The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  “Show me successful al-Qaeda strikes for the past two years,” Gomez ordered the man.

  Little red numbers appeared in sequence across the four maps.

  “Notice the progression,” Gomez said.

  At first, most of the dots showed up on the Asian map, first in Iraq and then in Afghanistan. Soon, more dots appeared, but this time clustered around Israel and Jordan.

  “Al-Qaeda is coming back to where they started. They’re beginning to focus on Palestine,” Gomez said. “That’s why Dean is there. We’re using all assets available to stop Palestine from becoming another Taliban-like state.”

  Carla was impressed. It was clear that Dean’s work was vital to stopping the terrorist group. But was al-Qaeda in America? “I still don’t see any strikes in our part of the world.”

  “Show me foiled plots in the past two years,” Gomez commanded.

  The technician removed the red dots and introduced numbered yellow dots. Many appeared in Iraq and Afghanistan, but subsequently spread across America: to Minnesota, Georgia, Missouri, New Jersey, Texas and Michigan.

  Added together, the number of attempted strikes against America was distressing. Yet the success rate at disrupting the plots was equally impressive. “So you’re saying there’s a concerted effort to strike America now?”

  “Not especially. Terrorism here seems to be more opportunistic than strategic. But my point is that al-Qaeda does operate here, and there’s reason to believe they have support here.”

  “So they can strike at will?”

  “Within reason, yes.”

  Okay, she was depressed. “Can you show me Palestinian strikes in the past two years?” she asked.

  As she suspected, green dots representing successful strikes were few and limited to the immediate area around and within Israel. “Nothing in America.”

  Gomez turned to her. “Now do you see my reasoning?”

  She left the room with a grudging respect for America’s counterintelligence effort, and a gnawing question. Once back in Gomez’s office, she let it out. “Why are there so many al-Qaeda strikes around Israel compared with Palestinian strikes?”

  “Good question. Go to the head of the class.” He sat back with a self-satisfied smile.

  It explained why Dean was in Israel and dealing with al-Qaeda.

  Just then a young man leaned into the office. “Police just discovered a suspicious-looking package on a subway train in New York.”

  Gomez’s eyes met Carla’s. “Point and match.”

  The picture was beginning to fill in for her. She could believe that al-Qaeda, not the Palestinians, had been behind the blast that nearly killed Rachel.

  But she left Gomez’s office still wondering, how did al-Qaeda know that Rachel Levy was working on the al-Qaeda threat?

  She needed to meet Rachel.

  Chapter 23

  Dean stood before an enormous white cube in the harsh sunlight of midday. It was the Tomb of the Patriarchs. It was the only edifice that remained from the reign of Herod the Great.

  Herod was considered Great because of his building projects and his influence on history. He had created an enormous temple in Jerusalem whose four retaining walls still supported the platform known as the Temple Mount. A client of the Roman Empire, he built fortresses, laid out entire cities and conducted business with Queen Cleopatra. As a Jewish king, he purportedly told the Magi to look for the baby Jesus in Bethlehem and report back to him so that he might kill the child who was supposedly destined to usurp his position as king of the Jews.

  The lone structure that remained from his reign was less grand in scale. In fact, it looked rather austere from the outside. But it had become a point of controversy.

  Initially built for Jews, it was turned into a church by the Byzantines, a mosque by the Muslims, a church by the Crusaders and back to a mosque. After Israel gained control of the West Bank in the Six-Day War, Jews could visit the site for the first time since the Islamic conquest of Hebron in the Seventh Century. In order to segregate Jewish from Islamic worshipers, in 1996 the Israeli government divided the building into two parts. The barrier was more than a practical solution to a religious problem. It was a daily reminder of the inability of the two religions to co-exist.

  Earlier that morning, Dean had woken up in the hilltop settlement. He had drunk a cup of Folgers coffee and eaten fresh lox and a bagel. He had called Abdul Aziz and set up the meeting for that morning.

