verify Jones’s possession of the stone. If he did that, then Awad would arrange for the buyer to meet Jones for the exchange.
“Who is this that your uncle knows?” Virgil asked.
“I do not know the answer to that question,” Awad said. “I asked, and my uncle said it was best that I did not ask.”
“The Party of God,” Yael said.
“This is possible, but I would not venture, under any conditions, to say so myself,” Awad said.
“The Party of God—is that bad?” Virgil asked.
“You may know them as the terrorist group Hezbollah,” Yael said.
“Okay, that’s not desirable,” Virgil said.
“So, with three killers seeking this stone already, I think it’s time for Raj Awad to preserve his testicles and take a vacation,” Awad said. “Perhaps to New England. New England is supposed to be nice in the summer.”
Virgil: “Three killers? This Kaya guy, the Hezbollah buyer—who’s the other one?”
Awad looked at Virgil, as if not believing his ears, then at Yael. When Virgil still didn’t catch on, he poked a finger at her.
“She’s with the Israel Antiquities Authority,” Virgil said. “She does antiques.”
Awad snorted. “They sent an antique dealer to compete with the Turk and the Hezbollah? I tell you, Virgil, I use an American idiom here. Your head is placed where the sun don’t shine.”
Virgil looked at Yael, who said nothing, then back to Awad: “The sun don’t shine?”
“She is Mossad, Virgil. Or Shabak. She cut your throat like a young goat.” Awad drew his index finger across his throat.
“A young goat?” Virgil looked at Yael.
Yael said, “He’s been on the
kief
. I’m with the IAA.”
Awad snorted again, and Virgil said to Yael, “You were talking about favorite pistols? You prefer a Sig or even a well-turned Beretta? And you’re an antiquities expert?”
“Israel is different,” Yael said, looking away.
“This is true,” Awad said. To Yael: “I am told that young, attractive Mossad women are sometimes used to seduce their Arab targets.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Yael said. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“I would gladly volunteer for this interrogation,” Awad said.
“Ah, Jesus,” Virgil said, and he went back to the hall.
—
H E CALLED D AVENPORT . “I haven’t found the stone yet, but I’m making some progress. I wanted to update you in case I’m found dead.”
“Virgil . . .”
“Lucas, I found the guy who was in the house. He’s acting as a kind of representative for Hezbollah, the terrorist group, in Lebanon. He says there’s another character in the hunt, a former Turkish Army intelligence officer, known for cutting the testicles off Kurds. He also tells me that Yael is not from the Israel Antiquities Authority, but from the Mossad. Or . . . uh . . . I think he said Shabak, which is apparently some other Israeli intelligence agency that kills people. She denies it, but she’s lying.”
Davenport was silent for a moment, typing on a keyboard, then said, “Shabak . . . I’m looking at Google. It’s Israeli internal security. I guess here in the States we call it the Shin Bet. They do seem to kill some people. Interesting.”
“Interesting? I’m dealing with a Turk who cuts your balls off, a Middle Eastern terrorist group, and an Israeli gun moll, and you say it’s
interesting
?”
“It
is
interesting. You need some help?”
“Yes. The first thing is, I want you to get onto whoever it is you get onto, your fed friend in Washington, that Mallard guy. Find out if they have anything on a Turk named Timur Kaya.” Virgil spelled it.
“I’ll get on that,” Davenport said. “And I could spring Jenkins and Shrake if you need more manpower.”
“Not yet, but I might. I’m going to poke this beehive a couple more times, but you tell those guys to get ready, in case I call.”
—
V IRGIL HAD just stepped back through the door when Awad took a phone call. He listened for a moment, and said,
“Who is this that your uncle knows?” Virgil asked.
“I do not know the answer to that question,” Awad said. “I asked, and my uncle said it was best that I did not ask.”
“The Party of God,” Yael said.
“This is possible, but I would not venture, under any conditions, to say so myself,” Awad said.
“The Party of God—is that bad?” Virgil asked.
“You may know them as the terrorist group Hezbollah,” Yael said.
“Okay, that’s not desirable,” Virgil said.
“So, with three killers seeking this stone already, I think it’s time for Raj Awad to preserve his testicles and take a vacation,” Awad said. “Perhaps to New England. New England is supposed to be nice in the summer.”
Virgil: “Three killers? This Kaya guy, the Hezbollah buyer—who’s the other one?”
Awad looked at Virgil, as if not believing his ears, then at Yael. When Virgil still didn’t catch on, he poked a finger at her.
“She’s with the Israel Antiquities Authority,” Virgil said. “She does antiques.”
Awad snorted. “They sent an antique dealer to compete with the Turk and the Hezbollah? I tell you, Virgil, I use an American idiom here. Your head is placed where the sun don’t shine.”
Virgil looked at Yael, who said nothing, then back to Awad: “The sun don’t shine?”
“She is Mossad, Virgil. Or Shabak. She cut your throat like a young goat.” Awad drew his index finger across his throat.
“A young goat?” Virgil looked at Yael.
Yael said, “He’s been on the
kief
. I’m with the IAA.”
Awad snorted again, and Virgil said to Yael, “You were talking about favorite pistols? You prefer a Sig or even a well-turned Beretta? And you’re an antiquities expert?”
“Israel is different,” Yael said, looking away.
“This is true,” Awad said. To Yael: “I am told that young, attractive Mossad women are sometimes used to seduce their Arab targets.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Yael said. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“I would gladly volunteer for this interrogation,” Awad said.
“Ah, Jesus,” Virgil said, and he went back to the hall.
—
H E CALLED D AVENPORT . “I haven’t found the stone yet, but I’m making some progress. I wanted to update you in case I’m found dead.”
“Virgil . . .”
“Lucas, I found the guy who was in the house. He’s acting as a kind of representative for Hezbollah, the terrorist group, in Lebanon. He says there’s another character in the hunt, a former Turkish Army intelligence officer, known for cutting the testicles off Kurds. He also tells me that Yael is not from the Israel Antiquities Authority, but from the Mossad. Or . . . uh . . . I think he said Shabak, which is apparently some other Israeli intelligence agency that kills people. She denies it, but she’s lying.”
Davenport was silent for a moment, typing on a keyboard, then said, “Shabak . . . I’m looking at Google. It’s Israeli internal security. I guess here in the States we call it the Shin Bet. They do seem to kill some people. Interesting.”
“Interesting? I’m dealing with a Turk who cuts your balls off, a Middle Eastern terrorist group, and an Israeli gun moll, and you say it’s
interesting
?”
“It
is
interesting. You need some help?”
“Yes. The first thing is, I want you to get onto whoever it is you get onto, your fed friend in Washington, that Mallard guy. Find out if they have anything on a Turk named Timur Kaya.” Virgil spelled it.
“I’ll get on that,” Davenport said. “And I could spring Jenkins and Shrake if you need more manpower.”
“Not yet, but I might. I’m going to poke this beehive a couple more times, but you tell those guys to get ready, in case I call.”
—
V IRGIL HAD just stepped back through the door when Awad took a phone call. He listened for a moment, and said,
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