John Weisman - Direct Action

Propped on the pillow was a huge shopping bag from Louis Vuitton, to which was taped an envelope on which was written Marilyn Jean . She opened the envelope. There was a card inside. It was from Tom. It said, I love you all the world, MJ .

From the shopping bag she removed a heavy rectangular Vuitton box, tied with brown-and-gold ribbon. She untied the bow and took the cover off the box. Inside, under a layer of perfectly folded tissue paper, sat a brown backpack, trimmed in leather, with gold hardware and patterned with Vuitton’s trademark interlocking golden LV s. It was absolutely gorgeous. She examined the bag minutely. Minibackpacks were all the rage in Washington. She’d get incredible use out of it. How wonderful. How exotic. And how expensive.

Carefully, MJ replaced the backpack in its box and set it aside. She set her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it so she could unpack her toilet kit. In order of preference, she wanted a long hot shower, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee, and-despite the fantastic backpack-a detailed damn explanation from him .

It being the day from hell, however, she soon discovered that the hot water lasted only a miserly six minutes, and that Tom was clean out of coffee. But being MJ, which meant she was resourceful, she adapted. By 10:15, the new backpack slung over her shoulder, she’d reconnoitered the cluster of stores around the Place de Costa Rica and bought enough essentials to last them the weekend. By noon, when she heard Tom’s key in the door, she was enjoying her third mug of perfect café au lait and her second, sinful pain au chocolat .

“Tom, what a wonderful, wonderful gift. It was perfect because I had the most awful-oh, my God. ” He looked as if he’d been in a brawl. His shirt was askew. His trousers were ripped at the knees. His jacket had stains all over the front.

Before she could say another word, he held up his hand like a traffic cop, dropped his overcoat onto the floor, and lurched for the kitchen, pulling his jacket off as he went. He ran water onto his hands and, heedless that his clothes were getting soaked, scrubbed messily at his face, neck, and hair. He fumbled blindly until he found a kitchen towel and wiped himself dry. He finally turned around and saw her standing in the doorway. He draped the towel on the sink and ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, love. It’s been a bear of a night. Pour me about three fingers of cognac, will you? I’m going to get out of these clothes and climb into a shower.”

3:45P.M. They were lying on the bed, covered by a thick duvet. He’d stood under the shower for nearly a quarter hour while she busied herself, not wanting to pry. He’d finally emerged, a towel wrapped around his middle, clutching the empty cognac glass. He appeared so ingenuously vulnerable in that instant that MJ was able to picture him as a little boy.

His knees were scraped raw and bright red. The scabs were going to be enormous. She noted that the whole right side of his rib cage was bruised-a mottled mélange of purple, yellow, and sickly green that stretched from his chest to his waist. When she asked what had happened, he said someone had kicked him by mistake.

He’d padded into the living room, refilled his glass from the bottle on the oval, Art Deco rolling brass-and-glass bar, and downed it in a single gulp.

“Was it that bad?”

“Worse.” He’d poured a third shot, drunk it, then gone and collapsed on the bed. She’d lain down next to him and caressed his shoulder. Half an hour later they’d made love.

He snuggled close and kissed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry, love.”

She rolled over and stared into his eyes. “For what?”

“I never even asked how you are.”

“You were preoccupied.”

“I’m not preoccupied now.”

Except he was. She could see it. His face was a mask. His eyes were cold-murderous. The veins on his forehead were throbbing. She’d never seen him like this. MJ decided to take the easy way out. “I’m fine. And I love my backpack.”

He kissed her. “They’re all the rage here.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “Sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t want to bother you. We have so little time…”

His expression softened. He kissed her. “MJ…”

She pulled herself up, reached for the shirt she’d draped over the bedpost, and shrugged into it. “Well, if you really want to know, it’s been a horrible week for me, too.”

He’d surmised as much. “Mrs. Sin-Gin again?”

“I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want me to do my job.”

He grunted. “You know you always have someplace to go.”

She looked over at him. “No, Tom, I’m serious.” She bit her lower lip. “Can I show you something?”

“Always.”

“But it’s just for you, Tom. Your eyes only. Not to share.” She waited for him to say something.

When he didn’t, she said, “I’m serious.”

Finally, he said, “My eyes only, MJ.”

“Okay.” MJ wrapped herself in the shirt more tightly, slipped out of the bed, and padded into the living room. Thirty seconds later she was back, a manila envelope clasped to her bosom. “I spent a whole day on this-for nothing.” She flipped the sealed envelope onto his lap. “She refused even to look at it.”

He pulled a small pocketknife out of the top drawer of the bedside table, used it to slit the top flap, and extracted a dozen photographs. He examined the first three. “Gaza-the embassy Suburban.”

She nodded. “I was just trying to be creative. You know-think outside the box. Oh, Tom, it’s so hard to work when the person you’re working for doesn’t have the faintest idea about-”

And then she saw his face, and realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He was zoning.

She curled around his shoulder to see what he was looking at. It was the blowup of the six bodyguards. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He let the photo drop onto the duvet. “MJ,” he said, his face as somber as she’d ever seen it, “tell me exactly what you were doing. Exactly, and why. And then tell me what the reaction was at Langley. Down to the tiniest detail.”

19 OCTOBER 2003

4:35 P . M .

BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

AIR FRANCE 1620 ARRIVED HALF AN HOUR LATE.As the plane emerged from the opaque wall of cloud cover, MJ pressed her nose against the window listening to the whine as the pilot extended his flaps and descended quickly over an Israeli coast lit brilliant orange red by the setting sun. She’d expected…well, she hadn’t known what to expect. Camels and tents maybe, or some sort of Mediterranean Lower East Side. Certainly not the seawall of high-rises and glass-and-steel skyscrapers that looked a lot more Miami than her mind’s eye picture of Tel Aviv. Then the plane banked sharply over scrub-covered hills, descended rapidly, and landed. They rode a jam-packed shuttle bus to the terminal, passed without incident through passport control, claimed their baggage, then fought their way through the crowd into the bustling terminal itself.

Tom guided her through double doors, then steered her around a squad of soldiers, M-16s slung over their shoulders, along a wide swath of sidewalk that smelled of diesel fumes, sweat, and smoke. At the far end of the terminal they bumped their wheeled suitcases over the curb and scampered across three lanes of fast-moving traffic to a small asphalt island on the far side of the roadway. There, in a clearly marked no-parking zone, sat a white Jeep Cherokee trimmed in gold.