by E. L. Pini
“A creative plan,” said abu Bachar. “But not without risk. Tell me, how do you think the Jews will react to our attack?”
And as Imad tried to think of an answer decisive enough to nip this philosophical hypothesizing in the bud, abu Bachar provided his own answer: “They’ll have but one option left.”
“A nuke? They wouldn’t dare. They’ll be pariahs, condemned by the entire world.”
“And yet,” insisted abu Bachar, “the Jews are used to being the world’s pariahs. Wouldn’t you rather be a live pariah than a dead prince?”
“The Americans won’t let them,” Imad bit out impatiently.
“The Americans?” Abu Bachar chuckled. “The same ones who dropped two nuclear bombs on Japan, not even as an act of self-defense, but of revenge?”
“Fine,” Imad snapped. “So the Israelis drop a nuke on… what, Syria? Too close. Iran? The Iranians would retaliate, the Americans would threaten, and the Russians would be overjoyed. And from this clusterfuck, a new world order will emerge—that’s still our goal, isn’t it?! A new world order!” He stood up and his tone was commanding when he added, “You’ll locate Anna and Dr. Taissiri. I have some things I need to take care of.”
73.
Ibrahim heaved and gagged into the toilet but only managed to produce a bitter yellow fluid. The nausea grew worse every day, and so did the bloody, puss-laced discharge from his stitches. When he left the bathroom, the doorbell rang. Ibrahim glanced at the feed from the security camera and his heart dropped into his stomach. Imad Akbariyeh was standing there, accompanied by another young man. Ibrahim scurried out the back service door, unaware of the damage wrought on the London Mossad branch’s surveillance efforts by his decision to leave his banged-up Toyota parked by the curb.
Ibrahim ran as fast as he could but was soon cut off by a black Ford Escort. He collided with the bumper and fell. Bassel, the man accompanying Imad, leapt from the car, grabbed Ibrahim and tossed him into the backseat. Imad started the car in reverse and must have hit a nearby drunk, who kicked the car and yelled extremely impolite Irish-accented slurs about the mothers and fathers of “all those fuckin’ Jews and Arabs and blacks.”
Imad raised his eyes to the rearview mirror and stared at Ibrahim.
“You’re coming with me to Jerusalem, now.”
“Today? But… my boy. His mother’s dead… cancer… he’s all alone,” he wept.
Imad stopped the car, turned around, grabbed Ibrahim’s throat and squeezed until he started to gurgle. Bassel glared at Imad, and he released Ibrahim and changed tactics.
“Your son, Muhammad. He’ll live with the imam and his wife until he finishes college. How’re his studies going? Computer science, right?”
Muhammad’s future was all Ibrahim cared about, and he visibly calmed, smiling. “Actually, he’s recently gotten it into his head to study music… he’s very talented,” he added, noticing Imad’s skeptically raised eyebrow. “He really is, he’s just passed the entrance exam for the Royal Academy…”
“Let’s make a deal, Ibrahim. First computer science, then music.”
“Oh, if only. He’s so stubborn… maybe… could you talk to him? I’m sure he’ll listen, if you say something.”
Imad reached his hand between the seats and shook Ibrahim’s. “Deal. I’ll talk to him. Ibrahim, when was your most recent contact with Dr. Taissiri?”
“Nothing since the operation. Sorry. Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. Must be something wrong with his phone… who were you partnered with?”
“Latif. He lives nearby.”
“I have some things I need discuss with abu Bachar. Take me back, then go pick up Latif and meet me at the airport.”
The alarm light from the cameras tracking Latif’s house was blinking. The Israeli student working part-time at the surveillance station, trying for the ninth or tenth time to perform a proper regression analysis, ignored it completely. “Fucking Arab can wait a couple of minutes,” he grumbled.
After several minutes, he raised his head at the screens and saw that Latif’s alarm had gone quiet, but, glancing at Ibrahim’s screen, he noticed that the Toyota was still parked. He noted in the log that Ibrahim had stayed in the garage to work late, and then got back to studying to his statistics exam tomorrow morning at the London School of Economics. The regression problems, specifically, were quite the bitch.
Bassel, Ibrahim and Latif then drove to a real estate office in Stamford Hill and picked up Anwar. The desperate student groaned at the digital buzz and blinking red light, eventually raising his head at the screen displaying the entrance to Anwar’s office. He saw Anwar leaving the real estate office, accompanied by Bassel, whom he did not recognize. This was an extremely regular occurrence—Anwar would often accompany Arab clients to view properties, and so the student logged, “Anwar—business meeting, out of office.”
74.
“Coffee? Another round?”
Imad nodded vaguely, deep in thought. Abu Bachar signaled the waiter.
“How many shahids do we have who are ready for action?”
“Anwar, Latif and Ibrahim, here in London. Another one in Frankfurt, three in Brussels, two more in Paris.”
“So, nine total?”
“There used to be fourteen,” Imad replied and counted them off on his fingers. “The first one was activated in Rome, second one in Paris—no, wait—Riyadh first, then Paris, then Córdoba, then the last one when I was with you in Norwich.”
