The Project 02 - The Lance

to happen and we have to keep a clear head"
    "I can't pretend I don't have feelings. About Nick."
    "I know. But if they get in the way you could make a mistake. It could kill you. Or Nick. There is something that balances things out a little."
    Selena looked at Elizabeth.
    "We can trust each other and channel our feelings into that. It's what makes any team work."
    "Who else do we trust?"
    "No one."
    "That's cynical."
    "That's reality."
    "What keeps you doing this?" Selena asked.
    Elizabeth thought about it. "I think everyone deserves a chance at some kind of justice. The people we go after don't believe that. Somebody's got to try and stop them."
    Selena looked away, out the kitchen window. It was night. There wasn't much to see.
    "I wonder what Nick's doing now?" she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

    People milled about in the corridor. Nick watched a medical team load Rivka onto a gurney. They'd given her a shot of something and she was out of it, her dusky skin the color of milk. He called Ari.
    " Is she all right?"
    "S he's badly wounded. The medics are here, she's on her way to Hadassah."
    "How did it happen ?"
    " We went through the door of my room and someone started shooting from the balcony. We fired and he went over the edge. She took one all the way through."
    " You?"
    " He missed." Nick thought of Rivka taking a bullet meant for him. It wasn't a good thought.
    "S tay where you are," Ari said. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
    Down the hall, three men and a woman in dark suits and earpieces made their way toward him.
    " I may not be here. I see Secret Service coming. They're going to want some answers."
    " Ten minutes." Ari hung up.
    The four agents stopped in front of Nick. They didn't look friendly.
    The lead man was over six feet tall and purposeful, with a face that had serious all over it. His eyes were like ice. He was around forty, clean-shaven even this late in the day. He had a high forehead and a combination of green eyes and red hair that said Ireland in the background somewhere.
    " You're Carter?"
    It wouldn 't take a rocket scientist to know who he was. They'd only needed to check the hotel register.
    " Yes."
    " Calloway." He flashed his ID and gave a pointed look at Nick's holstered H-K. "Hand over your weapon, please."
    The other agents wait ed to see what he would do. The hallway was filling up with police, Secret Service, spies and who knew what. It reminded him of a scene from a Bogart movie. The only thing missing was Sydney Greenstreet.
    A large Israeli police officer wearing the insignia of a Sergeant Major stepped in front of Calloway.
    " Just a minute. We are in charge, here." His English was heavily accented. He turned to Nick, said, "Give me your pistol, please." He had his right hand on his holstered weapon, the strap snapped back and the hammer cocked, his left hand held out for the gun.
    Agent Calloway was cool before, but now he turned glacial. "The President's security takes precedence here. This man will come with us."
    " I don't think so. You are on Israeli sovereign territory. This is our country, not yours. Your President is upstairs and quite safe. This man is in our custody." He turned back to Nick. "Your weapon, please."
    Nick carefully lifted his .45 out of the holster, using a thumb and one finger on the grip, and held it out to the Israeli. He took it, nodded once in satisfaction. Calloway's expression looked like he'd been forced to drink vinegar.
    The agents crowded in and the tension level in the hall went up. Several Israeli policemen moved closer. Then a commanding voice cut through the noise in the hall.
    " That's enough!"
    President James Rice was coming down the corridor, thirty feet away. He wore tan slippers and an unbuttoned gray cardigan vest over a blue shirt and casual slacks. Three more grim faced agents were with him. Calloway straightened. All sound died away. Down the hall, a woman in a pink robe and hair curlers peered out of her room.
    The President had the kind of presence people expect of the single most powerful politician in the world. With Rice, it was more than political practice. He radiated command and confidence. An intense energy belied his sixty-seven years. He was just under six feet tall, with silver hair still showing a few strands of black. His penetrating, hazel eyes didn't miss anything.
    Calloway stepped forward. "Mr. President. Sir, you shouldn't be here."
    " It's all right, John, I know who this man is. He is not a threat."
    Rice