his way. Then you left his baby behind enemy lines. I think we're getting the picture.”
“And we never got a read on what happened to the payload,” Ochoa said.
“Correct,” Beloski replied. “It is a very sophisticated self-adaptive payload, designed to conceal itself, evade detection and self-destruct if necessary. We have good reason to believe the Iranians never found it.”
“Based on what?” Thompson asked. “Intelligence or brilliant design?”
Beloski paused before saying, “Like we said, we never got confirmation.”
“Which means you don't know,” Thompson said. “You basically just want to suppose the Iranians never detected or captured Spencer's baby. For all we know they could have not only captured it but have reversed engineered it.”
Thompson turned to Odehl. “And a few minutes ago you told us that Spencer is off to find his long-lost love, Sasha? Sasha Javan, who might just possibly have ties to Iranian intelligence?”
Odehl and Beloski remained silent. Beloski felt his heart rate going up. In his mind he had connected some of these dots hours ago. Maybe he should have raised the red flag sooner. Maybe he shouldn't have hoped for the best or relied so heavily on following process.
The phone rang, and Odehl answered it. “I see, yes, I’ve been expecting her. Escort her to my office, please.” Odehl took a deep breath and said, “There’s someone you should meet. She’s well connected, so you two should be forewarned to handle her gently. She called me earlier today and wants to share what she knows about Sasha.”
Moments later a knock at the door ushered the arrival of Chana Bauman, wife to the Israeli ambassador and former Israeli intelligence officer, though she had never felt as intelligent as the day she left all that mess behind her, as she put it in verbal barrage during introductions. A woman in her fifties, she still retained the beauty and confidence that went with it of the younger woman Stan Beloski had met years before. Her impeccable dress and stylish hair style said she still cared enough to make an attractive impression. Her dark brown eyes still glimmered with the mix of astute insight and playfulness Beloski remembered.
“Mrs. Bauman is also a very dear friend of the president,” Odehl added, as if to reinforce his earlier “handle her gently” admonition.
“Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bauman,” Thompson said.
“Likewise,” Ochoa added.
“Well, thank you,” she said. Regarding Beloski flirtatiously, she added, “Stan, boy, you look the same as on the last day of that little Iranian tryst of ours. Been working out?” Then, eyeing Odehl, she said, “And you, well, you just look. Which is better than the alternative, as we all know.”
Odehl laughed hardily, and they all joined in the mirth. The laughter came to an abrupt end when she winced and bent over a bit in her seat.
“You OK, Chana?” Odehl asked.
“Just a bit of pain,” she replied, with eyes now closed. “Too many sit-ups, I’m afraid, trying to maintain this hard body of mine.” She kept her eyes closed and took long breaths until the pain seemed to subside. Then she said, “Pain is good. Remember that. If you feel pain, you are still alive. If don’t, you are probably six feet under.”
Odehl laughed hardily again, Beloski smiled, and the two Collections agents joined in what sounded like a puzzled chuckle. Beloski had heard rumors that Chana had recently undergone treatment and chemotherapy for Uterine cancer. He guessed an incision and not sit-ups had more to do with the sharp pain she’d just experienced.
“I don’t know how you managed it, but I hear you’ve misplaced a boy genius,” Chana said. “I called Robert earlier because since boy meets girl is a recurring theme in this world of ours, you will want to know about Martin’s girl.”
“You mean Ms. Sasha Javan,” Ochoa said.
Chana's head snapped as she regarded Ochoa. “You've
“And we never got a read on what happened to the payload,” Ochoa said.
“Correct,” Beloski replied. “It is a very sophisticated self-adaptive payload, designed to conceal itself, evade detection and self-destruct if necessary. We have good reason to believe the Iranians never found it.”
“Based on what?” Thompson asked. “Intelligence or brilliant design?”
Beloski paused before saying, “Like we said, we never got confirmation.”
“Which means you don't know,” Thompson said. “You basically just want to suppose the Iranians never detected or captured Spencer's baby. For all we know they could have not only captured it but have reversed engineered it.”
Thompson turned to Odehl. “And a few minutes ago you told us that Spencer is off to find his long-lost love, Sasha? Sasha Javan, who might just possibly have ties to Iranian intelligence?”
Odehl and Beloski remained silent. Beloski felt his heart rate going up. In his mind he had connected some of these dots hours ago. Maybe he should have raised the red flag sooner. Maybe he shouldn't have hoped for the best or relied so heavily on following process.
The phone rang, and Odehl answered it. “I see, yes, I’ve been expecting her. Escort her to my office, please.” Odehl took a deep breath and said, “There’s someone you should meet. She’s well connected, so you two should be forewarned to handle her gently. She called me earlier today and wants to share what she knows about Sasha.”
Moments later a knock at the door ushered the arrival of Chana Bauman, wife to the Israeli ambassador and former Israeli intelligence officer, though she had never felt as intelligent as the day she left all that mess behind her, as she put it in verbal barrage during introductions. A woman in her fifties, she still retained the beauty and confidence that went with it of the younger woman Stan Beloski had met years before. Her impeccable dress and stylish hair style said she still cared enough to make an attractive impression. Her dark brown eyes still glimmered with the mix of astute insight and playfulness Beloski remembered.
“Mrs. Bauman is also a very dear friend of the president,” Odehl added, as if to reinforce his earlier “handle her gently” admonition.
“Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bauman,” Thompson said.
“Likewise,” Ochoa added.
“Well, thank you,” she said. Regarding Beloski flirtatiously, she added, “Stan, boy, you look the same as on the last day of that little Iranian tryst of ours. Been working out?” Then, eyeing Odehl, she said, “And you, well, you just look. Which is better than the alternative, as we all know.”
Odehl laughed hardily, and they all joined in the mirth. The laughter came to an abrupt end when she winced and bent over a bit in her seat.
“You OK, Chana?” Odehl asked.
“Just a bit of pain,” she replied, with eyes now closed. “Too many sit-ups, I’m afraid, trying to maintain this hard body of mine.” She kept her eyes closed and took long breaths until the pain seemed to subside. Then she said, “Pain is good. Remember that. If you feel pain, you are still alive. If don’t, you are probably six feet under.”
Odehl laughed hardily again, Beloski smiled, and the two Collections agents joined in what sounded like a puzzled chuckle. Beloski had heard rumors that Chana had recently undergone treatment and chemotherapy for Uterine cancer. He guessed an incision and not sit-ups had more to do with the sharp pain she’d just experienced.
“I don’t know how you managed it, but I hear you’ve misplaced a boy genius,” Chana said. “I called Robert earlier because since boy meets girl is a recurring theme in this world of ours, you will want to know about Martin’s girl.”
“You mean Ms. Sasha Javan,” Ochoa said.
Chana's head snapped as she regarded Ochoa. “You've
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