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  Mustafa took her hand and kissed it, his eyes filled with sympathy. “I too have known great loss. I’ve lost too many members of my family and friends to assassination, murder, and battle.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder if it’s worth it? I mean living your whole life in a state of war, with a price on your head?”

  “One day we will drive the Israelis into the sea and the Westerners out of our lands, and it will be worth it.” He brushed his fingers over her cheek wiping away the dampness of her tears and took her hand.

  Fortunately, you can’t read my thoughts, Mustafa. Because I will kill you before that day comes. “Lofty dreams not easily managed, Mustafa, Hezbollah is nothing compared to the power of Israel. I will be an old woman by the time this occurs.”

  “It may be sooner than you think. Great things are in the works. Things which will change the world and shift the balance of power.”

  “What things?”

  “I cannot say more.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Aren’t you afraid to be seen in a public place like this with me? How will you explain when it’s reported back to Nasrallah?”

  “Always you bring up Nasrallah. My relationship with him is like a father and son. He would not blame me for entertaining myself with you.”

  “I’m not your entertainment, nor will I ever be.” She pulled her hand from his.

  “Zara, a poor choice of words. Forgive me? I have no experience of what to say to you, how to make you understand. I fear to put you in danger, yet I cannot stop myself from wanting to know you better.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Mustafa. What I’m not sure of is what you want from me?”

  “Have I not made it obvious?”

  She lifted her glass to her lips, hesitant to answer. Mustafa had been forthcoming and given her enough information to ensure she wouldn’t refuse his advances. “Let us not speak more of this. I wish to enjoy your company. The rest will follow if Allah wills it. Remember Mustafa, you are a man married to a cause and not free to follow your heart.”

  He laughed. “I would make you my wife now if you’d have me.”

  “What a ridiculous declaration. We hardly know each other.” She gave him a look intended to wither a lesser man.

  “One day you will change your mind, Zara.” His eyes drifted to her lips. “May I kiss you?”

  “No. Not in public.”

  The fire in his eyes exposed his desire. “Later, when we’re alone?”

  “You will take me home, kiss me goodnight, and be on your way. We both have much to think about.”

  She read the disappointment in his face and looked away. “Ah, here’s our dinner.”

  »»•««

  Mustafa’s driver pulled the car to the curb in front of Zara’s duplex. She turned to open the door and get out, but Mustafa stayed her. “May I walk you to your door?”

  “If you wish.”

  After opening the car door, he took her hand and walked with her to the bougainvillea trellised entry. She turned to thank him. “Mustafa, I—”

  He pulled her into his arms, pressing her against his chest. Slowly, his eyes locked on hers, he dipped his head and engulfed her lips with his. It was surprisingly good, and she responded in kind. He hardened against her, an aching moan escaping from him. “Zara, I don’t understand my need for you. It only grows stronger with each passing minute.”

  She laid her hands on either side of his face. “Don’t think too much about it.” Her brows lifted, mischievousness in her voice. “Perhaps it will go away if you ignore it.”

  Laughing as he shared her amusement. “And perhaps the sun will rise in the evening, and the moon will shine at dawn.”

  “Not impossible. Such places exist.” She broke from his arms and opened the door to her apartment. “Goodnight, Mustafa.”

  “I may have to leave for a day or so, but I will call you and arrange our next meeting.”

  She shrugged. “As you wish.”

  She closed the door and leaned against it. She checked her phone. It was nearly midnight. She didn’t have much time before Aryeh’s arrival.

  »»•««

  Aryeh looked up into the security camera and heard the click of the gate release. He was dressed in black, a hood covered his head, making him nearly indiscernible in the shadows. Enough light from the moon helped him navigate his way through the small backyard behind Zara’s duplex. The scent of roses and fruit trees thickly scented the air. He slipped through the door which had been left unlocked and found Zara at the bar pouring two snifters of brandy. She looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. The green dress merely an adornment enhancing the curves of her figure.

