The Pandora Deception--A Novel Page 3

  Alyan stared at the picture of Mahmoud Alavi, the head of the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security. Unlike Zarecki, who was raised Jewish in Iran and fled during the revolution, and Saleh, who spent his career fighting the Shiite theocracy, Alyan had no special animosity toward Iran. His concern was strictly financial. Iran represented instability, and instability was bad for business.

  “Cairo,” Saleh said. “He was spotted going into the president’s personal quarters. He stayed for nearly two hours.”

  “Do we have anyone on the inside?” Zarecki pressed.

  Saleh grimaced. Intelligence for the coalition was his responsibility. “They met alone.”

  The men at the table digested the information and more secondhand smoke. Lehrmann broke the silence.

  “They’re baiting us,” he said. “There’s no way the Egyptians would ally themselves with a Shiite theocracy.”

  Zarecki cursed again. Saleh’s expression remained sour. Alyan watched both men closely. When it came to matters of Iran, their judgment was colored by decades of regional violence. His own mind was pure business, uncluttered by the politics of the matter.

  “We need to focus on the long-term here,” Alyan said. “We will crush the Iranians by harnessing the power of the Nile River basin into the greatest business engine of the modern world. The untapped wealth from resource extraction alone is beyond imagination—as long as we can get the infrastructure in place. That is our only goal now.”

  Saleh nodded, clamping his now-dead cigar between his teeth. “I’ll deal with the Iranians for now. Let’s move on.”

  Zarecki pointed his cigarette at Saleh. “Bring him in.”

  The door opened to admit a man dressed in a conservative blue business suit.

  “Gentlemen,” Zarecki said in his wheezing voice. “I’d like to introduce you to Jean-Pierre Manzul, CEO of Recodna Genetics. He has expansion plans that will fit into our portfolio very nicely, I think.”

  Manzul was tall and lean, with just enough gray in his dark hair to look distinguished. His tanned face was relaxed, even though he knew he was talking to four of the wealthiest men in the world. His dark gray eyes scanned the room, his stance easy. He handed a thumb drive to Saleh, and the table screen shifted to a professional montage of vast fields of flowing wheat and other grains, herds of cattle, goats, sheep.

  “The wave of the future is genetic science,” Manzul began in a pleasant, but intense, baritone voice. “For decades, the developed world has had a monopoly on this technology. They have been able to do gene manipulation on crops and livestock to improve yields and disease resistance—and then they sell it to African nations at exorbitant prices.” He nodded at Saleh, who changed the screen to show a model of a business park.

  “That ends today, gentlemen. I am proposing a string of new Recodna campuses at every major dam in the Nile River basin. Using energy and water from these new installations, we will take back the technological leadership in genetic engineering and become the engine of growth for the region.”

  Manzul was a persuasive speaker, with just the right amount of intensity and detail for his audience. Alyan found himself nodding in agreement. The coalition’s plans had always called for recruiting high-tech manufacturing to the region—industrializing the region in stages, with high tech being one of the later phases.

  But Manzul’s vision offered a shortcut. Today, the region was based mostly on subsistence farming. The new dams controlled the river flow, making farming more predictable and stable year over year. Instead of transitioning to industry, they could add true genetic innovations to the mix, transforming the Nile River basin into the breadbasket of the region—perhaps even the world.

  He devoured Manzul’s talk of secure bio research centers, recruitment of leading scientists, plans for world-class manufacturing facilities. The multibillion-dollar investment was steep, but the rewards …

  By the time Manzul left the room, Alyan’s imagination was on fire with the business potential.

  “I thought you would appreciate his vision, Alyan,” Zarecki declared as he fired up a celebratory cigarette. “I move that we provide an initial investment as per the proposal.”

  There were no dissenting voices in the room.

  Alyan and Lehrmann departed immediately for the flight deck. Outside, Alyan drew in a deep breath of sea air.

  “It’s like a fucking gas chamber in there,” Lehrmann said, loosening his collar. “It’s our own Arab-Israeli War, but with cigarettes and cigars as weapons.”