  He had kept the call brief and vague. “I’ll be at the Tomb of the Patriarchs,” he said.

  Aziz had replied simply. “Use the Jewish chamber overlooking Isaac’s grave at dhuhr.”

  Dean was familiar with the Islamic term, referring to the noontime prayer.

  That was all they said. On faith alone, he had walked downhill unescorted in his blue suit and white shirt and tie. He walked behind two Jewish mothers, who were heading to a corner store run by an Arab. One was saying, “His pears are awful. I told him so.”

  “You should have dumped his fruit into the street,” the other said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m new here.”

  “Give the bastards what they deserve.”

  Further down the street, he could tell he was leaving Israeli-controlled area because the shop windows were boarded up, the doors welded shut. He was walking through a market that had been closed for over a decade.

  He had caught one of the ubiquitous Mercedes-Benz cabs and taken it to the Tomb of the Patriarchs, arriving within minutes.

  As described by Ari, the building had two gates guarded by tight-lipped Israeli soldiers on one side and Palestinian police with holstered pistols on the other. They patted down the tourists and faithful alike. A prominent notice told visitors in Arabic, Hebrew and English what they were restricted from bringing into the holy place. One item was assault rifles.

  Following Ari’s instructions, he stepped through the Jewish gate to the southwest and entered the compound.

  Once beyond the gate, he took in the sheer size of the building’s imposing stone walls. Raised on several tiers of stairs, the rectangular structure had two remaining minarets on opposing corners. For the Jews, it was second in importance only to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem’s Old City where it was believed the world was first formed and God gathered the dust to create Adam. But the tomb’s enormity was commensurate with its significance as the burial place of three patriarchs, each important to the history of Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

  He climbed a long flight of stairs to the sunny, southwest wall of the building. From that height, he felt relative tranquility above the fray of the encroaching city. Abraham had bought the parcel of land when it was an empty field and buried his wife in an underground cavern. Eventually he, too, was interred there with his son and grandson. The three of them were the patriarchs of Israel.

  Jewish worshipers were touching the wall and then their lips as they entered. Dean followed several Hebrew-speaking men in black hats and Prince Albert frocks. He wasn’t dressed for the part and didn’t pray. The Tomb of the Patriarchs was a Christian site as well, but he barely considered himself that, either.

  He breezed past the chamber where a blue-tiled memorial, the spectacular cenotaph of Abraham, stood bathed in sunlight. A far simpler cenotaph nearby remembered Abraham’s wife Sarah.

  Along one wall sat a carved stone building with two small columns and prayer rugs. That was the entrance to the caves, rediscovered in 1119 by a Christian monk. The monk had followed a draft of air that led him under the flagstones to a narrow passage that ran the length of the room. There he had found a round, plastered room with a large, square slab on the ground. That led down to dusty caves where he discovered the bones.

  Dean glanced at the beautifully illuminated marble memorials to Jacob and his wife Leah. Jacob was the grandson of Abraham and Sarah and the father of Israel.

  As instructed by Abdul Aziz, Dean slipped into an alcove where Jews could observe Isaac and Rebekah’s cenotaphs, replicas
of stone houses with pitched roofs and horizontal red stripes. The memorials were overwhelmed by the huge mosque with its vaulted ceiling in which they had been built.

  On certain days of the year, Jews were allowed to enter the mosque to pray at Isaac’s cenotaph. Dean tested the doors in the corners of the alcove. They were locked from the other side. Through iron bars, he could see that those observing noonday prayer occupied nearly a quarter of the mosque. They knelt in unison before the domed niche of the mihrab that indicated the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca.

  The Tomb of the Patriarchs certainly was the wellspring of Judeo-Christianity and Islam. Abraham and Sarah had produced a son, Isaac, whose son Jacob was the father of the twelve tribes of Israel. And Abraham and Sarah’s handmaid Hagar produced another son, Ishmael, who was the ancestor to the Northern Arab tribe into which the Prophet Mohammed was born. With Abraham’s sons Isaac and Ishmael, the religions, just like the tomb, were split apart.

