Countdown to Mecca by Michael Savage

Dangerfield said.
    Jack cursed inwardly. Outwardly, he asked, “Any suggestions?”
    â€œGotta go, Jack. Thanks for calling.”
    The line clicked off abruptly. Jack’s shoulders slumped. Frustrated, he flicked on his CD player. A CD from the Blue Note: Collector’s Edition was in the tray. Jazz in general calmed him; this set in particular, with Art Blakey, Horace Silver, Dexter Gordon, Donald Byrd, John Coltrane, and others, worked miracles. Fittingly, it was Sammy who had given him the album as a birthday present over a year before
    â€œYou okay?”
    Jack jerked in his chair and nearly bleated in surprise, which elicited a laugh from Dover Griffith. She stood in front of the apartment’s front door, which she had already closed, holding a bag of take-out food.
    â€œSorry to scare you,” she said, stifling a further chuckle. “Chalk it up to the stealth training the Bureau is giving us now.” She headed toward the kitchen table, accompanied by Coltrane’s mellow sax, giving Jack time to take in her jeans, running shoes, T-shirt, and denim jacket. Always a jacket. Had to put the gun and holster under something. “‘Hi’ would be nice,” she suggested.
    â€œSorry,” he said with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. “I didn’t hear you come in. My head is somewhere else.”
    â€œEvidently,” she said, removing containers from her shoulder bag and placing them on the table. “I took a chance that you’d be here. Used my key but I don’t think you would have heard it if I had kicked the door down.” She looked up at him with warmth as he neared. “Do you even know what time it is?”
    Jack glanced at the digital clock on the stove. It was almost five P.M. As usual, time flew when he was working.
    â€œI saw Doc at Spumante’s, hoping you’d be there, too,” she told him as she finished putting out the food. “He said you had donned your monk’s habit, so I figured you’d need something to eat when you finally broke your vow of silence.”
    He smiled, rose, and gave her a hug. She hugged him back, tightly. He was distracted by the aroma of Bruno’s exceptional cooking.
    â€œWow,” she said as he leaned over her shoulder. “Makes a girl feel wanted.”
    â€œI’ve got Italian and you,” he said. “My life is perfect.”
    â€œIs it?” she asked, nodding toward his desk and the laptop.
    â€œThere are some shortcomings in the professional side of things,” he admitted.
    â€œJoin the dead-end club.”
    Jack took a seat at the kitchen table and opened the container closest to him.
    â€œCarl thought ID’ing those guys in Levi Plaza would be easy,” Dover said as she got utensils and napkins and pulling up a chair beside him.
    â€œNothing in the database?” he asked around a mouthful of eggplant parmesan, no cheese, a Hatfield special, now on Bruno’s menu.
    â€œNot us, nor TSA, nor Interpol, nor even the Mukhabarat el-Khabeya.” She took her own bite of creamy potato gnocchi.
    Jack recognized the name of Egypt’s Military Intelligence Service. “That could mean the hit squad hasn’t done something like this before,” he mused, chewing.
    â€œThe fact that one of ’em got clipped by a trolley is evidence of that,” Dover said. She regarded him carefully. “You’re really worried.”
    â€œYeah.” Jack took a moment, grateful for the food and her presence and the chance to decompress. “The last two times I was going after the bad guys. This time they’re also coming after me and those around me.”
    They both fell silent for a few moments. The only sound was their chewing. When Dover spoke again, her head was down and her tone was hushed.
    â€œI want to do something,” she said. “I came here to pool our resources off-the-record. I want to help you find that