Peter lay face down in the slimy rocks. A hard boot stomped down between his shoulder blades, forcing the air from his lungs. A few feet away, several commandos pinned Davila down, frisking her head to toe. Finding nothing, they released her. Then someone barked an order in a harsh, guttural language, and the boot on Peter's back relented. He gulped at the briny air, ribs aching as he struggled to his feet.
There were maybe seven commandos in all, each armed with a submachine gun, a pistol, and an arsenal of grenades. The man barking orders was older than the rest, tall and sinewy, with a hawk nose, ebony eyes and curly salt-and-pepper hair that sprouted from beneath a black watch cap. He barked another order, and two of his men sprinted toward the dead police officer lying in the rocks by the seawall.
Slinging his submachine gun, the commander approached Davila, bare hands raised with peaceful intent. He spoke to her in what sounded like Hebrew, his tone low and urgent. When she nodded to one of his questions, he turned to his four remaining men and ordered them action. They raced toward the seawall, two breaking left, two scaling the wooden ladder.
Now, the commander turned to Peter and spoke in thickly-accented English. "Let's get you two off this island."
Peter and Davila were made to hunker down in the bow of the Zodiac boat. Two commandos arrived with the body of the dead police officer and laid it out gently between the benches. When the last commando returned, they shoved off and raced away, bouncing over the waves.
Ten minutes later, the outboard motor cut, and they drifted alongside the rusty hull of a large fishing vessel. Webbing dropped over the side, and the commandos latched on. Peter staggered to his feet, Davila still cowering beneath him. He was just about to grab the webbing and climb up when someone clipped a rescue harness beneath his arms. Up he went, spinning from the end of a steel cable. The crane swung through an arc that took Peter out over the waves before delivering him to a gang of scruffy-looking men on the deck. Unclipping the harness, they sent it back down. Once Davila had been delivered in a similar fashion, the men attached the cable to a basket litter and manually lowered over the side.
The commander climbed from the Zodiac and hauled himself aboard. Without a word, he ushered Peter and Davila below deck to a stateroom, dank, dark, and squalid, the air sick with diesel fumes. They sat in a booth beneath a swaying lamp, the commander on one side of a grimy white table cratered with cigarette burns, Peter and Davila on the other.
Brushing aside a stray cigarette butt, the commander removed his watch cap and ran his long, bony fingers through a head of peppery curls. From a pocket in his tactical jacket, he took out a ragged deck of playing cards, twirling and cutting it in his left hand, a spider with its prey.
He introduced himself as Avram, an employee of the government of Israel. What branch of government, he did not say, but Peter had his guesses. The commander leveled his ebony eyes at Davila. "We've been tracking you for some time now."
She stared down at the cratered table, fists clenched beneath it. "My phone," she said.
"Yes. Your government-issued phone. It was recording everything and sending it back to usâyour location, your conversations, even the images you captured. We know what you discovered about the Mustard Seeds."
A hint of steam rose from Davila's still-damp hair.
"It's the only reason you're still alive. It's the only reason we had someone on hand to help you when you were attacked in Seattle."
"Nobody helped us," said Peter. The sequence of events remained etched in his mind: Davila flying through the air, taking down the first assassin with a karate kick, knocking him unconscious, then using his pistol to shoot the second assassin.
Davila turned to Peter. Beneath the table, her warm hand alighted on his. "I never pulled the trigger. It was the skateboarder on the other side of the trees. He saved us."
Avram nodded. "That was our man. We've had agents protecting you every step of the way."
Peter slapped his palms on the table. "Then where were you today? Gryphus nearly killed us."
The fingers of Avram's left hand paused with the cards face up, the five of spades. "The body of the police officer we recovered todayâhe was the skateboarder in Seattle. He died today in your service."
Peter fell back against the sticky vinyl cushions of the booth.
Davila lifted her bloodied face, expression hard. "Why didn't you warn me about Gryphus?"
"We tried. At least I did, back in London. Do you remember the man with the umbrella outside your taxi? That was me. I wanted to warn you even earlier, but our psychologists worried that if you knew Gryphus was after you, you'd go into hiding."
