The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) by David Khara Page A

the bank. If all goes as planned, we’ll be on the flight home at one this afternoon.”
    “Cool. There’s no point hanging around. I want to be back for Mom’s funeral.”
    Jeremy stiffened, fighting a wave of grief.
    “I understand. But…” Jackie hesitated, as if sincerely regretting what she was about to say. “There’s next to no chance Bernard will allow you to attend. You’d be playing into the hands of the people gunning for your family. Bernard wants to keep the lid on my assignment with you, so he won’t agree to a major protection operation or even lay a trap for your enemies.”
    “I can’t let her go without saying goodbye, Jackie. No way. She raised me on her own, and I was never in the running for Son of the Year. I owe it to her.”
    Jackie remained silent. Jeremy interpreted it as a mark of compassion—an unexpected one, at that. When she spoke, her tone had changed. “We’re being followed.”
    “What?”
    “A black Mercedes on our tail. I’ve been changing lanes and ignoring the GPS for the last few miles, just driving at random. We’re not dealing with a genius, but he can drive.”
    “Do you have a plan?” Jeremy realized just how small she looked behind the huge wheel.
    “Unarmed, it’s better to avoid contact. Dammit, we’re passing up a great opportunity to snare them and find out more.”
    “Them? You don’t think it’s my giant?”
    “From what you said and Bernard’s reaction, I don’t see that guy letting himself be spotted so easily.”
    “What do we do?”
    “Let them follow us. Forewarned is forearmed. We’re ahead of the game.”
    A Peugeot taxi tailing a Lexus that was being followed by a Mercedes. The situation verged on the ridiculous. Eytan smiled. They were doing everything to make life easy for him. Blondie would be watching the Merc, not him. The pursuers, who were anything but smart apparently, wouldn’t pay any attention to him either.
    So far, so good. A little inner voice whispered to Eytan , For how long?

CHAPTER 17
    T hey’re still on our ass. Jackie says there’s no point trying to lose them. I feel like a worm on a hook. Not a fate I envy. Note to self: Cool car, this Lexus. If I make it out of this and can sit behind a wheel again, I’ll buy one to replace my DB9.
    We reach the hotel with them on our tail. Thank God, it’s an underground parking garage. They don’t push their luck by following us in. Blondie’s right. They’re waiting for us to recover whatever’s in the safe-deposit box before hitting us like a swarm of locusts on a field of wheat. If I had to choose, I’d take the locusts. But you don’t always get what you want.
    I’ve decided to let events take their course. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. I can’t see my pocket-size bodyguard stopping a colossus riddling me with bullets. We’ll see. In any case, she’s got the discreet surveillance of her surroundings down pat. Good job.
    The hotel’s pure luxury. I don’t know about the city. I only saw it reflected in a rearview mirror. At least I’ve got a Swiss stamp in my passport now. I can start a collection. The elevator takes us straight to the lobby. Big, clean and shiny. Hip mirrors on the walls. I was hoping for a Swiss chalet, and I wind up in a cookie-cutter boutique. We could be anywhere in the world. It’s almost sad. The standard desk and receptionist seen a thousand times before. Jackie registers us as Mr. and Mrs. Ingalls. The guy doesn’t notice my look of surprise. Charles and Caroline Ingalls—alcoholic trader and CIA killer. Shit’s going down in The Little House on the Prairie . I lean back six degrees to scope her butt. Nice. A married man now, but don’t expect me to be sawing wood just yet. Best of all, the CIA’s picking up the tab. If killers weren’t chasing me, my parents hadn’t just died, and I didn’t feel like a rat in a maze, I’d almost think I was on vacation.
    A bellhop appears with a black case. Jackie smiles. Tooled