Chapter Twenty-three
Hannah introduced Iris to the students when they bowed in for morning drills. Rose noticed that everyone looked at Iris with interest, except for Maji and Bubbles. Hannah paired Iris with Rose to practice kicks.
“Oh!” Rose exhaled as a solid front kick shoved her backward, the striking pad pressed against her front. “You’ve done this before, then?”
Iris looked pleased with herself. “Level four, Krav Maga.”
Rose handed the pad over. “That’s a martial art?”
“No—it’s actual self-defense. Hebrew for close combat. Hasn’t Hannah told you?” Iris held the pad along her side, covering her ribs and thigh.
Rose lined up for a roundhouse kick and gave the pad a satisfying smack with her shin. “I must have been out that day.” She popped several more kicks, taking care to pivot properly on her balance leg to avoid twisting her knee.
“Not bad for a beginner,” Iris said. “Now once more, with feeling.”
It wasn’t hard to work up some feeling with this woman. Rose took a breath and concentrated on driving her shin not into the pad, but through it, clear to the other side of Iris. Iris winced from the impact, and staggered.
“Oh my God! Are you all right?” Rose gave her antagonist an arm to lean on.
Iris grinned at her. “Sure. Just need to walk it off.” She flexed her leg and stood on it gingerly. “Aren’t you a little old for this crowd? I heard it was a teen camp.”
“Are you saying I can’t pass for seventeen?” Rose crossed her arms in mock offense.
Iris’s slow appraisal made Rose flush. “I’d say you’d pass for an instructor’s girlfriend. I just wondered which one.”
“None.” Sadly, true. “I’m Angelo’s cousin. Camp is my hall pass to get out of the house.”
Hannah glided by them. “Less talk, please. Practice is participatory.”
“Wait,” Iris said. Hannah pivoted and looked expectant, so Iris went on. “She’s never even heard of Krav. Do you at least teach them the handshake?”
Hannah’s brow furrowed, and then a look of recognition passed over her face. She looked at Rose with a faint smile and explained. “Front rising kick to the groin. Naturally. But today,” Hannah said, “work on the roundhouse.” She moved on.
Rose picked up the dropped striking pad. “Okay. Go easy on me, Level Four.”
At lunch break, Hannah asked Rose to join her in the kitchen, while the others ate out on the porches, as usual. “And you two,” she told Maji and Iris, “can use my office.”
Maji carried her plate into the office and took Hannah’s chair behind the desk. It gave her a measure of confidence. She started on lunch without tasting it, swallowing extra gulps of water to get it down.
Iris settled in across from her and didn’t touch her own plate. “Mind if I close the door?”
Maji felt her face heat, the memory of what a rare closed door in Iraq had allowed them to get up to. Clearly Iris remembered, too. “No reason not to.” She noticed Iris had no paper or pocket voice recorder, her journalistic staples. “No notes?”
“I thought today we could stay off the record.”
Maji took another bite of her sandwich and chewed, letting the silence speak for itself.
“So they’re calling you Maji. What kind of name is that?”
“Lebanese. You never heard of Majida El Roumi?” She didn’t mean to sound defensive. It would only encourage Iris.
“The singer. Sure. You don’t look anything like her. So?”
“My grandparents used to play her records all the time. They thought it was really cute when I sang along.”
“Aren’t your grandparents Hispanic?”
“Latino. And only on my dad’s side. Mom’s folks were Lebanese.”
“Were?”
“They’re gone now.”
“I’m sorry,” Iris said, though there was no sympathy in her eyes. No time for trivialities, as usual.
Maji answered around another bite of sandwich. “S’okay.”
“You never mentioned them before.”
Maji swallowed and took a sip of water. “You never asked. You were pretty busy giving me your worldview, and picking fights.”
“I seem to remember you finding our arguments…stimulating.”
“Look, if you think we’re picking up where we left off, I’m sorry. I hear from Angelo the story he’s got for you is really big.”
Several emotions crossed Iris’s features. “Your friend’s story is Pulitzer material. And it could get me killed. I could use a bodyguard. I was hoping you might be available.”
“I’m not for hire. And I’d rather not know any more about what he’s involved in than I have to. Your Pulitzer’s not worth my life.”
Iris’s hand went to her pockets, searching in reflex for a cigarette. She caught Maji registering the gesture, and smiled sheepishly. “Old habits.” When Maji didn’t respond, she added, “I gave them up, finally. For real.”
“Good for you.” Iris’s argument about her likely lifespan as a war correspondent had been a terrible excuse. “Planning to stick around, then?”
Iris smiled. “If the warlords and Russian mobsters don’t get me.” The smile faded and a rare look of vulnerability replaced it. “And if I found somebody who hated smoking but would spend forty weeks a year on the road with me.”
