This might be something worth looking into, he thought as he laid the cement piece down and picked up a brochure. On the cover, two women stood next to a full-sized Oakley Marilyn. He recognized the woman on the right from the article. She was the artist, and under a headshot of her was the name Alicia Marcos. When he saw the second woman’s photo, his breath caught. She was exquisite. Her blue eyes were the color of ice, and they were staring right through the camera lens into his own. He read her name—Nicole le Roux.

Dropping the brochure onto his desk, he turned toward his computer and did a Google search on her. He quickly learned she was a model from South Africa who currently lived in Milan. Clicking from All to Images offered him row after row of photos of her. Some professional, some candid. Some sexy, some girl-next-door. Soon he found himself lost in the repetition of sliding to the bottom of a page, refreshing, then sliding to the bottom of another.

When he reached the end of the available photos, he turned back to the brochure. He skimmed through it page by page, looking for her. Then on the back cover, he found one final photograph of Nicole and the artist. They were standing in front of a new painting, this one a glamorous woman staring through her fingers. Across the bottom were the words Let us come tell you why you should own a Marcos. A phone number was listed.

Saad pressed a button on his phone.

“Yes, Mr. Salim?”

“Noora, come in here, please. I need you to set up a meeting for me. I’m in need of an artistic makeover for the Cafala Bahr.”

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

ONE DAY LATER

MOSSAD OUTPOST, ERBIL, IRAQ—NOVEMBER 25, 2020—04:55 / 4:55 A.M. AST

Is there a coffee maker around here?” Lahav asked. He was dressed in desert camouflage and had a helmet on his head that looked like a giant mushroom cap perched on a narrow stem. Nir had made the decision to go with the desert camo instead of civilian clothes. He figured his team had a much better chance of blending with the surrounding countryside than they did with the Iranian residents.

“Watch me,” Dima said. “I’ll barista you some field coffee.” He walked to a table that held several dozen bottles of water. Cracking one open, he scooped some brown crystals out of a can, funneled his hand over the opening, and dumped them in. After replacing the cap, he shook the bottle until the crystals dissolved.

“Here you go,” said the Russian, tossing the bottle to the analyst.

Lahav grimaced. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

Doron joined the conversation. “Come on. You used to be in prison. Don’t you guys make hooch in your toilets or something?”

“Don’t remind me. Found out that little fact the hard way.” Lahav shook his head.