Nicholas eyed her, alert to her tone, not her words. “There’s more, isn’t there? Something about her, Mike?”
She nodded. “I can’t get over the feeling that she’s familiar, that I’ve seen her somewhere before. Remember in the feed when she looked up at the camera? And we both wondered why she’d do that? Seems to me she wanted us to see her. We’ve got to find her, Nicholas, we’ve got to.”
31
BISHOP TO C5
Eisenhower Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
Callan mentally replayed the conversation with Ari while her driver, Redmond, expertly threaded her limo through the heavy traffic to the White House.
“You’re certain I’m the target?”
“Yes, maybe others, we don’t know yet.”
“And who’s behind the hit?”
“We don’t know that yet, either, not for sure, but probably the Iranians, Hezbollah.”
“And just when were you planning on letting me know?”
Was there the slightest hesitation before he said, and she remembered his exact words, “We’ve only confirmed in the last hour. We’ve been working hard to find out where he is, and we’ve had eyes on you. My people, Callan. Trust me, you’ve never been safer.”
“You should have told me immediately even though it wasn’t yet confirmed.”
“Contrary to popular belief, Callan, I don’t owe you anything.”
He’d hung up. She hadn’t bothered to call him back.
She knew all about Zahir Damari, and now that world-class killing machine was after her.
Callan knew she was strong. To those who didn’t like her, she was a ball-breaker, a bitch. To those who did, she was a trailblazer, a former CIA agent turned congresswoman who refused to kowtow to the good-old-boy network in D.C. and managed to keep her dignity and reputation intact—well, most of the time. She remembered, somewhat fondly, that ancient Southern congressman who’d slapped her hand once after a hearing and called her a bad girl. Now he was one of her biggest supporters.
A bad-girl scolding was welcome after what she’d been up against—dictators, military reconnaissance missions, and that bloody stint in the Islamabad Field Office, not to mention a decade in the U.S. Congress, probably the scariest of all. She thought she could handle anything. But Zahir Damari? After her? She didn’t stand a chance and she knew it. It scared her to the bone.
He’d been on the scene for more than twenty years now, a world-renowned assassin, a freelance terrorist, a walking, talking, breathing lethal weapon. She remembered her time as a freshman congresswoman; she’d been assigned to the Foreign Affairs Committee. Of course she knew all about Zahir Damari, seen some of his handiwork, but this was different. She’d never forget the briefing done by a group of Mossad agents on the hunt for Damari because he’d murdered five of their brethren during a special op in Afghanistan. One of the junior agents in the delegations was a handsome, hawkeyed man named Ari Mizrahi.
Callan found herself watching the agent instead of paying attention to the briefing. He had a scar on the side of his neck, long and white, and she wondered how he’d gotten it. Shrapnel? A knife? A bullet? She knew all Israeli men and women served in the military, a mandatory three years when they turned eighteen. Knew he’d seen combat since Israel rarely saw peace.
Later, he’d told her about a sloe-eyed woman who’d gotten close to him in a coffee shop one afternoon when he was with his wife and daughter. A sloe-eyed woman wearing a suicide vest. And how it had changed him, their needless deaths.
Later, she’d traced the line down his neck with her tongue, trying, and failing, to heal them both.
The car turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and Callan dragged herself to the present. Damari. What was she going to do about that madman now that her name was at the top of his kill list? Was Ari right? Had Iran and Hezbollah contracted him?