He decided to let his curiosity rest. Freidman had ordered the woman dead and that was enough. What she had done to deserve it didn't matter. Rosenthal had gone into battle for Freidman many times and would continue to do so without question. The man was a true patriot and Rosenthal would not let him down. By midnight tonight his bidding would be done. Israel's problem would be dealt with, and the world would be none the wiser that agents of Mossad had had a hand in the death of a beautiful Italian model.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
Donatella Rahn stood in front of her mammoth glass desk and studied a series of ten-by-eight Polaroids that had just been couriered to her office from a shoot that was going on across town. After more than twenty years in the business, the first ten in front of the camera and the next eleven working for the House of Armani, she had a pretty good eye for what worked and what didn't. It was glaringly obvious from the Polaroids that the shoot was not going well. She swore to herself as she counted the thousands of dollars that were being wasted. It looked like she might have to get into a cab and go throw a fit. That was the way it worked.
It was the way it had always worked. Theirs was a business driven by passion. No passion and everything was mediocre. From the designers, to the photographers, to the stylists, to the models, if any one of them wasn't excited about the clothes and the shoot, the outcome was lukewarm at best. And when it came to the House of Armani, lukewarm just didn't cut it.
Many words could be used to describe Donatella Rahn, but lukewarm was not one of them. She had the practicality and decisiveness of her Austrian father and the creativity and passion of her Italian mother. It had taken her a good portion of her life to sort out these traits and learn to control them, or at a bare minimum channel them into the right areas of her life. It was easy for people to never make it past Don Atellas stunning beauty, but in reality she was an extremely complex person. Many men over the years had failed to see that she was more than a pretty face, and they had either been left with a broken heart or no heart at all.
At thirty-eight, Donatella looked and felt better than at any other time in her life. Yes there were a few more wrinkles around her eyes and her skin didn't have the glow that it did when she was eighteen, but she had grown into herself. There was an air of confidence in everything she did. This had not been there when she was modeling, at least not in the early years. She was five feet ten inches of statuesque woman, with a mane of silky black hair. The hair had a slight kinky curl to it that hinted at her wild side. She had a pair of full firm breasts that had been surgically enhanced back in her modeling days, and from time to time she'd gone to see her favorite plastic surgeon to have some problem areas dealt with, but the face was untouched. Her body was the perfect mix of elegance and athleticism. Gone was the rail-thin anemic look of her modeling days. Her heroin polluted body had been cleansed, replaced by a layer of well-toned muscle. In short, she was the type of woman that men lusted after.
Donatella's good looks were all the more amazing when one considered the type of life she'd led in her early twenties. At the time she had been impressionable, too concerned about her weight and about pleasing the photographers and creative directors. But more than anything she had been stupid and weak. Donatella had been seduced by the dark side of modeling. Every night of the week was a Friday night. And not just in Milan. The whole world was her playground. There were wild parties in exotic places with wealthy men. It had turned into one long party. Her life had been spinning out of control for almost a year when everything came crashing down around her.
She'd flown to Tel Aviv for a shoot and run into a bit of a snag trying to get through customs. Two ounces of heroin had been found in her luggage, and she'd been thrown into the clink. She had not been treated well. She couldn't remember all of the details, the whole thing was a bit hazy, but there'd been a lot of screaming. They'd even slapped her a few times, but more than anything she remembered the cold. It had been so cold and then after what seemed like an eternity, a man had shown up.
It was rather ironic that the first image she had in her mind of Ben Freidman was that he was a caring and compassionate soul. He had brought her a blanket; he had brought her warmth. And then after a brief visit he had brought her a doctor who gave her a shot to help with her heroin withdrawal. It was then that the stocky man had offered her a deal. It was a deal she couldn't refuse. She could either spend the best years of her life in an Israeli jail or she could come to work for him. At the time it hadn't been a difficult decision, since she had no idea what coming to work for him entailed. All she knew was that she didn't want to stay in jail.
Freidman had made all the arrangements. Donatella was checked into a treatment clinic in Israel. She called her booking agent in Milan and informed her that she had finally hit bottom and was seeking help. The agent wasn't surprised. She'd seen it happen before and would see it again. She wished Donatella the best and told her to get well. There would be plenty of work for her when she was better. Next there was the tearful phone call to her mother. Her mother was relieved, as was Donatella that the charade was over. Now she could go about healing herself. As per Freidmans instructions, Donatella explained to her mother that they could talk only once a week on Sundays. She gave her mother a phone number to use in case of an emergency and said goodbye. The phone number was not to the rehab clinic; it was routed to Mossad headquarters where a person would answer in the name of the clinic and relay any messages.
There never was a clinic. Donatella was taken to a military facility near the town ofabda in southern Israel. A doctor and staff of nurses monitored her health closely. A constant stream of instructors pushed her hard. There was small-arms training, self-defense courses, grueling physical exercise, memory exercises and much more. She was pushed from dawn until dusk every day of the week. There were many times where she didn't think she was going to make it. There were moments of despair where she thought that prison might have been the better alternative, but every time she was about to hit rock bottom Ben Freidman would show up. He'd made a habit of it over the years.
It wasn't until much later that she caught on to his little game. He wanted to be seen as the savior. The one person she could always count on. During those cold nights at the desolate camp, Freidman would show up with a bottle of wine and some bread. He would sit with her for hours, listening to her stories, trying to find out as much about her as possible. At least that's what she'd thought at the time. In reality Ben Freidman already knew a great deal about Donatella Rahn. He was testing her to find out how honest she was.
As time progressed, and the days became increasingly difficult, Donatella found herself looking forward to her evenings with Freidman. It was the first real intellectual relationship she'd ever had with a man. Thanks to her looks, most of the men in her life had been more interested in her body than her mind. But not Freidman; all he ever wanted to do was talk. At first Donatella thought he might be married, and then she thought maybe he was gay, but in the end it turned out to be neither. He was simply an incredibly dedicated and professional man.
Eventually Freidman did more talking. He explained in detail the tenuous position that Israel was in. He helped Donatella explore her own Jewish roots, and he talked passionately of the horrible injustices thrust upon the House of David. Slowly but surely over the two-month period Donatella grew stronger, and with each step forward came an increasing sense of devotion to Ben Freidman. Her sense of loyalty grew so strong that she would eventually kill for him, and not just once, but many times.