  Dean stepped back into the shadows of the alcove and flinched. Someone had entered through a side door. It was a young man, his face permanently creased by a lifelong expression of hatred.

  It matched the Most Wanted poster produced by the National Counterterrorism Center. The description was vague, but accurate. The man was five feet, ten inches tall, his hair was black, his eyes were brown, his complexion was light and his build was slight. The bushy hair, pointed chin, and a chemical burn on his right cheek also matched the description.

  But it was the expression that told Dean he was looking at a terrorist. The wide-open eyes made him appear fanatical and predatory, useful traits for a militia leader.

  At first Dean couldn’t gauge the man’s intentions. It was a highly unusual meeting, and Dean was on the man’s turf.

  Dean offered his hand and began the traditional string of Arabic greetings. But Aziz’s eyes remained cold and distant, and he didn’t take the proffered hand.

  “You are Abdul Aziz?”

  The man nodded.

  That was something.

  To defuse the tension, Dean indicated the kneeling worshipers beyond the iron bars. “Are these your people?”

  At last, Aziz averted his gaze and glanced at the mosque. “I’m part of a large clan here, and I am personally linked to several other clans through marriage.”

  It came out sounding like a threat. Maybe Aziz’s intent was to intimidate him.

  So Dean countered with the direct approach. “I understand you’re receiving money and weapons from al-Qaeda to support their mission here. Your recruits have performed suicide attacks against Israeli targets.”

  Aziz did not correct the statement.

  Dean studied the relatively young man, who could represent any of the two million Palestinians living in the West Bank. What chances did the guy have of changing the world he was born into?

  Like so many marginalized people, he had turned to the sword. But where would building his credentials as a ruthless warrior get him? Palestinian terror groups were ossified and clannish. There was only one true prospect for bettering his career and effecting change in his people’s plight. That was joining a global terrorist organization.

  “How far can you go with sponsoring terrorist attacks?” Dean said at last.

  “Of course there is bin Laden’s group,” Aziz said. “But I’m throwing my lot in with politics.”

  That puzzled Dean. What future did the Palestinian political system offer him? There were plenty of old men in the West Bank, some of whom had marched with Yasser Arafat against the Jordanians and defended the PLO to the brink of extinction when it fled Israeli forces to the farthest reaches of Lebanon.

  Aziz seemed to sense Dean’s puzzlement. “I’m working for the election of Omar al-Farak to the presidency.”

  Dean got it. In a few months, the Palestinian Authority would hold national elections. The current man was stepping down, and men from many factions had already declared their candidacy.

  “What are his chances?”

  “He will win,” Aziz said with conviction.

  Nothing in politics was that certain. It made Dean wonder how truly democratic the election would be.

  “You can strike a deal with him.” He turned to Dean significantly.

  “A deal?” The chance to influence a politician of that caliber was tempting.

  “What makes you think I can get a deal?”

  “Because he’s my uncle.”

  That could make a difference.

  “And you have influence?”

  “Yes, but you must act quickly, before the campaign season officially starts.”

  Dean was uncertain. “How can a man change his politics overnight?”

  Aziz shrugged. “My uncle can take one of two routes. He can push Sharia law or he can create a secular state. I’m sure you’ll find him flexible on that point.”

  Dean knew what Sharia law meant: a religious interpretation of everything from politics and economics down to personal matters. Did Palestinians really want to go the theocratic route promoted by Islamists and terrorist groups such as al-Qaeda?

  “What will it take to convince him?” Dean said under his breath.

  Aziz gestured to the attaché case in Dean’s hand. “More than you’re about to give me, I’m sure.”

  “But still, something of personal, not political value?”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing of political value that the United States can deliver. You’re yoked to the Israelis, and you have no sway over them.”