  “And us civilians are collateral damage,” Alyan said. He patted his pocket for his phone, realizing he had left it in the conference room. “Be back in a moment.”

  The dimmed hallway lights left Saleh’s wall of famous people in shadow. Alyan’s feet made no sound on the rich plush carpet.

  The door to the conference room was cracked open, casting a thin line of light into the hallway. He heard the voices of his older colleagues inside and thought nothing of it—until he heard a third voice.

  Alyan eased closer.

  “The facility is ready.” Manzul’s voice carried into the hallway. “Recruiting has already begun.”

  “How long?” Zarecki growled.

  “My partner has access to the needed samples. With the team we’re building, we can have a functional weapon within months, a year at the most.”

  A weapon? Alyan froze.

  “And the genetic component?” Saleh’s voice was intense. “You can guarantee that feature?”

  Manzul took a long time to answer. “My partner is the best and the team is second to none, but I need two things from you. I need your assurance that the test sites will be contained.”

  “One phone call.” Saleh’s voice. “A simple phone call and it will be like the place never existed. What else?”

  “Money,” Manzul said.

  “I don’t care what it costs,” Zarecki said, the sound of his fist pounding on the table punctuating his reply. “I just want them”—he launched into a coughing fit—“wiped off the face of the…”

  Alyan backed down the hall slowly. At the far end, he clattered his shoes against the uncarpeted steps and coughed as he made his way down the hall. He pushed open the door to the meeting room.

  Manzul was gone.

  Alyan smiled at Zarecki and Saleh. “Forgot my phone.” He extracted the device from the EM-proof box and slipped it into his pocket.

  He met their eyes—Zarecki’s first, then his countryman Saleh’s—giving each of them an opportunity to say something about Manzul’s second visit and their mysterious conversation. Neither man’s gaze wavered.

  “Good night, then,” Alyan said.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mocímboa da Praia, Mozambique

  It was well past midnight before the young prostitute made her way down the alley toward Rachel Jaeger. Rachel waited in the dark, hearing the distant pounding of the surf and the occasional roar of a plane taking off from the nearby airport.

  The night was dark and humid and overlaid with a heavy, sweet smell from the battered dumpster a few meters away. As the girl picked her way down the littered alley, a small furry creature scurried across her path. The young woman did not flinch or cry out. Rachel crossed her arms and waited.

  The woman stopped a few paces from Rachel. Like most of the prostitutes in the area, she was from Tanzania, working in Mozambique to send money home. Looking all of sixteen years old, she was half a head shorter than Rachel, with a long, lean frame and a generous bosom. She was dressed in neon-yellow hot pants and a matching halter top that left little to the buyer’s imagination. Her hair was braided, and when she turned to look behind her, Rachel saw a scar on her right cheek. She also noticed the young woman’s fierce expression.

  Rachel relaxed a tiny bit. Whatever this woman’s motivations for being here, she was unafraid of the consequences.

  “Neema?” she asked.

  The woman’s smile of acknowledgment made a slash of white in the dim
ness of the alley.

  “I have the information you seek.” She spoke in broken Portuguese, the official language of Mozambique. She pointed back toward the light at the end of the alley. Rachel took a step to the right so she could see the neon sign: ESTRELLA’S BAR AND RESTAURANT. “He’s in there now, drinking, and alone. He likes this place. I sent all the other girls away for the rest of the night.” She smiled again. “He’s all yours.”

  Rachel nodded, feeling a thrill of excitement race up her spine. Neema was involved in the two oldest professions on earth: prostitution and spying. The Mata Hari network in this region of Africa had originally been put in place by al-Shabab, a radical Islamist group, as a way to spy on corrupt police officers.

  Rachel, a Mossad agent, had been looking forward to this particular job for a very long time.

  “Tell me about him,” Rachel said. “Anything you know, even the smallest detail. His favorite drink, his preferences in bed. Anything.”

  Neema grimaced. “You can’t miss Abdul. He takes the—” She mimicked a hypodermic being inserted into her biceps. “I don’t know what you call them. Muscle drugs.”

