Special Forces: The Operator

He absorbed that in silence as they reached the restaurant. He held the door for her, and as she slid past him he muttered, “All the men’s standards?”

“All of them.”

“But...you’re so tiny.”

“Lower muscle to weight ratio for me to overcome. And I fit into small spaces my male counterparts don’t. Makes for great sniper nests that hostiles don’t spot.”

“You’re a—” He broke off, realizing belatedly that they were standing in a posh restaurant, and it probably wasn’t the ideal place to blurt out that his dinner companion was an assassin.

“Not my specialty,” she murmured. “I’m mainly a photo intelligence analyst. I look at live video images from drones and interpret them in real time.”

“So you have an eye for detail?”

“You could say that.” Her voice was as dry as the Negev Desert.

Their table was ready, and he followed Rebel and the maître d’ into the private dining room Avi had reserved for them. The decor of the room was dark, with paneled walls and burgundy carpet. Crisp white linen covered their candlelit table, though, and the places were precisely set with Limoges china and Lalique crystal. The table looked like a glittering jewel nestled in a bed of dark velvet. It was impossibly romantic.

Which was exactly the point. He’d set a personal goal of teaching the overly serious American commando how to loosen her collar a little and enjoy the finer things in life.

The maître d’ seated Rebel and then retreated, leaving the two of them alone. He sat down across from her and unfolded his crisply starched linen napkin, spreading it across his lap in anticipation of the culinary delights to come.

“Where have you brought me?” she asked in alarm. “I’m afraid to breathe hard, lest I break something.”

“The food is outstanding, and we can speak in private, here. And my government is picking up the tab, so don’t worry about the cost.”

“Cost? I bet his place doesn’t even put prices on the menu.”

He smiled. “They don’t. Shall I choose a wine for us?”

“You’d better. All I know about wine is it’s bad if it’s still bubbling.”

He laughed, shocked. “Still bubbling? That’s obscene.”

“That’s Boone’s Farm in a box.”

“Boone’s Farm? That’s not actually wine. It’s—” he searched for a proper description “—corn syrup, food coloring and rubbing alcohol.”

She laughed, and he stared, shocked at what happened to her face when her customary intensity gave way to actual joy. Her eyes sparkled, color came to her cheeks, and the fineness of her bones, the soft perfection of her skin came to life. It was as if her entire being smiled for a moment.

“You should laugh more often,” he declared.

The laughter faded from her eyes, and determination to make her laugh again came over him. But first, their waiter arrived, and Avi ordered a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine to go with the chef’s choice.

The waiter left and Rebel leaned forward, looking distressed. “What are we eating tonight?”

Avi shrugged. “Whatever the chef serves to us. I’ve eaten here several times and he has never disappointed me.”

“But what if it’s something weird?”

“I thought you Americans do a half-decent survival school. After eating bugs and worms, are you really that worried over what a Michelin three-star chef is going to make for you?”

She leaned back, looking disgruntled. In a heartbeat, she’d gone from stunningly beautiful to fluffy kitten cute.

“You’re quite the chameleon, Rebel.”

“How so?”

“I’ve identified at least four versions of you so far, and each one is entirely different.”

“Do tell.” She sipped the wine the waiter had poured for her, and abruptly, her attention riveted not on him but on her glass. “Holy crap,” she muttered.

“Is it ruined?” he asked quickly. “Cork in the wine? Soured?”

“No. I had no idea wine could taste like this. I don’t even like wine. But this is...amazing.”

He leaned back, grinning. “Ahh. Welcome to the civilized world. Where pleasure is more than fleeting and people achieve actual happiness.”

She scowled at him, back to being a hedgehog—prickly, but still adorable.

He sipped at his wine, savoring the complex bouquet. “So tell me this. Why would men like Mahmoud and Yousef bother dumping chlorine in a pool? It’s a far too low-level attack—too amateur for men of their training and skill.”

“Agreed. Unless it was some sort of test run. Maybe they were checking the emergency response. Or maybe they wanted to see if any sophisticated monitoring and detection equipment was brought out and used.”

An interesting theory. He replied, “It’s not as if poisoning a bunch of people with a chlorine attack is likely to succeed without being detected. It stinks to high heaven, and people have some time to run away from the fumes, and in this case skin burns, before they’re seriously injured or killed.”

“Obviously,” she retorted. “But what if they’re planning to use some other poison gas in a larger attack? Why go to all the trouble of setting up a lethal attack if you know the Olympic security team is prepared to detect it and stop it?”

“But we are prepared to identify the usual nerve gasses.”

She shrugged. “I know that, and you know that. But do the Iranians know that? Or are they testing the edges of our defenses to measure what we can and can’t respond to?”

“Or maybe a few drunk hooligans thought dumping a bunch of chlorine in the pool would be a funny joke.”

She studied him long and hard enough that he began to wonder what she was thinking about him. Only perverse stubbornness stopped him from asking. The same stubbornness frustrated his parents to no end, but had also saved his life on countless occasions when he refused to give up in the face of impossible odds. Hell, he was beginning to think getting this woman to relax and enjoy herself a little was one of those damn near impossible tasks.

Clearly, she intended to keep the talk over dinner entirely business. So be it. For now.

“Fine,” he conceded. “If it was, in fact, an attack, you’re likely right. It probably wasn’t random drunks. Have you considered the timing of the attack? Could it even have been your terrorists?”

She shrugged. “Mahmoud and Yousef left the pool about thirty minutes before everyone started reacting to the chlorine. They would have had to use some sort of dissolving packaging or pellets that melted slowly for the timing to work.”

“Okay,” he replied. “That’s a plausible hypothesis. Do you have any proof of it?”

“There are no lights in that pool, hence no underwater video. I’ve checked the security cameras for last night, but the crowd is so dense around the pool I can’t make out anyone who might have dumped anything in the water.”

“So your theory will have to remain just that. A theory.”

“A scary theory that you and my bosses would do well to take seriously,” she retorted.