  “I thought you spent the night working. Instead, you look as if you’ve attended a diplomatic cocktail party.”

  “I did work, but I had a dinner appointment after. I just got back in time for you.”

  “Did I ruin it for you?” He couldn’t hide the hint of jealousy or curiosity in his voice.

  Her brows drew together as she studied him. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, mon ami. What’s with the ninja outfit?”

  He pushed the hoodie back off his head. “Remember, I’m the hunted, and you’re under surveillance. I’m not jealous, just curious.”

  She handed him his drink. “I had dinner with a Hezbollah ghost, and it was highly revealing.”

  His head tilted with interest. “Who was it?” She handed him his glass, and he followed her to the sofa.

  Aryeh’s eyes widened with interest when she told him her dinner date was Mustafa Mugniyeh. “Well, I’ll be damned. The snake born of a long line of snakes has surfaced. Tell me more.”

  Aryeh was captivated by her story of meeting and dining with the terrorist. One thing was clear the bastard had good taste. He was just one man in a long line of men who’d fallen for Zara.

  “I haven’t been able to get something he insinuated at, out of my mind all night,” she said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was trying to convince me of his greatness and the righteousness of his goal of destroying Israel when he said, and I quote, ‘It may be sooner than you think. Great things are in the works. Things which will change the world and shift the balance of power.’”

  She sipped her brandy. “Something is going on with Hezbollah, something secretive. I sensed it yesterday when I met with Nasrallah. I have to pursue whatever this is with Mustafa. My instincts tell me he’s the key, the one who can lead me to whatever they’ve planned. If I can gain his trust, he’ll open like a flower to a bee.”

  Aryeh stared into his glass of amber liquor and then took a swig relishing the burn down his throat. “Or like a Venus Fly Trap, he’ll devour you. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous this is. This man won’t hesitate to kill you if he even gets a scent of your intent.”

  Her smile sent a rush to his groin. “Of all the men in the world, you know I’m capable of handling a smitten terrorist.”

  “There is more at stake here than a merciless killer. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  “Why doesn’t it surprise me you failed to tell me everything?”

  “Everything about my nephew is true. However, it’s not the only reason I’m here. Noam Levi sent me. I’m working off the grid. We’ve uncovered Intel. Hezbollah, Iran, and North Korea are planning an electromagnetic pulse attack on Israel and the United States.”

  Zara’s breath whooshed from her. “Merde, then it makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “Mustafa said he’d be away for a few days. He’s involved. It’s what he’s referring to when he talks about changing the world forever. It explains why the favorite son, a man never photographed and never seen in public, is suddenly front and center. He’s here to make his move in the organization by a daring feat. The defeat of Israel would ensure his crowning as a prince.”

  “You could be right.”

  “Then I’ve been given an i
mportant gift. It’s up to me to stop this evil plot.”

  “No. It’s up to us. My team has arrived in Beirut. We have to work together, Zara.”

  “Yes, of course. But now I know what I have to do. Maybe I can turn him?”

  “Unlikely. What you’re going to have to do in the end is behead Mustafa and hang his head on a fence. Remember Zara, the only way to kill a snake and send a warning to all the other snakes is to destroy their leaders.”

  She rolled the glass between her fingertips.

  “Let’s go to bed, Zara. Tomorrow I meet with Cyrus Hassani who’s leading the team, and I will arrange a strategy meeting between all of us.”

  “It’s been a long day, mon cheri. I’ll take a raincheck. I don’t want to take any chances. Mustafa may have put surveillance on me and your being here would blow everything.”

  Perhaps Aryeh was jealous. But the thought of this terrorist touching her made him want to choke the bastard before he ever got near her. He needed to rein in his emotions and stay focused on the mission. Zara was a professional, and he needed to trust her instincts. “You’re probably right. I’ll leave the way I came, invisibly.” He finished the brandy with one swig and placed his snifter on the coffee table. Then he took Zara’s face between his hands. “Be careful, amour, you are about to play with fire, and I don’t want you burned.” He kissed her on both cheeks and stood.

