Jaye Rothman's Blog, page 5

Intrigue In Geneva – Episode 12

“Where the hell did it come from? It wasn’t there thirty seconds ago,” he growled. He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and their powerful car leapt forward.

“Perhaps it tailed us from Geneva,” Sami said hesitantly.

 

“Nobody followed us.” Anton replied.

Dvora looked into the side mirror as they flashed past a street light.

“It’s an Audi,” she said. “This year’s model, and top of the range. Two passengers and a driver.”

“We’re coming up to the outskirts of Lutry,” Sami said.

The Audi gradually increased its speed, steadily closing them down metre by metre.

A sharp bend in the road caused Anton to swerve, narrowly missing the kerb by a few centimetres.

“Drive faster,” Sami cried.

Anton gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. He leant forward, peering into the blizzard. Huge snowflakes slapped against the windscreen with increasing force. His visibility was down to a few metres. No street lights lit up this section of the road. He flicked the headlights onto full beam. He could feel the full force of the wind as it battered the car. Drifts of snow had begun to gather on both sides of the road. Sweat prickled on his forehead. He risked a glance into the mirror. Damn. The Audi had caught him. It sat on his bumper, patiently waiting, willing him to make an error. He drove out of a bend, and a straight stretch of highway came into view. Anton pressed harder on the accelerator. The car responded, surging forward. He felt it vibrate. His wing mirror cracked, shattering into pieces. Fragments clattered onto the icy road behind them. Dvora threw herself flat on the seat as the rear window exploded and sharp shards of glass flew into the car.

She screamed. “Get down!”

 

A blast of freezing air filled the car. Sami took the 9mm Beretta out of the glove box and handed it to Dvora.

She raised her head and risked a look at the Audi. Immediately a hail of bullets peppered the roof of the Mercedes. She ducked back down and shook tiny splinters of glass out of her hair.

The Audi slammed into the back bumper of the Mercedes, throwing all three of them forward. Sami howled in pain as his knee crashed against the dashboard. Anton felt the wheels slide. He hung onto the steering wheel, frantically pumping the brake. A smell of burning rubber pervaded the car. The Mercedes couldn’t hold the road. The tyres lost their grip and the car began to skid.

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Intrigue In Geneva – Episode 11

Sami couldn’t conceal the tremor in his voice. “He can’t do that. He’s our Commander. There’ll be an enquiry. We’re Israeli citizens.”

“Sami, we’re also members of the Mossad. Anton will do what he thinks is best to keep the operation on track. I don’t think he’ll kill us yet.” She paused. “He needs some answers from me.”

She could feel Sami’s anxiety recede slightly.

“Do you want the gun?” he asked.

“No. He’ll check for it when he gets into the car. Slip it under the seat when he’s concentrating on the road.”

Sami voice shook slightly. “Are you going to kill him?”

“If I have to, I will,” she said. “I’m not going to let him take us out.”

Sami nodded. “Ok, we’ll take it in turns to watch him.”

He waited for a few seconds before asking, “What happened in the restaurant?”

Dvora briefly described the encounter with Rashid.

Sami regarded her a moment and then said flatly, “Something else happened?”

“A ghost came back to life,” Dvora said. “I thought he was dead. The Mossad think he’s dead. But he isn’t. I saw him.”

Sami took a cigarette packet out of his pocket and lit two with a Bic lighter. He handed one to Dvora. She took a long, calming drag.

“Are you going to tell Anton?” he asked her.

Dvora stared unseeingly out of the window. She paused and said, “Yes, I think I’m going to have to. You see, he recognised me.”

 

* * *

 

The passenger door was thrown open. Freezing air swept into the interior of the car and Dvora shivered again. Anton climbed in and turned to face them.

“Lucky for us that Dr Feinstein is at home.”

In the last few years Martin Feinstein had assisted the Mossad with several medical emergencies. He lived with his wife in a large villa on the edge of Lake Lausanne. It was a ten-minute drive away on a sunny summer’s day.

Sami said, “I hope he can fix my knee.”

Anton didn’t respond. He leaned over to the glove box, opened it and gave a small smile as he looked in the rear view mirror.

He pulled away from the car park and they drove in silence through the deserted streets of Lausanne. They didn’t see any pedestrians. Dogs wouldn’t be getting their walks tonight. A yellow taxi passed them, moving sluggishly in the opposite direction. Anton indicated and then turned onto the road that ran alongside Lake Geneva. No cars passed them. In another hour, if the weather forecast was accurate, it would be impossible to travel by road.

