing. Gray clouds opened up with a pounding rain, and the throng that gathered around the gravesite opened umbrellas.
The casket was unloaded, moved silently past the solemn crowd, and laid onto the straps that would lower it into the ground.
Somber, tear-stained faces barely visible under the vinyl rain protectors, waited for the service to begin. Mossad agents turned out in force, as well as Paul Redford and a few of his CIA cronies.
Next to Thomas, Moshe shared his umbrella, his face strained. He glanced over at Shaul’s family, and up at the sky, and then spoke so softly Thomas almost missed it. “God’s tears for a fallen warrior. He has a special affection for soldiers.”
The somber service was in Hebrew, which Thomas couldn’t understand, but he got the gist. The mother’s wails of grief deepened the chasm of guilt he felt. He’d witnessed death many times, but not since his mother died had he experienced anything this close, this personal.
He replayed that night, standing there in the rain. What could he have done to keep Shaul alive? Should he have realized the battle didn’t end in the desert? That someone was still out there who wanted him dead? Taken precautions? He had thought the attack in Riyadh was about the mission. But it had also been personal.
He could never repay the debt to Shaul’s family. Finding his killer would be a start, but it would in no way clear his conscience.
The service ended and Shaul’s parents passed through the mourners. His mother stopped in front of Moshe. Her gaze searched his face, and then her composure crumpled. She grabbed his lapels and fell onto his chest, sobbing.
His arms went around her. Holding her close, he whispered soft words in Hebrew. They stood there for a long while before her husband pulled her away and back into the procession.
Thomas, Moshe, and Heim fell into step behind the family. Faces taut with emotion, they made their way to the car that would take them to Ben Gurion Airport.
A ribbon of headlights, blurred by the rain on the vehicle’s narrow windshield, illuminated the road in the semi-darkness—the street glossy with a film of water and oil from engine exhausts.
An oncoming stream of tourists and natives departed the busy airport, headed into the city. Rain continued as they drove onto the tarmac at Ben Gurion.
The shroud of overcast sky reflected Thomas’s mood. He tried to ignore the depression the funeral brought on, forcing himself to concentrate on the task ahead. Settling the score with Clint Monroe.
Heim parked the big vehicle at an angle to the aircraft.
Thomas opened his door and made a dash for the stairs. Warm rain pelted his face and rolled down the neck of his shirt before he made it to safety inside the Mossad jet, promising to buy an umbrella when they reached London.
Thomas found a seat near the front, and Heim claimed the one next to him.
Glancing at the gloomy exterior through the porthole, Thomas spoke the words he’d held in since the shooting. “I’m sorry about Shaul.”
“Nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have done,” Heim said.
“I keep telling myself that, but it doesn’t help.”
“Blaming yourself gets you nowhere. It’s a road without an end.” Heim stretched. “What are our plans once we reach North Carolina?”
“Search the cabin and Monroe’s quarters. Hope we find how he’s getting information. Find out who his contacts are.”
“Will we have to deal with the trainers and trainees at the camp?”
Thomas shook his head. “There’s a four-week hiatus between training camps. That gives the instructors a breather before jumping back into the game. There may be a small maintenance staff. A few of the DIs stay at the compound for a while after a session. Paul says only a handful, and they’ll be gone when we arrive. He called them to Langley for a meeting. He’s retaining Monroe and Reid in DC to give us time to check out the camp.”
Heim reclined his seat and closed his eyes. “The ball is in your court, my friend. Moshe and I are in your hands.”
Thomas pulled out his laptop. He’d replaced his computer and basic wardrobe in Tel Aviv. Everything he’d taken to Saudi Arabia he’d dropped at King Khalid Airport.
He went over his strategy for getting onto the training compound until he’d embedded it into his memory. If the camp was empty, no problem. But if and when the action started, he didn’t want to have to think about what came next. He’d share the plans with Heim and Moshe, later.
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sp; Paul Redford’s researchers found the information Thomas expected on Monroe’s finances, but Paul failed to turn up any connection to Reid and the money. Langley was still trying to make the link. Video from the Tel Aviv street surveillance cameras had put Reid outside the restaurant, but not Monroe. Proof enough for Thomas.
