Scorpion Betrayal Page 24

  With sol tzu, where sol meant “sun,” he told Rabinowich, an admirer of the ancient Chinese military genius, to recall Sun Tzu’s doctrine on defense. He knew if Rabinowich thought about it, he would recall Sun Tzu’s famous saying that no war was ever won with a static or passive defense.

  stop HA? Rabinowich was asking whether the DIA and Italian preparations would be adequate to stop the Palestinian from accomplishing his goal.

  Heavy C & B. What u think? pix? Scorpion knew Rabinowich would pick up his meaning—that though the DIA had put heavy Crash and Bang security measures in place, he did not think they would stop the Palestinian, and then he’d asked when he could expect the new photo.

  innaharda, Rabinowich typed; the Arabic word for “today.”

  buona notte, bambino , Scorpion joked, telling Rabinowich to go back to sleep like a baby.

  f u, Rabinowich responded, and ended the session.

  Scorpion logged off, and as he headed out of the café, glanced again at the TV. They were showing the arrival of the Israeli delegation to the conference. The TV reporter, an attractive woman whose eyeliner made her look like a face from an ancient Egyptian frieze, said they would be staying under heavy security at the Israeli embassy, not far from the Villa Borghese, for what could be an historic conference for Israel.

  That afternoon, Scorpion waited for Moretti at a pizzeria across from Carabinieri headquarters near the wooded Villa Ada Park. Moretti was supposedly at a meeting with the local heads and station chiefs of the Polizia di Stato, the Carabinieri, the DIA, the various EU intelligence agencies, and the Israeli Mossad and AMAN, to coordinate for the EU Conference. Because it was across the street from their headquarters, Carabinieri officers would often stop in for a quick pizza and vino, and two of them leaning on the bar glanced over at him when the text message he’d been waiting for from Rabinowich came in.

  The text read, c pix, and he took a deep breath. As they had arranged, he looked up Rabinowich’s “Brooks” Facebook page, and there it was. Instead of his own face, Rabinowich had posted a photograph of Bassam Hassani taken less than two weeks ago for entry into the United States.

  Hassani had aged well, Scorpion thought. He was no longer the geeky long-haired chemistry undergrad in the Karlsruhe University chemistry journal photograph. Along the way he had acquired expensive clothes and a new haircut. He looked smooth, confident, the kind of successful businessman who flies first class on his way to an international bankers’ meeting. Rabinowich hadn’t bothered to include the passport and visa information that Hassani had used to enter the United States. While Hassani would have used the cover identity while in the U.S., which would make it useful for the FBI in tracking his movements, for Scorpion it was useless. Hassani would have gotten rid of that cover identity the minute he was back in Italy.

  He got up, tossed money on the table for the conto, and headed out toward where he had parked his rented Fiat. Moretti would have to wait. Now that he had Hassani’s photograph, he needed a closer look at that video of the demonstration at the police barrier. As he walked to the car, he used the cell phone to get directions to the RAI Uno television studio that had broadcast the video. It was in the Saxa Rubra district, north of the center of Rome. He got into the Fiat and called Moretti as he headed out.

  “I’m still at the meeting. Where are you going, or shouldn’t I ask?” Moretti said in a hushed voice, and Scorpion could hear someone talking in the background.

  “Why ask a question when you already know the answer?” Scorpion said.

  “Have you heard from our mutual friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will stay in touch?”

  “How do you like working with the DIA?”

  “Is too soon to say. In Italian we say ‘metterci il cappello,’ to put the hat on the top, you understand?”

  “You mean they try to run everything and then take all the credit?”

  “Is good. You are beginning to think like an Italian. Where you are now?”

  “Turning onto Via Flaminia.”

  “You go to Saxa Rubra? The televisione, RAI Uno? You think they see something?”

  Damn, the little Italian was quick, Scorpion thought. He had to watch every word he uttered. “I’ll let you know,” he said.

  “This is famous street, Via Flaminia. This is the road the Roman legions use when they march to Gaul.”