  She smiled. “I trust you to save me if things go awry. Before you go.” She stood and walked to a buffet against the wall and opened a drawer. She removed something and returned to him. “These burner phones are programmed only to receive and send calls to each other on an untraceable frequency that routes through an Interpol satellite. From now on we communicate only with these.”

  He took it and stuffed it in his pocket. “Jusqu'à demain.” He kissed her again and walked out the back door, disappearing into the shadows.

  When she’d finished preparing for bed, she poured a glass of wine. She needed to formulate a plan of how to deal with Mustafa. He was vulnerable to her charms for now, but how long would his attraction last? The quicker she got some leverage on him the better. The excitement of baiting and hooking the enemy filled her with anticipation. Now she couldn’t wait for his return.

  Chapter Eight

  Tel Aviv

  To complete the second part of his mission, Amir had befriended a mechanic who worked the late shift for the Dan Bus Company. They agreed to meet up and eat falafels and beer. When they’d finished, it was eleven p.m. Amir tagged along walking with the mechanic to the bus maintenance facility. They turned down an ally not far from the terminal. It was a shortcut suggested by Amir.

  “You didn’t have to walk me to work. I’m going to get the wrong idea about you,” the bearded Israeli Arab ribbed Amir.

  Amir chuckled. “What would I want with your fat ass when I just came from having the fuck of a lifetime? And then, can you believe it, I came inside of her while I strangled her to death?”

  The man turned to Amir, who’d fallen a few steps behind. “What? What are you talking about?” His eyes widened with fear, but before he could utter a scream, Amir wrapped a garrote around his neck and pulled it so tight the man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He struggled, kicking, tugging, and flailing, trying to break Amir’s hold. The much larger assassin easily held the man until his body went limp and his legs collapsed beneath him, his spasming body silenced by death.

  Amir quickly swapped clothes with the dead man. With the blade of his knife, he slit open the mechanic’s laminated identification card and glued a photo of himself over the Palestinian’s photo and resealed the card’s plastic cover with a cigarette lighter. It wasn’t perfect, but no one at this hour was going to inspect his credentials too carefully. He lifted the body and dumped it in a dumpster. Brushing himself off, he walked the short distance to the maintenance facility. Days before he’d rented a room in a nearby boarding house. He stopped there and picked up a black lunch box and reported for work.

  Amir was not only a deadly assassin, but he was a master bomb maker. He understood the danger of TATP, a substance containing concentrated hydrogen peroxide and acetone and was expert at working with it. Cooking it up in the kitchen of his rented apartment had presented no problem. He’d painstakingly planned the loading of the bomb onto the number 4 bus.

  After Amir’s shift was over, he sat in a café on Ben Yehuda Street. For a week he’d studied the routine of Layla Hassani. Every morning at exactly 8:45 a.m. she drove her daughter to preschool. Every day, like clockwork, she passed the number 4 bus as it made its way along Ben Yehuda Street. Each time he’d seen the little redheaded child in the backseat wave to the people on the bus.

  He sipped his espresso and read the newspaper, occasionally fingering the cell phone in his jacket pocket. Glancing up the street, he saw the blue bus come to a stop at a red light. He hadn’t expected the stars to align so perfectly and was pleased to see the black Kia pull up alongside the bus. The light changed, and the bus drove forward as did the Kia, but at the last second just when Amir reached in his pocket and pressed the button, the Kia slammed on its brakes and came to a stop. An aggressive driver in a Mercedes rushed past and nearly clipped the Kia, racing to pass the bus. With a deafening explosion the bus blew up, and the Mercedes and its driver disappeared in a blaze of fire and smoke. The demolished bus rained pieces of metal all over the road. The black Kia was lucky, it had been blown sideways and rested on two wheels on its side in the oncoming traffic lane. People started running immediately toward the wreckage.