"And why would that be a bad thing?"
The commander set aside the cards and once again ran his hand through his hair. "How much did your father tell you about Munich?"
Davila's swollen lips parted then closed.
He seemed to study her face, auguring the streaks of blood. "You know something. That much I can tell."
A single tear streaked the soot on her cheek and dangled from her jaw.
Avram's mouth fell open. "You didn't know. You had no idea until Gryphus told you." His dark eyes narrowed. "What exactly did he tell you?"
The tear broke loose. She spoke into her lap. "He said my father murdered his family. He said his family were innocent, that they had nothing to do with Munich." Her head whipped up, eyes glistening.
Avram looked way, his gaze shifting to the stairs they had descended. Somewhere up on deck, the crew had begun to sing in unison, a dirge of some sort, Latvian or Estonia maybe. "I was with your father on that mission. And a hundred missions before it. We did many things we came to regret."
The Estonians' dirge reminded Peter of "Solveig's Song," of his mother, of his father, of all things left unsaid.
Another tear streaked her face. "But why didn't he tell me?"
A pause. "I don't know. But I have daughters of my own. Perhaps he didn't want you to be touched by what he had done. Vengeance is a poison."
She wiped away the tear before it could fall, her voice rising. "Then you knew all along that Gryphus never wanted the ossuary. All he wanted was my father. And me. Why didn't you tell me I was in danger as soon as I woke up in hospital? Why didn't you warn me then?"
"Because we thought you were safe, at least for the moment. Gryphus believed you were dead. And you'd been given a new identity. Still, we've been guarding you ever since, doubly since we laid our trap with the IAA."
Davila gasped.
"Yes. The entire sting operation, the fake ossuary, the leaked rumorsâall of that was a Mossad operation, although the IAA was made to believe it was their own idea."
"God damn you!"
"Save your anger for what I'm about to tell you." Up on deck, the Estonians had joined into a stirring chorus, their voices rising and falling together. "Our sting operation was just a front. Sure, it might have generated a few leads about the Ramallah Ossuary. But that was never the primary objective. Our main objective was to draw Gryphus out in the open."
"Gryphus doesn't care about the ossuary, let alone a forgery. Why would he risk showing himself?"
"Because the fake ossuary was never the bait."
Her entire body tensed, the vinyl seat crackling beneath her. "I was. I was the bait."
Avram sighed. "For what it's worth, I opposed the plan from the outset. But I couldn't deny it might be the only way to draw him out into the open. You've changed your appearance, but not so much that he wouldn't recognize your face. And we knew that the instant he saw it, he would personally hunt you down and avenge his family. And when he tried, we would be there to capture him. Or kill him."
The commander pocketed his deck of cards. "I was amazed to see you two standing on that spit, alive and unharmed."
"Unharmed?" said Peter, placing his hand on Davila's shoulder
The commanded nodded. "I'll have our medic attend to both of you shortly. But first, tell me what happened on the island. Your signal went dead thirty minutes before we found you on the spit."
"That's because Gryphus threw her phone in the fire."
The commander's eyes grew large. "What happened during those thirty minutes? What did Gryphus say to you?"
Davila shrugged off Peter's hand. "No. I'll handle this." Then she met the commander's gaze. "We know why Gryphus is killing, why he incinerates his victims. We know who he works for. We know where the Mustard Seeds are hidden. And we know exactly where you can find Gryphus next."
"And I suppose you'll tell me, on one condition."
"Three, actually."
He curled his lower lip. "Go on."
"First, get us on a plane back to the US, to Oregon."
"That's going to be tricky now that Interpol is after you."
"I'm sure you can manage. Second, leave the Mustard Seeds to us, whatever they turn out to be. You take care of Gryphus, but leave the Mustard Seeds to us."
He thought for a moment. "All right. What's your third condition?"
Up on deck, the Estonians had concluded their dirge.
"Send our gratitude to the family of the man who gave his life today."
_______________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 36!
When in the story did you realize Davila was being monitored/followed by someone other than Gryphus?
-Frode
Image:Â https://www.vesseltracker.com/en/Ships/Lennuk-8619699/gallery/1287566