Iron Dove

“I’ll leave the clothes if I have to,” Nova said. “I won’t leave the camera equipment.”

“While we take a quick anticipatory trip to the head,” Joe said to their contact, “you check with the pilot and find a way to bring all her gear.”

“Yes, sir,” came the man’s crisp answer. “You’ll find the heads one deck down that ladder,” he gestured with his thumb, “and to your right.”

Joe took Nova’s arm. Her body remembered at once the feel of his hand on her arm—firm, warm and a bit possessive. And she didn’t mind any of that. Not at all.

He steered her toward the ladder. “Here’s the deal,” he said. At last she was going to get a better feel for what was afoot. “We need to be in Rome as soon as possible. We’re going to be picked up by SISMI, the Italian version of the Company.”

“SISMI. Right. Servizio per le Informazioni e la Securezza Militaire. And Rome. I haven’t been to Rome for about eight years.”

“It will be easier for them to pick us up from Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport than from the American military base, so we’re going to make the last leg of the trip on Alitalia, out of Atlanta. And we have to be there by 17:30 this afternoon, Atlanta time, to make the connection. It’s sure a better deal for us. We’ll be a lot more comfortable in Alitalia’s business class than on a military transport.”

“If I’m not mistaken, my niece, Maggie, is in Italy right now. Or should be soon. You remember I told you my sister Star has three kids. Maggie, the girl, is their ten-year-old.”

They reached the lower deck and turned right. She spotted the sign for the women’s head.

She met him back on deck where he was waiting with the lieutenant colonel. In short order, she slipped into flight gear and a helmet; as she climbed into the Prowler, she felt her pulse picking up. Joe had been a naval aviator before an accident had ruined his vision and he’d traded flying for spying. This would all be old hat for him, but she’d never flown in a jet with this much power before.

The takeoff from the carrier’s deck was a thrill ride times a thousand, the jet’s thrust slamming her hard into the seat. “That was way too quick. I want to do it again,” she said into the intercom.

“You’d have made a great pilot,” Joe’s voice came back.

“Glad you enjoyed it, Ms. Blair,” she heard from the pilot. “Always my pleasure to give a hot woman a thrill.”

Yes, she thought with a grin. Flyboys do love their thrills—of all kinds.

The flight to Pensacola left her too much time to wonder about what job could be so complicated as to require uncommon linguistic skills.

Time to think, also, of how much she did not want to deal anymore with the brutality and destruction some people seemed compelled to commit. She was quite certain why they’d sent Joe to rope her in. They knew she would trust him. And she did. If Joe believed it was important for her to do this, then they figured she’d go along.

At the Pensacola air station, she and Joe ran to a waiting private executive jet, were whisked inside and were quickly once again airborne. Free of the uncomfortable flight suit, she stretched her legs and arms and sighed. Except for the pilot and a copilot, they were alone at last, Joe sitting facing her in one of the comfortable leather seats. “So what can you tell me?”

Joe removed one shoe and then the other. “It’s bad, Nova. Potentially a disaster.”

He started massaging the ball of one foot. With a grin, he said, “Sorry, but the sneakers are new. My feet ache like hell.”

She pinched her nose in fake revulsion. “As I recall, you’re the guy with a great perfume connoisseur’s nose. How can you think of subjecting me to male foot smell?”

“Gonna pass out?”

She let go of her nose. “No. I’ll just cut down on breathing. So, what kind of disaster?”

He talked with his eyes closed. “On the plane coming down here, after I got the call instructing me to fetch you, I received some further information. Not much, but here’s what I know.” He opened his eyes, propped one leg across his knee. “SISMI has obtained reliable information that someone in the Amalfi area has their hands on the formula for a new strain of the Ebola virus.”

Icy fingers brushed a chill across her throat.

“It’s a modified form of something called the Reston strain, which apparently means you don’t need physical contact to get it. It can be spread in the air.”

From her op in Pakistan, Nova was all too familiar with the early symptoms of the Ebola Zaire strain: fever, headache, muscle ache, rash, diarrhea, vomiting and stomach pain. The Zaire strain was the first one recorded, named after the African country of Zaire, where the first outbreak was recorded. To date, it was the most lethal strain, with a fatality rate of eighty to ninety percent. During her pre-op briefing for Pakistan, she’d been shown a photo that had been taken during an outbreak in Gabon. A woman held her child, both of them in the final stages of the disease. A bloody rash covered their bodies and they were bleeding from the eyes, ears and nose. They would likely die from shock before they bled out.

