Special Forces: The Operator. Cindy Dees
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them. The IOC had been more understanding that he’d expected, actually. But then, the accident in the pool had been the host committee’s fault.
“Hi, Rebel,” he said quietly so as not to startle her.
She glanced up at him just long enough for color to bloom on her cheeks. Interesting. An autonomic response to him, huh? Good to know. Particularly since he was deeply intrigued by her, too.
“Whatcha working on?” he asked.
“Check this out.” She handed him a crude diagram she’d drawn on a piece of paper. A rectangle took up most of the sheet of paper, and it was filled with tiny numbers—hundreds of them from zero to nine.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
“I’ve spent the day asking every injured athlete I can get a hold of how bad their injuries are—I developed a scale from zero to nine to log the severity of their symptoms—and where they were in the pool when they first noticed them. Then I mapped all of that information in a rough diagram of the pool. Notice anything interesting?”
It leaped out at him right away. All of the nines were clustered tightly together about halfway down the east side of the pool. The eights and sevens clustered around that bunch of nines, and the numbers grew steadily smaller the farther away the victims had been from that spot of origin on the east side of the pool.
He looked up at Rebel. “What do you make of this?”
“I don’t think the excessive chlorine in the pool was introduced through the automated chlorination system. I think it was put in the pool by an individual standing beside it, right about there.” She jabbed at her drawing where all the nines were centered.
“The IOC has already closed the investigation,” he commented.
“Of course they have,” she replied scornfully. “They don’t want any hint of sabotage or an attack of some kind to sully their games.”
“They also don’t want to panic anyone by having wild rumors or unsubstantiated accusations floating around,” he observed.
She looked up at him, her gaze frustrated. “I get that. But I think the evidence is clear. We are, in fact, dealing with an act of sabotage. Combine that with my spotting Mahmoud Akhtar and Yousef Kamali at the east side of the pool last night, and you do the math.”
He sighed. “We don’t have a positive ID on either man. We can’t even confirm they’re here.”
“Is that what your Mossad contacts said?”
“They said they’ve heard nothing to indicate that Akhtar or Kamali is outside of Iran, let alone here and active.”
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t here. It just means your people don’t know they’re here,” she countered.
“What does the CIA have to say on the subject?”
She shrugged. “Zane is due to land in about an hour. I’ll let you know what he says.”
Tonight, Avi had chosen a more formal restaurant for them. He’d made a reservation for seven thirty, and it wasn’t the kind of place that held a table for a party if it was late. “We need to go,” he announced.
Rebel stood up, and he glanced at her dark, tailored business suit. It was expensive fabric and well made, but it did nothing to enhance the body beneath it.
They were outside the village and close to the restaurant before he asked, “Why do you wear suits like that? Do you want to make yourself look like a man?”
“I find that men are easily distractible creatures. Also, as a group, they’re not generally taught to judge a woman by her intellect or skill at her profession, but rather to judge her by her looks. If I want them to think of me as a professional, I have to look like one. And that means not girl-ing up.”
“You don’t think it’s possible for a woman to be attractive and do a job?”
“Of course I think it’s possible. I just don’t think it’s possible for men to perceive an attractive woman as a professional.”
“That’s a pretty dim view of men, Ms. McQueen.”
She shrugged. “I call it as I see it.”
“You really have been surrounded by stupid chauvinist jackasses, haven’t you?”
Her gaze jerked up to his.
“Why do you look surprised that I might have liberated views of women?” he asked. “Women have served side by side with men in the IDF since the founding of Israel in 1948.”
“Apparently, I was born in the wrong country,” she responded dryly.
“A mistake that can be rectified. I’m sure there’s a place in my country for a woman with your special abilities.”
She laughed. “Thanks, but I’m good with where I’m at. The Medusas are unique.”
“Other countries are training women Special Forces operatives.”
“True. But none of them are fielding entire teams made up of women who do the same sorts of missions as men. Most add a single woman to a team here and there. Also, not many countries are giving women full SF training. They’re modifying the training for women and not making them meet the same standards as men.”
“You had to meet men’s standards?” he exclaimed, startled.
“What would be the point if we didn’t?” she snapped.
He absorbed that in silence as they reached the restaurant. He held the door for her, and as she slid past him he muttered, “All the men’s standards?”
“All of them.”
“But...you’re so tiny.”
“Lower muscle to weight ratio for me to overcome. And I fit into small spaces my male counterparts don’t. Makes for great sniper nests that hostiles don’t spot.”
“You’re a—” He broke off, realizing belatedly that they were standing in a posh restaurant, and it probably wasn’t the ideal place to blurt out that his dinner companion was an assassin.
“Not my specialty,” she murmured. “I’m mainly a photo intelligence analyst. I look at live video images from drones and interpret them in real time.”
“So you have an eye for detail?”
“You could say that.” Her voice was as dry as the Negev Desert.
Their table was ready, and he followed Rebel and the maître d’ into the private dining room Avi had reserved for them. The decor of the room was dark, with paneled walls and burgundy carpet. Crisp white linen covered their candlelit table, though, and the places were precisely set with Limoges china and Lalique crystal. The table looked like a glittering jewel nestled in a bed of dark velvet. It was impossibly romantic.
Which was exactly the point. He’d set a personal goal of teaching the overly serious American commando how to loosen her collar a little and enjoy the finer things in life.
The maître d’ seated Rebel and then retreated, leaving the two of them alone. He sat down across from her and unfolded his crisply starched linen napkin, spreading it across his lap in anticipation of the culinary delights to come.
“Where have you brought me?” she asked in alarm. “I’m afraid to breathe hard, lest I break something.”
“The food is outstanding, and we can speak in private, here. And my government is picking up the tab, so don’t worry about the cost.”
“Cost? I bet his place doesn’t even put prices on the menu.”
He smiled. “They don’t. Shall I choose a wine for us?”
“You’d better. All I know about wine is it’s bad if it’s still bubbling.”