Zapwired, page 6
“We did break up.”
“And?”
“And now we’re getting back together … providing I’m willing to move with him to LA.”
“This is not the best thing for Sandra,” I said. “Besides, I have visiting rights. I won’t let you do it.”
“Oh, yeah? Let’s see you try to stop me.”
‘Hey—I’m being reasonable here. Capische?”
“Sure you are. Well, you can stop playing tough guy, buster. I’ll do what’s best for me and my daughter. Whether you like it or not!”
And with that the connection was broken.
*
Dalton left a message for me at 5:30 that afternoon. Instead of calling him back right away, I reached out to Andrew.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked.
“The friendly government agent expects my answer in the next few minutes. Help me out here, Andrew.”
“If it were me, I wouldn’t roll the dice.”
“Enough with the metaphors.”
“I’d cooperate. It’s less of a risk factor. Maybe BIS can’t stop Zapwired? Maybe they can? But why take that risk? And what if switching to another company turned out to be a good idea?”
*
I phoned Dalton and said, “I’m in.”
“Fine,” he replied. “I’ll book your ticket soon as we hang up. First Class on El Al. Paid in full by Uncle Sam.”
“Very generous of you.”
“It is. We could be sending you coach.”
“Oh, yeah? And I could change my mind and say I’m not going. What is it exactly you need me to do, Dalton?”
“Hillel Electronics, the company behind Zapwired, uses SDC as one of their primary manufacturing sources. We believe SDC has been corrupted. We need you to convince Jeremy that it would be in everyone’s interest if he talked Hillel into switching production from SDC to a company called Starlight Industries. This way we’ll put a serious dent in SDC’s source of income.”
“What if Jeremy isn’t convinced?”
“If he gives you a hard time, tell him your bank has come up with some questionable dealings on the part of SDC. No matter what, you are not to tell Jeremy the real reason. This is very important, Blair. When you talk to your partner, make up something, anything, practical or impractical, and sell him on switching companies.”
I held my comment.
Dalton misinterpreted my hesitation. “Don’t forget the 50K we’re giving you for your trouble.”
“I didn’t forget,” I said.
“Good. Your airline ticket will be couriered to you in the morning.”
19
The night before my trip to Israel, my intercom at home sounded a little in advance of the dinner hour. I was watching the news on television, dressed in sweatpants and a New York Mets T-shirt. I headed into the hallway, pressed the intercom and asked, “Who is it?”
“Lisa Brandt.”
What a nice surprise. I buzzed her in.
She strolled out of the elevator wearing a tight-fitting cream-colored sweater and low-rise jeans. I held the door open for her. She approached and handed me a bottle of vintage Barolo.
“What’s this for?”
“I felt bad about leaving the other day without saying goodbye. But I had an early appointment.”
“Okay. This makes up for it.” I invited her into the den.
“I’m starved,” Lisa said. “Have you eaten yet.”
“Nope. Do you want to go out? Or should I order something and have it delivered?”
“All-dressed pizza?”
“Pizza it is. Want something to drink while we wait?”
“Yes, please.” She gestured to the bottle. “Why don’t we have the wine I brought?”
“Spoil me with the good stuff, eh?”
In the kitchen, I ordered the pizza, opened the wine and filled two glasses, then carried them into the den and put them down on the coffee table. When I turned to Lisa, I was smiling.
“What?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m just glad that you’re here.”
She touched my glass with her own. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”
I grabbed the remote, shut off the television, and started my iPod. Adele’s voice filled the room from the compact Bose speaker.
When the pizza arrived, Lisa insisted we eat it out of the box, seated where we were. As we ate, she pushed for more information about my failed marriage. “I mean, whose fault was it?”
“Can’t discuss it.”
“Why not?”
“Still don’t know you well enough.”
*
Afterwards, Lisa helped clean up, then leaned in and kissed me. Soft, soft lips—teasing. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“I already told you everything you need to know.” I kissed her back.
We stood that way, in the kitchen, necking like teens on their first date.
Lisa surprised me when she chirped, “Do you happen to have an extra toothbrush?”
“I bet I can find one.”
I allowed Lisa to use the bathroom first. After I washed and brushed, I came out and found her already under the bedcovers.
“I know just what you need,” she said the minute I joined her.
I cringed.
“What’s wrong?”
I removed my pajama top.
“Jesus,” she swore. She touched each black and blue mark, shaking her head in sympathy. “Did I do this to you?”
I nodded.
“Here,” she patted the sheet, “turn on your stomach.”
In moments, very light fingers began to manipulate my shoulders and the back of my neck, then traveled lower.
“Blair—” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“You’re really ready...”
In one deft move she coaxed me onto my back, slid on top, and helped me enter her. It had been many months since the last time I’d made love, so I knew I wouldn’t last, but to my relief Lisa came first; then I let myself go, a moan, or more like a groan, escaping my lips.
*
My alarm went off at six. I jerked awake, then looked over, expecting Lisa to be gone. But there she was, apparently sound asleep. I got out of bed, trying to make as little noise as possible.
