“I want what I fucking paid for!” screamed Deacon.
A lot of men would’ve reacted somewhere between wincing and wetting their pants after being yelled at by the mayor of the country’s largest city, especially a mayor as wealthy and connected as Deacon. The man in the black turtleneck, however, barely blinked. He was untouchable, and they both knew it. Most former Mossad agents are. Once a member of the Israeli intelligence community, always a member—with all the book of Exodus protection that went with it. An eye for eye, a tooth for tooth…
“Do I have to explain it again?” the man asked calmly.
No, he didn’t. Deacon heard him the first time.
Finding out that Dylan Reinhart had been CIA was just as much of a fluke as it was a result of brilliant hacking. The brilliant part was penetrating a beta test for a new software program that would allow the CIA to gather and cross-reference server activity from multiple Internet providers without detection.
The fluke part was the supposedly innocuous files inserted into the test. In what was a collection of deleted e-mails addressing such delicate matters of national security as the rules of an office football pool and directions to a 2016 holiday party at Mr. Nick’s restaurant in Langley, there also somehow managed to be a highly classified pension-payout list for a handful of former field agents stationed in London.
Even the best coders aren’t immune to a good old-fashioned fuckup.
“Are you sure you tried everything?” asked Deacon.
The man, who went by the name of Eli, nodded. “Everything and then some,” he said. “We know that Reinhart was in the field and that his cover was the fellowship at Cambridge. As for what he did, any assignments, that’s another can of beans, one that cannot be opened.”
“Worms,” said Deacon. “Another can of worms—that’s the expression.”
“Whatever,” said Eli. “That can can’t be opened, either.”
“So you say.”
“Why is this information so important to you? Why must you know?”
“Because if Reinhart is who you say he is, there’s hardly anything he can’t also know about me,” said Deacon.
Eli smiled, his teeth stained by years of nicotine and neglect. “You Americans and your mutually assured destruction,” he said. “Everything is a Cold War to you.”
No, you idiot. Everything is an election. That’s what Deacon wanted to say. The only reason he and Eli, or whatever his real name was, were even sharing the same air was because Deacon had secretly funneled money to a key member of the Likud party for his election campaign to the Knesset. In return, Deacon was given access to the likes of Eli and an untraceable source of intelligence.
Tit for tat.
So much for that, though. Deacon pinched the skin of his forehead, as if that somehow could relieve the pressure. It couldn’t.
He hadn’t lied to Eli. Having dirt on Reinhart was a savvy political move, no matter how paranoid it was.
But it was what he hadn’t told Eli. Deacon wasn’t convinced that the link between Reinhart and the Dealer didn’t go beyond the professor’s precious little book. Maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with Reinhart’s CIA past.
All the mayor knew for sure was that he wasn’t ruling anything out. Except, of course, his reelection if the killings continued.
Chapter 78
DR. AMY BENSEN slowly opened her eyes, her vision a hazy mix of light and shadow. She didn’t know where she was or what had happened. The last thing she remembered after feeding her cat in the kitchen was the jolt of fear and the hand that covered her mouth before she could scream. Someone had broken into her apartment.
Oh, God, no. He’s still here.
The lights and shadows were now shapes and movement. Actually, one shape and a single movement. Back and forth. Back and forth. A figure pacing before her at the foot of the bed. Like a Polaroid from hell, his face gradually came into focus. His eyes. His nose.
That smile.
She wanted to scream, but she was gagged. She wanted to run, but she was bound. She was stretched on her back, spread-eagled, each arm and leg tied to a post of the canopy bed she had bought in Paris a couple of years ago and had shipped back to Manhattan. The bed was a gift to herself after she’d been named the first female chief cardiologist at Bricknell Medical Center, in Brooklyn. Score one for the ladies.
“Wakey, wakey, Dr. Bensen,” said the Dealer.
More details began to trickle back to her. She could feel the hand slapped over her mouth to stop her from screaming, followed by the other hand over her nose. Chloroform, for sure. That’s how he knocked her out. That’s how she ended up in her bed.
He’s going to rape me.
She was sure of it. He’d already removed her blouse. Her bra as well. She was naked from the waist up. It was only a matter of time before he removed her skirt and underwear. He probably wanted her awake for that part…and every part of the nightmare that was sure to follow.
Dr. Bensen started to cry. She cried because she knew she couldn’t scream. Because she knew she couldn’t escape. Because the feeling was something she’d never truly felt in her entire accomplished life. Helplessness.
The Dealer walked to the side of the bed, staring curiously at the tears falling from the sides of her eyes. So many tears. He reached down, catching one on his index finger. For a few seconds, he simply gazed at the wetness.
“You never did cry in court, did you, Doctor?” he said. He then slowly licked the tear from his finger and smiled again.
That smile.
She had seen it before, hadn’t she? She had seen him before. It was all coming back to her now. No mere trickle. A sudden wave. She was suddenly drowning in a memory she had tried so hard to forget.
“It was so long ago. That’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it?” said the Dealer. “That voice inside your head, so willing to assure you that you’re a different person now, that all is forgiven. It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten all about it.” He leaned down, so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. It was like fire. “That’s why I’m here, Doctor. Because you need reminding. People need to be reminded.”
As he turned and walked away from the bed, Dr. Amy Bensen realized that she was wrong. She wasn’t about to be raped. She was about to be murdered. And the second he returned, the very moment she saw what was in his hands, she knew exactly how he was going to do it.
How fitting…
Chapter 79
“ANYTHING?” ASKED Elizabeth.
“No,” I answered. “You?”