The Skorpion Directive Part 17

"Try to reason with them," he said with a wry smile.

"In other words, strew their guts about the landscape in the usual Dalton style. That'll do so so much for U.S.-Israeli relations." much for U.S.-Israeli relations."

"I think that's the idea," he said seriously.

"Kirikoff ? You flatter the man. That's rather too too clever for that fat gray slug, don't you think?" clever for that fat gray slug, don't you think?"

"He led us quite a dance up and down the Bosphorus and across the Black Sea, Mandy. And then got clean away."

"With his pants flapping around his ankles and his great, wobbly plum pudding of an a.r.s.e in the wind, I remind you. About this Mariah Vale creature, did I not warn you repeatedly about what was landing on our heads if Harvard Yard really took the town? Why do you think I went on leave?"

"Mandy, my darling, you went on leave because your daddy threatened to cut off your allowance and you couldn't finance the Sloane Square Fandango on a paycheck from Langley."

She made a moue and then smiled.

"Poppy's such a teapot. Iraq was giving him a migraine. And he was was being an awful b.u.g.g.e.r about my stipend. But I'm glad to be out of it for a while. Really, I don't know how it will all end." being an awful b.u.g.g.e.r about my stipend. But I'm glad to be out of it for a while. Really, I don't know how it will all end."

"No? I'm getting a rough idea."

"Yes," she said, frowning. "That's why I'm here."

"And I thank you for it. How did you manage it?"

"Getting here without Langley knowing? Poppy commandeered the Lear and billed it to Threadneedle Street. I wasn't even on the manifest. At this end, I was met by a lovely man who runs Poppy's mining interests in the central Ukraine. His name is Earl Ford. He's a cross between a Mafia hit man and the piano player in an upscale brothel. Quite well-off on his own. He keeps a pretty sloop in Balaklava. Has a huge condo there too."

"Sounds like a good man to know."

"Poppy thinks so," she said quite seriously. "If all this goes south, I'd advise us to bear him in mind."

"We will."

Mandy stretched, sighed, gave him a coy and sleepy smile.

"So, Mr. Castle, dear boy, here I am, in the sinfully silky flesh. Tell me, are we leaving for Kerch right this very very minute?" minute?"

Dalton shook his head.

"No. Too late in the day. It's two hundred and fifty klicks overland, sixty from here to Simferopol-"

"G.o.d. That rathole-"

"Yes, and worse ratholes to follow. And a long, hard one hundred klicks over the spine and down to Feodosiya on the coast, and another one hundred klicks across some pretty bleak terrain to get into Kerch by the back door. Two-lane blacktop most of the way, but some of it could have worn down to dirt and gravel to within a hundred miles of Kerch. The hotel here has a fleet of Mitsubis.h.i.+ Lancers for rent. I've got one with an off-road upgrade, and I'm asking for extra tanks, a GPS, and some water bottles."

"What's our story? For the Russkies, I mean."

"You're my mistress. Locals love infidelity. It adds spice to their lives. You have pretensions to being a photographer and are simply on fire to doc.u.ment the entire Crimean Peninsula."

"G.o.d," she said, rolling her eyes. "Can't we just take Poppy's Lear? We could be there in a half hour."

"The idea is to come in low, look around, find Irina Kuldic and Bogdan Davit, see if we can get a handle on what Kirikoff is up to. I don't want to swan into town like Di and Dodi."

"Dead, you mean?" she said, blinking sweetly. "Poor Lady Di. Always wanted a halo around her head and all she got was a steering wheel. By the way, how are you fixed for funds?"

"Until you arrived, I figured that I had enough for a month. With you here, I'll be flat broke by Tuesday."

"Well, I have good news for both of us. Allessio had a package waiting for me at Stansted airfield. I have it in my bag."

"What is it?"

"Your trousseau trousseau, darling," she said, quite pleased with herself. "The one you had stashed away in the Savoia."

Dalton had kept a steel briefcase hidden at the back of a cleaner's closet in the Savoia Hotel. In it, he had twenty grand in mixed euros, another ten thousand in U.S. dollars, and a small Crown Royal bag filled with 99.9 percent pure Canadian gold wafers. Along with a Colt Anaconda and four boxes of .44 Magnums.

