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least something positive had come from this whole experience: a beautiful woman had never paid his bill and then run to catch up with him before.
    As he approached the road, he noticed a tall lanky figure climb out of a Volvo and amble towards them. The man took off his dark glasses and extended a hand.
    “Hi, Neil,” Bruce Bryden said, smiling. “Good to see you again. You haven't changed at all.”
    Neil looked up at the tall man. He stood with his hands hanging by his side, relaxed. He squinted his eyes in the sun; he wore a day-old grey stubble on his leathery face. His hair was still clipped short, but the black was gone, replaced by salt-and-peppery tones.
    “I need to be paid for the job, Bryden. I know what you are planning is the right thing to do, but I have a life as well.” He paused, glancing up at the older man. “I’m not going to be used again.”
    Bruce chuckled. “Ah, the payment. A small detail.” He gazed over Neil’s shoulder. “I assume Alexa hasn't briefed you on the bank account?”
    Alexa stepped past Neil. “He wouldn't let me finish, Dad,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and looking cross.
    “Bank account?” Neil asked.
    Bruce nodded. “We have access to the organization’s Mauritian bank account. They call themselves the Dalerian Institute.”  
    “We've transferred some money to our own account, which they didn't notice,” Alexa said.
    “How much?” Neil asked.
    “Oh, not much, less than two thousand dollars,” Alexa answered, putting on her dark glasses.
    Neil put up his hands. “What I mean is, how much is in it?”
    “Five hundred and eighty million,” Bruce answered.
    “Dollars?” Neil asked surprised.
    “Euros,” Bruce said. “And it’s growing as we speak. Compound interest is a bitch.”

     

Bruce Bryden switched on his laptop and studied the email he had received from General Laiveaux. The attachment contained a scanned copy of an affidavit written by Sergeant Neil Allen. The letter was dated April 13, 1992, and was addressed to Major Daniel Roebuck, Neil’s commander at the marines.  
    Major Roebuck,
    I hereby request an investigation be launched due to the suspicious activities of agents Owen Callahan and Miguel Perreira.
    Today an Israeli captain, Zachary Cohen, was murdered by these men.
    Furthermore, I have gathered evidence that Colonel Weinstein was being blackmailed by these men as well. He committed suicide today.
    I would appreciate a meeting with you and a military investigator to discuss the details of the information I have gathered.
    The affidavit was signed by Neil Allen, with his military tag number beneath his name. A man of few words, Bruce thought. A red word was stamped on the bottom of the page.  
    Reviewed
    Below was another black stamp.
    Not Referred
    Bruce stood and opened a window, allowing the mild breeze to circulate through the room. He looked down at the terrace. The pool shimmered like a gleaming tanzanite, illuminated from below by an LED light. Jazz music drifted towards his window as cutlery clinked and soft voices murmured in a relaxed conversational tone.
    He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “Hi, Dad.” It sounded like Alexa was in a bathtub.
    “You hungry?”
     

Mossad Headquarters
    Tel Aviv, Israel

    Frydman’s phone rang. He glanced at the number. It was Eric Glist, his software security specialist.
    “Good day, Major Frydman. I’ve found something strange, and I thought I should let you know,” Glist said, sounding excited.  
    “Go ahead.”
    “Well, I’ve installed an added layer of security on our PC’s. The program is able to detect viruses through advanced heuristic algorithms, state-of-the-art,” Glist said.
    Frydman sighed. “Isn’t our current antivirus software good enough? I don’t want more programs slowing our systems.”  
    “Our current antivirus software is fine for known viruses, sir. But it won’t detect anything brand new or undiscovered.”  
    “OK,