but today’s a new day. Just make sure whoever they send to meet us is good. Remember this woman’s MO. She’s pro, so she’ll spot them if they aren’t careful.” Igor paused. “The guy probably is too. Who would launch a lifeboat from a moving ship in the middle of a storm?”
“What’s done is done. The only reason we care about them is to get to her. I’m beginning to warm up to the idea that she might meet the fishing boat wherever its port is. That feels right.”
“It won’t be in Balboa, I don’t think. It’ll be somewhere relatively remote. Somewhere nobody will ask any questions about who gets on or off.”
“Call me once you know.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and Igor? What about the ship? The crew? They’ve seen your faces.”
“I know. I’ll leave a couple of guys to handle it. The boat’s expecting two passengers, so that will work well.”
Fernanda paused. “I miss you already. It was a long night.”
Igor watched as traces of gold flickered off the surface of the water, the sun rising to starboard. A pelican flapped in the sky to his right, sleek in the air but ungainly on land. His gaze followed it as it rose and banked in a slow circle, and then folded its wings and dove at high speed at the water, having spotted its breakfast from an impossible height.
“Tell me about it.”
Chapter 9
Panama City, Panama
The flight from Madrid dropped through scattered clouds on approach to Tocumen International Airport, passing over the tall skyscrapers that jutted into the late-morning sky like steel and glass teeth surrounding Panama Bay. Jet peered out the window at the city in the near distance, surprised by how developed it was – she could have been landing in Hong Kong, if she hadn’t known better.
The plane jolted as it hit an air pocket, a warm updraft meeting the cooler thermal layer above the city, and then the landing gear groaned from beneath the wings and their descent steepened. She took a final look around her area and handed the flight attendant her empty coffee cup as the crew prepared for landing, and resumed watching through the window as the plane made a steep bank on final approach.
Jet bounced as the wheels hit the tarmac and pressed forward against her seat belt as the engines reversed thrust, slowing the plane from several hundred miles per hour to thirty in a matter of seconds. Then they were taxiing for the terminal, the pilot’s sonorous voice thanking them over the public address system and cautioning them to remain in their seats till the aircraft came to a full stop.
There was a line at immigration due to another flight landing at the same time, and only three officers were working to process hundreds of passengers. When it was finally her turn, she presented her Belgian passport, one of several she cycled through. It was clean, never having been used operationally. Better still, it was a genuine document and would show up as such in the computers – tribute to the Mossad’s ingenuity and pull.
The immigration official glanced at her photograph and then gave her a hard look, comparing the snapshot to Jet in the flesh. The passport was four and a half years old, only used twice before in her recent travels, and Jet willed her heartbeat to remain slow and steady as he scrutinized her.
“What is the purpose of your trip to Panama?” he asked curtly.
“Vacation,” she answered.
“All the way from Belgium?”
“Why not? I’ve heard good things.”
“Do you have a return ticket?”
She shook her head. “I’m on no firm schedule. I figure if I don’t like it, I can get the next flight out, and if I do, I might want to stay a while.”
“Occupation?”
“Freelance journalist.”
He set the passport down and regarded her again. “You realize that a tourist visa prevents you from accepting any employment while in Panama?”
“Of course. I wasn’t planning on working here.”
He held her passport below a scanner. The system beeped,
“What’s done is done. The only reason we care about them is to get to her. I’m beginning to warm up to the idea that she might meet the fishing boat wherever its port is. That feels right.”
“It won’t be in Balboa, I don’t think. It’ll be somewhere relatively remote. Somewhere nobody will ask any questions about who gets on or off.”
“Call me once you know.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and Igor? What about the ship? The crew? They’ve seen your faces.”
“I know. I’ll leave a couple of guys to handle it. The boat’s expecting two passengers, so that will work well.”
Fernanda paused. “I miss you already. It was a long night.”
Igor watched as traces of gold flickered off the surface of the water, the sun rising to starboard. A pelican flapped in the sky to his right, sleek in the air but ungainly on land. His gaze followed it as it rose and banked in a slow circle, and then folded its wings and dove at high speed at the water, having spotted its breakfast from an impossible height.
“Tell me about it.”
Chapter 9
Panama City, Panama
The flight from Madrid dropped through scattered clouds on approach to Tocumen International Airport, passing over the tall skyscrapers that jutted into the late-morning sky like steel and glass teeth surrounding Panama Bay. Jet peered out the window at the city in the near distance, surprised by how developed it was – she could have been landing in Hong Kong, if she hadn’t known better.
The plane jolted as it hit an air pocket, a warm updraft meeting the cooler thermal layer above the city, and then the landing gear groaned from beneath the wings and their descent steepened. She took a final look around her area and handed the flight attendant her empty coffee cup as the crew prepared for landing, and resumed watching through the window as the plane made a steep bank on final approach.
Jet bounced as the wheels hit the tarmac and pressed forward against her seat belt as the engines reversed thrust, slowing the plane from several hundred miles per hour to thirty in a matter of seconds. Then they were taxiing for the terminal, the pilot’s sonorous voice thanking them over the public address system and cautioning them to remain in their seats till the aircraft came to a full stop.
There was a line at immigration due to another flight landing at the same time, and only three officers were working to process hundreds of passengers. When it was finally her turn, she presented her Belgian passport, one of several she cycled through. It was clean, never having been used operationally. Better still, it was a genuine document and would show up as such in the computers – tribute to the Mossad’s ingenuity and pull.
The immigration official glanced at her photograph and then gave her a hard look, comparing the snapshot to Jet in the flesh. The passport was four and a half years old, only used twice before in her recent travels, and Jet willed her heartbeat to remain slow and steady as he scrutinized her.
“What is the purpose of your trip to Panama?” he asked curtly.
“Vacation,” she answered.
“All the way from Belgium?”
“Why not? I’ve heard good things.”
“Do you have a return ticket?”
She shook her head. “I’m on no firm schedule. I figure if I don’t like it, I can get the next flight out, and if I do, I might want to stay a while.”
“Occupation?”
“Freelance journalist.”
He set the passport down and regarded her again. “You realize that a tourist visa prevents you from accepting any employment while in Panama?”
“Of course. I wasn’t planning on working here.”
He held her passport below a scanner. The system beeped,
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