"Including the Colt?" said Dalton, since flying public airways as he just had meant leaving his SIG behind in Venice.

"G.o.d yes," she said, rolling her eyes. "Weighs a ton! b.l.o.o.d.y great stainless-steel hand cannon with an eight-inch barrel. If I hadn't already seen you naked, I'd think you were compensating for a personal shortcoming."

"Anything for you?"

Mandy, taking another c.o.c.ktail and lighting it up with Dalton's gold Cartier, nodded through the smoke. "Yes. I have my cute little SIG. And some of those spare bullet-holder thingys."

"Magazines?"

"Whatever," she said, waving away the comment with the smoke cloud. Dalton was very impressed about the trousseau's unexpected arrival and said so.

"So was I," said Mandy. "I just adore a man with bags full of solid-gold wafers. May I have just a teeny one? As a keepsake?"

Dalton, who knew his Pownalls, said, "How many have you already lifted?"

"Only two," she replied with a sideways smile. "For mad money. So . . . we're staying the night . . . are we?"

"Yes. I've already booked you an adjacent suite."

"How very tactful. It follows that you already have have a suite?" a suite?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mr. Castle, as your designated harlot I'll be bunking with you you. In flagrante. In flagrante. If only for the sake of the mission." If only for the sake of the mission."

"Mandy . . . we need to keep this-"

She set her flute down, glaring at him through the smoke.

"Oh no you don't don't, you manky little git! I have had had it with all this Hamlet hearts Ophelia stuff. Cora Vasari, a grown woman, on the flimsy excuse of a teensy-caliber bullet to the head, which she acquired only because she couldn't follow Pascal's simple instruction to sit quietly in her room, has allowed herself to be shut up in a tower like some dago Rapunzel, while it with all this Hamlet hearts Ophelia stuff. Cora Vasari, a grown woman, on the flimsy excuse of a teensy-caliber bullet to the head, which she acquired only because she couldn't follow Pascal's simple instruction to sit quietly in her room, has allowed herself to be shut up in a tower like some dago Rapunzel, while you you, my dear, have flirted with me me as few men have and lived to tell the tale as few men have and lived to tell the tale. Oh yes. I know. I let it slide after you stood me up in the middle of the Black Sea last winter. And if I were a cruel woman, I would call that the act of a sniveling eunuch. However, now that you've already boinked the Hessian Hussy, you will either stand and deliver tonight or die valiantly in the attempt. Are we clear on Oh yes. I know. I let it slide after you stood me up in the middle of the Black Sea last winter. And if I were a cruel woman, I would call that the act of a sniveling eunuch. However, now that you've already boinked the Hessian Hussy, you will either stand and deliver tonight or die valiantly in the attempt. Are we clear on that that?"

Tel Aviv JOKO'S BEACH BAR, TEL AVIV BOULEVARD, NINE P.M. LOCAL TIME The Mediterranean side of Tel Aviv Boulevard looked a lot like Panama City Beach, as Nikki Turrin and Ray Fyke walked across the still-warm sand toward the squared-off, bunker-style building that housed Joko's Beach Bar. From the outside, at least, it was exactly the kind of migraine-inducing, rock-and-rolling stucco-walled beer joint that would have been packed with drunken kids from Ole Miss back on the Redneck Riviera. A few hard-nosed sago palms jutted up out of the grainy sand around Joko's like jagged green bomb bursts, and the waterside deck was trimmed in red-and-blue neon, pulsing in time to the music. But when you looked the other way, back across Tel Aviv Boulevard, it was another story entirely.

Then you were looking at South Beach in Miami or Santa Monica, row upon row of expensive and stylish houses and condos, Art Deco hotels, first-cla.s.s dining, upscale shops. Tel Aviv had floodlights and neon and glittering marquees stretching for miles in either direction along a wide four-lane street lined with royal palms, softly waving in the gentle wind off the Med.

This warm spring evening, the beachside walks were crowded with families out for a stroll, dating couples, kids running wild on the sand, and even a few surfers, like seals in their black wet suits, trying out tonight's truly hopeless waves.

When she thought of Israel, Nikki had to admit, she pictured stony battlegrounds and ancient settlements: the Sinai and the Negev and the Golan Heights, battered but eternal Jerusalem, and the bleeding sores of Gaza and the West Bank. She did not think of the beaches and luxury hotels of Tel Aviv, of the river of SUVs and luxury sedans hissing past, the intricately laid stones of the walkway, the sparkling fountains, and the light off the wide Mediterranean floating above them like an aurora.

