Solo by Hope Solo (best free ereader .TXT) 📕

“My husband,” she replied, also in Farsi, while dramatically dropping the robe to the floor and revealing her naked body.

He stepped toward her, encircling her with his arms and pulling her to him. She looked up and offered her lips then took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

***

“Were those your men, first in Washington and then in Romania?” the woman asked, as they sat facing each other at a round table in the living room about an hour later, both dressed in robes and each picking at a salad.

“We will get them, one way or the other,” Yosemani replied.

“Well, they are in Brussels as we speak,” she said, “and they have been given White House approval to come after you.”

“I am listening,” he said, laying his fork down.

“President Tremaine is traveling, so I do not know what he finally decided. But I think his national security adviser wants to cancel the operation, because the White House wants to wait and see if President Rouhani will be more moderate, and therefore more open to negotiations, than Ahmadinejad.”

Yosemani stood up and walked to the window, only half noticing the sun had set and the lights of the city were now flickering on.

“That is good. It will give us more time, and we still need time to gain our nuclear capability. I hate living without you, but your value to our nation is priceless. If the two thieves who stole our cyber secrets are here, in this city, there is no time to lose.”

He headed to the bedroom. “Where are they?” he asked, beginning to change into his clothes.

“I vowed as a child after one of my brothers was killed at Karbala that I would devote my life to the Shiite nation,” the woman said, as she fingered a medallion, hanging from a gold necklace decorated with an evergreen pine overlaid with the beginning of the Shahada: There is no God but God and the Prophet is the Messenger of God.

“They are staying at the Stanhope hotel. I do not know where their team members are.”

Yosemani picked the room phone and dialed a number, but hung up after hearing a busy signal. His second attempt a few minutes later only succeeded in reaching Mme. DuChemin. Her husband called back an hour later.

In an impatient voice, Yosemani ordered, in English, “Mr. DuChemin, I have other business to transact with you. And I would like to see you in my hotel room as soon as possible. In the meantime, I need you to pull a team of trusted men together. I need them right away.” Hearing no immediate response from the Belgian, he added, “Price is no object.”

***

“What a dreary day,” Kella said the next morning, as she moved away from the window to start the coffee using the hotel coffee pot on top of the room’s mini refrigerator.

“Welcome to Brussels,” Steve answered, as he scanned the front page of La Libre Belgique.

The phone rang, as Kella put a cup of coffee in front of Steve. She picked it up, listened for an instant, and handed him the phone. “It’s your father,” she said, arching her eyebrows.

As Steve listened, his eyes grew wider, and his jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious, Dad! They approved the damn thing! Our people are in place. What the hell’s going on?” He looked at Kella, shaking his head in disbelief.

“The White House has canceled the operation,” Steve said, after hanging up. “We’re to stand down. Marshall said we’ll probably get a call from the chief here. I’m sure this will make his day.”

“I can’t say it makes me sad,” Kella said, stirring sugar and cream into her coffee. “Did he say why?”

“It’s exactly what LaFont feared. Someone got to the president, probably Dalton, and persuaded him to suspend all aggressive operations for the next few months to see what the new Iranian president does.” He shook his head again. “Watch and wait. Watch and wait.”

“Well, I’m going to let you close everything down, and I’m going to go live my cover on Avenue Louise.”

She was on her way out the door, when the phone rang again. “I’ll call you later, and you can take me out to lunch. I will fascinate you with a full report on Belgian wedding dresses.”

***

Under a Brussels monochrome-gray sky, it was drizzling, and the sun could not pierce the thick cloud cover. Bruxellois, used to the weather from birth, went about their business wearing their traditional knee-high, green rubber boots.

A windowless gray van, parked down the street from the Stanhope Hotel, hid behind the raindrops. Its three occupants smoked while watching the hotel entrance. “That bitch is not an early riser,” one of them said in French.

“Church will probably come out first. Or, they might come out together, in which case we are only supposed to follow them. We are supposed to grab them only if one comes out alone.”

After a few more cigarettes, a tall young woman emerged from the hotel and deployed an umbrella. Barely able to see through the smoke and rain, one of the men said, “That is probably her.”

A few minutes later, a taxi drove up and Kella disappeared.

“Allons-y!” Jean, the leader, said.

***

A couple of hours later, the van was parked on Avenue Louise, raindrops falling through an open window. “How long must we wait?” Yves asked from the back seat.

“If she comes out of the store and heads away from us,” Jean said from the front passenger seat, “We will get out and walk behind her. Laurent,” he said, turning to the driver, “take the van to that double parking space about thirty meters from here. When she reaches the back of the van, you will open the back door. I will put this pillowcase over her head, the