“This was my outfit. The police referred to us as ‘organized criminals.’ Not the Mafia, exactly, but what passes for it in Corsica and parts of the South of France—Marseille, in particular.”
“You’re from Marseille?”
“Long story. Born in the U.S., parents divorced early. Grew up in London, then shipped to France when my father died. I guess we can blame it all on the French.”
“They usually are the cause of most problems,” said London.
“To the French,” said Simon, lifting his snifter.
“Chin-chin,” said London, touching her glass to his. “Before, when I said I wanted to thank you…I really wanted to thank you for saving my life. So thank you.”
“It’s what gentlemen do.”
She gazed at him, closed her eyes and opened them, her lips parted. It was a look every gentleman recognized, and only a scoundrel ignored.
Simon kissed her.
“And you?” he said, after.
“Me?”
“No tattoos? History of organized crime? Lengthy prison sentences?”
“Not unless Beethoven, Bach, or Brahms were gangsters.”
“Music.”
“Piano.”
“No wonder your hands are so beautiful.”
“Look closely. Broken knuckles. A car door. End of career.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So was I. Not anymore.”
“Me neither, then. We wouldn’t have met.”
“Move to Singapore?”
“Probably not in the cards.” Simon raised his eyebrows. “London…London?”
“Ditto.” She continued to look at him, mischief and maybe something else in her eyes. “I have a secret.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a bad girl.” She kissed him, longer this time. She raised her seat back, unclasped her safety belt, and stood, brushing her body over his as she made her way to the aisle. “Coming?” she whispered in his ear, a nip on the lobe.
Simon watched her walk to the lavatory. It was the big one, the one for handicapped passengers. He waited a moment—no wheelchairs, walkers, or flight attendants in sight—then rose.
He knocked once, softly.
Like a gentleman.
Chapter 61
Jerusalem
Transcript of conversation / Names of participants redacted
Time: 16:15 GMT
“So?”
“The Doctor is hard at work caring for his patients.”
“Are they giving him any problems?”
“None. He’s looked after these kind of things—patients, that is—before.”
“Will they be well enough to leave the hospital tomorrow afternoon?”
“The Doctor asks if all five must leave at the same time. One is giving him a bit of trouble. Nothing serious, mind you, but given the type of medicine involved, he would like additional time.”
“Out of the question. We have only one ambulance free.”
“I will tell him. He wanted you to know that the patients are remarkably robust. Some of the strongest he’s operated on in years. He thanks you for the medicine. He says he is certain that upon their release, the patients will be more than able to accomplish any task you have in mind.”
“Convey my thanks to him.”
“What is the latest time he can stop treatment?”
“The ambulance will arrive at nine a.m.”
“Can you delay it?”
“It is a six-hour drive to their home. Rain is forecast for the first part of the journey. Under no circumstance can the ambulance travel at speeds greater than the limit. Part of the route is under construction. There may be a slowdown.”
“Why not fly?”
“We can’t risk anyone seeing the patients. As you can imagine, security in and around their home is stratospheric.”
“To be expected.”
“Will you be coming, my friend?”
“Sadly, no. I must return home. My master had been asking for me. It doesn’t do to keep the young prince waiting.”
“I had so hoped to see you.”
“Next time.”
“In a better world.”
“Thanks be unto God.”
“Ciao, my friend.”
“There it is.”
Danni ended the playback and set down the transcript. She was not in the offices of the SON Group but inside a SCIF—a sensitive compartmented information facility—at a Mossad outstation in the hills above Jerusalem. It was midnight. Seated across the table from her was Avi Hirsch, deputy director of Operations, Covert.
“Am I allowed to ask where you got this?” Hirsch was a sallow, hatchet-faced fifty-year-old, a lifelong veteran of the “office,” as its members referred to Israel’s foreign intelligence service.
“A client.”
“Really?” Hirsch looked at her askance. He’d known Danni for twenty years, give or take, had been one of her first trainers upon her intake and her case officer on several ops that ran beautifully and several that did not. “Tell me something, Major Pine, since when do you install your software on a client’s phone?”
“Long story,” said Danni. “I saw something I shouldn’t have. Maybe I even looked for it. I decided to do something about it. I’m not the devil, you know.”
“You had some of us fooled,” said Hirsch. “Keeping to yourself, pretending you don’t know us.”
Danni offered a weak smile. Guilty as charged. She’d declined Avi Hirsch’s requests for help on