John Weisman - Direct Action

The driver saw them coming. He extracted himself from the vehicle, strode toward them, threw his arms around Tom, and kissed him thrice in the Arab fashion. “ Ahlan, Tom,” he said. “ Ahlan wahsalan . Welcome back to Israel, my friend.”

“Reuven. Good to see you.” Tom put his hand on MJ’s back and propelled her forward. “Reuven, this is my friend MJ.”

The Israeli’s eyes scanned her professionally and his expression left no doubt he’d sensed her shock. He took her hand and kissed it in the European fashion. She couldn’t help but notice that he favored a lot of sweet and slightly citrus-scented cologne.

He slowly withdrew his lips from her hand but never let it go. “I am Reuven Ayalon.” The Israeli smiled warmly, his dark eyes locked with hers. His accent was unmistakably French. “You are most welcome to Israel, beautiful MJ.”

She blushed. The intensity of his gaze was making her uneasy. “Thank you,” she stammered. MJ couldn’t help but stare back at him. He was a fascinating picture; almost a caricature. Tall and dark, but soft around the middle, he was dressed entirely in black: black silk shirt open halfway down his chest, baggy black trousers, and shiny black tasseled loafers. His coal-black hair was, on second glance, a perfectly coiffed and hugely expensive hairpiece, which was balanced below by the same sort of well-manicured mustache and triangular goatee favored by Saudi royalty. Around Reuven’s neck hung a heavy-linked gold chain. His left wrist held a thick gold Rolex whose bezel was implanted with diamonds at the three-, six-, nine-, and twelve-o’clock positions. On Reuven’s right wrist was an oversize diamond-accented gold ID bracelet with Hebrew lettering.

Tom opened the rear door for her and helped her in as Reuven tossed their suitcases in the back and slammed the cargo door shut. Tom eased into the shotgun seat and cinched his seat belt. “I know Reuven from Paris,” he explained. “He was with the Israeli embassy. We covered some of the same ground. Now he works for 4627.”

“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t what MJ wanted to hear. The fact that she was in Israel was bad enough. Israel wasn’t on the itinerary Mrs. SJ required her to file before she’d left Coppermine. And now she’d met an Israeli foreign intelligence officer. It didn’t matter that he was retired, either. In fact, just sitting in his car was enough of a no-no to jeopardize her Top Secret clearance.

Tom swiveled. “Hey…just relax and enjoy the scenery. You’re gonna love this place.” It was as if he’d read her mind.

And of course he was right. What’s done is done, is what her father always said. Besides, this was all her own doing. Her clearance was already in jeopardy-hadn’t she removed the Gaza photographs from the office? Hadn’t she brought them for Tom to see? Hadn’t-her reverie was shattered as Reuven Ayalon slammed the Jeep into gear, smacked pedal to metal, and fishtailed toward the airport exit, cutting off a huge bus without a second thought or any hint of a glance at the rearview mirror.

The Israeli raced past a security checkpoint manned by khaki-clad troops and in a matter of seconds the Jeep was on a modernistic four-lane highway bordered by cotton fields and orange groves. The Jeep flew west into the disappearing light, Reuven signaling with his horn and weaving in and out of the thick evening traffic as if he were drunk-driving the Daytona500. MJ glanced at the dash. Mother of God, he was doing 155 kilometers an hour. Instinctively, she reached over her right shoulder for the seat belt. There was no seat belt.

They hurtled through a long underpass and came out under Tel Aviv. Reuven passed a police car on the right, veered into an exit lane, and steered the Jeep onto another freeway. MJ saw a solid wall of brake lights ahead. The gridlock didn’t faze Reuven, who steered the Jeep onto the narrow shoulder of the road, leaned on the horn, and just kept going. When the Jeep skidded on some loose gravel, fishtailed, and almost hit the guardrail, she actually screamed. When Tom caught a glimpse of her horrified expression, he laughed out loud.

5:55P.M. Reuven Ayalon sped north along the Herzlyia beachfront, swerved right, and accelerated into a narrow side street past a sign that bore the words KEDOSHAI HASHOAH. Two hundred feet later he pulled up onto the garage apron of a walled three-story villa. A foot-square antique tile set into the wall next to the mail slot was emblazoned with the number 71 and Hebrew lettering.

Reuven switched off the lights and set the parking brake. “Home sweet home.”

Tom looked confused. “I thought you told me you’d made us reservations.”

“I did,” the Israeli said. “At the Ayalon Hilton. You get your own suite.”

“We don’t want to put you out.”

“Out? Me? I welcome the company. Ever since Leah died, I’ve become un reclus .” He turned toward MJ. “A bit of a hermit. You know she was killed in a homicide bombing last year.”

“Tom told me. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded. “Thank you. It was why when Tom asked me to join his firm I couldn’t say no.” Reuven opened the Jeep’s rear gate, yanked MJ’s suitcase onto the concrete, and extended the handle. “So you’re staying here-I don’t accept arguments. My boys are both married. They have their own lives. Believe me, I crave adult company.” He waited as Tom retrieved his own suitcase. “Look-for the last ten days or so, I’ve begun asking the dogs for investment advice. What worries me is that they’re starting to make sense.”

To the sound of muffled barking, Reuven led the way to a tall, wide, eggplant-colored metal gate. He punched a code into the keypad that sat at eye level, waited until the gate lock buzzed, then nudged it with his shoulder. “ Bou -come. Follow me.”

He led the way. MJ was impressed. The thick, razor-wire-topped wall was covered in bougainvillea and wild roses. The pathway from the gate to the front door was made of textured stones and bordered in ground cover. There were palm trees and lemon trees and Roman columns all lit by accent lights. A millstone, also beautifully illuminated, rested against the far end of the garden wall. To its right, near a huge dining table protected by a tent-like covering, sat a terra-cotta urn that had to be six feet high. MJ was entranced. “This is breathtaking, Reuven.”

“Thank you. Believe me, I didn’t do anything. It was all Leah.” The Israeli pushed open the ornate wooden front door, and they made their way into a marble-floored foyer. To their left was a wide marble staircase. MJ could see what looked like a living room up the half-dozen steps. At the top of the steps, two huge black Bouviers des Flandres poked their square muzzles around the wall, Totem-pole fashion. They saw the strangers and barked.

“Sheket, klavim.” Reuven gathered Tom and MJ in his arms and squeezed them close to him. He machine-gunned Hebrew at the dogs, who trotted down the stairs and sniffed the visitors.

“Let them smell your hands, MJ,” Reuven instructed. “Tom they’ll remember.”

And indeed, the smaller of the two Bouviers was already standing on its hind legs, forepaws on Tom’s shoulders, licking his face.

Tom laughed and ruffled the dog’s ears. “This is Cleo, right?”

“Of course. Your girlfriend.” Reuven made a clicking sound and the dogs sat obediently. He turned to MJ. “Cleo likes to sleep with Tom when he visits.” He looked at Tom reprovingly. “Not that he visits very often. The big male is named Bilbo.”

Cleo nudged Tom, herding him up against a wall until he scratched behind her ears then transferred his attention to her rump, grinning when her stump of a tail vibrated with pleasure. “How’re the boys?”