Nova shuddered. She thought about the Reston strain and what she knew about it. As bad as Ebola Zaire was, becoming infected required physical contact with body fluids. The Reston strain was not as fatal, but had the potential to be much worse because it could be transmitted through the air.

“So you’re saying that someone is selling the information needed to take the rather tame but airborne Reston strain and turn it into a deadly, airborne strain. Right?”

Joe shook his head. “What does it mean if it has a ‘carrier phase’?”

Bad to horribly bad! “What that means is that they have modified it so that a person can have the disease but not show symptoms for quite a while. Days or even weeks. And all the time they’re walking around, they’re spreading it.”

“Holy shit!”

“Is it the virus that’s being sold, or just the know-how to make it, if someone gets their hands on some Reston?”

Joe shrugged. “Don’t know. The message only said that SISMI had evidence that someone has their hands on the formula for creating a new strain of Reston Ebola virus with a carrier phase and is going to sell it. I presume it refers to the formula.”

“Let us pray that it doesn’t refer to the actual virus, either the original Reston or, even worse, the modified form.”

They were quiet a moment. The world was rapidly becoming a bloody scary place. So many seriously misguided men and women were willing to kill thousands, and technology made it ridiculously simple and possible. A wave of sadness pulled at her.

Joe was absolutely right. She couldn’t walk away.

“So, how’s your love life?”

She laughed. The question was such a complete switch, but she welcomed anything to take her mind off the mission for the moment. “We never talked much about our love lives in Germany, did we?”

“No. I’d say we pretty much had other things on our minds. How have you been doing? I mean, about cutting König loose?”

“It was tough for a while, but I’ve met someone new. His name is, um, James Padgett.” James Padgett! Why would she make up such a dumb thing? “He’s crazy about photography, like me.”

Well that proved it. When she was with Joe, she lost her grip on reality. A mild case of disconnect, to be sure, but enough to make her fabricate a romance!

She countered. “So what about you?”

Now he grinned. “Been really busy for the Company. Until two days ago, I hadn’t even been to my D.C. condo in over a month.”

“I didn’t know you lived in D.C.”

“There’s a lot of stuff, isn’t there, that we don’t know about each other.”

She let it go at that. They settled back to their own thoughts. That was something she remembered liking about Joe. He didn’t need to talk all the time. And he knew when to stop asking questions. At one point he went to the rear and returned in civvies.

Their Alitalia flight, direct to Rome, would take off at 5:30 p.m. They made the Atlanta airport in good time, close to 4:45, and were ushered through security by the local Company man who met them. Using her computer, she checked her e-mail. Nothing important. Everyone was expecting her to be in Costa Rica for another two weeks.

She felt a caffeine twitch. “How about we hit Starbucks for a cappuccino?” she asked Joe as he closed his own laptop.

He nodded, and they made their way to the food court. “I pay,” she said.

He laughed out loud. “Yep. You sure do. Every cup of cappuccino we ever have together, you pay for.”

So Joe remembered their bet. In Germany, she had made a bet with him on who was the bad guy. He had won. She paid for all future cappuccinos.

They checked into the boarding area and, as they sipped, she called her sister Star in La Jolla. First, she asked about their mother’s condition; their mother had had another small stroke.

“It’s not too bad,” Star assured her.

Nova also asked about Maggie and learned that the girl was indeed going to Italy in two days.

Star explained, “It’s another hiking trip like the one the Robertsons took her on last year.”

“After Costa Rica, I might be going to Italy. If I get some time, I might try to hook up with Maggie and the Robertsons. I’ll call if it looks like I might be able to work it out.”

Maggie was the closest thing Nova had to a daughter. She’d been at the hospital, in the birthing room, when Maggie was born. In Nova’s life, Maggie was a bright, lovely light.

She didn’t tell Star about the abrupt change of plans from Costa Rica. Not one person in her life, not even Star, knew about her work for the company.