  “Are you telling me to watch out for the Barbarians?”

  “Caesar was killed by his own people,” Moretti said.

  “I’ll remember that,” Scorpion said, hanging up. He drove past office buildings and apartment houses. People were out in the street, well-dressed Romans living their lives, and it hit him that in two days this could all be gone. He drove through the suburbs to the television studio, showed the badge he had gotten from Moretti to the guard at the gate, and parked. Inside, he asked to speak to the station manager. A slender dark-haired woman, of what the French called “a certain age,” in a low-cut T-shirt top and a skirt too short for business, came out.

  “Il Signor Brazzani è occupato. Posso essere d’aiuto?”

  “Forse, it’s a security matter,” Scorpion said, switching to English and showing her his badge.

  “What would you like?” she asked, with just a touch of suggestiveness, looking at him as if he were an especially tasty-looking piece of Amedei chocolate.

  “I need to see a video you broadcast on TG Uno on la donna inglese at the demonstrations. But on a computer, so I can see it slow, stop it, make it bigger.”

  “You are not italiano, Signore. Can you tell me what is this about?”

  “No, I can’t. As you can see from the badge, it’s a matter of security. If necessary, I can have a capo della polizia call, but that would take hours and time is critical.”

  She thought for a moment. “I shall have to come with you,” she said, and led him down to the studio, to a glassed-in office where a number of people were working at their desks on video feeds. She walked over to a young man peering intently at the screen, tapped him on the shoulder and said something very rapidly in Italian.

  “This is Bruno,” she said, turning to Scorpion. “He will help us.”

  Bruno brought up a number of feeds on the demonstrations and la inglese woman. The third one, of the scuffle at the police barricade, was the one he wanted. They watched again as the demonstrators surged forward against the police barrier. The inglese woman appeared to be in the middle of demonstrators with signs that read, “Global Warming, Global Death.”

  “Stop!” Scorpion said. Bruno froze the image. “Who are these demonstrators?” He pointed at the signs and protesters in wraith costumes.

  “Questi sono da Oxfam. Si può dire per i costumi, come fantasmi,” Bruno said, turning his head.

  “These are from Oxfam, you can tell from the costumes,” the woman translated.

  “It’s okay, I got the gist,” Scorpion said. “Go very slowly now.”

  They watched intently while the video moved jerkily forward frame by frame as the young Englishwoman was pushed back at the barrier by one of the riot polizia with his shield.

  “Stop there!” Scorpion bent and peered at the screen, at a man in the crowd behind a young woman next to the inglese. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, his face in profile to the camera. “Can you focus in on him?” he asked, pointing at the man. Bruno blew up the man’s profile, while Scorpion pulled out his cell phone and expanded the photograph he had downloaded from Rabinowich’s Facebook page.

  “That is the man,” the woman said, leaning closer to look at Scorpion’s cell phone screen and then at Bruno’s monitor. “You are looking for this man?”

  “Come ti chiami?” Scorpion asked her name.

  “Il mio nome è Cienna.”

  “Cienna, there is no man. This picture doesn’t exist, capisce?” he said, closing the cell phone, and Cienna nodded. “Move it ahead slowly, molto lentamente,” he told Bruno, who advanced the video jerkily till Scorpion sa
id “Stop!” again. “What do you think? Is he with la donna inglese?” he asked, pointing at the proximity of Hassani to the Englishwoman.

  “Difficile dire. Could be two people in the crowd,” Bruno said.

  “He said is difficult to say. He is wrong. They are together,” Cienna said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me. I am a woman.”

  Scorpion nodded and tapped Bruno, who moved the video forward image by image, but the man turned away and then he, along with the two women, were lost in the crowd. Scorpion told Bruno to stop, his mind racing.

  “You are interested in this man who does not exist?” Cienna said.

  “What you’ve just seen is very dangerous, capisce? For you and everyone around you. I don’t mean to alarm you, but you could be threatened. Please translate,” he said.

  Cienna bent over and whispered in Bruno’s ear, at which Bruno turned and stared at the two of them, his eyes wide.