  Dean was grateful to know that Omar al-Farak was malleable. He would act on that information as soon as he could.

  In the meantime, he would be happy just to take one more terrorist off the street. He had to clinch the deal with Aziz. “If you’re willing to publicly renounce al-Qaeda, I’m prepared to reward you.”

  Aziz opened an attaché case he was holding and showed Dean a press release written in his own hand and addressed to the Palestinian daily Al Ayyam.

  In exchange, Dean opened his attaché case with the visas and stacks of money.

  The concept of “land for peace” had become “visas for peace.” The concept had its risks. If word got out that their transaction had occurred, how many more Palestinians would threaten to join al-Qaeda unless they were paid off?

  “You won’t mention our deal,” he had Aziz promise.

  “Are you joking? If anybody in this city learns of this, including my hamulah, I would be beheaded on the spot.”

  That was assurance enough.

  Dean kept a hand on his attaché case. “So how do I reach Omar al-Farak?”

  “Our foreign minister is preparing for a ministerial meeting in Egypt next week. They’ll be in Sharm el-Sheikh.”

  Dean knew the resort town on the southern coast of the Sinai Peninsula.

  “He’ll be expecting you,” Aziz added.

  That was simple. Business was getting easier to conduct the higher up the chain of command.

  The two exchanged attaché cases.

  Dean offered a hand to seal the deal, but a whirling sound whistled through the iron bars and thudded into Aziz’s back. Aziz started leaning toward him, a shocked look on his face.

  A cry rose in the prayer chamber. “Murder!”

  Shouts of fear erupted. Hundreds of bare feet scrambled on the marble floor for the exit.

  Dean caught Abdul Aziz by the shoulders and eased him to the floor. One look told him it was too late. A silver knife handle protruded from the young man’s back.

  Why did this keep happening to Dean?

  He placed two fingers against the man’s Adam’s apple in search of a pulse. There was none. His efforts to pay off a terrorist had come to nothing.

  Aziz’s lifeless hand still gripped the attaché case with the cash and visas. Dean had to pry his fingers off the handle. He hefted the case along with the one Aziz had handed him and headed out the back way into the Jewish part of the building.

  He rushed into the corridor where a loud celebr
ation was taking place. Men and boys were holding a bris, complete with a crying baby boy. They sang joyfully and swayed in a trance as if in another world.

  Nobody was aware of the Muslims stampeding out of the other half of the building.

  Chapter 24

  Rachel felt healthy enough to leave the hospital.

  A nurse handed her a plastic bag with her personal effects. She dug through the clothes and the few articles that she had been carrying in her purse the night of the explosion. Some things she could use right away, such as her credit cards and work ID. Other things were useless, such as her car keys. And the keys to her townhouse, she eyed dubiously. What if the attacker would follow her home?

  She gained her feet and looked in the bathroom mirror. Scattered bandages covered her legs, but she had no structural damage. What worried her most was what outfit to wear in case reporters were in the hospital.

  She didn’t want spandex and shorts for the long march through the lobby.

  “May I keep this hospital gown?” she asked the nurse who was collecting her medications in a paper bag.

  “Sweetie, if you like it so much, you can have it,” came the soft Southern accent.

  “I think I’ll wear it home.”

  “Here, take a robe to go with that. It’s yours.”

  Rachel put on the robe.

  A large, red-faced man in a county police uniform was sitting by the door and escorted them to the elevator. Walking stiffly and holding tight to the nurse, Rachel tested her joints and muscles. A bit creaky, but they worked. She hoped to return to full speed in a day or so.

  The nurse pushed the elevator button. “Anybody to pick you up, dear?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I guess I’ll take a cab.”

  The cop joined them on the ride down to the lobby.

  “Maybe this fine officer can give you a lift,” the nurse said.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Bethesda.”

  “Sorry. That’s in Maryland and out of our jurisdiction.”