Read Online Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff - Free Book Online
Authors: Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff
Ads: Link
Although the rest of its body was kicking high and hard, Joe was able to get his hand fully across the heifer’s nose.
Like gripping a two-holed bowling ball, Joe jabbed his thumb into one nostril and his forefinger into the heifer’s other nostril. He pinched hard, trying to connect thumb and forefinger.
The heifer reacted as if it had been hit across the head with a baseball bat. Instantly it stopped kicking, totally intent on the pain in its face.
“This ought to do it,” Joe said, keeping a good squeeze in place. How could this animal be worth more than all of the lives of the platoon? “Someone get a jacket we can throw over her head. Once she’s blind, there should be no more trouble here.”
CCTI Headquarters, Tel Aviv • 10:46 GMT
Except for the incredible view across Hayarkon Street from five stories up—the boardwalk with tourists, the wharves, the freight ships, the park to the northwest, and the shimmering aqua blue of the Mediterranean beyond—nothing about Rossett’s office suggested luxury. Spartan furniture starkly contrasted with his taste in clothing. There was nothing to indicate Rossett’s past as a decorated American war veteran, no clues to his rapid rise to the top of the CIA after his military career, nothing about the accolades that had followed him into retirement. The only testament to his accomplishments was the series of framed photographs of Rossett with each American president since Reagan and every Israeli prime minister over the last two decades. Even these were not meant as a display of ego; Rossett’s photographs served a purpose: to assure clients of the connections and clout they were buying with the fees paid to CCTI to provide protection for high-level executives working in the Middle East.
“How’s the hand?” Rossett asked from behind his desk. He was twenty-five years older than Quinn and repeatedly said the difference in age made for a good partnership. “Saw you on the monitor when the kid asked you for a pat down. Told you he was a good hire, didn’t I? Anyone else would have waved you through without checking under the gauze.”
Quinn kept a stone face.
Rossett pointed at Quinn’s bandaged hand. “Any more operations ahead?”
“The hand reminds me of Fawzi,” Quinn answered. “You might remember. Dead guy I dragged across the border a few months ago for the Mossad.”
“That hand should remind you that the wife and girl are safe and back in the United States. That’s why you went in. Remember?”
“Safady is why I almost didn’t come out. The surgeon is working on my hand this morning and all I can think about is your buddies at the Mossad. Happy to vacuum up every last scrap of intel from us, but a vacuum of silence when I ask for something.”
“How about some Starbucks?” Rossett asked, pointing at a cup on the corner of his desk. “No problem heating it up for you.” Rossett hated wasting the money it took to buy Starbucks, so he’d offer it to Quinn every time he brought it into the office, no matter how long the coffee had been sitting.
“Stay on track,” Quinn said. “It’s been two months. We’ve gotten nothing from the Mossad except a name.”
Rossett scowled—a sight, legend had it, which had once been able to stop tanks. Rossett’s face was unpleasant at the best of times, and his scowl now made it sheer ugly. He was built low and powerful with no neck, so that it seemed his bald head balanced on his shoulders. While hair had once been one of his two vanities, he had given up the fight years earlier and resigned himself to shaving it as needed. He clung to his second vanity, however, which was clothing, and today he wore an impeccably tailored navy blue Armani suit.
“Save the gorilla face for someone who’ll find it scary,” Quinn said. “You sell every client on our connections to the Mossad. So what’s the problem? Is your phone broken? Can’t make outgoing calls?”
“We also sell our CIA background. Maybe
Like gripping a two-holed bowling ball, Joe jabbed his thumb into one nostril and his forefinger into the heifer’s other nostril. He pinched hard, trying to connect thumb and forefinger.
The heifer reacted as if it had been hit across the head with a baseball bat. Instantly it stopped kicking, totally intent on the pain in its face.
“This ought to do it,” Joe said, keeping a good squeeze in place. How could this animal be worth more than all of the lives of the platoon? “Someone get a jacket we can throw over her head. Once she’s blind, there should be no more trouble here.”
CCTI Headquarters, Tel Aviv • 10:46 GMT
Except for the incredible view across Hayarkon Street from five stories up—the boardwalk with tourists, the wharves, the freight ships, the park to the northwest, and the shimmering aqua blue of the Mediterranean beyond—nothing about Rossett’s office suggested luxury. Spartan furniture starkly contrasted with his taste in clothing. There was nothing to indicate Rossett’s past as a decorated American war veteran, no clues to his rapid rise to the top of the CIA after his military career, nothing about the accolades that had followed him into retirement. The only testament to his accomplishments was the series of framed photographs of Rossett with each American president since Reagan and every Israeli prime minister over the last two decades. Even these were not meant as a display of ego; Rossett’s photographs served a purpose: to assure clients of the connections and clout they were buying with the fees paid to CCTI to provide protection for high-level executives working in the Middle East.
“How’s the hand?” Rossett asked from behind his desk. He was twenty-five years older than Quinn and repeatedly said the difference in age made for a good partnership. “Saw you on the monitor when the kid asked you for a pat down. Told you he was a good hire, didn’t I? Anyone else would have waved you through without checking under the gauze.”
Quinn kept a stone face.
Rossett pointed at Quinn’s bandaged hand. “Any more operations ahead?”
“The hand reminds me of Fawzi,” Quinn answered. “You might remember. Dead guy I dragged across the border a few months ago for the Mossad.”
“That hand should remind you that the wife and girl are safe and back in the United States. That’s why you went in. Remember?”
“Safady is why I almost didn’t come out. The surgeon is working on my hand this morning and all I can think about is your buddies at the Mossad. Happy to vacuum up every last scrap of intel from us, but a vacuum of silence when I ask for something.”
“How about some Starbucks?” Rossett asked, pointing at a cup on the corner of his desk. “No problem heating it up for you.” Rossett hated wasting the money it took to buy Starbucks, so he’d offer it to Quinn every time he brought it into the office, no matter how long the coffee had been sitting.
“Stay on track,” Quinn said. “It’s been two months. We’ve gotten nothing from the Mossad except a name.”
Rossett scowled—a sight, legend had it, which had once been able to stop tanks. Rossett’s face was unpleasant at the best of times, and his scowl now made it sheer ugly. He was built low and powerful with no neck, so that it seemed his bald head balanced on his shoulders. While hair had once been one of his two vanities, he had given up the fight years earlier and resigned himself to shaving it as needed. He clung to his second vanity, however, which was clothing, and today he wore an impeccably tailored navy blue Armani suit.
“Save the gorilla face for someone who’ll find it scary,” Quinn said. “You sell every client on our connections to the Mossad. So what’s the problem? Is your phone broken? Can’t make outgoing calls?”
“We also sell our CIA background. Maybe
Similar Books