  “Remember tell no one, not even your boss. Anyone can be killed. This never happened. I was never here, capisce? Arrivederci e grazie,” Scorpion said and started to leave.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Cienna said, and accompanied him out to the reception area. “How do I get in touch with you again?” she said, glancing around to make sure they weren’t overheard.

  “You can’t.”

  “Suppose we see him again in another video?”

  “It won’t matter. Ciao, bella signora,” he said and felt her watching him as he left, his mind in a whirl. He had to talk to Rabinowich, and wondered if he should risk sharing it with Moretti. Once again there were things that made no sense on this mission. A single question churned in his mind: Why would the Palestinian risk his entire operation just to participate in a public demonstration?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Campo dei Fiori, Rome, Italy

  The Palestinian woke in a sweat, not knowing where he was. He hadn’t had the nightmare in a long time but it never seemed so real.

  In the dream he was a child and they were coming for him. He was hiding in a closet, the heat unbearable, and even though it was night, the flashes of light from the window that filtered through the cracks in the closet door were intensely bright. The sound of explosions and gunfire kept coming closer, and the smell was like nothing he’d ever smelled before. He heard men crashing into the room and shooting, his mother screaming, and he wanted to scream but he was so frightened he wet his pants. They ripped the closet door open and grabbed him, and now they had the faces of boys who had taunted him at Grundschule: Aksel, his red face contorted, yelling, “Leck mich am arsch, Türkisch schwuchtl,” and fat Dolph, and Geert, kicking him while he was squirming on the ground, laughing at the “Blödes arschloch” as he tried to protect his privates where fat Dolph had grabbed his testicles and squeezed till he screamed, telling him he didn’t need them, “Sie brauchen diese nicht, mutterficker!”

  And then he was awake, his heart pounding, and he realized that Liz was gone.

  They had worked late into the night, he, Mourad, Jamal, and Hicham. Earlier in the evening, he had sent the others back to Turin, either by car or by the Metro to the Stazione Termini to catch the train. After they had left with calls of “Ma’a salaama” and “Allahu akhbar,” the four of them finished packing everything into the UniMOG, filling it to the roof with just enough room left for the four of them to sit in it. They ran into a snag then. Mourad noticed that the license plates given to them by the Camorra didn’t begin with the correct lettering.

  “Did they do this on purpose?” he asked.

  “With the Camorra, nothing is an accident,” Hicham said. “They wanted us to be caught.”

  “Why? We could inform on them,” Jamal said.

  “None of us would ever live to inform if we were in prison,” Hicham said. “Il silenzio o la morte.”

  “They did not want it to come back on them. Ma’alesh,” the Palestinian shrugged. “Just make sure the UniMOG runs when we need it.”

  “It’s good. I checked it myself again this morning,” Mourad said. “What about the license plate?”

  Finally, Hicham came up with the solution. They forged white metal with the correct red letters and glued them over that portion of the license plate. It wouldn’t bear close inspection, but the Palestinian thought they could get away with it on a moving vehicle while other things were going on. Although it was past three in the morning by then, they went over their roles again, rehearsed what they were to do and how to deploy and rehearsed their answers to questions that might be asked.

  The Palestinian, still known to the others by his cover name, Mejdan, looked at his watch. It was almost eleven in the morning, and although he got up and walked around the warehouse to look for Liz, he knew she wasn’t there.

  “The woman, Liz is gone,” Mourad said, looking up from making coffee in the makeshift kitchen. “Your English sharmuta whore will destroy everything.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” the Palestinian said.

  “Why did you bring her? Just because you had to have English koos?” Mourad asked, using the Arabic vulgarity for the female sex organ.

  “I needed Liz to get to the English demonstrators. It was part of the plan,” he said. “We have one more day. Check all the cell phone batteries, but don’t touch the detonators. I’ll take care of the Englishwoman.”

  “It would have been better not to bring her,” Mourad said, not looking at him.

