She only prayed that they’d locate him before he killed again.
Franco said, “Whoa. Whoever has that MAC just signed on again. He’s live.”
Lia came over and saw the device registered one active user. “It’s the same MAC?”
“Yeah. My bet is the guy lives near here and his phone automatically connected when he went to a window or something, like when you enter a Starbucks you’ve been in before. He doesn’t realize it’s connected.”
Lia thought for a moment, then said, “No. We’re in a trailer next to a park. The closest living spaces are blocks away. There’s no way it’s someone staying nearby. That thing doesn’t have the power.”
Franco said, “So the device is in here somewhere. Left behind.”
“But you just said you saw it appear. If it was left behind, it would have been connected when we entered.” She turned in a circle, going through the problem set, then said, “I think you’re right. He’s here, close by, but doesn’t know it’s connected.”
“Why?”
“He’s come back to see the murder. To watch us work.”
Sitting in his car across the street, Garrett watched Lia exit the trailer, seeing a lanyard with a badge on her neck. The same woman at the last murder scene. He assumed he had made mistakes and that the woman was going to find connections between the killings—something he needed to short-circuit. Not for the long term, because his plan was in motion, and if he died after it succeeded, it wouldn’t matter. He would be in heaven with the Holy Father, but he couldn’t afford to have her interfere with the plan.
Maybe he’d disrupt whatever theory she’d created. Kill her like he had the others. That would really cause a reassessment on their part. Make it look like the others, only it wouldn’t be a prostitute.
Something to think about.
He studied her, going through the problem, then realized she was looking at the line of cars on the street where he’d parked. As if she knew he was close and was searching.
How could she know?
Unnerved, he put the car in reverse, did a three-point turn, and drove away without passing her.
Chapter 11
The flight to Switzerland was about nine hours, which meant almost a full workday of Shoshana sniping at me about telling George Wolffe what we were doing. I saw her glowering after takeoff, and I’d opted to go to sleep, telling Jennifer to keep an eye out because I wasn’t sure of Shoshana’s intentions.
Jennifer punched my arm and said, “Come on. Don’t be mean. You did say you wouldn’t tell Wolffe.”
“That was before the U.S. ambassador to the Holy See was killed.”
She ignored my request to act as my guardian angel and snuggled into my shoulder to fall asleep herself. I closed my eyes, waited a bit, then cracked them open.
Sitting across from me in the plush leather chair of the Gulfstream aircraft was Shoshana, the Dark Angel, still scowling at me.
I pretended not to notice and tried to go to sleep, wondering if she was going to do something while I was out. I didn’t really think that . . . but a part of me did. She’d come close to killing me a few times already, and I hadn’t realized how my interactions with George Wolffe would set her off. I still wasn’t sure if it was what I’d discussed, or just the fact that I had discussed it after telling her I wouldn’t.
Eventually, I’d fallen asleep, and seven hours later had awakened, groggily rubbing my eyes. When I opened them, she was still awake. And still glowering.
I looked to her left, seeing Aaron racked out next to the window, then shifted in my seat slightly, not wanting to wake up Jennifer. I’d learned early in my military career that you never knew when you’d get sleep, so you had better take it while you could.
Seeing no help around the aircraft, I said, “You’re still mad at me.”
She said, “I told you not to say anything—especially about the Israeli passports.”
“Shoshana, I had to tell him. If it was just me and Jennifer, I could make it up, but you wanted Knuckles and Brett. I can’t take my team on a mission using Israeli passports without letting him know. Come on. We’re acting like spies now, and the Taskforce has some level of risk involved just by our presence.”
She scoffed and said, “There is no risk. This isn’t an ‘Omega Operation’ as you Americans like to talk about. It’s Alpha.”
Aaron and Shoshana had conducted a few different operations with us in the past, as unofficial help, and she’d learned our lingo. The Taskforce teams had levels of operational permission based on the Greek alphabet, with “Alpha” being the introduction of forces to explore a potential problem, running down to “Omega,” when we were given execute authority to eliminate the threat.
I said, “I hear you, but you have to admit that the ambassador’s death was strange—right after you told me they’d attack us as well as you.”
“He ran off a road on the Amalfi coast. No claim of responsibility.”
“You don’t think that’s part of this? The car had signs of an explosive device on the rear axle.”
“The car had signs of explosives because it exploded.”
“You believe that?”
She sagged back in her seat and said, “No, I don’t. It’s strange, but it fits with what we were told to find. Something else is going on here. Whoever it is wants Keta’ib Hezbollah to get blamed, but they didn’t have the chance to blame them.”
“But the guy who killed the Ramsad was Keta’ib Hezbollah, right? That’s why we’re in the air to Switzerland.”
“Yes. Yes and no.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know. That’s why we’re flying to Switzerland. But you still shouldn’t have told the United States government that we’ve given you the ability to help us by using Israeli passports.”
“I didn’t tell the government. I told George Wolffe. We’re good. Look, if I hadn’t disclosed what was going on, we’d be flying in coach on a commercial flight. Now we’re riding in style on the Rock Star bird to a small airport an hour and a half away from Zurich. You’d rather be crammed next to a toilet on a commercial flight?”
The aircraft we were flying was a Gulfstream 650, something that rock stars take when traveling on a tour. In Nickelback’s version, it was a “big black jet with a bedroom in it, gonna join the mile high club at 37,000 feet.”
I still hadn’t done that, but mainly because our aircraft was a little bit different. Paid through about a hundred different cutouts and shell companies, it was ostensibly leased to Grolier Recovery Services, but I still had to get George Wolffe’s permission to use it. Instead of a bedroom, it had a complete arsenal built into the frame in hidden compartments, everything from surveillance systems to weapons. Something we might need soon, no matter what Shoshana thought of the mission.
I waited, and she finally said, “Okay, this is a good thing, but you still shouldn’t have done it. You promised.”
I knew at that point the argument was over and she was going to let it go, although she had no idea how hard it had been to get this ball moving. After breakfast, I’d had Jennifer take Aaron and Shoshana on a touristy Charleston carriage ride and had pulled aside George, Brett, and Knuckles.