Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) Dana Arama (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📖

“Only if it won’t arouse any suspicions,” I answered. I was already sorry I was getting him involved. Still, I said, “Can I trust you to take over my desk?”

“While we have been talking, I sent an email to Monsieur Hartley, the French ambassador, so I think you can trust me.”

“Is there any news about Jonathan Niava?” I asked

“No,” he answered briefly. “Your teams are still investigating.”

“We need human intelligence there, Gordon.”

“I will check with my connections in the CIA and see what I can do about the Albanian mafia and the same about the terrorist organizations. We’ll hunt down every tail we get… in the end we’ll find a rat.”

“I owe you, Gordon.”

“You owe me big time.” As he said it, I could hear a smile in his voice. “I think you can repay me with dinner.”

“I think that I may finally agree.” The fact that I was at his mercy was a bit intimidating, but also comforting. His ability to take hold of the crisis in the next few hours would determine my future at the organization. The only thing that could cover for Gordon’s operation of the French desk would be my success here. Which meant that more than ever I needed to supply my uncle with the goods.

Guy Niava,

Chiapas, Mexico, November 13, 6:20 p.m.

About twenty minutes had passed since I’d learned about the terror attack in Paris and we were still silent. We had nothing to say so we carried on walking, wordlessly. Paris was a joyous place, one of celebration and comfort. Not like Jerusalem, which bleeds often. And now, terror had also reached Paris. My first thoughts were about Gabbi and Pierre. They were my pillar of strength and comfort for a period of time after Hadas’ death. And now, when they were in the heart of darkness, I was not able to be there for them. To me, they were the essence of France, and especially Paris. Even though Pierre had an exquisite home outside of the city, they mostly lived in Gabbi’s luxurious apartment, in one of the most prestigious arrondissements. They were well known in the social circle that dealt with art, restaurants and the high life. They were Parisian. I’d met Gabbi in Israel, before I became a Mossad agent. To that day, she wouldn’t admit it, but I suspected she had her hand in my summons to the Tel Aviv branch to start the course to become an agent. It had happened shortly after she had broken off our affair. Maybe that was her farewell present.

My thoughts wandered to the Muslim community in Marseille, whom I had gotten to know while I was undercover, posing as a sports coach. Had they been involved in the attack? I knew that if I came across one of their names in one of the articles reporting on the incident, I would be disappointed. I had a soft spot for the younger generation. They were lost kids and my presence there, even if they didn’t know it, was for intelligence purposes, but was also good for them. Maybe, very carefully, I had managed to give them a purpose in life that had nothing to do with making bombs. Maybe ten of them would go on to have a career in sport. If I saw any one of them progressing in the sports world and becoming an example for the rest, what harm can that do? I had an unsettling thought that that the attack meant we might lose the help we got from Laura Ashton’s department, immediately followed by the comforting thought that maybe, on the other hand, this terrorist cell that had popped up in America, under their noses, would now get top priority.

We marched carefully and away from human presence. Towards nightfall, our bodies had acclimated to the thin air, but Laura’s limp was getting worse and I knew that we had to let her rest her foot, so as not to create permanent damage. We were tired, we felt the cold and we had endured enough that day. We had to stop. Instead of sleeping by day and walking by night, when there would be fewer human risks, we had to put ourselves in danger of exposure and walk during the day in order to see El Desconocido’s signs. We’d walked for hours, until we could walk no more.

During the evening the temperatures dropped in the forest and the chill penetrated our bones. That was another reason why it was better to walk at night, because while walking during the heat of the day, we could feel the humidity in the air and the sweat that never dried on the body. The combination of the two made the cold, and the chills it brought, dangerous. They wasted valuable energy.

We continued a little further until we found a good spot to rest. A cluster of trees and between them a small flow of the river which would mask our sounds, even though we whispered to one another. We decided to settle for the night. We still needed to contact Gordon. We looked for branches which could be used for sleeping on. When we found a suitable tree, we then spread dry twigs around the tree and some on the pathway, so if someone were to come close, we would hear them in good time. I was the first to climb up the tree and check the branches. After I checked that there were no snakes and that the branches were sturdy enough, I climbed back down. By the time I came down, the telephone had been switched on and a communication was waiting. The news from Gordon wasn’t encouraging. There was no news about Jonathan. In Mexico, a few marijuana fields in the Chiapas region, near the Guatemala border, had been burned to the ground. Something seemed suspiciously familiar. To whom did the burned fields belong? Was someone setting us up? Was this third