  “Khalli baalak,” the Palestinian said. Be careful. “We will soon all of us be shaheedin martyrs. We should not go to Allah with words we should not have said.”

  He went to the hotel near the Stazione Termini, but the room was locked, and when he asked at the desk, he was told that Alicia had checked out.

  “When?” he asked the desk clerk.

  “Mezz’ora, maybe.” Half an hour. The desk clerk shrugged. “Is curious. That signorina, she look like la donna inglese on the televisione.”

  “Not at all. Maybe a little, but it wasn’t her. Was my ragazza, Liz, you know, her English friend, with her?”

  “Sì. Also her italiano boyfriend with the hair long, like a girl. They all go.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “They did not say, but I think the aeroporto. They have all their baggages and they talk about London.”

  “Grazie,” he said, and ran to the Stazione Termini. He raced through the station, hoping against hope they hadn’t left yet. With relief, he saw Liz, Cristiano, and Alicia waiting on the platform of the express train to Fiumicino Airport. To avoid being recognized, Alicia had dyed her hair blond and wore large sunglasses under a Burberry bucket hat. When they saw him, the three of them started to move away, then Liz stopped.

  “You didn’t say goodbye,” he said.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, taking off her sunglasses. She was back to wearing a Hermès scarf and Jimmy Choos, but her eyes were glistening, he noticed. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  “Children are dying.”

  “I know,” she said miserably.

  “What have you told them?” he asked, indicating Cristiano and Alicia.

  “Just that we had a fight.”

  “Liz, nothing happened between Mejdan and me, did it?” Alicia said, looking at him.

  “I’m sorry,” Cristiano said in his clumsy English, patting the Palestinian on the shoulder. “Alicia want to go back to London too. She afraid the paparazzi find her and she will be exposed for liar.”

  “I understand. Can I talk to you alone?” the Palestinian asked Liz. “It’s important.”

  She looked at her friends and nodded. He drew her to one side of the platform. Looking beyond her, he could see the train coming.

  “You left your things at the apartment,” he said.

  “Just send them to me,” she said.

  “I won’t have time. We can’t leave evidence behind. Please, come back to the apartment with me. Just you and me, the way it was
supposed to be. I need you.”

  “I can’t help it,” she said, her eyes glistening in the sunlight reflected off the rails. “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “One last time,” he pleaded. “It’ll be like Mykonos. You owe me that.”

  “Why? Why do I owe you?”

  “Because by this time tomorrow I’ll probably be dead. Don’t let it end like this. You can catch a later flight. I can do what I have to if I know you’re away and safe.” His last words were nearly lost in the sound of the train pulling in.

  “Liz, we have to go,” Alicia called. People were rushing to board. The cars were getting crowded and they would have to squeeze in.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Liz said, poised between them.

  “We can’t let it end like this. Not us,” he said, and grabbed and kissed her tightly. “Stay, just for another hour. You’ll be able to remember it your entire life,” he whispered. She looked back at Alicia and Cristiano.

  “You go on,” Liz called out to them. “I’ll catch a later flight.”

  “You sure? You’ll be all right?” Alicia asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” Liz said, then ran over and kissed her and then Cristiano on the cheek. “’Bye, caro.”

  “Ciao, bellissima,” Cristiano said, kissing her back on both cheeks and picking up Alicia’s luggage.

  They boarded the train, squeezing in to find standing room. Liz and the Palestinian waved to them and they smiled and waved back.

  “Call me when you get to London,” Liz called out.

  As the train pulled away, the Palestinian took Liz’s suitcase and pulled it behind him. She took his arm and they strolled toward the platform exit past a man in jeans and a SALVO LE BALENE! SAVE THE WHALES! T-shirt, who appeared to be looking for something in his backpack.

  As they walked away, Scorpion closed the backpack, slung it on his shoulder and began to follow them.

  Rabinowich didn’t know. Neither did Moretti, when Scorpion had met him the previous night at a trattoria near the Piazza Navona. The night was warm and they ate outside at a sidewalk table, the lights from the piazza seeping into the street, along with shoppers and tourists walking by.