Tom Clancy Target Acquired

vacation.

 

As if on cue, a man settled into a plastic seat adjacent to a table at the opposite side of the alley. He was late forties to early fifties, with a full head of blond hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. The man dusted off the table with the fastidious nature of someone unaccustomed to the grit and dirt common to open-air markets. Once he'd cleared the spot in front of him of all debris real and imaginary, he flagged down a waiter.

 

The proprietor came over with a smile and the man ordered a coffee in English before adding the obligatory toda, thank you. The waiter smiled again before leaving to fetch the man's order.

 

Just another foreigner in a diverse, multinational crowd.

 

But to Jack's practiced eye, the man still seemed out of place.

 

It wasn't so much his fair complexion in the sea of olive-toned skin or his attire. Though the majority of the shoppers were Israeli or Arab, plenty of Europeans mingled with the natives. And the man had done a fairly respectable job of incorporating local fashion. He wore a button-down shirt in the local style, open at the collar so that a tuft of chest hair poked through, and jeans and sensible shoes.

 

No, it wasn't the man's wardrobe or genetics. His actions were the problem. Rather than the laissez-faire attitude coupled with liberal shoving that pervaded the rest of the afternoon shoppers, the man was clearly on edge. His head moved with sharp, birdlike movements as he looked from one end of the alley to the other, scrutinizing each passerby like he was a man on a mission.

 

Which he was.

 

But he was supposed to be behaving as if he wasn't.

 

Popping the last bite of falafel into his mouth, Jack dusted off his hands and then slid his cell from his pocket. Opening the notes app, Jack began to annotate his initial impressions. Tel Aviv was already one of his favorite cities, and while he'd like to do nothing m