Back in Mosul, Natasha Mastrani, in a red tailored dress and slick knee length boots, was standing near her car. She took off her sunglasses and tapped them gently on the bonnet of the car while waiting to be patched through to Oberon Wheatley’s phone. She caught her reflection in the tinted window, and seemed pleased with her look, especially how her icy blue eyes glinted under her platinum blond hair.

‘Sir?’

‘Ah, Natasha. What’s the update?’

‘Not the best of news. I wish I’d stuck to the usual operatives.’

‘You’re slipping Natasha, you’re slipping.’

He was obviously amused by her uncharacteristic incompetence and enjoyed teasing her.

‘I’m really sorry sir. However, the flat was cleaned and the right people were paid off. There will be no sign of our involvement.’

‘So what’s worrying you?’

‘The surviving operative disappeared and so did the young man, Hassan. And we still don’t know where Miss Osman is.’

‘The story gets funnier by the second. Clearly the operative did not want to face the music on your arrival.’

‘Probably not, sir.’

‘Do I need to remind you that I am paying you far more than the CIA ever did because you have accustomed me to perfect results? There is no red tape with me. You have full latitude to carry out your missions.’

She tried to sound as contrite as she could.

‘Yes sir. There are still unanswered questions. I need to work out the whereabouts of Miss Osman and this Hassan and find out who the man was who killed our two operatives.’

‘No. Please make preparations for my arrival tomorrow.’

‘You’re coming here? I wouldn’t advise that sir.’

‘No. Tel Aviv. Make sure security is tight in the harbour, around and on my yacht.’

‘Is there something I should know?’

‘Mina Osman will be visiting Tel Aviv for a few days.’ That was why he sounded so amused. She knew better than ask questions. Oberon Wheatley hadn’t become one of the most powerful men in the world by twiddling his thumbs. He didn’t wait for events to pass. He was always one step ahead. She got in her car, and drove off to the airport.

PART 2

ISRAEL

Chapter 13

December 6th, 2004. Tel Aviv

Mina landed at Ben Gurion Airport late that evening. If Mosul seemed security conscious it was a walk in the park in comparison. Luckily she had the invitation for an interview and a reservation at the Sheraton Tel Aviv Hotel amp; Towers to explain her presence there and her route from Baghdad via Amman. She noticed how many policewomen guarded the airport. It was a change from Iraq to see women in uniform. They were fit and aggressive, much like their gun, the famous Desert Eagle. Half-asleep she hailed a cab under the starry winter sky.

When Mina arrived at the hotel she was duly impressed. Walking through the plush lobby, she felt for a moment like a high-flying businesswoman and wondered briefly if she was not in the wrong line of work. But she knew all too well that she was only thinking that way because of the stark contrast between the conditions of the last few days spent in a wartorn country and those here, in this luxurious five-star-hotel. As soon as she got to her room, she had a quick shower and then collapsed on the bed, still in her bathrobe.

The next morning, Mina woke up fully energised, ordered a light breakfast to be brought up to her room, she had a shower and did her stretching exercises. She followed a complex chain of yoga asanas she had learned from a young Indian yogi, who had since become quite a celebrity. She had worked with him every day for three months and remembered the first month, when she thought she would never be able to stretch into the positions he demonstrated. As he was as relentless as she was driven, eventually, by the end of the three months she had managed to stretch into every position in his programme. She would have pursued their work, but he had fallen in love with her and she had had to explain to him, as kindly as she could, that she was not interested in him in that way. Unfortunately, he had been very hurt and they parted on a bitter note.