She called her close friend, Penny. She and Penny, the gay owner of La Jolla’s most prestigious beauty salon, had side-by-side apartments. He, bless his heart, took care of her plants and her cat, Divinity, when she was away.

“The Costa Rica trip might be longer than two weeks. And I may take a side trip to Italy.”

“No problem,” Penny said.

When she and Joe had settled into their seats in Alitalia’s business class, she watched as the flight attendants, both of them, fawned over Joe. Yes, the two women were gracious to her as well, but they absolutely glowed when they talked with Joe.

When she and Joe had privacy again she said, “It’s actually fun to watch you at work.”

“Nova, I swear I usually don’t do a thing. Yes, I know I can turn on the smile and charm if I need to. But it’s always been like this since I was, maybe, fourteen. It’s a blessing, sure. But it’s also a curse. Look at how you’re dressed. Hair hidden by that braid, that gray outfit, no makeup. It must be a relief to, sort of, be able to disappear. A guy can’t change his hair or leave off the makeup.”

“Ah, the burden,” she said, her amusement showing in a wry smile.

One of the flight attendants offered them magazines. Nova took O and InStyle, but for a while she and Joe talked about Italy. Both had been there twice before. Both of them loved the astounding history of Rome, the republic and then the empire.

Dinner was served, including wine. Joe raved about his boeuf bourguignon. Her stuffed manicotti melted in her mouth. They talked long into the darkness. She was tired and she knew he had to be as well, but somehow the flow of conversation about sports and movies seemed too exciting to break off.

But eventually it did. He beat her to sleep. As she started to drift off, she opened her eyes again, just to catch a glance of him sleeping. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him sleeping before.

The urge to reach out and touch the brown hair that curled onto his forehead was so strong that she nearly had to sit on her hand to keep from doing it.

Chapter 7

The home Ahmad had made for his family lay a short five-minute uphill drive from Amalfi’s distinctive Moorish-Norman cathedral. When he arrived, the smell of lamb cooking greeted him. Nissia had promised shish kebab for dinner. He would also have her make atayef. The pancake—filled with walnuts, cinnamon and sugar, and drenched in syrup—was his favorite dessert, and tonight was a night to celebrate.

Leila, his fifteen-year-old daughter, and fourteen-year-old Hanan sat at the dining room table dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Leila was fixing her sister’s hair. Saddoun, his eyes riveted to television news about the Madrid bomb blast, seemed not to even register that his father had arrived.

Leila glanced at Ahmad and smiled. “The peace of Allah be upon you, Father.”

“And upon you, Daughter. Where is your mother?”

“She’s in the bedroom with Fatima.”

Leila’s greeting smile had entirely faded when he asked about her mother. Clearly, something was wrong. Yesterday had been Fatima’s twelfth birthday. She had reached puberty and today was the first day she had gone to school wearing a hajib. Had something gone wrong? Had someone insulted her? Some in the Italian government proposed to ban the head scarf in public schools.

Finally Saddoun noticed his presence. “Look, Father,” Saddoun said. “One of our soldiers has struck a heavy blow in Madrid. I can almost feel the fear of the infidels coming through the television.”

“Have they said yet who is taking credit?”

“No. But I’m sure it’s one of ours.” Saddoun looked at Ahmad, his mouth open, perhaps to ask Ahmad to verify if this was true.

Ahmad shook his head and indicated with a nod toward the girls that Saddoun should not speak of men’s matters in front of them. Saddoun grinned. “I earned highest rank today for my marksmanship in gun class.” He turned back to the television.

At only sixteen, Saddoun had yet to fill out. He was slender and wiry like his mother, and like his youngest sister, Fatima, he had high spirits. But while Fatima already at twelve was proving a difficult handful, drawn like so many of the young to sinful Western ways, Saddoun was filled with the righteous spirit of Allah. On his fifteenth birthday, Saddoun had begged Ahmad to let him take a gun class and a class in karate. He was, in fact, becoming quite good at both. Ahmad felt a warm glow of pride just looking at his son’s fine hands and strong shoulders.

Nissia joined them, but without Fatima. Usually everyone came to greet him.

“Where is Fatima?”

“We have to talk about her,” Nissia replied. “And you will have to talk to her.”

“First I want you all to listen to me.” He looked at Saddoun. “Turn down the TV.”

