The Project 02 - The Lance

sleeping with Nick and wondering where the hell it was going, or if it would go anywhere. Her life had turned upside down.
    She looked in the mirror and smiled. At least it wasn't boring.

CHAPTER SIX

    Fluorescent light glared off scarred yellow walls. The cement floor was painted dull gray. The room was bare except for a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs. A camera watched from one corner. A large mirror took up a portion of one wall.
    Ari Herzog, senior Shin Bet agent in Jerusalem, watched through the one way mirror. The man in the room was around six feet tall, about two hundred pounds. He had black hair and eyebrows, wolf-like eyes, and a hard, square-jawed look. He needed a shave. He sat quietly, waiting for whatever came next. There was no fidgeting, no nervousness. The medic had dressed his knife wound an hour before.
    "He's a cool one."
    The comment came from a tall man with black eyes and sallow skin and big ears. His face was weathered from the desert sun with lines that made him look older than his forty-eight years. He wore a short sleeved white shirt, black tie, crisp blue pants and black shoes. Silver insignia of the National Police glittered on his shoulders. A name tag on his shirt identified him as Ben Ezra.
    "Eighteen stitches for that gash in his thigh, no anesthetic," he said. "He didn't even flinch. While he was being sewed up he worked with the sketch artist. We're running it through the database now. So far, no hits."
    He held out the artist's rendering of the man Nick had followed into the alley. Herzog looked at the drawing, then opened a Shin Bet dossier he carried in his right hand.
    "Nicholas Carter," Herzog said. "Former Major in their Marines, Force Recon. That's part of their Special Operations Command now. He's supposed to be part of an advance party for the US President's visit."
    Herzog continued reading.
    "Silver star, bronze star with cluster, three purple hearts, tours in South America, Persian Gulf, Iraq, Afghanistan. Redacted records. High security clearance. Part of a covert unit that answers to their President and specializes in targeted operations against terrorists."
    "Sounds a little like one of yours, Ari." The policeman scratched under his armpit.
    Carter's effects were in a box on a nearby table. Herzog looked through them. Airline ticket. Rental car keys. A wallet with driver's license, credit cards and two thousand dollars in currency. There was a picture in the wallet of a dark haired woman standing in front of a restaurant, blowing a kiss at the camera. Carter's passport was full of stamps from all over the globe.
    There was a state of the art, encrypted satellite phone. A small pocket knife and flashlight, locally bought. A flat, black credentials holder with Carter's ID. A room key for the King David Citadel Hotel.
    Carter's pistol, a Heckler and Koch .45, had been sent forward from storage at Ben Gurion airport. Herzog picked up the gun, examined it. He eyed the three fifteen round magazines and the shoulder rig.
    "Big pistol. Custom hollow points. This one doesn't fool around." Herzog set the pistol down.
    "You think it's a coincidence he was there when that bomb went?"
    "What does he say?"
    "That he was having a cup of coffee when the bomb exploded. He says he saw a man talking on a cell phone. In his opinion the man was involved with the bombing, so he went after him. When he did, two others attacked him. The one with the phone got in a white Volvo and was driven away. Then my men showed up and took this one into custody. We're on the lookout for the car, but there are a lot of white Volvos."
    Ben Ezra scratched his arm. "One of the men he fought is dead. The other is in a coma. The one he killed was in our files from demonstrations in the West Bank. No ID on the other yet. When he comes out of it, if he comes out of it, we'll encourage him to answer some questions."
    "Mmmm."
    Ben Ezra continued. "We found two knives in the alley." He gestured through the glass. "This one was unarmed. Except for that little penknife. It was in his pocket."
    "Not bad, against two with knives. We're sure he's who he says he is?"
    "Confirmed."
    "Their President gives his speech two days from now. Why send a covert operative here, using his own name, claiming him as part of the Presidential party?"
    "Maybe we should ask him."
    "Let's do that."

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Carter looked up as two men entered the room. The first was about forty-five, dressed in a crumpled