Poison Wind (Jackson Chase Novella Book 3) Read online

  Looking up at the sails, and feeling the wind and sea, I made small adjustments with my hands. There was no thinking, just the instinct of sensing how the three worked together.

  “Just look at him,” I heard Joe say.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You look more comfortable than I’ve ever seen you,” Haley said.

  “Smiling like a Cheshire cat,” said Joe.

  I shrugged. “She moves through the water so beautifully. Guess I can’t help enjoying it.”

  The truth was, I grew up sailing around the world on yachts much like this with my parents. We were on the sea more than we were on land. Deliveries, refitting, training new owners, in gulfs and harbors. And being at the wheel brought those memories back. My mum laughing at her own cheekiness, my father obsessing over details, and me running around the deck like the little rascal I was. It was in moments like this that I chose to remember them; to remember all of those happy times.

  The sat phone trilled inside the locker. I pulled it out and checked the number. “For you, Hans,” I said, passing it behind me.

  He opened the connection and leaned on the aft rail. Haley gave me a questioning look. I just gave her a smile back, and carried on enjoying the sea.

  We made port on northern Corsica just as the sun finished its work for the day. Long shadows angled across the deck as Hans buttoned up Trance for the night and Haley finished a brief phone call of her own.

  “The plane is ready and a car should be here shortly. Landon’s had it loaded with our go bags as well,” she said. I gave her a thumbs up and we said our goodbyes to Hans, his wife, and Dario.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Jackson!” Hans said. He went so far as to give me a hug that lasted a bit longer than necessary.

  As we walked down the quay, Haley said, “I heard what you did. That’s a lucky crew.”

  “Funny how the paperwork wasn’t completely in order,” Joe said.

  “Yes. Funny that,” I replied. We’d known from all of our work on Vatchenko’s background that he had no family himself. And with his being whisked away and all of his assets seized, I knew Trance would be tied up by the U.S. government in a legal gray area for years. Landon suggested that the contract for the sale of the yacht might not have been precisely in order, and as a result, ownership might need to revert back to the shipbuilder. And wouldn’t the shipbuilder want the crew to stay with such a wonderful yacht and use it for charters themselves for an indeterminate time?

  I turned and gave a final wave before we left for the airport, pleased to see a happy ending to at least part of our day.

  Part II

  Tel Aviv

  4

  The Marine outside Post One waved forward slightly, getting us off the narrow sidewalk on the east side of the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv before signaling Joe to stop in front of a black metal gate.

  He eyed us suspiciously as he carefully moved to the driver’s side of our car. Sitting in the passenger seat, I watched a second Marine come out of a shiny metal door to our right. His hand wasn’t on his sidearm, but his feet were squared, shoulder-width apart in a ready stance. Behind him, an Israeli in a casual uniform of navy pants and blue polo spoke briefly into a handheld radio.

  Embassy security is always tight. But in this case, I suspected that a car as dirty and dinged as our rental pulling up to the Embassy did warrant a bit of extra attention.

  Joe rolled down his window. Upon seeing that Joe was clearly a big, smiling American, the Marine on his side visibly relaxed. He made eye contact with the second Marine across the hood, and with only the slightest change in his expression, the tension was eased.

  “Afternoon, Corporal,” Joe said, showing his ID. “Chief Joe Sterba, U.S. Navy.”

  “Good afternoon, Chief. How can the Marines be of service today?”

  “Well, first, I hope you have secured that beach,” Joe said, lifting his chin towards the beautiful waterfront just behind the Embassy’s sloping lot. The prime location made it clear that politics weren’t the only deciding factor for locating the Embassy here instead of the capital city of Jerusalem.

  The Marine Corporal smiled and said, “The beach is secure, Chief. Once again the Marines have made it safe for you to paddle your little dinghies ashore.”

  “Excellent. I know the women down there are waiting for the real men to arrive.”

  “Might be one or two left,” the Marine said before relaying Joe’s name and rank into his shoulder mic.

  While I couldn’t see it, I knew Haley’s eyes were rolling in the back seat. I might’ve even heard a slight groan.

  A reply must have come through the curly wire to the Marine’s ear, because he waved the Israeli over then said to us, “We’ve got your name on the list along with that of your colleagues. Local security is going to check the trunk and run a mirror under your car. No names, please, until we’re inside.”

  “Roger that, Corporal,” Joe replied.

  “Civilian cars don’t park beneath the Embassy. So when he’s done, I’ll let you in this lot and you’ll enter through the Post One gate.”

  He gestured behind him to the fenced exterior lot. Parking unknown cars well outside the Embassy itself was a reminder that this was no Club Med, despite the bright sun and warm beach.

  We were taken through security before being handed off to a suited Embassy staffer who didn’t give his name. His shoes made crisp clipping noises on the waxed granite floors as he took us down a series of hallways to the western side of the building. He stopped at the door to a meeting room and gestured us inside.

  “He’ll be with you in a minute,” he said before taking his leave. Not knowing who ‘he’ was, we assumed that since Landon had set up the meeting it would likely be a local case officer.

