Special Forces: The Operator

“What kind of art?” she asked.

“Modern interactive art is my passion, but I enjoy a good Rembrandt as much as the next person.”

“Music?”

“Every kind. Except Nazi-metalhead.”

“Books?”

“That’s a bit tricky. I prefer history or dead poets, but I make myself read literature and pop fiction.”

“Why?”

“To be well-rounded.”

“That all sounds terribly intellectual and dry. What do you do for fun?”

He leaned forward, and a boyish smile hovered on his lips. “I kill people.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You must suck at your job if you have to whack people often. The idea is to get in and get out without being spotted and without ending up in a fight. Or didn’t they teach you that part in Israel?”

He laughed outright at her pithy observation. “Well, damn. Most women are unbearably turned on by knowing I can kill.”

“Sorry. It’s just an unpleasant part of the job to me.”

The waitress removed their cheese fondue, which they’d mostly polished off between them, and replaced it with a bubbling pot of hot oil and a platter of meats and vegetables.

“What makes you happy?” Avi asked when they’d demolished most of the main course.

“Happy?” she echoed. “I don’t believe in happiness.”

“Why ever not?” he exclaimed.

“Because it’s a lie. People confuse pleasure with happiness, and most humans only want pleasure. Which is transient, fleeting and passes quickly. It’s not worth ruining my life in pursuit of a few moments here and there that constitute mere pleasure.”

“Wow. Cynical much?” he murmured.

She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy my work. I take deep satisfaction from it, in fact. But that’s because I’m doing something important that will improve the quality of the world... I hope.”

Avi shuddered. “What a dreadful way to go through life.”

“What’s dreadful about being committed to my career?”

“Nothing. I’m committed to mine, as well. Passionately.”

“Why passionately?” she followed up.

“Because I live in a small country surrounded by larger enemies. Israel’s ongoing survival is always an open question. Unlike your country with oceans on either side of it and no enemies on Earth who can match your power, my country is tiny and imminently crushable. It takes many people of passion to keep her safe.”

“Just because the United States is big and powerful doesn’t mean we can stop working at staying safe. We have lots of enemies, and our size and power makes us a prime target. Hence, the need for people like me.”

He nodded. “We have a point of agreement, then. Both of our countries need robust security forces to ensure their safety.”

“Speaking of which, when do you expect to hear from your people about our friend? I’m dying to know what they have to say about him.”

One corner of his mouth turned up sardonically. “Are you in such a big hurry to jump in bed with him, then?”

She frowned across the table at them. They might have to speak elliptically about Mahmoud Akhtar in public, but she wasn’t loving the sleeping with Akhtar analogy.

Avi grinned unrepentantly. “Lighten up a little, Rebel. It was a joke.”

“Again, you didn’t answer my question.”

He sighed. “You need to learn how to slow down. Relax a little. Like now. Enjoy the good food and exceptional company. There will be time later for business.”

Great. He was clearly determined to torture her.

Except when the dessert course came—a rich, silky, dark chocolate fondue and a platter of succulent fresh fruit, berries and delicate ladyfinger cookies—she forgot her impatience and lost herself in savoring the delicious sweets.

“Be careful, Rebel. You’re looking suspiciously close to happy over there.”

“I didn’t say I don’t like pleasure. Just that I don’t live for it.”

“I fear, mademoiselle, that you are missing out on most of the best things in life with that grim philosophy of yours.”

“I am who I am,” she retorted. She refrained from reminding him she didn’t owe him a blessed thing. After all, she was supposed to work with this guy and trade information. No sense in antagonizing him outright.

“That’s a rather Socratic take on life,” he commented. “How does the saying go—I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.”

She retorted, “I know I’m intelligent, because I know better than to read people like Socrates and let them put my mind all in a twist.”

Avi laughed warmly. “Touché.” He signaled for the bill and handed over a credit card before Rebel even had a chance to grab for the bill.

“Next meal’s on me,” she declared.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you buy me supper sometime,” he said evenly as he signed the check and tucked the receipt in his pocket. “But it’s not necessary. I won’t think any less of you as an independent woman because you do or don’t insist on paying your own way.”

“It’s a matter of principle for me,” she admitted.

“How so? Don’t you like being taken care of?”

“More like I don’t like being smothered.”

He paused in the act of standing up to study her intently. After a moment, he finished straightening to his full height and gestured for her to precede him from the restaurant.

Dammit. Too revealing a comment. She shouldn’t have said that. She slid out of the booth and headed for the front door.

The Adler was a narrow space, and as they slipped past a group of loud drunks at the bar, Avi placed a protective hand in the middle of her back. The touch was light, impersonal even, but it also declared clearly to all the men they sidled past to leave her the hell alone.