He immediately had their attention. “I have not been able to tell you something sooner, and I regret that. I know what I’m going to say will not please you. But it is necessary.”

“What can be so serious?” Nissia frowned. She shook her head and softly muttered, “Allah deliver me from this horrible day.”

“I have purchased airline tickets for all of you to leave Amalfi on the fourteenth of this month. The tickets will take all of you to your mother in Jordan, Nissia.”

For a moment, the only sound was the low background chattering of the television.

Then their protests burst forth all at once. “I can’t leave school,” Leila cried. “I have a party on the sixteenth,” declared Hanan.

“That’s impossible,” Nissia said, lips set in a hard line.

“I won’t go,” Saddoun said.

Ahmad held up his hand and stared each of them down. “This is not debatable. This is essential. It is necessary that you submit to my will.”

Only Saddoun and Nissia knew that he was far more than a very successful dealer in fresh fish. He saw both of them struggle to resign themselves to what they could not question.

Hanan said, “Father, why do we have to leave? Just us? Aren’t you coming?”

“This is something I can’t explain. It’s something you must accept.”

He turned to Nissia. “Now, what is this problem with Fatima? Where is she?”

Saddoun continued to stare at him, his young jaw set firm, but Leila returned her attention to Hanan’s hair with only a protesting pout on her lips.

“Come with me,” Nissia said. She turned and headed for Fatima’s bedroom. He followed, his good mood having entirely evaporated. He could tell from Nissia’s straight back and stiff neck that she was in foul humor.

Fatima lay on her bed. The room held the scent of jasmine. Quite inappropriate for a twelve-year-old.

Like his other daughters, Fatima wore jeans and a T-shirt. He accepted this in the home, provided that in public the garments covered their arms and legs and that they wore a hajib to cover their hair and necks. Nissia had sided with Leila and Hanan about being casual at home, so he found it the only way to keep even half the peace. Hearing them enter, Fatima sat up but did not greet him. She stared straight ahead.

Nissia walked to the chest of drawers and picked up a photo. She handed it to Ahmad and said flatly, “I found this in her bottom drawer.”

The photo had a signature identifying the subject—Christina Aguilera. The young woman in the publicity photo wore a shape- and skin-revealing red outfit characteristic of a woman of the streets. Arms, shoulders, neck and practically all of her legs were exposed.

He felt the warmth of anger at his neck. “Why would you keep a picture of such a woman?”

Finally Fatima looked at him. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s shameless!”

Nissia sat the picture back onto the dresser. “The picture is only a symptom of the problem, Ahmad. I am sorry to say that your daughter tried to deceive us.”

At the word deceive, he felt his pulse begin to thrum against his temples. “Explain.”

“She left the house wearing her head scarf, and she was wearing it when she came home. But Hanan told me she took it off at school.”

Ahmad stepped to Fatima, grabbed her wrist, pulled her to her feet and slapped her face. “Repent at once!” he commanded.

She pulled away and sat on the bed; tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

“I said, repent.”

“I—I don’t want to stick out. I don’t want them to stare at me and make fun. I will lose all my friends.”

“You will wear the hajib. You will wear it both to protect yourself from the unwanted stares of men and to honor Allah, who alone is worthy of our worship. If you do not, if you disobey me, the next time I will beat you.”

She seemed to shrink a bit.

“Do you understand me?”

For a moment, she simply sat in sullen silence. Finally, she nodded.

“Repent!”

She took a shaky breath. “O Allah, I repent before You for all my sins and I promise never to return to the same.”

“I am shamed,” he said. “I pray to Allah that this is the end of it.”

He paused, glaring at her a moment to be certain the message had sunk in, and then spun on his heels and strode back toward the living room, at the same time both heartsick and furious. The infidels, if they could, would rob him of his children, but very soon he would strike a blow for Allah that would bring the cursed Westerners to their knees.

Chapter 8

With Joe leading, Nova stepped from the offloading ramp into the Alitalia boarding gate at Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport at roughly 8:15 a.m., local time. She had checked her duffel bag through, as he had, but she carried her aluminum photo equipment case and a briefcase with personal items and her laptop. Joe, too, had briefcase in hand.

“What’s our contact’s name?” she asked.

“Cesare Giordano.”