His boss had not been happy about what he discovered on Monroe, but he had allowed Mossad to accompany him. After Shaul’s death, Mossad wouldn’t back off. Unofficially, they would have pursued the assassin, just as they’d done with Nazi criminals and the Olympic terrorists.
Two hours into the flight, Heim opened his eyes, as alert as if he’d slept eight hours. “Everything all set?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes.” He relaxed against the seat.
25
Naples, Italy
Wednesday, July 5
Ricco Rossellini stepped into his cabin and hurled the glass of wine against the wall, watching the liquid slide downward, and then puddle on the floor. Mad at himself. Mad at Traci.
Why did he still feel such infatuation for this woman? She’d betrayed him, planned to turn him over to the Gruppo di Intervento Speciale, and had rejected him in the most humiliating way possible. Yet he still longed to have her back where she belonged. With him.
It wasn’t in his nature to put someone else before his own selfish needs. He’d acknowledged his narcissistic mindset to himself long ago. Consequently, he’d always considered himself incapable of loving any woman. But after Lorenz assured him Traci was dead, he’d missed her more than he thought possible. No woman ever affected him like Traci Wallace. Now she was back, and he didn’t want to let her go. However, he had a dilemma. She could bring everything he’d worked for down on his head.
His mother, a religious fanatic, his father a fool, had unknowingly provided connections he’d used to amass a fortune. He’d started selling arms to various regimes in Africa, and then through his mother’s family connections, to terrorist groups in the Middle East.
If he released Traci, she would likely turn him in to the police now that he had involved the boy. That had been a mistake. She would always be afraid he would harm Daniel. Not that she’d ever shown any motherly tendencies. But that seemed to have changed.
Not the best way to re-establish a long-term relationship.
He didn’t understand what had changed her. Or why. He might even have considered giving up his business for her, if she had asked.
He didn’t want her to die. But he could never fully trust her. The threat of harm to the boy would keep her in line. But he didn’t want her to stay under coercion.
Rationalizing the problem was getting him nowhere. First, she must turn over the pictures. Then they could talk about what happened next.
He strode to the door and jerked it open. The man in the hallway snapped to attention. “Bring Traci to me. I’ll wait in the salon.”
Mercy paced the cabin, and stopped at the porthole. About eighteen inches in diameter, too small for her to fit through. She slammed her hand into the ship’s hull in frustration. How could she give Ricco pictures she didn’t have? He would never believe she couldn’t produce them on demand.
Paralyzed by her situation, her mind stopped functioning. Every horrible scenario played out in her thoughts, ending with Daniel’s death. She could accept her own demise, but never Daniel’s. As she paced, she sent fervent prayers upward asking for wisdom and guidance. Somehow, she had to get Daniel off the ship.
After a while, a moment of clarity came to her—an idea that would buy her some time. When Ricco would return from his fool’s errand, she would be in deep trouble. He would be raging mad. But by God’s grace, she could ensure Daniel made it to safety.
Keeping her face composed, she put Daniel to bed.
“Mummy, why can’t we go home? I don’t like it here.”
“I know. But we need to stay here a little while longer. It won’t be long.” She kept her voice soft and controlled. “I’d like to take you home, but I have to wait to talk to our host. Try to sleep, Danny. Tomorrow we’ll know something.”
Reassured, Daniel’s eyes closed and within minutes, his breathing was deep and even—the innocent slumber of a child. She sat by his bedside watching the gentle curve of his cheeks, a softer version of his father’s rugged features.
Where was Thomas? Had he arrived at the island? Did he know they were missing?
Fergus would notify him immediately, and Thomas would search until he found his son. Would he arrive in time to save Daniel from harm?
Could she take that chance? She returned to the sitting area and stared through the porthole once more, glad to see ships lay anchored within a quarter mile of the Fleeting Fortune.
Without a knock, the stateroom door opened. The tall bodyguard with the cold blue eyes motioned her forward. “Ricco wants to see you.”
He took her arm and moved her in front of him. He pointed her towards the door. His touch made her shiver. And if that wasn’t enough, she still had to face Ricco. Casting a concerned glance back at the bedroom door, she stepped into the passageway.