Ray Fyke, walking along beside her, almost but not quite taking her hand, seemed oblivious to the glamour. He was a looming presence in black slacks and a black polo, his muscular forearms and bulky chest stretching the material, his s.h.a.ggy head moving from side to side as he studied the crowds swirling all around them, his easy loping stride covering the ground as she struggled to keep up with him in the deep sand.

They reached the entrance to Joko's, and Fyke put out a hand to get the door for her. He was quite gallant for a drunken Irish roustabout, thought Nikki, who was gradually getting used to traveling with him. It was rather like traveling with your own personal panther. Fyke paused and grinned at her, his green eyes alight in the glow of the entrance floods.

"Now, I don't have to remind you-"

"I know, I know. I'm just your biographer."

"Joko's a strange lad, Nikki. Looks like a fat old Kodiak bear, but he spent thirty years on the other side of the blanket . . . A real hard boy. I'm not sure which way this talk will go. If it goes badly, I want you to walk quickly away. And don't get-"

"I won't, Ray. Just relax. You look a little tense yourself."

"Do I?" he said, checking his reflection in the door gla.s.s.

"Yes. You look like you're going to your own wake. Try to smile more. When you smile, you're not as horrible to contemplate."

Fyke gave her a sardonic bow, took her arm, and shoulder-b.u.t.ted his way into the bar, the blare of easy-listening music a.s.saulting their ears as soon as he got the gla.s.s doors open. Unlike Dirty d.i.c.k's in Panama City, Joko's place was crowded with reasonably well-dressed young people, very few backpacker types, and some sleek-looking older folks in Tommy Bahama and Banana Republic who had to be in on a cruise tour. The decor was a mix of African Queen African Queen, cargo cult, and Pirates of the Caribbean Pirates of the Caribbean-twinkling pin lights in the fake thatch, bamboo walls, fibergla.s.s spearfish and Styrofoam sharks caught in the ceiling nets-but the cooking smells coming from the kitchen were wonderful, and the entire gla.s.s front of the bar opened up onto the Mediterranean Sea, which was a s.h.i.+mmering field of deep blue under an opal sky.

A dazzling young waitress in a gauzy sarong that was struggling unsuccessfully to hold the line in the face of overwhelming pressures gave them a saucy smile and led them to a large booth overlooking the Med.

She took the stuffed parrot with the RESERVED sign in its beak off the table and seemed utterly thrilled to bring them a bottle of Perrier Jouet champagne and two iced gla.s.ses.

"And would you let Jacko know," said Fyke, touching the waitress's arm before she turned away, "that Ibis says h.e.l.lo?"

" 'Ibis'?" she said, her expression faltering, and then she recovered. "Of course, Mr. . . . Ibis?"

"Yes," said Fyke with a piratical leer. "Ibis. Like the bird."

When she was gone, Nikki leaned into him, trying to make herself heard above Astrud Gilberto, who, Nikki felt, ought to be over the girl from Ipanema by now.

"Wasn't IBIS your operational ID in Kosovo?"

"That it was," said Fyke, watching a cl.u.s.ter of giggling young blondes bobble past their booth. "And Mikey was Shrike. That's how Joko knew us back in Pristina. It'll bring him running, if only to see who's pulling his . . . Who's playing a game with him."

In a few minutes, their champagne arrived, in a dripping silver bucket, along with two matching Art Nouveau flutes. The Sarong Girl wrung the bottle's neck like a Sunday chicken and poured out two fizzy servings, saying as she did so, "I spoke to Mr. Joko, sir. He's in his office now, but he'll be out in a moment."

"Thank you," said Fyke, trying manfully to keep his eyes up on her face. And then, breaking away with an almost audible snap, he lifted his flute in a toast to Nikki, who looked no less hypnotic in a light cotton sundress with a gold chain around her neck, her auburn hair pulled back and caught in a golden ribbon, the pin lights reflecting in her hazel eyes, and her already olive skin now tanned a rich milky chocolate with a satin sheen.