Abu Bachar promised to collect the other four shahids within forty-eight hours and fly them to Amman. From there he would arrange transport to Palestine. Imad warned abu Bachar not to use any digital form of communication. “Those Israelis hear everything,” he said.
Abu Bachar burst into laughter. When he noticed Imad’s puzzled stare, he explained how hilarious he found the fact that getting into Israel was so difficult. “They train their dogs to smell Arabs, not just explosives. But once you’re in there… weapons, ammunition, explosives, you name it, they got it. Just place an order, the Bedouins will get you everything you need. The Jews in the settlements also sell, mostly small arms and grenades.” Imad nodded. His cousin, Uncle Mahajna’s son, had already contacted a Bedouin named Ayach to provide the Semtex they required. The same cousin, who regularly smuggled illegals into Israel, would also be responsible for setting up the safe house in Balata, to which they would escape after the explosion and lie low until the dust settled.
They decided that Imad would head to Amman immediately, with the three London-based stuffed shahids. The three of them would cross the border from Jordan to Palestine through the Lynch Strait in the Dead Sea and wait in the safe house until the arrival of the other shahids, which abu Bachar would collect from Frankfurt, Brussels and Paris.
Abu Bachar provided Imad with three official diplomatic passports, each from a different Arab state, for Ibrahim, Anwar and Latif.
A phone call cut their conversation short.
“Gertrud,” abu Bachar answered. “Wonderful. Yes, excellent… Bavarian TV, excellent. Good luck,” he concluded and hung up, raising a victorious smile at Imad. “She found Ehrlich’s house.”
Imad didn’t react. They went over communication protocols again, and when they arrived at the airstrip, the three London stuffed shahids were waiting for them. The flight plan was confirmed, and the Sultanate jet took off, headed to Amman.
75.
Two and a half miles of breaststroke, just like the Ironman ordered. I was slicing across the pool when Verbin arrived with my ristretto.
“Come out of there, you huge ball of rust.” She smiled, and I melted, tried to reach out and drag her into the water, coffee and clothes and everything, to wetly and happily entwine with her. The little minx took a step back and laughed at my look of childish indignation, informing me that old iron rusts in water. As I planned my counter
move, an urgent call came from the phone lying by the pool.
“You need to come in,” I was told. “Now.”
Nora was waiting for me.
“What’s up?” I inquired. “What’s the rush?”
Nora was uncharacteristically grave, and slightly pale, and I was officially concerned. She reported that at 06:00, Shula Greenbaum had arrived at the London branch control room monitoring the Sultanate Bayswater estate. She’d examined the surveillance log, as she did every other morning, and realized that none of her three targets were where they were supposed to be. After quickly debriefing the student who was manning the station that night, she’d put out an urgent alert.
The DM arrived, along with Froyke and Nahum from foreign affairs, and we went into the meeting room. I wanted to ask Froyke how he was feeling—looking at him, I couldn’t be sure—but decided to wait.
“According to the reports from Dr. Stroop,” Nora started, giving me the stink eye, “apart from the three Londoners, there are at least six other stuffed shahids, each holding five to seven pounds of the stuff. Three in Brussels, two in Paris, one in Frankfurt. All of them are under surveillance twenty-four seven. They never use cell phones, never use computers, and travel only by public transport—”
“If even one of them goes off,” Nahum cut her off, “even accidentally, and the locals find out we knew they were there and didn’t report it, we’re in deep shit.”
The director nodded. Froyke seemed to have trouble speaking. He cleared his throat, sipped some water and addressed Nahum quietly.
“How long do you think they’d be willing to wait?”
“Who’d be willing? What are you talking about?” Nahum snapped, clearly on edge.
“The locals,” I explained. “We need them to wait until Imad contacts one of the shahids.”
“Forget it. Won’t happen. The minute they find out, they’ll arrest them.” He added that either way, he planned on delivering them to the custody of the locals by the end of the day and letting them handle it however they saw fit.
“It’s their business,” he said. “It’s their territory, and if something happens, God forbid, we can kiss any chance of future collaboration goodbye. Not just there, too.”
Nahum looked at the director and intoned, “The damage would be irreversible.”
The director stared at us intently. “I… we… can’t take responsibility for this kind of fiasco. Nahum, handle it immediately. Get the ball in their court as soon as possible.”
He momentarily fell silent, frowning, then muttered to himself, “Frankfurt. Brussels. Paris. All in the same time zone…” He raised his voice. “Recommend that they coordinate, operate at the same time in all three cities so the targets don’t have a chance to warn one another. Ehrlich, be ready to fly out there if they request assistance.”
Nora placed a set of photos on the table. “Ibrahim, Anwar and Latif. The three who got away in London.”
The photos were passed around. “Bella,” the director said into his conference phone, “are you available? Be nice…”
“I’m always nice,” came the tetchy reply.
“Please be even nicer than usual and have our lunch delivered here…?”
“It’s already left the kitchen. You’ll get it in five seconds.”
“I swear, the old hag is supernatural,” the director muttered, glancing warily at the door. The guy from the kitchen came in with a serving cart with sliced vegetables, hamburgers, ketchup packets, and bottles of water and orange juice.
“Bon appétit,” he said and left as quickly as he had come.