  Amir cursed and tossed some coins on the table and walked away in the opposite direction. He knew it was likely Layla and Cerise had survived, but there was nothing he could do about it. He needed to get away as quickly as possible. Perhaps he’d take another run at them, but then he considered the chances of getting another opportunity and realized this part of his mission was a failure.

  Sirens wailed all around, and police cars and ambulances raced up the street toward the smoldering bus. Amir couldn’t be too disappointed, most of what he’d planned had come off without a hitch, and he had the flash drive in his pocket. General Qasem Soleimani would be frustrated with the outcome. The general had been specific in his target. The murder of both the traitor’s wife and child would serve as vengeance for two Iranian Quds brothers who’d been killed by Cyrus Hassani in America. He may have failed in killing the mother and child, but with a little luck, they were probably seriously wounded and if not wounded at the very least terrified.

  Amir left Tel Aviv and arrived in Jerusalem where he taxied to the Allenby / King Hussein bridge crossing. His papers were in perfect order. He traveled under the guise of a Jordanian college professor teaching at Philadelphia University in Amman. His papers showed he’d been visiting relatives in East Jerusalem.

  After several hours of waiting in line, and a thorough interrogation by Israeli border control agents, he passed into Jordan and was picked up by his contact, a Palestinian Jordanian. He imagined the bodies of Shura and Gilad had been discovered by now. However, it was of little concern to him once he and his welcoming committee sped away from the border crossing.

  He spent the night in Amman. In the morning, after his morning prayers and coffee, the man took him to the Syrian border. He was expected and was met by a Syrian army colonel who delivered a missive of congratulations from al Assad himself. From there he was provided a protective convoy and safe passage into Lebanon. With his mission accomplished he arrived for a brief meeting with Hassan Nasrallah. He was looking forward to a few days of vacation by the sea with his wife and son.

  Nasrallah kissed his minion on both cheeks. “Well done, Amir. The flash drive proves Aryeh has gone rogue. The Mossad team is somewhere in Beirut and the recovery of the diamonds and the extradition of the traitor Aryeh their mission. Take a few days with your family, and then I need you to pick Aryeh up and bring him to me. All security precautions are to be used, including blindfolding and d
isorientation tactics. Make sure the nephew is ready for his big moment. We want the Mossad agent desperate to free him so rough him up and drug him. I want him too incoherent to relate much of anything except his desire to go home.”

  Amir nodded his approval. “By the time Aryeh is returned to Beirut, and his blindfold removed he’ll have only one thing in mind, freeing his nephew.”

  “There is something else,” said Nasrallah.

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “I’m worried about Mustafa.”

  “Mustafa? The man lives only for the glory of Hezbollah.”

  “A change has come over him. Like his uncle, it seems women, or I should say a particular woman has come between his loyalty to the party.”

  “Impossible. Who is the siren who could lure a fanatic like Mustafa to the rocks?” Amir jested.

  “A journalist. Born in Morocco, her family immigrated to France. I want you monitoring Mustafa and the journalist. I will expect your regular reports on this budding relationship. We must keep Mustafa safe at all costs. The operation must move forward. The people are enamored with the mystery second son of Imad. He is like a Rockstar to the masses. We must preserve his stature and not allow this woman to tarnish his image. If we need to eliminate her, you will be given the honor.”

  Perhaps this journalist would be his next victim. Amir felt the hunger for the forbidden pleasure rise in his loins. He couldn’t get it out of his mind, the imagery of sexual asphyxiation. A vision of Shura played in his mind, the way he’d felt at her exquisite death, his hands around her neck squeezing as he ejaculated inside of her. His cock hardened like a rock, and his heartbeat surged ahead like a train barreling through a mountain tunnel. “Whatever you ask of me, consider it done.”