Fyke, taking a pull at his champagne, was thinking that if ever carnal temptation was made flesh, she was sitting across from him right now. It was going to take ten Hail Marys and possibly Divine Intervention to get him back to Marcy Cannon in a sinless state. Nikki, aware of his deep appreciation and grimly determined to keep him at bay-she'd had it with all men, forever, and was giving some idle thought to becoming either a lesbian or a nun-pinged him back with a cheerful smile, touched her flute to her lips and then set it gently down, her attention s.h.i.+fting as a bulky and humanoid monster with a full black beard and tiny black eyes buried deep in a puffy roast-beef complexion emerged from the crowd to loom over their table.

Joko in the flesh, she presumed, wearing a hula s.h.i.+rt over a huge expanse of belly like a spinnaker, the s.h.i.+rttails draped over ragged cutoff jeans, and, to her practiced eye, carrying some sort of pistol in the waistband. The creature showed a set of large brown canine teeth to Nikki and then turned to look at Fyke, his smile fading into a puzzled frown.

"It is you. By G.o.d, it really is."

"So it is, Joko," said Fyke, smiling up at him, risking a paw and getting it back from Joko's punch-press grip without any permanent damage. "May I introduce you to my a.s.sociate, Miss Beatrice Gandolfo?"

After a brief hesitation-most of the "a.s.sociates" he met in his line of business were beefy, beetle-browed thugs from the local union halls-Joko sat down beside Nikki, giving her a detailed once-over with obvious approval.

"Miss Gandolfo, I'm Joko Levon," he said in a deep voice with a thick Israeli accent. "The ee-PON-ee-muss owner of this humble place."

"Lovely to meet you," she said, smiling and offering a hand she felt she could spare, getting it back safely, and giving the hulk some breathing room. Joko showed her his canines again and then turned to Fyke, laying his heavy forearms on the table.

"Ray. You Irish Mick p.r.i.c.k. Sonia tells me Ibis. I say, What the fu . . . I say I do not believe her. You scare the latkes out of me. So. You look well fed, for a change. Not so much like a starving wolf-hound. How goes it? You still with the Amis?"

"No," said Fyke with a thin, even a bitter, smile. "Got my watch and garters last year. Retired now."

Joko nodded as if confirming this.

"Yes. I make a call when I hear is maybe Ibis. Last we hear of you, you are in Port Moresby. Then you are not."

"Yes. Then I am not," said Fyke. "My business was done, no point hanging about waiting for the peelers to clap me in bilboes. And you? Still stranded on the Med like a beached beluga?"

Joko glanced at Nikki and then back at Fyke.

"The lady a.s.sociate?"

"The lady a.s.sociate knows you were once a member of the Mossad, which, last time I checked, is still a perfectly legal organization to belong to. Miss Gandolfo is also a very good friend of Israel, as I am, or I would not have brought her. She is traveling with me on a research project."

"I see," he said, his expression indicating that he saw nothing of the kind. "What sort of research project, miss?"

Nikki rooted around in her purse, came up with one of Cather's legend cards. "This man is a professor at the University of Virginia. I'm interviewing people who used to be active in the intelligence world. Sort of an archive work, an academic history, meant largely as an in-house training tool. Nothing that could affect the real world. If you like, you can call that number and verify-"

Joko waved the card away but not rudely.

"I always trust a pretty girl with hazel eyes. You think to learn something academic from me, Miss Gandolfo?"

"No," said Fyke. "She does not. I'm the specimen in her bottle, Joko. But since she's along for the ride, I thought it would be interesting for her to meet another old operator."

"Old? I am fifty-four only. You are, what, ninety-three?"

"Much older. It's the whisky preserves me. Look, Joko, time being fleet for both of us, and lovely as it is to banter with an old comrade, I got to be straight-"

"Hah! Straight like drain snake."

"I'm here to ask you to put in a word for an old friend-" Joko's face hardened up.

"This have anything to do with what your old friend old friend did a few days ago in Vienna?" did a few days ago in Vienna?"

Fyke leaned back, laid his hands palm up on the table.

"Joko. My lad. I thought you were out of the game?"

"I am retired. Not deaf. You are Ibis, he was Shrike. You two are the famous Birdmen who did so much to make the Serbs and Croats unhappy in Pristina. Is it to be a coincidence when Ibis appears just as the name Shrike is on everybody's lips?"