  “Steroids?” Rachel asked.

  The young woman shrugged and mimed big puffy muscles on her arms. “He has big strong muscles, but a very little prick.” She held her thumb and forefinger a few centimeters apart.

  Rachel shared her laughter. “What else?”

  Neema made the local crude hand sign for anal sex. “He is a pig. He hits the girls, too. He likes that.” She touched the scar on her cheek and her face twisted into a mask of fierce fury. “I’m glad you’re going to kill him.”

  Rachel froze. Was that just an expression or did she understand what Rachel was here to do?

  “Why do you say that?” she said as casually as she dared, wishing they had a better common language.

  The young woman grinned again. “I know who you are.” She pointed at Rachel’s strapless black lace bustier, flaming red miniskirt, and four-inch high heels. “You are no prostitute. You not from here.”

  Rachel allowed herself to take a beat. That admission alone was enough to kill the operation. If Neema knew, then there had to be others, possibly including her mark. She was alone in a strange city with no backup.

  On the other hand, she had tracked this asshole for months, carefully figuring out the best way to get close to him. Leaving now would mean starting over, letting a known murderer walk free for another day.

  Abdul Wenje and his al-Sunna gang were nothing but common thugs hiding behind a thin veil of Islamic rhetoric to extort money from local businesses. The murder of ten Israeli tourists on the Quirimbas Islands had more to do with real estate than religion.

  Rachel was assigned to end him—but quietly. The last thing Mossad wanted was international headlines about revenge killings, no matter how justified.

  As a lone operator, she had leeway to interpret the local conditions. Rachel decided to trust Neema. “Who else knows?”

  The young woman shrugged. “The girls, we talk, we see things.” Her eyes flared. “But we do not say things.”

  Rachel’s mind raced. The threads of intel that she had gathered to pull this op together were not reproducible. If Wenje slipped away tonight, it might be years before her agency had another chance at him. Years before those ten innocent tourists were avenged.

  “Can I count on you to stay quiet?”

  Neema’s braids, silhouetted in the light of the bar, swayed as she nodded. “Like I said, he is a pig. You are doing us a favor.”

  Rachel reached into her tiny clutch purse for some money. Neema shook her head again. “This I do for free.”

  Rachel forced the money into her hand. “Take it,” she said. “Divide it among the other girls, but stay quiet.”

  Neema stuffed the bills into her bra. “Wait,” she said. “I fix.” She hooked a finger into Rachel’s bustier and tore the lace apart so the flesh of her breast squeezed out the side. Then, gripping the hem of her miniskirt, she ripped it open all the way to her hip. She stepped back to survey her modifications to Rachel’s disguise. “Now you look like one of us.”

  Rachel watched Neema hurry away. If she was ever in a fight in a dark alley, she would want that one beside her.

  * * *

  The interior of Estrella’s Bar was as tacky and run-down as it looked from the outside. The place seemed to be in the midst of an identity crisis. With the Mozambique airport less than a mile away, it had the feel of a bar for weary business travelers. But it was also near the beach and tried to play on that theme with a spray of neon palm trees on the wall. Lastly, Estrella’s bordered a seedy neighborhood and gave off a dive-bar vibe.

  Rachel paused in the doorway, peering through the thick clouds of cigarette smoke darkening the interior. Besides the neon palm trees, lighted signs for European beers penetrated the gloom as well as an advertisement for Tipo Tinto, the local rum.

  She headed to the bar in a slow saunter, allowing her hips to roll suggestively underneath her now-ventilated miniskirt. She parked herself in the center of the bar between two men, a heavyset European who was sweating despite the air-conditioning and a large black man in a business suit.

  She caught the bartender’s eye. “Rum and Coke,” she said as she extracted a pack of cigarettes from her clutch and put one between her painted lips. The bartender gave her a light and she sipped her drink.

  She felt the two men on either side of her sizing her up, trying to decide if they wanted to make an offer. She smiled at the heavyset white man first.