The snow had deadened Lausanne, wrapping it snugly under a tight white blanket. Not long to go now, Dvora thought, and then a few hours’ rest. Her head would be stitched and Sami’s knee could be strapped. She stretched, attempting to relieve some of the knots of tension that had formed in her shoulders.

After a time, Sami peered at their surroundings and said, “Nearly there. The Feinsteins live in Lutry.”

Dvora relaxed and allowed herself to imagine steaming soup, crunchy bread, a hot bath and drifting off to sleep in a soft, warm bed.

Suddenly Anton swore. “Shit.”

Headlights on full beam dazzled them from behind, lighting up the interior of the Mercedes.

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Intrigue In Geneva Episode 10

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I said, yes,” Dvora replied curtly.

A police car roared past with its blue light flashing and sirens screaming, closely followed by two black Audis.

Anton said, “Change of plan. The police will be checking the French borders. We’re going to Lausanne. How’s your knee, Sami?”

Sami spoke through gritted teeth. His skin had a greyish tinge.

“Not good,” he said. “ I’ve twisted or sprained it.”

Anton’s mouth formed a grim line. “I have to make a phone call from the railway station.”

Dvora rested her head back on the leather seat and savoured the warmth of the heater. Poor Sami, injured because he had come back for her, as she knew he would. Now both of them had become liabilities. What course of action would Anton take? She knew he would be weighing their predicament up carefully. Dvora was under no illusions, unlike Sami: if Anton felt the operation was compromised he would dispose of or abandon them. Would their fate be a quick, silent bullet in the back of the neck? Or would their corpses be entombed in a snowdrift, and not found until the thaw of sp

spring? Mossad operatives were expendable; Dvora had always known and accepted that. Sami, on the other hand, believed that Anton as their commanding officer would protect them and ensure they reached home.

 

 

She must converse her strength. If it came to a standoff, she must be ready to fight for their lives. She closed her eyes. She figured they would be safe while they were in the car and on the move.

 

* * *

 

Dvora woke up as the Mercedes swung into the station car park at Lausanne. She sniffed and smelt the strong, sour stench of vomit. She looked down. Her skirt had splashes on it, and the knees of her tights had holes ripped in them. She felt a draft of cold air as Anton left the engine running and got out of the car without a word to either of them. With the sleeve of her anorak Dvora wiped away the condensation that had formed on the window. She watched him hurrying across the car park over to a phone box.

Dvora debated whether she should confide in Sami.

He stared at Dvora in the rear view mirror.

“He’s cursing us now. We’re going to slow him down,” Dvora said her voice hard. “Then he will either cut us loose or he’ll kill us. I don’t think he’s decided yet.”

 

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Intrigue in Geneva Episode 9

–

No. He had witnessed a calculated, cold-blooded murder. A shudder of fear ran through him.

The pianist made a decision. He threw his cigarette butt into the snow and shut the door. He returned to the dining room, poured a large brandy, drank it down in one and waited with the other staff for the arrival of the police.

 

* * *

 

A police inspector had questioned him for over an hour. He had apologised profusely but it had all happened so quickly. He wasn’t able to recall the number plate of the car or give an accurate description of the woman or of the German couple, who had vanished just before the police arrived. The shock had been terrible—surely the inspector could understand that.

 

* * *

Anton frowned as he concentrated on the road. The snow whipped faster, flakes spinning and bouncing, hitting the windscreen unrelentingly. The wipers were set on high speed and swung backwards and forwards, losing their fight to sweep the snow aside. The weather forecast had been remarkably accurate, Anton thought despondently. Visibility had decreased markedly in the last hour. He glanced in the rear view mirror. Now he had two injured operatives on his hands. This would slow them down considerably.

Anton turned to Sami and growled in Hebrew, “What the hell happened back there?”

Sami twisted in his seat to look at Dvora, then turned back to Anton and grunted in pain. “I don’t know, but something terrible. She’s never lost her nerve before.”

Dvora stirred as she heard their voices. Familiar voices. She forced herself to raise her head and blinked slowly. The back of her skull throbbed. What had hit her? She touched the back of her head lightly with the tips of her fingers. It felt wet and sticky. Immediately she recalled the horror of the restaurant, and the German tourist pretending to fire a gun at her. Except that he wasn’t a German tourist.

Her stomach clenched and churned.

“Stop the car. I’m sick,” she groaned.

Anton braked and swerved onto the side of the road. Before the car had come to a halt, Dvora opened the door and lurched out into the night air. She retched and then vomited the wine and the remains of the dreadful meal into the gutter. She sank to her knees in the freezing slush. The cold brought on a violent shivering fit. Anton leapt out of the car and pulled her roughly to her feet.

