(With thanks to Alison)
Deep below the desert floor, an NCO carried a blinking phone on a silver tray. The dampness of the air in the tunnel clung to him, giving the man an unwarranted appearance of heavy sweating. Truth be told, only the slight shaking of the tray truly betrayed the anxiety the career sergeant was experiencing.
He paused at a thick blast door, allowing the white-armoured guard to give him a professional glance. The guard pressed a hidden button, and the blast door slid silently open. As the sergeant stepped through the door, two more white-clad guards stopped him for a swift, efficient frisking. The light on the phone, meanwhile, blinked implacably. The sergeant began to sweat for real as he was cleared for further access by the guards. Only a heavy drape separated him from the distinct possibility of a terse note to his next of kin.
Straightening his spine, the sergeant placed his free hand on the drape, and pushed it aside.
Zturk had sat moodily for hours, waiting for the Paris team to re-establish contact. Twice already that week they had damaged the transmitter, and both occasions had given his companion plenty to crow about as the incompetent fools had struggled to repair the advanced technology.
Too, the drapes that hung over both entrances to the room seemed only to reflect the sound back in on him, so there was no escaping the witch and her piercing, bell-like laugh. But he had entered into an agreement with the woman, and would honour it. He had not risen to his current position by acting hastily, or disposing of potentially valuable assets. And this Tavira was a potentially vital asset. She had strengths, such as the armoured soldiers she had gifted him to guard their safety. And if the guards seemed happier in his employ than hers, it was only a sign of the ruthlessness with which she conducted her business. Ruthlessness he had not suspected when he had first met her.
As the drape moved aside, Zturk looked up. The soldier holding the drape open also held a blinking telephone on a tray. Zturk looked at the instrument in mild surprise, blinking languidly as the sergeant walked over to stand beside him.
"It's for you, sir," the sergeant said, a little unnecessarily as he pushed the tray towards Zturk.
Zturk took the phone, and scowled at Tavira, who was standing, her back to him, apparently studying one of the intricate tapestries that hung from the walls of the octagonal room.
"Speak," he said, holding the phone to his face.
"We have failed you, sir," the heavily accented voice came in reply. Zturk grimaced as he recognised the voice of one of his Israeli agents, the man who was commanding the Parisian mission.
"Report," Zturk snarled, his mind already running at light speed through the possibilities.
"Our craft was assaulted while we were still in the dock, sir. We sustained casualties, and the ship was damaged."
"The equipment?"
"Taken, we believe, sir. We have been unable to find any trace. It has taken me this long to make contact with you, sir."
"And how have you managed this?" Zturk asked, belatedly realising that the subterranean chamber wasn't exactly listed in the phone book.
"One of my men, sir. They have a contact in the phone company. More than that, sir, I would not care to say."
He didn't need to. There was only one Iraqi on the Paris team. Whoever the 'contact' was, Zturk would be having a short discussion with them. But first, Zturk thought, he would have to deal with the sudden headache he was having.
"Did it occur to you that calling me on an open line was dangerous?" Zturk asked. He scowled at the phone momentarily, before holding it back to his ear.
"I assure you we have taken some basic precautions, sir. We felt a short conversation was worth the risk. We have intelligence to report, sir."
"It had better be good," Zturk said. Even through the pounding headache, he was aware of the weakness of his threat.
"The team that assaulted the ship was comprised of a man and two women, sir. The man and one of the women were seen wielding strange swords that seemed to be made of laser light, sir." He went on to give a physical description of the assault team, then added: "One of my men, well, he is drunk, very drunk, sir, but he is firm in his story that he was stalked by some kind of demon before the assault. I do not know how much to believe of him."
"Punish him as you see fit. Then return to us for debriefing and reassignment. You will not fail us again."
"As you say, sir," the Israeli replied, before ringing off.
"Do I even need to ask?" Tavira said, turning to face Kurtz. Her ever present riding crop cracked down on her gloved palm, and she smiled slightly as she looked at him. Tapping the end of the crop against her lips, she prowled around the console in the centre of the room, at which he sat.
"Your team failed you. The piece we wanted is lost. You're cursing the parents of the men you sent after it and... Yes, by the veins standing out on your temples, I suspect you have the largest migraine imaginable, am I correct?"