  Haley had moved straight to the window, where the sun was doing its part to wear through the substantial tinting in the high-impact glass. “Beautiful!” she said.

  Joe and I went to join her. I was surprised to see that we were a couple of stories above ground on this side of the building, despite not having changed floors since walking in. But the height gave us an excellent view of the Mediterranean and the beach below. We looked down together, seeing young families lounging under rows of umbrellas, playing paddle ball, and dabbling in the calm water inside the breakfront.

  “Not too bad here, I have to say,” came a voice from behind. We turned to see a man of about sixty had entered the room. He wore slacks and a dress shirt without a tie. His salt and pepper hair was close-cropped and no-nonsense. His eyes were bright, with creases radiating from the sides that led me to think he was quick to give a smile.

  “Sure beats a posting in Siberia.” Extending my hand, I said, “Jackson Chase.”

  “Fred Hess,” he replied. “I’m a friend of Landon’s.”

  In our new line of work, I was learning that the CIA didn’t really like to give details on their positions, and often used references like ‘friend of’ to avoid specifics. In this case, it meant Hess was likely the CIA Station Chief, as Landon Clark was in Bangkok. Given his approachability, and the fact they were about the same age, I immediately took him at his word that they were indeed friends.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I replied. “This is Haley Chen and Joe Sterba.”

  After shaking hands, Hess gestured to the conference table. “Have a seat. I’m afraid this is going to be short.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question as we all took a seat.

  “We passed the number you gave us on to Shin Bet yesterday,” he began. “Since 970 numbers are inside Gaza and therefore part of Israel, this would be handled by their internal security agency, much like our FBI.”

  “What did you hear back?” Haley asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Which is unusual. For the most part, we work well with local intelligence agencies, despite the damage the last administration did to American-Israeli relations.”

  “Hopefully, that’s getting better,” Joe said. />
  Hess nodded. “But the fact remains that our liaison has only brought back responses along the lines of ‘we’re still working on it’.”

  Given that he was a friend of Landon’s and therefore likely not a bureaucrat happy to have an idle ball in someone else’s court, I asked what his take on that was.

  “I think they’re stalling for some reason, but I don’t know why. When we pass intel and they don’t get a hit on their own systems, they tell us the well is dry. ‘We’re still working on it’ makes me think there’s something they’re not sharing. I’ve reached out to a couple of other contacts, and they’re being tight-lipped as well.”

  “I’d like to keep the pressure on,” I said. “We’ve spent months using Vatchenko and shutting the door on terrorists’ plots. Now that he’s put away, this is our only loose end. And it’s giving us a bad feeling.”

  “You think he has an operation in the works?”

  “Vatchenko worked on a pretty consistent timetable,” Haley said. “He’d typically fund for materiel well past planning stages when a group was ready for staging and execution.”

  “Someone needs to get on this, whether it’s Shin Bet or us,” I said.

  Hess placed his hands on the table and nodded. “It’s just past four now. Let me shake the bushes some more, and we’ll touch base first thing tomorrow.”

  I looked across the table at Haley, and then at Joe to my side. Neither looked terribly pleased at waiting. So I floated an idea.

  “Mind if we shake the bushes ourselves a bit?”

  Hess looked at me quizzically, and then showed the hint of a smile. “Landon said you’re a doer. Care to let me know what you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to know as well,” said Joe, “because I don’t like that cheeky look on your face.”

  I gave them the rough outline of my plan, and I certainly wouldn’t say they were excited about it.

  “Well, it’s doable,” said Haley.

  “And I’ll say you don’t want to do it here at the Embassy. Last thing we need is drama here,” said Hess. “Go check into your hotel. We can meet for dinner and I’ll find a suitable spot.”

  As we stood, Joe said, “Make it somewhere close to a hospital, Fred, since one of us will probably get shot in the process.”

  Hess pointed a finger at me and replied, “Let’s just hope it’s him.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Except me.

  5

  After checking into a hotel—a towering concrete rectangle built with complete disregard for esthetics—we decided to walk to dinner with Hess. He’d selected a place in Jaffa, the oldest neighborhood in Tel Aviv.

  The sun hovered just above the Mediterranean as we headed south on the esplanade. The beachgoers had largely cleared out, replaced by after-work runners, making their way up and down the beachside path. A few groups did boot camp-style workouts together, skipping sideways up steps, doing sit-ups, and intermittently gasping for breath.

  We walked past the Dolphinarium. A plaque outside memorialized the teenagers killed when a suicide bomber detonated himself just outside the discotheque in 2001. The building held its chin stubbornly out over the sea, its jagged jaw covered in graffiti and burn marks, left as it was after the attack. I imagined it was to serve as a reminder, despite this being a country where no reminders are really needed.

  We continued on, the waterfront path widening into a patterned serpentine dotted with green lawns and benches. The large high-rises overlooking the beach eventually retreated, replaced by older, smaller apartments and shops. The footpaths changed from modern concrete to well-worn stone, signaling our arrival in Jaffa, a part of the city that had been there for centuries.