The second we started eating, Nora received an urgent alert on her phone and hurriedly excused herself. The DM and Froyke munched on the vegetables and I shoved two burgers into a bun.
“Did Dr. Taissiri have any new information?”
“May he lay peacefully in the bosom of Allah,” I replied.
“Oh? How?” The director raised his eyebrows.
“Heart attack, down at the facility.”
“Who interrogated him? Was it Maxim?” The director sighed. “Oh, well…”
“Well, Godspeed,” muttered Froyke. “No rest for the wicked.”
I grinned, thinking of the famous line attributed to General Schwarzkopf. Forgiving the terrorists is God’s function. Our job was simply to arrange the meeting.
Nora returned with Anne-Marie Claire, a petite woman I’d always considered to be the very embodiment of professionalism—ageless and expressionless. She used to be a profiler for the FBI, before she had become the Mossad’s star assessor. She didn’t wait for questions, instead firing away in her heavy American accent as soon as they entered the room.
“There are three crucial points that must be addressed.”
We all stared at her expectantly, and she went on.
“Point A is the sultan’s recent acquisition. He took al Qardawi under his wing—the most respected imam in the last decade. Al Qardawi’s call for an historic conciliation between the Shiite and Sunni fits perfectly with what we know of Imad Akbariyeh’s philosophy and grasp of Islam.
“Point B—the sultan built a new Al-Aqsa Mosque. I believe he intends to destroy the old Mosque in Jerusalem, thus shifting the center of the Muslim world to his territory. Points A and B point to the sultan’s intention of becoming a new Calipha—a pan-Islamic leader.”
This information was not, in the strict sense, new to us—but I’d never heard it presented this clearly and sharply. We all knew that Imad planned to bomb the Al-Aqsa Mosque. We all knew the sultan had built a replica of the mosque in his backyard. But no one had yet to combine this knowledge into a meaningful insight.
Nora, who apparently knew what I was thinking, nodded with unrestrained pride and signaled me with several complex gestures that Anne-Marie’s head was as big as the rest of her was small.
“Now pay attention,” Nora mouthed at me as Anne-Marie continued to the next point.
“Point C is Imad Akbariyeh, an old friend of Avner’s,” she said, glancing at her laptop. “Imad studied math and computer science with Professor Hamdan Barghouti in Bir Zeit and then went to study systems analysis at Stanford, just like our very own Ehud Barak32. He speaks fluent English, and Hebrew…” Anne-Marie raised a single finger. “One thing is of particular concern. By all indications, Imad was extremely attached to his father. A truly close connection.” Her sharp eyes met mine, and she seemed to address me alone when she added, “I find it very likely that he’ll stop at nothing to take his revenge.”
“What revenge?” Froyke demanded angrily.
“Revenge on Avner,” she replied and sat down. “Nora will take it from here.”
Nora stood and brought up a large photo on the screen behind her. It was a close-up of a dead man’s face.
“This is Mustafa Akbariyeh, Imad’s father. He was killed in a Unit operation in Jabalia, and of course, commanding the operation was none other than our very own”—she theatrically indicated me with both hands—“Captain… Avner… Ehrlich.”
Nahum’s low whistle tore through the silence following her statement. Froyke drummed his fingers on the table, and I struggled to remember. Jabalia had been the “terrorist capital” of Gaza, and we would operate there often—even daily, when the situation called for it. Nora switched the image and her laser pointer drew a red dot on the forehead of the young man that appeared on the screen.
“This is Nasser Akbariyeh,” she said. “Imad’s brother. He died recently, in the bombing of the final convoy to leave Shabwah. He led the convoy and was the first to die.”
“This is serious business,” said Froyke, coughing a bit. “The Jordanians also tell us that Imad and his buddies are looking for you. At this point, it’s either kill or be killed.”
“Imad is already in Amman.” Nora finally pulled the rabbit out of her hat. “We showed t
he security footage from Bayswater to some workers from Gatwick. They recognized Imad, abu Bachar and the London trio, who all apparently boarded the Sultanate jet. Flight plan shows it landed in Amman last night.”
“So where are they?” asked Froyke.
“The local branch is working on it. Trying to place them,” said Nora. “As you know, their embassy has been under constant surveillance for a while now.”
The director seemed to finally emerge from his thoughts and spoke. “This summit of theirs will come to nothing. Saudi Arabia, the Emirates, Jordan and Egypt are out. We’re still working on the others. But this business at the Temple Mount is very disturbing. Bella!” he barked into his conference phone. “I need to meet with the prime minister, today. I would like this revenge issue addressed by Anne-Marie to receive full consideration.” The director looked at Froyke and me. “Kahanov and his team are on their way, have them handle the security detail for him”—he nodded in my direction—“and that doctor of yours.”
I started laughing. Froyke had a brief coughing fit into a handkerchief. I poured him a glass of water, and he sipped, cleared his throat and glared at me furiously.
“Vhat the hell are you laughing at?” he scolded me, his sharp Ashkenazi w momentarily escaping him. “You must realize they are gunning at you, personally! They want you dead! Weren’t you listening? The schmucks are coming after you!”