Zturk hissed, and weighed the phone handset in his hand, searching for something, anything, against which to smash it. But the technology in the damp bunker was constantly in a state of repair, and one more bout of abuse might cause severe damage. Zturk sighed, and settled for squeezing the handset, his scarred chest rising and falling deeply as his hand trembled from the pressure he was exerting on the plastic device.
The sergeant coughed. All but invisible, or at least ignored, in the corner of the room, he had escaped the notice of both Zturk and Tavira. Pointedly, he stared at the phone in Zturk's hand, and Zturk relented on his quest to shatter the unit into fragments.
"Sir, there is a second call waiting on the line," the sergeant said. Blinking, Zturk looked down at the handset. Sure enough, the call waiting light was pulsing steadily. He scowled, furious at another call coming in to his supposedly unknown location.
"It is for Admiral Tavira," the sergeant commented, before withdrawing swiftly from the room.
Tavira took the phone haughtily, tossing back her head as she brought the handset to her ear. Her mane of glossy black hair shook out as she pressed the button to receive the call.
"Yes?" she snapped.
"Admiral," a worried voice began. "The man Rouddim, he did not arrive for the transfer."
"Then you searched his base?"
"Yes Admiral. We used the data you gave us to storm it, but all we could discover there was a box that may have contained the item you wished us to obtain."
"And no sign of Rouddim?"
"Merely documents, Admiral. They suggest he is to go to Israel. They were cleverly disguised, but my men were able to decipher..."
"I'm sure your men performed admirably. You, on the other hand, have disappointed me, and that is never a good thing. I do not take kindly to disappointment. You and your men will return and be debriefed. We shall discuss your mission's failure then," Tavira said, coldly. She disconnected the phone with a vicious stab of her finger, and then hurled it across the room.
When the crash had faded, Zturk stared at the young woman.
"Do I even need to ask?" he sneered.
"The bastard Rouddim has made off with his segment of the device," Tavira said. Spinning on her heel, she slashed her riding crop across one of the room's tapestries, slashing the expensive piece down the middle. Zturk allowed himself a small smile at the woman's anger.
"So, we are both short a piece of the shield. Not something calculated to please our 'colleagues'," Zturk said, with a sigh. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled a small bottle out, and swallowed two of the pills contained within.
"Do you have any idea what your man will do with the piece he has taken?"
"That mercenary?" she spat. "Sell it, of course. I'm sure someone will give him money for it. The Americans, I should think."
"That cannot be allowed to happen," Zturk said, grimacing. The thought of coming so close to ensuring his country's safety, only to have the Americans rob him at the pass, was unbearable.
"They say," Tavira began, gesturing at the remains of the phone, "that Rouddim is bound for Israel. Would he be able to sell the device there?"
"The international arms market is strong in this part of the world," Zturk replied. Tavira noticed something about the way he said the words, but couldn't quite decide what it was.
"Then we can consider that a good place to start looking. I shall contact my men to go there," she made to walk out of the room, and towards the communication chamber. She paused in the door, and turned to face Zturk again. "And Rouddim had a woman when I saw him. She might be an angle through which Rouddim can be snared. I shall warn my men to watch for her, as well. She was a mere bit of fluff, but maybe Rouddim cares for her. Men form such silly attachments to a pretty face after all."
Zturk scowled, and rose from his chair. "If you think you will use the telephones again..." he began, but stopped when Tavira pushed his jaw shut with her riding crop.
"Come now, Colonel," she said, as their gazes locked on one another. "You know my men are equipped only with mobile telephones. Much cheaper, and much easier, than giving them any of the more... advanced equipment. So I shall call them using one of your own telephones, and they shall call me on your own telephones."
They held one another's gaze for an age. Kurtz stood impassive, despite the riding crop digging into his jaw. The tip of Tavira's tongue slithered across her lips, wetting them in a way many would have found seductive, or at least unsettling. But Kurtz was as still as though frozen, and Tavira slowly began to fidget. Eventually, she span on one heel, and strode away from Kurtz, whose face betrayed no emotion at the small victory. As she passed through the door, she fired one last jibe at him.
"After all," she said, her back to Kurtz. "If the call is traced, it is of no consequence to me. This is your secret hideaway, not mine." Then she was gone.
Kurtz held his position for a little more time, and then returned to his seat. There, he began making contact with his own teams, and giving out his own orders.