She had a grim look on her face. “They call it a martyr’s vest. They’re all wearing them now.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I suddenly remembered my companion. “Henry!” I shouted, and started for the ravine, but the woman reached out and grabbed my arm. “Unless you’ve had some heavy duty combat experience, you don’t want to go down there and see that. I’m sorry but your friend is gone.” She shook her head angrily. “Aren’t you people even briefing your agents on what to expect?”
I still didn’t know what she was talking about, but when she pulled on my arm I dutifully followed her back to her car. “What do we do about Henry?” I asked as she started the engine. “I need to let somebody know what’s happened to him.”
She shook her head angrily. “The only thing we need to do now is to get out of here. They may have sent a second team.”
“Who sent a second team?” I asked, nevertheless fastening my seatbelt.
“ISIS, Al Qaeda, whoever. As far as we’re concerned, the distinctions don’t matter right now. They want to kill you, and I need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Involuntarily I looked over my shoulder, but no one was following us.
When I looked forward I noticed a chunk of something red and oozing that had run down on the windshield. The woman turned on the wipers and the windshield cleaner and washed it away. “That was part of Henry!” I thought sickly. Then it struck me that Henry and the woman must have been working as a team. I turned to her and said, “I’m sorry about your partner.”
“What partner?” she asked in puzzlement.
“Henry – the guy back there who got blown up.”
“He wasn’t my partner; I’m not with the FBI.”
Now I was really confused. “But if you’re not FBI, who are you with?”
She glanced over at me for a moment before returning her eyes to the road. “I’m with the Mossad,” she said quietly.
I gaped at her. “The Israeli intelligence agency? What does the Mossad want with me?” I demanded.
Her lips pursed into a tight, straight line. “Right now we’re trying to save your ass,” she shot back as the car slid around a tight downhill turn.
I slumped back in my seat in confusion, unable to comprehend what was happening to me. As I sat there trying to make sense of what was happening, I noticed that we were out of the park and appeared to be heading back toward I-40. Now that we weren’t careening through hairpin turns, I thought it might be safe to try to get some answers.
“Ok, well I do appreciate your saving my life back there, uh . . . I don’t even know your name.”
She looked over at me again and there was a little smile on her face. “I’m Esther Freeman,” she said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Thomas Selfridge.”
We were now back on the interstate headed east toward Oak Ridge. I watched as she set the cruise control for five miles above the speed limit.
The shock of what had happened was beginning to wear off, but it left behind only confusion. Why were Arab terrorists trying to kill me? Why was a Mossad agent protecting me? What was I supposed to do now? What the hell was going on?
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