The man led her down the corridor, up the stairwell, and then across the deck to the salon, with an impressive view of the bay through the misting rain. The ships in the harbor sparkled like Christmas lights bobbing in the restless sea.
Ricco stood behind a stainless steel and glass bar, a silver shaker in his hand. He removed the lid, poured martinis into two glasses, and handed one to her. “Ah, cara mia. I made this just the way you like it.” His eyes took in her apparel. “You look lovely. You make jeans and a T-shirt look smart. I guess that’s one of the tricks of the fashion trade.”
She took the drink, not wanting to upset him. Not yet.
He came from behind the bar and placed his hand on her back. He drained his glass, took hers from her hand, and placed it on the mirrored counter. With one hand behind her neck, the other at her waist, he pulled her to him, and placed a lingering kiss on her mouth.
She didn’t push away. Didn’t respond.
Still holding her close, Ricco grimaced and looked down into her eyes. “A kiss usually involves two people.”
She said nothing.
He pushed her away.
“Let Daniel go, and I’ll tell you where the photos are.”
He wagged his finger at her. “No, cara mia. You tell me where the photos are and when I have them in my hand, I will let the boy go. Where are they? We checked your cell phone. They’re not there.”
“I uploaded the pictures onto the computer in the London apartment. You know where the apartment is.”
He nodded. “Do you have the key?”
She shook her head. “Not with me.”
“Never mind. What’s your password?”
“John 3:16.” That was her sign-on for the computer in her Houston apartment.
His gaze turned dark and menacing. “I warn you, Traci. Don’t play games with me. If you send me on a wild goose chase, when I return, I’ll start breaking your son’s bones until you beg to tell me.”
Fergus pulled up in front of the carnival entrance and scanned the crowd for Traci, Daniel, and Hamish. “Women,” he muttered. “She’s forgotten the time.” He retrieved his cell phone and called her number. No answer. Then he called Hamish.
No answer there, either. Something was wrong. Hamish wouldn’t turn off his phone. Not while he was acting as bodyguard.
The carnival grounds were closing down for the night, but a few booths remained open, mostly souvenir shops and a few games still looking for suckers.
He searched behind the closed rides, and found nothing. He headed towards the fireworks stands. He almost missed Hamish.
Nearly invisible in his dark clothing. Hamish lay unconscious in the shadows, sprawled on his face under the stands.
Fergus lengthened his stride and hurried to the prone figure. He dropped to his knees and found the carotid artery. A strong thump beat beneath h
is fingers, but blood flowed, sticky and warm. It was too dark to examine him properly, but he found the source of the bleeding, a deep gash at the top of the man’s skull. He shook the unconscious man to revive him. “Hamish, where are Traci and Daniel? Answer me, man.”
Hamish only groaned.
Ten minutes later, he’d deposited Hamish in an ambulance and hurried to the ticket booth, praying he could catch the cashier. He caught her just as she locked the booth.
Barely five feet tall, the tiny woman was in her early sixties, gray hair cut short, and wearing a navy dress that could only be described as matronly.
Please, God. Let her speak English.
“Ma’am, did ye see a blonde woman in a yellow dress with a small boy about six years old...after the fireworks show?”
She held both hands out, shrugged, and spoke with a heavy French accent. “Monsieur, there are so many people...” She hesitated. “Mam’selle, she is very pretty, blonde, no?”
“Yes, with a small boy.”
“Oui, I think maybe I see them. She and the boy, they get into a car, very fancy automobile. I think is called Royce, en noir et blanc.”
“A black and white Rolls Royce?”
“Oui, Oui. That is it.”
“What time, do you remember?”
She gave another shrug. “Not sure of time. After fireworks.”
“Can you describe the men in the car?”
She smiled and nodded. “Two men, very elégant, very handsome. One very tall.”
He pressed the woman for more details and came away with a certainty. Traci left with Rossellini and a very tall man, leaving Fergus with a dilemma. Had Traci planned to meet Rossellini here, or was she taken by force? Her past actions led him to believe it was the former, but he couldn’t ignore the recent attempts on her life.
“Merci, Madame, merci.” He left the carnival and went straight to the hospital.
Hamish was awake.
A nurse led Fergus back to the examination cubicle.
Police had questioned him and accepted the robbery story Hamish told them.