“Dvora, we have to go. Get in the car.”

She nodded and allowed herself to be helped back into the back seat. Sami opened a thermos of tea and poured a cup, handed it back to Dvora.

“Drink it.”

Dvora obeyed, and felt the warmth of the liquid hit her stomach.

Anton pulled back onto the road. His cold blue eyes flicked to the rear view mirror and he asked, “Is he dead?”

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Intrigue in Geneva Episode 8

Sami Abrahams didn’t hesitate. He leapt out of the car and raced towards the prone, still body of Dvora. The pianist, still wearing his dinner jacket, appeared at the door and turned on the porch light. It lit up the pathway like a flashbulb, capturing the two struggling figures in harsh relief.

“Stop!” he shouted. “The police are coming! Stop!”

Ignoring him, Sami stooped down and gathered Dvora into his arms. Blood from her head wound dripped onto the ice. He struggled upright and turned back towards the car, fighting to maintain his balance as the heel of his left shoe skidded on the slippery walkway. His foot shot from under him, his knees folded and he fell heavily onto his side, winded, and with the dead weight of Dvora pinning him down.

The pianist’s eyes were like saucers.

Sami tried to rise, but a searing pain in his knee stopped him. He screamed screamed in Hebrew, in the direction of the car, his voice muffled by the snow.

“Help me! Come on!”

Inside the car, Anton cursed savagely. All of his training was telling him to drive away and leave them to their fate. But he couldn’t do it. He sprang out of the car and ran towards them, his footsteps crunching on the hard-packed snow. He lifted Dvora from where she lay across Sami, turned and began to stumble back to the Mercedes, the snow stinging his eyes. He could hear Sami’s laboured breathing from behind him. Sami opened the rear door and Anton placed Dvora on the back seat and slammed the door. He manhandled Sami into the passenger’s seat, ignoring his yelps of pain, then jumped in and gunned the Mercedes. It accelerated down the deserted road and fishtailed on the ice as it made a right turn heading towards the lake road.

The pianist remained in the doorway and, with shaking hands, lit a cigarette in an effort to calm his jangled nerves. He peered into the driving snow until the taillights disappeared in the flurries of snow.

From his vantage point at the piano, he had watched the scene play out. He had observed the woman calmly poisoning her husband, without a trace of anxiety or nerves. He had seen the German man pretending to shoot her as she left. Was it a lovers’ quarrel?

 

Intrigue in Geneva Episode 7

“Where is she?”

“Mon Dieu, he’s dead!”

“Where’s his wife?”

Dvora counted down another twenty seconds, took a deep breath, pulled open the door and raced down the corridor towards the back exit. The clock in her head ticked on. She didn’t have long: if she didn’t get out of the restaurant, she knew she’d be on her own. She prayed the kitchen porter hadn’t discovered the unlocked door. She tugged at the metal handle. It opened soundlessly. The white Mercedes sedan stood idling at the kerb. A surge of relief shot through her. They had waited! She broke into a run but as her feet hit the icy step, her legs flew from under her. She toppled backwards with a crash and the back of her head smacked hard against the icy concrete. She staggered to her feet, seeing stars and fighting back tears. She must get to the car.

The passenger door of the Mercedes flew open. Thick snowflakes whirled around her head, obscuring her vision. She couldn’t see clearly. Everything was out of focus. Something sticky ran down the back of her head. She stumbled again, willing her legs to carry her forward. The men in the car wouldn’t wait for her; she knew that. Those were the risks. She looked up. She could see bright white stars shining in the sky. But it was snowing, so how was this possible? Her vision blurred. Her legs buckled. Thick, inky blankness engulfed her.

 

Intrigue In Geneva – Episode 6

The waiter’s attention had wandered. He peered over Dvora’s shoulder, and a look of concern appeared on his face.

“Your husband, he is not well?” he enquired.

“I think it was something he ate,” Dvora murmured in German.

Rashid was making muffled sounds of coughing and choking. He would die in another sixty seconds. Dvora’s inner body clock counted down 180. Her three minutes had expired.

The waiter said impatiently but firmly, “Madam, there is clearly something wrong with your husband.” He pushed past Dvora to assist Rashid. Rashid was making muffled sounds of coughing and choking. He would die in another sixty seconds. Dvora’s inner body clock counted down 180. Her three minutes had expired.

The waiter said impatiently but firmly, “Madam, there is clearly something wrong with your husband.” He pushed past Dvora to assist Rashid.

