Free JET - Ops Files by Russell Blake Page B

been. A tingle of fear tickled her stomach. Her life was in the hands of an openly hostile system that didn’t have her interests at heart.
    Same as ever.
    The bolt scraped on the heavy steel door, and it swung wide. Avi entered, and it slammed shut behind him. He sat down heavily, his expression angry, which was only slightly different from his demeanor yesterday.
    “You lied to me. About everything,” he began. No greeting, no small talk.
    “What do you mean? I didn’t lie–”
    “I have the application you completed for consideration for the Mossad, along with your aptitude test results. Nothing you told me matches up with it.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “Your language test showed a C grade and no indication that you speak Arabic, or anything else. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but lying to me is a surefire ticket to the stockade for a very long time.”
    Her eyes widened in puzzlement. “But I do. I have no idea why it’s graded like that. They never show us the results. It just disappears into a black hole–”
    “Fine. Why don’t you explain to me what you think happened?” Avi suggested in accented Arabic.
    “I already told you. Why my test would be graded that way, I have no idea,” she responded in Arabic. “Unless…I smell Kevod in this.”
    Avi’s stern countenance registered surprise. “Your Arabic is good.”
    “It’s better than good. It’s perfect,” she said, then switched to English with a vaguely Midwestern American accent. “As is my English, French, and all the rest. Look, someone altered my submission. Can you take two guesses who that might have been?”
    Avi sat back, thoughtful. “I need to take this under advisement.”
    “Great. Meanwhile I’m rotting in here.”
    “The other part of your story also doesn’t check out. There were no explosives at the mosque.”
    She looked genuinely puzzled. “And the ball bearings?”
    “They were found, but there was no device, just two bags of bearings, which while suspect, is hardly enough to clear you.”
    “Wait. The bomb maker. He said something about the device being mounted in a utility truck with a remote detonator.”
    “Sure he did.”
    “No, I’m serious. Want to bet the explosives are somewhere else, and they just stopped at the mosque to pick up more supplies? Or perhaps there’s another explanation…”
    “Like there’s no bomb.”
    “Look, you didn’t believe me about my language skills, and you’ve seen you were wrong. Give me the benefit of the doubt. And what possible innocent reason can you think of for there to be a cache of ball bearings in a mosque? Tell me that.”
    “Coming up with alternative theories isn’t how I typically mount a convincing defense unless I have absolutely nothing else to go with. I prefer evidence that shows the charges are baseless. Unfortunately, at least one of the counts is easy to prove. You were off the base, out of uniform, when you were supposed to be in the barracks.”
    “I was in uniform beneath the robe.”
    “That means nothing.”
    “If you go into the West Bank wearing an IDF uniform and you’re not in an armed convoy, it’s a death sentence.”
    Avi sighed. “I understand that. I completely get why you were disguised. For your own safety. Unfortunately, all that proves is that you didn’t want to get killed by an angry mob. It says nothing about your motives.”
    “I already told you why I did it.”
    “Even if I believed you, that still makes you guilty of most of the charges, Maya.” He paused. “What were you thinking would happen? Really?”
    She stared at the dented metal tabletop and rubbed a tired hand across her face. “I figured they’d find the bomb and throw me a parade. Honestly. I’m not suicidal.” She closed her eyes and then sat up and snapped her fingers. “The bomb maker. Do you have a list of the Palestinian casualties at the mosque?”
    Avi shook his head. “What does that have to do