John Weisman - Direct Action

Reuven extracted a treat from his pocket and tossed it at Bilbo, who caught it midair. “Like I said, married. They have their families and big success in business. In the summer, they go to Turkey on the weekends. In the winter, Switzerland to ski.” He glanced at Tom. “Take your bags upstairs-you know where to go-and then come down. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We can sit outside and catch up, and I’ll cook us some dinner later.”

10:35P.M. MJ sat on the wide marble balcony, her feet propped on the low wall, and stared westward toward the high-rise buildings that rimmed the coast road. The clouds had blown out to sea and the night was brilliant-the moon huge and golden. At 8:30, Reuven had cooked a simple dinner of omelets filled with onions, goat cheese, and wonderful Russian sausage, along with green salad and an extraordinary red wine. They ate outside, and it was chilly enough for MJ to run upstairs for a sweater.

Now she drained the glass of mellow red, padded inside to the kitchen, and poured herself another two fingers’ worth. She stared at the label. It was unintelligible-entirely in Hebrew. Well, that made sense because the wine was Israeli. Reuven had said it was a Merlot-he’d called it a Kfira Merlot to be precise. Well, this Israeli Kfira Merlot was as good as any she’d ever tasted. Cleo at her side, she headed back to the balcony. She’d already had three glasses tonight and she was slightly tipsy.

She sat, sipped, then let her head loll back against the chair while her left hand played with the Bouvier’s rough coat. There’d be time tomorrow to call the office and explain the fact that she wasn’t going to be back for a few more days. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight, she was content to sit and stare into space while Tom and Reuven jabbered at each other in a bewildering mixture of Arabic and French with an English word thrown in every now and then. She guessed they were talking about the materials she’d brought to Paris. So what? No one at Coppermine cared enough to give her work a second thought. Tom had found it valuable enough to bring it here.

He was a complex man, was Tom. So different. He’d grown up overseas. His mother had died of cancer when Tom was ten. His father, who’d never remarried, worked for the State Department. They’d lived in France, and Belgium, and Germany, and Morocco, and Tunisia, and Italy. By the time Tom was fifteen, he spoke three languages fluently and “got along,” as he put it, in what he’d called kitchen Arabic.

He’d been educated in a series of French, German, and Swiss boarding schools, and finally at St. Paul’s and Dartmouth. She’d grown up on Long Island and gone to parochial schools. Tom had skied at Gstaad and climbed the Matterhorn. She’d summered on Long Beach, learned to eat steamed clams at Lundy’s in Sheepshead Bay, and ridden the Ferris wheel at Coney Island. Tom’s idea of fun was skiing downhill or riding his motorcycle at some obscene speed. She’d ridden with him-twice. After the first episode, her fingers had taken half an hour to unclench. And yet, when she curled up with the New York Times crossword puzzle, he’d sit and watch her noodle the words, and tease that they’d make love as soon as she finished-which she always did.

They were so different. And yet so good together. Opposites do attract. Because, underneath it all, they weren’t that opposite. They were both pretty conservative. They both loved their country. For both of them, their lives revolved around public service, something that had been inculcated into them by their parents.

Even MJ’s father, who was hugely protective of her, had been charmed and impressed with Tom. MJ had been nervous about bringing Tom home. She’d finally been browbeaten into doing it only the previous Thanksgiving.

Sitting in the Great Neck living room after the turkey, and the two kinds of dressing, and the mash (which is what they called the potatoes in the house of O’Connor)-after the overcooked vegetables, the three kinds of home-baked pie, and the Folgers brewed in an old-fashioned Farberware percolator, Michael O’Connor poured Tom a healthy tumbler of twelve-year-old Jameson and, as the grandkids squalled and played, took the younger man aside and asked what he was doing to dismember al-Qa’ida and defeat Islamist terror against the West.

“I went to seventy-eight funerals, Tom,” Michael O’Connor growled. “Seventy-eight funerals and seventy-eight wakes. And then I had to stop, because there were no more tears in me. Just rage, Tom. White-hot, searing rage.”

Tom had looked her father square in the face and said, “I’m going to bring as many of them as I can to justice to avenge the people you lost at the WTC, Chief O’Connor. And believe me, when I can’t do that where I’m working now, I’ll do it somewhere else.”

“God bless you, then,” Michael John O’Connor had said, and then he’d looked over at his daughter. “Marilyn Jean, the man’s a keeper,” he’d shouted above the din, bringing silence to the room and a blush to her cheeks. “Always welcome in my house he is.”

She hadn’t understood the significance of Tom’s remark back then. Later, she’d realized it was the first hint that he’d been talking to Tony Wyman about leaving CIA, taking over the Paris office of 4627, and turning their lives-and their relationship-upside down.

She looked up as she heard Tom’s distinctive laugh. It was good to see him laugh. Those last months at CTC had been hell for him. From the little he’d said, the director had thrown money and people into counterterrorism willy-nilly. There had been no plan. There had been no thought. Tom fought for a comprehensive strategy instead of the Band-Aid approach ordered by the seventh floor. He’d been overruled, and then when he’d protested to his superiors, he’d been increasingly shut out of the decision-making process.

Of course he had. At George Tenet’s CIA, dissent was not allowed. Hadn’t she learned that only a few days ago.

Oh boy, had she ever. MJ drained the glass, stood up, wobbled just a little, and looked down at the two men, smoking cigars and conversing in the garden below. “G’night all,” she mumbled, her voice slurring from the effects of the wine. “I’m going to bed.”

From below, Tom waved offhandedly. “I’ll be up soon.” He tapped his cigar on the edge of the ashtray that sat between him and Reuven and swiveled toward the Israeli.

Reuven waited until MJ disappeared from the balcony. The guest room faced the street. There was no way for her to eavesdrop-and besides, he and Tom habitually talked business either in Arabic or French and she spoke neither.

He topped off the Napoleon cognac in the crystal bell glass sitting at his own elbow, did the same for Tom’s, then picked up his cigar, stuck it in his mouth, puffed on it, exhaled a perfect smoke ring that hung in the cool air for almost five seconds. “Ah,” Reuven said. “The perfect combination: a Romeo and Julieta Churchill, and Paul Giraud’s twenty-year-old cognac from Caves Auge. Merci mille fois, Tom. Shukran. Todah rabbah. Cheinchein . Thank you.” He saluted the American with his glass then sipped.

He set the cognac down, stroked his beard, and spoke in French. “There is no news on Shafiq, McGee’s Palestinian. He has disappeared. My guess is he’s dead. And the body already in pieces in the Mediterranean. If he was a double, then he was a loose end. And they don’t like loose ends any more than we do. But I’ll stay on the case. I know someone who knows someone who can sniff around the family-see if they’ve been paid off.”

“Good. And the plastique?”

“I will check in the morning. I can’t believe Shabak 12didn’t run anything more than a swab test-at the very least a spectrograph to check the tagants. But if what you say turns out to be correct, Tom, then sooner or later we’re going to have to hunt him down, this Ben Said. He cannot be permitted to continue.”