In the bathroom, I turned on the shower, waited for the water to get warm and got in. Just as it did, the curtain parted and a naked Lisa joined me.
“Wash my back,” she instructed, handing me the soap.
I started to soap her back … then her front.
She had a slim waist, and a small round scar on her upper thigh I hadn’t noticed last night in the darkened bedroom. I wondered what caused it, but she was casting a spell on me and I didn’t want to break it.
“This is so nice,” Lisa said, taking charge of the soap and lathering up my engorged penis. Then, in one fluid motion, she wrapped a leg around my waist as if she were a contortionist and guided me inside.
We quickly got a rhythm going. However, with each of my thrusts, Lisa’s head bounced off the tiled wall. I was certain she’d either crack a few tiles, or they would leave a serious mark on her head.
“Don’t stop!” she demanded the moment I eased up.
It was thrust—ka-boom, thrust—ka-boom … to the point where I became worried for her.
“Yes!” she was calling out. “Yes, yes, YES!”
Will I have to call an ambulance?
“Please, Blair!”
How will I explain it?
“Oh, y-e-s-s!” she gurgled as she came. And I followed suit shortly thereafter.
“You’re not bad … for a toy man,” she teased, easing herself off of me.
“How’s your head?” I asked with genuine concern.
“Never felt better,” she said casually as you please. “Keep up the good sex, Power Ranger, and I could end up falling for you.”
20
The airport in Tel Aviv was small, yet functional. I cleared Customs, stepped into the Arrivals Hall and scanned the crowd, disappointed that Jeremy was nowhere in sight. It was rare for him not to be here to pick me up.
I called his office; it went to voicemail. Fifteen minutes passed so I tried his cell, without success. I finally left a message and walked out of the terminal building.
The late afternoon sun was brilliant. The pilot had said it would be ninety degrees for our arrival. It felt like at least that or more. I removed my suit jacket and flipped it over my arm.
“Taxi?” someone called out to me.
The cabbie was short and thin, with dark hair, wearing sunglasses. Jew or Arab? It was hard to tell in this multi-denominational country.
“Taxi?” he said again, apparently the only English word he knew.
I looked to my left. The man’s car, a clunker, was not in the usual cab queue. And the lineup of people waiting for taxis stretched for almost a city block.
“Come, come,” the driver said, expanding his vocabulary and pointing toward his car.
I decided this option was better than a half-hour wait, so I handed him my suitcase and let him lead the way.
“David Intercontinental,” I said once settled in the backseat of the beat-up Toyota.
The driver turned and gave me a blank stare.
“My hotel,” I spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “Hotel … David … Intercontinental?”
The man nodded.
The hotel had a view of the Mediterranean, so when we turned onto Hayarkon Street that ran parallel to the sea, I figured we were headed in the right direction.
I took in the sights, admiring the expanse of white sand and beachfront, the crowded boardwalk, hundreds of people sunbathing.
The screech of the cabbie’s cell phone brought me out of my reverie. The driver stuck the phone to his ear and spoke in Arabic. The higher his voice rose, the less attention he paid to the road. Soon he was swerving back and forth across the center line.
Horns honked. I felt like I was holding on for dear life. But ten minutes later, we pulled up to my hotel without incident.
“Four hundred fifty shekels,” the driver said.
I gaped at him with amazement. “I beg your pardon?”
The man’s smile was gone, as was most of his accent. “You heard correct.” He thrust out his hand. “Four fifty. Give, give…”
“Four fifty? For a trip that’s never cost more than half that amount?”
His look soured. “Okay. Four hundred, then. You give. Now.”
I was tired and out of patience. I counted out three hundred shekels and handed it to the driver. “This is all you get, bud. Take it or leave it.”
Our eyes locked. The man’s hand went to a leather case concealed beneath his seat.
I tensed, not knowing what to expect.
He pulled out a receipt and handed it to me.
*
The hotel lobby was spacious, brightly lit, and crowded. This was a far cry from what it was like a number of years ago. Then, frequent terrorist attacks badly impacted Israel’s multi-billion-dollar tourism industry.
It only took a few minutes to check in to my usual room on the fifteenth floor. I was disappointed not to see the phone blinking. I picked up the receiver and punched in Jeremy’s cell. It again went to voicemail. I didn’t bother to leave a second message. Instead, I shut off the lights and headed out.
The doorman asked if I wanted a cab; I told him I preferred to walk. Hayarkon Street ran forever, with multiple office buildings and hotels for the most part, some only a few stories tall.
I reached the restaurant—Moira’s Italian—a little after seven o’clock. I climbed the short staircase and entered.
The tables were adorned with plastic red and green tablecloths. The centerpiece—a throwback to another era—was a Chianti bottle wrapped in basket weave; a makeshift candle holder. The menu was basic Mediterranean fare with an Italian twist.
The owner was performing the duties of maitre d’. Short and robust, she greeted me with a warm, “Shalom.”
I asked for a table for two in case Jeremy showed up. This was his restaurant of choice and he knew to meet me here if we missed each other at the airport, which had only happened once previously.