A tall, thin, clean-shaven and extravagantly dressed man of about thirty-five with bright blue eyes and a neatly trimmed van Dyke held a small sign that said CAT—Blair/Cardone. They walked up to him. Still leading, Joe stuck out his hand.

“I’m Cardone. This is Blair,” he said, nodding toward Nova.

Nova took in the man who should be Cesare Giordano and hid her surprise, although she did share a quick glance with Joe. Joe’s slightly lifted eyebrows suggested that he was having a similarly amazed reaction.

The man’s perfectly cut slacks were black; his long-sleeved silk shirt purple with a red crown pattern over one pocket. It was either an expensive Armani or a fine knockoff. Open at the throat, the shirt framed a heavy gold necklace, the chain holding a massive, two-inch bull’s head with sapphire eyes and polished black horns, probably onyx. Very expensive—with cuff links to match. The shoes were Bruno Magli, of O.J. Simpson fame. He whipped off a pair of sunglasses with metallic, hide-your-eyes lenses. If this was a disguise for a SISMI agent, it was certainly a good one. Her thought was, Beverly Hills pimp but with lots of class.

“Delighted, delighted. I’m Cesare Giordano,” he said smiling effusively. “So pleased to welcome you to Rome, once the capital of the known world. While you are in Italy, you will be my responsibility.”

Before either she or Joe could respond, sleek Cesare Giordano was at her side with the speed of a sprinter. She smelled just a delicate hint of a fruity cologne. He reached for her photocase. But she was also quick. She pulled it back before he could relieve her of it.

“No, no. Really. You must let me carry your case. A beautiful woman should not be toting luggage through Rome.”

“How about some ID?” she said.

He held up a hand dramatically, smiled, nodded. He pulled out a wallet from his slacks pocket and flipped it open. A SISMI badge bore his picture and the name Cesare Giordano.

She handed over the camera equipment. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“My honor, I assure you. Shall we proceed to baggage claim area. I presume you do have luggage?”

“Right,” Joe said.

“And how was your flight?” Cesare asked. Without waiting for an answer he commented on what he felt was the excellent quality of Alitalia service, comparing it one after the other with Lufthansa, British Airways and Aeroflot.

Side by side, she and Joe followed the SISMI agent through the airport to the baggage carousels. With pleasing speed, their bags arrived.

They followed Giordano outside into a warm bright June morning, marred by the stink of petrol and the noise of heavy traffic and landing airplanes. A car—a black, four-door Alfa Romeo—waited nearby, presumably granted this parking privilege because of the importance of the arrivals being picked up. Or, perhaps, because of Giordano’s pull.

Giordano clicked open the trunk. He had been making more or less one-sided conversation from the moment he had led them toward the baggage claim. As he put Nova’s aluminum case inside, he said, “It is my task to make you both comfortable.” He relieved Joe of his duffel bag, stowed it in the trunk, and then Nova’s. “I shall take you to a hotel at once. You may wish to relax a bit. I suggest you also sleep if you can today so as to readjust to time lag as quickly as possible. Right?”

Nova heard a sound from his car, looked up, and there in the back window she saw a small, white dog. A Lhasa apso.

“That’s my dear Principessa,” Giordano said.

Maybe it was the dear, but Giordano suddenly reminded her strongly of Penny. Giordano’s gay too. He has to be gay. Either that or he’d created a brilliant cover.

He held the door for Nova to sit in the front seat. Joe settled himself in the back. Principessa settled herself into Nova’s lap, at first wiggling and licking, but quickly curling up to be petted.

“Are we to stay in Rome, Mr. Giordano?” Nova asked.

“Oh please, please. Not Mr. Giordano. I am Cesare.”

The car, with Cesare in enthusiastic control, pulled into the traffic. They were out of the airport area in good time.

“Yes,” he finally said as they moved onto the freeway leading into Rome. “Tomorrow you will meet at a SISMI office here, in Rome, with Aldo Provenza, the case officer in charge of operation Global Dread.”

Cesare suddenly stuck his long arm across Nova’s chest to point out her window. “Now you see that splendid mansion! I am the creator of its absolutely glorious interior. I certainly wish we were not so pressed for time. I would love to show you some of my work. But we will save that for another day.”