  “Good evening,” she said in Portuguese.

  “Beautiful night,” the man responded in English. She shifted into his language.

  “You are from Europe?” she said.

  The man’s jowly face creased into a smile. “Scotland,” he said, as if his accent didn’t make that fact abundantly clear to her. “My company is bidding on a construction project at the airport. You speak very good English.”

  Rachel nodded and let her eyes slide past him to a man sitting along the far wall. The man wore a short-sleeved, collared shirt, but he had rolled up the sleeves to his armpits to expose his biceps. Thick neck muscles sprouted from the shirt collar.

  His eyes met hers for an instant and she took a pull of her cigarette before she looked away. He lifted a shot glass of brown liquid and drank it in one go. Wenje was a rum drinker, then.

  Rachel turned back to the bar, flirting with the large black man on her right. He was a chemical engineer from South Africa in town to work on a water treatment project. He seemed in a hurry and made her an offer quickly. Rachel refused him and he departed.

  She slid onto his vacated seat, leaving an open space between her and the Scot, who continued to chatter away. Another patron took the seat next to her and made an offer. She pretended to consider it, then countered with what she knew was a very high price.

  The new john laughed in her face, calling her a whore in a loud voice as he left. Rachel flipped him off as he walked away, then ordered another drink.

  It took nearly an hour for her mark to come off the back wall. He inserted himself into the space between her and the voluble Scot, who tried to lean forward to continue his conversation with Rachel.

  Abdul Wenje glared at him. “Move on.”

  The Scot paid his tab and left.

  Rachel sighed and ran a finger down Wenje’s bulging biceps. “Impressive,” she said. “How often do you work out?”

  “Every day,” he said. He twisted his arm so the triceps popped. “Sometimes twice a day.”

  Rachel slid closer so the flesh of her exposed breast brushed against his biceps. “I like a man who takes his work seriously. Buy me a drink?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I saw you refuse two offers tonight.”

  Rachel took his newly poured shot of rum and drank it in one gulp. The liquid burned all the way to her stomach. “Tonight is my night off. I’m looking for something more than just money.” She leaned over and let
her tongue trail along his biceps. “I was planning to walk the beach later … maybe you’ll join me.”

  Wenje snorted and tossed back a shot of rum, but Rachel noted the way his pupils dilated and his posture stiffened.

  She had him hooked. Now to reel him in.

  “Another rum for me,” she said to the bartender. “He’s buying.”

  Wenje looked at her sharply but said nothing. He gave a wolfish smile. “Why not?”

  Rachel drank one more shot, then feigned drunkenness and spilled the next one. She laughed loudly at the mess, all the while sidling closer to Wenje. She rubbed her hand up his thigh. “I think I want to go to the beach now,” she whispered, nipping his ear with her teeth. Rachel stood, pretending to sway.

  Wenje dropped some bills on the bar and seized her hand, causing Rachel to nearly trip in her ridiculous heels.

  The street outside was deserted and quiet. Besides the tap of her own shoes, the only sound was the surf a few blocks away. The night air was humid and still, settling on Rachel’s bare shoulders like a thin damp blanket.

  Wenje held her hand firmly and walked at a fast clip. They moved between pools of light from the few functioning streetlights. Rachel, still feigning drunkenness, clung to his meaty arm with her free hand.

  At the corner, she leaned left, toward the beach, but Wenje pulled her to the right, deeper into the city.

  Rachel balked. “I want to go to the beach,” she cooed. “It’s romantic.”

  Wenje crushed her hand, then reached across to grip her free arm. He pulled her close enough for Rachel to smell the sourness of his breath. “Is there a problem?”

  Her heart beat quickly, but she let her head droop and her words slur together as she replied. “The beach…”

  Wenje released her arm. He slid his hand into the ripped side of her miniskirt and dug his fingers deep into the cleft of her buttocks. Rachel kept her face impassive as her stomach recoiled at the violation. Instead, she nuzzled his chest and moaned.

  He withdrew his hand and reversed his direction, now drawing Rachel toward the beach.