She led me to a table by the window facing the street. I looked around. There weren’t many customers. Before she could get away, I ordered a bottle of Valpolicella.
The wine arrived, but I held off ordering dinner. I’d give Jeremy until 8:00 p.m.
The sound of laughter caught my ear. A group of girls aged five or six were dining with two sets of parents at a table at the far end of the restaurant. Each child, a Coke bottle in hand, was shaking it and aiming the spray at one another, their parents either unconcerned or oblivious to their behavior.
I found it common in this country: Leniency was allowed to children while still under the close watch of their parents.
One of the girls now pointed in my direction and she and the others went into a group huddle. They began to giggle. The prettiest one, blond hair down to her waist, moved toward me.
I couldn’t keep the smile off my face
“Tourist?” she wanted to know.
I shrugged.
“You like … Israel?”
I nodded.
She stood there, obviously showing off for her friends.
I admired her innocence and unconditional trust. I took my cloth napkin in hand, flattened it on the table, then folded it into a reverse triangle. I held both ends, brought one toward the center and crisscrossed the other, then started to fold the napkin toward me until it was curled into an elongated shape. I then turned the pointed ends of the napkin inside out, pulled on one end until it formed a tail, and introduced my pretend mouse.
The girl had been watching in mesmerized silence. When I maneuvered the mouse with my fingers so that it appeared to be moving, she jumped back, squealing with delight.
I continued the demonstration, repeating the tricks my father had taught me, teasing the girl with it, waiting for her to try to touch the mouse before I made it jump out of the way.
This went on for a minute or two.
When the door opened, I expected to see Jeremy. Instead, it was an elderly couple, gray-haired, wearing identification tags from some bus tour they’d been on. The maitre d’ seated them a couple of tables away. I spotted a cloth bag beneath the table that a prior diner must have left behind, and neither the maitre d’ nor the couple noticed.
At the same time, I was just asking the girl what her name was, when some movement caught my eye through the plate glass window. A car on the street had stopped, parallel to the restaurant, even though parking there was prohibited.
The girl’s voice distracted me for a moment. When I looked back, I recognized the driver getting out of the car … and my heart leapt in my throat. It was the same man who’d driven me to my hotel from the airport; and the look on his face told me he was up to no good. He held a device in his hand that he was pointing at the restaurant.
Call it a sixth sense. I don’t know why, but something made me dive, folding my body over the girl, sending us both crashing to the hardwood floor.
What happened next took place in the span of about three seconds. The bag I’d spotted under the table of the elderly couple exploded, disintegrating the man and woman in a spray of red right before my eyes. The sound was so loud it punished my ears. White heat followed, burning in its intensity. Metal—nails and ball-bearings likely—zinged in all directions. There were screams; horrible screams.
A piece of steel ricocheted off the table’s center post and hit the upper part of my back. Another slammed into my head ... and my world turned dark.
21
Yassin changed directions twice before leaving Manhattan to assure himself no one was following. He took the Bronx Expressway to I-95, connected with I-295, then the Cross Island Parkway, and finally Northern Boulevard. Fifty-five minutes later, he pulled up to the address in Great Neck, Long Island.
This part of the operation was vital: find a furnished house to rent, large enough to suit his needs.
On Monday he’d spent most of the afternoon northeast of the city, in Westchester County. A few of the properties he visited would’ve been suitable if the drive wasn’t problematic. Tuesday found him exploring various offers in Montauk, estate homes that fit his purpose, but were not quite to his liking.
He stepped out of his Lincoln and surveyed the area. It was exclusive and quiet.
“Mr. Carson?” The real estate agent, an attractive middle-aged brunette, greeted him by the name he’d assumed for today’s purpose. “Right on time,” she said, presenting her hand in greeting. “I’m Samantha Saunders.”
Yassin knew he was almost a half-hour late, but he let the comment pass. He gave her hand a cursory shake.
“How was the drive?”
He shrugged. “Very pleasant.”
“Really? No traffic?”
“There’s always traffic, as I’m sure you know. But it was lighter than usual today, for some reason.”
“Good, good,” she said. “Should we get started?”
Yassin followed her into the house and came face to face with a monstrous chandelier hanging in the foyer. Much of the furniture ran from gaudy to bizarre. Black and white, modern pattern on the dining room chairs, bearskin upholstery on the oversized couch in the den. A huge brass sculpture of a female nude. Walls adorned with garish abstract art.
After leading the way past the immense kitchen, the woman paused and placed her hand on Yassin’s shoulder. “Butler’s Pantry,” she said as if she were proud. “Every house should have one.”
Yassin didn’t know what she was talking about. He took in the alcove between the kitchen and dining room, replete with mini-bar and storage cabinets, concluded it was a waste of both money and space. But he noticed the agent wasn’t anxious to remove her hand, and her flirtation amused him.
The tour continued, from library to game room to basement; over twelve thousand square feet of living space, not counting the garage.
When they arrived at the master bedroom, the woman said, “Handcrafted bed, bigger than king-size, best if you have more than sleep on your mind.”
