listened to the tape. "Until today you have done well by me. This afternoon's disaster though, forces me to remind you who is in charge of this operation. This fool in front of me was supposed to keep Philip Mercer under observation and determine if he was being followed or contacted. Firing an automatic weapon in a crowded airport was not part of my instructions. We'll never know who contacted Mercer because of you, not to mention that your actions could have cost Mercer his life."
Gianelli's voice suddenly exploded. "You stupid fucking monkey. We may miss Mercer in Asmara because he was delayed here by your action. Security has been tightened in Eritrea, making a snatch when he lands impossible. I won'ome reached Yosef a full day after the machine-gun attack because the team had been on the move during the night, traveling with their prisoner from their previous location in Lebanon to a more secure site. They were now ensconced in an urban safe house near the bustling city center, but cut off from it by the house's ancient stone walls. The house was attached to its neighbors in the time-honored way of Middle Eastern cities, yet it had been vacant for several years.
The neighborhood was full of those sympathetic to their cause and would not report that the previously unoccupied house suddenly had ten people inhabiting it, eleven if one knew about Harry White held captive in the windowless cellar. This location did afford more amenities, but it was still much too dangerous to use for the remainder of their mission. Discovery by the police or special investigative services would mean either a shoot-out or execution after a quick, one-sided military trial. Apart from everything else, Yosef also had to consider the team's next relocation, no more than a week away if he wanted to maintain the hard-and-fast rule about safe houses.
Yosef betrayed no reaction when he'd learned of the death of his nephew. But the few team members who'd worked with him before knew he was taking the killing very badly. He had a new hardness, a new layer of armor that shielded him from the loss and continuing pain of his life's work.
Several of the team sat at the dining room table with pitchers of water and carafes of rich coffee. It was morning, the first minutes they had been able to relax. The remainder of the group were either on sleep rotation or out purchasing supplies. The dining room was heavy with both quiet grief and the coolness of the morning that soaked through the plastered walls.
Yosef had never used this particular safe house, but it was like so many others he had slept in, worked in, and killed in before. He had willingly given up his life to live like this, and while he felt no regrets for that decision, its toll was becoming too heavy. Losing Ibriham could very well be the last blow he would take.
No one at the table had spoken. Each was waiting for Yosef, the team's new leader, to take up his mantle of command. He remained silent, inhaling cigarettes until the small astray before his chair brimmed. This morning had aged him a further ten years.
"What is the state of our prisoner?" Yosef finally asked, avoiding the real issue by addressing other details first.
"Settled as well as can be expected," one of the team replied. "He's much quieter and more cooperative since we started giving him cigarettes."
"His injuries?"
"For an old man, he heals remarkably well. His hand's doing fine." This from a nurse who had been with the organization for a year.
Yosef lit another cigarette, watching the blue-gray smoke coil to the wood beams that trussed the high ceiling. He didn't bother to blink away the smoke that scalded his eyes. The inquiring stares of his people galled to the point where he wanted to escape the room, the house, the entire organization. But not before Philip Mercer paid for his nephew's death.
He forced himself from his reverie. "There is no point in going over what has happened. We all know that Ibriham is dead and
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