Maji felt the first real twinge of sympathy. “Maybe you will yet. As for me, the Army still owns my ass.”
“How?”
“Select Reserves. Anytime call-up status.”
Iris’s mouth twitched. “How are you so sure your Mafia buddy’s up to anything good, if you don’t know what he’s really doing?”
“I trust him. Speaking of which, are you really doing a follow-up article on me? On the record.”
Iris blinked at her, apparently thrown by the redirection. “Can I?”
“Seems to be what Hannah thinks. A fluff piece on teen girls learning self-defense isn’t your style.”
“See how well you know me?” Iris smiled again. “But you’d want to vet the content first, wouldn’t you?”
Maji gave a half shrug. “I’d trust Hannah to work with your editor.”
“Ouch.” Despite the reply, Iris looked more engaged than hurt. “Another one you trust more than me. Well, Hannah did hook me up with Angelo. And my editor acts likes she’s some kind of ex-Mossad Wonder Woman. So it’ll go through them anyway.”
Maji saw through the one-way glass wall the students filtering back onto the mats. “’Kay then.” She stood, and moved toward the door. “Next time, bring your notepad.”
By Wednesday evening, Angelo was dying to know how Maji was doing with Iris. She’d seemed fine at dinner the night before, but he couldn’t ask. Sander had joined them again, and then worked until after midnight with him in the basement. Angelo had sent him up to the Big House with a smile on his tired face. But tonight the kid had needed some downtime, thank God. Angelo bet they left him alone up there, a luxury he’d never experienced himself.
The minute Maji walked in the back door, stripping off her motorcycle jacket while Rose did the same, he pounced. “Hey. Take a walk with me.”
“Sure.” She hung her jacket on a kitchen chair.
They walked hand in hand down to the boathouse, not talking on the way. Inside, she scanned the building quickly before plunking herself down on the dock and taking off her riding boots.
Angelo waited until Maji’s feet were in the water, dangling off the dock. “So, how’s it going with Iris? She behaving?”
“Other than trying to teach everyone the Krav Maga handshake, sure.”
Angelo laughed, recalling Iris embedded with their team. After a few days, the guys covered their crotches whenever they saw her.
Maji gave his hand a light squeeze. “And yesterday she made it pretty clear she wants a partner in the field. You remember her whole forty-weeks-a-year thing?”
“Yeah. Can’t blame her for trying.” He looked at Maji’s profile, her gaze latched to the distance, somewhere out by the horizon where the sailboats disappeared into dots. “And today?”
“Today she played reporter. Asked me bullshit questions about life after Fallujah, wrote down my bullshit answers.”
“Hannah’s gonna vet the story, right?”
“’Course. Iris won’t piss anybody off if she thinks it’ll cost her a Pulitzer.”
“How’s that?”
“Don’t ask me. You’re the one stringing her along. Whatever you’ve promised, she’s hooked. And she seems legitimately frightened for her safety. Does she know you’re taking on Khodorov and Sirko, both?”
“Yeah. All background so far. She’ll get the rest when I’m gone.” Hannah would see to that.
She shifted her weight, twisting slightly to see his face. “Speaking of which…you’re not going to ask Tom or Dev to help with that, are you?”
It was an inevitable question, one that he and Hannah had talked through at her house. “Well, I don’t want you anywhere near, when it goes down. But I’m going to need insurance, make sure I don’t just get knocked out or something. So, yeah, I need at least one of them.”
“How could either of those guys say yes? Especially when you can’t tell them why.”
He braced himself and said as calmly as he could, “Tom would if you asked him to.”
She leaned back as if he’d struck her and stared at him. For a second Angelo thought Maji was going to shove him off the dock. Then she settled back, her feet dripping on the dock between them, her arms wrapped around her knees. “This must be a record for you, a personal best.” Her voice was cold and flat with suppressed anger.
“It’s not like that,” he protested. But in truth, he had treated her like a mark, worked her step by step.
“It’s just like that, Ang. Right out of the fucking training manual. Step one: ask for something little. Like, say, a few days protecting your cousin. Step two: up the ante—just a little.” She stroked her chin, indicating the ask to act as his beard to protect him from Uncle Gino’s homophobia. “Wait until I’ve shown full commitment, and then—only then—ask for something way outside the mark’s normal mores.”
“I got no defense but necessity.”
“And you think now I’m a made man, I can live with not just your blood on my hands, but on Tom’s, too?”
He could see the pain hiding right under that anger. But it was too late to undo. “Tom’s a seasoned operator, Maj. He can take it. So can you—you’ve proved it.” He let the made man reference go. This was not the time or place to compare first kills in the Mafia to war.
“Cabrón!” She swore at him. “You knew they didn’t tell me what really happened in Fallujah. You let me think I’d killed those people.”