Dvora, meanwhile, began to stride purposefully in the direction of the restroom. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the German couple staring at her. The man raised his wine glass in a toast, looked Dvora in the eye, and mouthed the words “L’chaim.” To life. With his right hand he mimed the action of a gun firing at her head. He smiled grimly, Dvora choked back a scream and sprinted towards the exit.

Behind her, she could hear the waiter frantically calling for someone to phone for an ambulance. She had almost gained the door when the pianist stood, reached out and tugged at her sleeve.

“Madam, your husband…”

Dvora shoved him aside roughly. He staggered and fell against an empty table, causing crockery and glasses to crash to the the floor.

She swung through the doorway and pelted down the corridor to the restrooms, her heels tapping loudly on the tiles. Wrenching open the door, she saw the ski coat hanging on a peg and the boots on the floor. With shaking hands, she yanked on the oversized black anorak, pulling the hood up so that it covered her hair. She kicked off her heels and struggled to pull on the heavy winter boots. Overbalancing, she fell sideways against the wall with a heavy thud. Damn, damn, damn. From the corridor she heard running footsteps and shouting.

Intrigue in Geneva – Episode 5

Dvora watched his retreating back with relief. With her right thumb, she quickly flicked open the top of her diamond ring. She cast a glance around the room. The couple opposite had finally decided on apple strudel and were drumming their fingers on the table in time to a jaunty German beer song that the pianist played loudly. Deftly, Dvora tipped the secreted white powder into Rashid’s wine. It dissolved instantly.

He rushed back to her side. “The pianist will play your song in a few minutes. He wants to play a couple of up-tempo numbers first.”

Dvora nodded without enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

She bit her lip. As each second ticked by, Dvora knew her situation was becoming increasingly dangerous.

Dvora passed his glass to him.

“Let’s have a toast. How about getting to know each other?”

Rashid’s eyes gleamed with excitement. He raised his glass and took a generous

swallow.

“Oh yes…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Rashid began to make small, soft choking

sounds and tried to cough.

Dvora stood up, leant towards him and whispered in his ear. “Never again.”

With satisfaction she watched his face turn to a mask of horror, then terror.

She picked up her briefcase and said, “I’m just going to the ladies’ room.”

Rashid blinked rapidly and tried to raise his hand. His breath came in small gasps as he vainly tried to speak.

“I won’t be long,” Dvora said cheerfully. As she spoke, Rashid’s throat was constricting, his tongue doubling in size, effectively cutting off his airway. She estimated he had five minutes to live.

She herself had three minutes to exit before the waiters noticed something amiss. Scanning the room, Dvora froze. She willed her feet to move, but they refused to obey. Her eyes widened with shock, and her hands trembled. She dropped her briefcase with a thud onto the carpet. A waiter rushed over, picked it up and handed to her.

“Merci, Monsieur,” she whispered.

The waiter looked puzzled and spoke to her in German.

“Madam, are you feeling well? You look very pale.”

She replied in French.

“Yes, I’m fine. The heat in the room. . .”

At that precise moment Dvora realised, with mounting dread, that she had made two catastrophic errors.

 

Intrigue in Geneva – Episode 4

Out of the blue, or perhaps triggered by the English theme, she thought of Nikki Sinclair, a British MI6 officer. Unable to resist each other, they had embarked on a passionate affair which had changed Dvora’s life. She gazed into the candle’s flame. The memory of the wonderful, sublime, unrivalled nights that she had spent in Nikki’s arms caused Dvora to shudder. Seven years had passed, and she wondered—

“Elsa! Elsa!” Rashid’s voice broke into her reverie. “Elsa, you were miles away!”

“Sorry,” she said, recovering herself. “I’m enjoying the environment.”

Why had she used that word? English speakers would have said the ambiance. She couldn’t afford to make these elementary language errors.

She must concentrate. She must focus.

She turned her full attention on Rashid once more. “Were you born in England?”

He frowned. “Why are you asking?”

She took a sip of wine. “Your accent – is it from London?”

He visibly relaxed. “No, it’s a Midlands accent. I was born in Birmingham.”

Dvora nodded. According to the dossier he had been born in Baghdad and had come to England with his parents when he was eleven.

“I haven’t been there,” she said blandly, “but I’ve visited London a few times on business.”

The waiter arrived and served the main course of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. The smell and the redness of the meat made her stomach churn. English food was definitely not her favourite cuisine, but Rashid tucked in and didn’t speak until he had cleared his plate.Dvora tuned into the German couple’s conversation. They had spent ten minutes deliberating over whether to order the apple strudel or the chocolate tart. The man lit a cigar, puffed smoke upwards and watched it hang on the ceiling. His wife had placed her handbag on the table and was fiddling with the clasp.