  The streets were narrow, winding and short, the buildings close enough to give the feeling we were a ball in a compact maze. A muezzin’s call to prayer echoed between the limestone walls, letting us know this part of the city was home to a significantly higher population of Muslims. Eventually, we found our way to the restaurant.

  Inside, Hess was sitting at a high table, his back to the wall. Old spy habits die hard, it seems. Upon seeing us, he smiled and waved us over.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  Haley took in the room as she sat down next to Hess and said, “This place is fantastic!”

  She was right. It was an old building, redone as places are now with exposed brick walls and beams to highlight its age and give a sense of warmth and history. Not a chair or table matched, being of all textures and colors and styles. One table I saw even used an antique pommel horse as a bench seat.

  “This neighborhood is known for its flea market. It’s the clearing house for a hundred years of old odds and ends bought and sold every day. This place brings that whole feeling inside.”

  “I’m looking forward to dinner,” Haley said. “I’ve heard Israeli food is terrific.”

  “It is. If you’d like, I can order for us,” Hess said.

  We nodded our agreement, and after Hess’s rapid-fire discussion with the waitress in Hebrew, the food started arriving. We had a simple Arabic salad of tomato and cucumber, fire roasted eggplant drizzled in tahini, beet carpaccio, grilled asparagus and labaneh, minced lamb with thyme and pine nuts, a perfectly-cooked tenderloin, and more. As Hess played the role of host, walking us through local history, food, and religion, largely as if each depended on the other, it became clear that the old spy had decided to camp himself at the Tel Aviv station out of love for the area.

  Joe, true to form for the big lug, indulged in every plate until finally surrendering.

  “Can’t take any more, Joe?” Hess asked.

  “I think that’s it for me. Absolutely wonderful.”

  “Very well, then. Perhaps it’s time for your little plan, Jackson?”

  “Why not?” I replied.

  “There’s a place just down the street that would be perfect.”

  We paid the check and made our way outside. Hess led us through the neighborhood, where restaurants had set up tables, chairs and couches on the sidewalks outside their doors. Everywhere, people ate, drank, and laughed, giving the area a wonderful vibrancy.

  Eventually, we found ourselves on a narrow little street next to the Jaffa hill. In front of us, a sign in the shape of a fish painted to look like the Israeli flag hung over a shop doorway. Just above it rose a minaret, and I was surprised to see the shop literally shared the same building as the mosque.

  I stopped and said, “Quite the juxtaposition, isn’t it?”

  “Most people think of Israel as completely Jewish. While it is the Jewish State, almost a quarter of the population is Arab. And they live like you see here, perfectly well together.”

  “Right up until the second someone doesn’t,” Joe said.

  “We passed by the Dolphinarium on our way here,” I explained.

  Hess nodded solemnly. “Joe’s exactly right. Everyone gets along right up until the second they don’t. The expression you hear used is ‘it’s complicated’.”

  We continued on to a small square, just at the end of the street before the sea. A few old street lamps cast a warm yellow glow over a gazebo in the center. Beneath its roof was an ornate limestone fountain once used for ablutions before entering the mosque. Tarnished brass faucets extended from each of the six sides over a catch basin, carved with beautiful desert scenes.

  Hess reached his hand in the catch basin to show it was dry and said, “I think this should be a good spot. Nice, open space with good visibility. And there’s a little café with a clear view just over there.” He pointed back in the direction from which we’d come.

  “Have a coffee while we wait?” Joe asked.

  “And perhaps a little wager on how long it will take?” I added.

  “Not long. Just watch,” Hess said.

  Haley opened her bag and withdrew two simple phones we’d picked up after leaving the Embassy. At the hotel, she’d configured one to spoof itself as the number we’d recovered from Vatchenko’s
computer. She set one to call the other, and when it vibrated, she pressed a button to accept the call, then placed them both just behind the lip of the catch basin beneath the faucets.

  “Done,” she said. “Now what’s for dessert?”

  “Marvelous! How do you feel about baklava, my dear?” Hess said. He put his arm around her and they headed to the café, with Joe and me a few steps behind.

  The idea had been that if Shin Bet truly didn’t have anything on this number, we’d have a coffee and end up tomorrow exactly where we were today: on the cold end of a trail. But if they did know something and were simply playing it close to the vest, their electronic intelligence would hit on the call and trigger some sort of response. Even a simple police patrol drive-by would let us know they had something, and that would give us a reason to go at them a little harder.

  Midway through an espresso, Hess gave me a nudge.

  “Here we go. Jeans, black shirt.”

  Beneath the glow of the lights, a man had stopped in front of a gallery closed for the night. He looked into one of the darkened windows. But at night, with some light behind you, you need to get close to a window to see inside. He was standing a couple of meters back, looking at the reflection of the area behind him rather than into the gallery itself. It was so casually done that I would have missed it had Hess not pointed it out.

  “Nice catch,” I said.

  “Us old guys still know a few tricks,” he replied.

  “Second one,” Haley said a few minutes later, tilting her head towards a similarly dressed male in his late twenties passing just a few meters from where we were sitting. He scanned, looking left down a small alley and then to the right up the Jaffa hill.