Oh, shit. Well, no way around it but through. Angelo reached for her, thought better of it, and pulled his hands back. “I didn’t know at first, what you’d been debriefed on. Then later I did hear, but I thought, well, she’s back in the saddle, so it didn’t kill her.”
She just watched him, with that hurt and anger burning in her eyes, rocking a little in the space it took to gather his thoughts.
“Every time we sent you in someplace,” Angelo explained, “I never worried if you’d pull off the mission. And only a little that you’d get hurt before the extraction. No, I worried about the day you finally fucked up. That you’d do great so long as you thought you could be perfect, only ever save lives and never take any.”
Maji had stopped rocking and sat still. Angelo needed to say the rest—it was way overdue. She might not like what he was saying, but she needed to hear it. From him, with all the tough love he could muster.
“Most of us go into the field like we’re going into a knife fight,” he continued. “We’re prepared to get cut. Then we see the gash, it hurts like hell, but we keep going. Day comes you can’t keep going, you better step out of the game. After Fallujah, I was waiting to see which way you’d go. I wouldn’t have blamed you for washing out. But thank God, you didn’t.”
“So that now I can do something even worse.”
He sighed. Of course the only thing worse in her eyes than killing someone herself would be choosing to let someone come to harm when she had the power to stop it. “You’re no worse than a sniper. Is Tom a bad person? Does he not deserve to be happy?”
“Don’t fuck with me like that. I know we need people who can do what he can. And you know I’m not one of them. You knew that when you picked me for your team.”
“Yeah, and it was the right call, too. Another operator would have left a body behind so many places that you managed not to. No echoes, no footprints, no retribution.”
“That’s a lot to expect this time. Even if the whole team cooperated. Even with Hannah’s help.”
“Well, the stakes have never been higher.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, with a bitter laugh. “I fuck up my part, Khodorov will come after everybody I love, too.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it.” Angelo reached out for the hands wrapped around her knees, and when she didn’t flinch, tucked his hand into them. “We plan this extraction to protect everybody from the blowback. Even Hannah gets a shield. I promise.”
“I get to help with the plan.”
“’Course. You’re at the table.”
“Ang?”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t an extraction. You taught me the three ways to exfil. Option four’s not in the playbook.”
“Doesn’t have to be. We always know going in that if we can’t swing one, two, or three, we’re not coming home. You got your will and advance directives on file, same as me.”
“Yeah, but I don’t go in planning to get killed. This is different.”
“You go into the knife fight same as the rest of us. Over and over, and you got some scars to show for it. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take the bullet, or stay with the bomb, or whatever it was on that particular op. We both know you would.”
Angelo knew she couldn’t argue with that. They sat in silence a long while, watching the sky change as evening came on. Finally, he thought, she gets it. Angelo was about to stand up when Maji spoke again.
“Remember that dissident we extracted right off the streets of Tehran?”
He smiled at the memory. It was a brilliant op. They went in as Basij, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard’s morals police, which routinely harassed women for violations of their extremist version of sharia—wearing the headscarf so that too much hair showed, daring to polish their nails, carrying books that might be—gasp—banned. Precisely because their HVT was a known dissident, the neighbors assumed she had been taken to jail. And the authorities? They found the suicide note she left in her apartment, angrily declaring they had driven her to take her own life. “’Course I remember.”
“If we could pull that off, we could extract you from this.”
Alive, she meant. Clearly it was going to take a little longer for her to get her head around his plan. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But you grew up with a frigging parade of refugees in your house. So you know how hard never getting to see your home or family and friends again is. Would you wish that on me?”
“Fuck you. At least they got lives. Your way makes me a murderer. You wish that on me?”
“Last thing I want, babe. I know what it’ll cost you. But I got my family to think about, and so do you.”
The stubborn look in her eyes was reassuring. Better than the pain. “If Hannah helped, and you agreed, we could make it real enough to protect them. Then you could do something worthwhile still. You’re not even thirty-five, for Chrissake. You can’t be done, Ang. Hell, even if you stayed out of the game for the rest of your life, at least you’d have a life.”
He shook his head. “Nobody’s good enough, babe. Gino can’t poke my cold, dead corpse, he’ll be suspicious. And Khodorov? He’d better be ready to stand up and tell his whole effing network that I’m cashed out, beyond even his reach. It’s zero retribution, or—”
“We could try it my way,” she cut in, “and fall back on the real thing if that doesn’t fly.”
“And see who they take out between Plan A and Plan B? No way. We only get one chance, and it has to be seamless.”
The tears in her eyes, and the silence, told him she understood. Still, they had to seal the deal. “On your word, soldier.”
She looked away from him. “Fuck me. On my word.”