“That was delicious,” Rashid said, finishing his meal and laying his napkin across his plate. “Did you enjoy it?”

Dvora nodded without enthusiasm. She had barely touched her food, and had drunk more wine than she had intended. Rashid appeared not to have noticed her lack of appetite or engagement in the conversation.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he reached out, took her hand and kissed it. As he leaned over, she smelt the pungent coconut odour of his hair oil, which caused her stomach to churn more urgently. His rough, chapped lips grazed against the back of her hand. She fought the desire to slap him.

“I’m really enjoying our evening, Elsa,” he said. “Perhaps after dinner you’d like to have a nightcap at my apartment? Then we can become better acquainted.”

Not until Hell freezes over, Dvora thought. How dare he think he could proposition her after a few drinks and a mediocre dinner? Opportunities in her game, however, came rarely and unexpectedly. Tonight she had the opportunity to finish the job, and would not have to endure a second date.

Dvora squeezed his thigh and whispered, “Perhaps later. Would you mind asking the pianist to play ‘Unforgettable’? It’s one of my favourites.”

Rashid jumped up to do her bidding. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

Intrigue in Geneva – Episode 3

As he emphasised the you, Rashid’s voice took on a disconcerting edge which caused her to flinch inwardly. Anton, her Unit Commander, had insisted that Dvora should have a Jewish cover name. He wanted to discover whether Rashid’s motivation was money or ideology.

She frowned. “No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

The waiter set their drinks in front of them.

Rashid gave a mocking smile. “To be honest, I’m not keen on them. In England, they’ve taken over the press, banks and industry.”

A chill seeped through Dvora. “Really?”

He warmed to his subject. “Hitler had the right idea. It’s a shame he didn’t get to finish the bloody job. Look what’s happening in the Middle East. The damned Jews had the nerve to take Arab land and make it theirs.” Rashid’s expression hardened. “Are you quite sure you don’t have Jewish blood?”

Dvora’s expression didn’t alter, but she raised her voice.

“No, I already told you. Perhaps we’d better skip dinner. I don’t want to dine with you if you’re going to continue this conversation.” Anton would be furious with her, but Dvora refused to listen to any further anti-Semitic rants. She stood up.

Rashid immediately apologised. “I’m terribly sorry – I’ve overstepped the mark. I know you Germans are sensitive about Hitler and the Jews. I suppose you’re going to tell me some of your best friends are Jewish.” He smiled again, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “Please Elsa, I won’t discuss it again. Please sit down. I apologise again if I’ve offended you.”

Dvora complied.

“Let’s change the subject,” he said. “What line of work are you in?”

“I’m an auditor for an insurance company in Bonn.” Dvora proceeded to talk about the technicalities of making insurance claims in Scandinavia. She had memorised the information which Luntz Street had sent over last night. After speaking for seven minutes, she noticed that his eyes had glazed over and he was fidgeting with his gold cufflinks.

“I’m sorry – am I boring you?”

“Not at all. It’s fascinating. Shall we get another round of drinks and look at the menu?”

Dvora smiled. “Yes, that would be nice.”

He insisted on ordering for her, and chose an expensive bottle of Chianti to accompany the meal. As he escorted her to the dining room, he placed his hand on the small of her back, a gesture she hated, particularly from men.

In the corner of the room a pianist sat behind a miniature grand piano. He played a discordant, jazzed-up version of the Frank Sinatra classic “Strangers in the Night.”

Rashid pulled out a chair for her, and the waiter turned to him and asked, “Wo möchten Sie sitzen, mein Herr?”

Dvora answered him in German. “Next to me.”

“Danke, meine Frau.”

Rashid obediently took the seat next to her. The table had been set for an intimate dinner, with a starched white cloth, crisp napkins and gleaming cutlery. The waiter lit the candle in the centre of the table, smiled at them and wished them a good evening. Dvora scanned the room. A casual middle-aged couple sat opposite them. Dvora guessed they were either Swiss or German. She overheard snatches of their conversation, which revolved around the price of watches in Geneva compared to Munich.

Rashid said, “Do you like the restaurant, Elsa?”

“Yes. It’s very pleasant.”

The faux-English theme continued into the dining room. Dark wooden beams, horse brasses and prints of hunting scenes covered the walls. A log fire roared in the fireplace, making the room uncomfortably hot. Dvora could feel sweat prickle on her neck. Was it nerves or the heat?