MICHAL LISTENEDto the church bells clang, inviting those within hearing distance to come and observe their Sunday-morning Christian ritual. He wondered if they knew that an infamous terrorist loitered nearby…close enough to touch any one of them.
Close enough to rain down more deplorable acts of inhumanity than their small minds could possibly fathom. The mere mention of his name elicited utter fear in the strongest of men. He was the Executioner. He loved only one thing—money. And his only loyalty was to himself.
That was the sacrifice he had made for his country. But the events in Tripoli had made one thing very clear. He would not sacrifice Ami, not in word or deed.
This morning he would initiate the required action, discover the price of her freedom.
Ron Doamiass mingled among the crowd gathered outside the sixteenth-century chapel, speaking to first one and then another as if he knew them personally, which, of course, he did not. A master of public relations, he moved farther and farther from the fringes of the milling throng smiling and offering pleasant greetings like an eager politician.
Admiring the beauty of the gardens, he eventually moved toward the reflective pond and Michal’s position amid the nearby thicket of trees.
“You risk a great deal calling me here again so soon,” Ron admonished sagely.
“You are here,” Michal returned just as sagely. “I am obviously worth the risk to your safety as well as my own.”
Ron’s usual amiable expression hardened slightly. “I am here because you are a friend, not because I am your superior.”
Touché, Michal mused. “Well, as my friend I sincerely hope you can answer my questions.”
“First you will answer mine,” he countered. “What happened in Tripoli?”
“The mission was a success.” Michal leveled an unyielding gaze on his. “What else do you need to know?”
Ron did not appear pleased with his attitude. That was good, because Michal was far from pleased himself.
“Your work was sloppy this time and you were injured.” Ron looked pointedly at Michal’s right shoulder, though the bandage was not visible beneath his shirt.
Michal expected no less. Ron had eyes and ears everywhere. That was part of his job. Part of the way he kept Michal alive when others plotted against him.
Silence thickened between them for a time. Impatient for the truth, Michal demanded, “I will know the whole story about Amira. I believe there are things you have kept from me. I will know what they are and the reason.”
Ron averted his gaze, something he rarely did. His straightforward manner had always been one of the traits Michal respected most about him. “You ask a great deal.” Ron looked over his shoulder at Michal. “There are some things that even I don’t have clearance for.”
Michal cocked one eyebrow. “I have faith in you. You will overcome that mere technicality.” He shook his head then, mulling over the inconsistencies he could no longer deny. “Something is not as it should be. This is not the same woman I knew two years ago. There is…” He searched his mind for the right words, but could not assimilate the proper definition for his instinct. “Something is very wrong.” He pounded his fist against his gut. “I feel it too deeply.”
“She suffers from amnesia, no?”
Michal huffed a breath of impatience. “It is more than that.” He considered what Carlos had told him. “Some of my men have picked up on CIA activity in this very city.” Michal looked directly at Ron. “Do you know anything about that?”
The CIA usually kept the Mossad abreast of any activities near one of their ongoing missions. But then again, Michal’s cover was so deep he doubted anyone in the CIA even knew about it—anyone other than the director himself.
Concern pleated Ron’s brow as he considered this turn of events. “I will look into this matter.” His gaze settled on Michal once more. “As for the woman, I’m sure the depth of her amnesia is the reason she appears so different from before.”
Michal shook his head thoughtfully. “It is much more than that. She is softer somehow…nothing like before.”
Ron looked away again, but not before Michal saw the flash of guilt in his eyes.
“You know something,” Michal growled under his breath. “I will not allow harm to come to her, so don’t bother issuing such an order. Whatever it is you are keeping from me, I must know it.Now.”
Ron sighed, his shoulders slumped, another uncharacteristic reaction. “My orders were not to pass along this information for fear that it would prevent you from remaining focused on your assignment.”
“What information?” he demanded, sick to death of someone else making decisions about his life.
“While she was away,” Ron confessed reluctantly, “she bore a child.”
Michal blinked. “A child?”
Ron nodded. “A boy. His name is Nicholas. He is sixteen months old.”
