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

by Fritz Galt

  He sank to a seated position against the stone wall that led down the steps. Below him were several manmade shafts. Water lay in a pool at the bottom and flowed into a single grotto, leaving just enough room for a person to squeeze through.

  “Is that where you came from?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Hezekiah’s Tunnel. It winds its way down to the Pool of Siloam.”

  Finally, she understood. “You knew that this would happen. You knew that we would meet here.”

  He nodded with a half smile.

  She was afraid to ask. “Did anyone die?”

  “I hope so.”

  She stared at him. “You killed everybody in Car Four.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  How could she believe that? She hated how he didn’t bother to explain the contradiction.

  The tall man started pulling his robe and keffiyeh off.

  “I’d keep them on,” Dean advised him.

  “Why?”

  “Because for all practical purposes, the public believes you were assassinated.”

  Carla took a second look at the man. Only with the headgear removed did she recognize him.

  “Omar al-Farak.”

  He was the man Dean nearly harpooned to death. Now Dean had rescued him.

  Omar stopped undressing and leveled a look at Dean. Slowly the entirety of Dean’s scheme appeared to became clear to him.

  “Rashid looks like me,” Omar said. “He was wearing a Versace suit like I would wear.”

  “The killer mistook Rashid for you,” Dean said.

  “The assassin planted the bomb in the wrong car, and you wanted it that way.”

  Dean nodded.

  Carla was confused. “But I heard two explosions.”

  “Both in Car Four,” Dean said. “Rashid was carrying explosives to blow up the Shrine of the Book. Those explosives detonated when his car blew up.”

  Dean stood up and clamped a hand on Omar’s shoulder. “Now you are a martyr. Here’s your chance to gracefully exit politics, beloved by your people.”

  “But where will I go? How will I live?”

  “It’s a big world out there. You don’t have to live in Palestine. My government will help you carve out a new identity.”

  Omar grumbled, but grudgingly arranged the headgear so that it covered his entire face.

  Carla was still fascinated by the claustrophobic tunnel. She couldn’t imagine escaping in it. “How long is this thing?”

  “A third of a mile,” Dean said.

  She stared at the opening. “A third of a mile stuck in that?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s been around for thousands of years. The only problem was the potential for drowning.”

  She shuddered.

  He cracked a smile. “Pleasant day for a walk, though.”

  “You really do like it here, don’t you?” she said.

  He ran a finger along the sharp corner of the wall. “It’s one of my homes.”

  “And the other?”

  “I’ll let you decide that,” he said.

  She definitely knew where that was.

  The siren was drawing closer, but the vehicle seemed unable to enter the grounds of Gihon Spring.

  Dean bunched up the robe he was wearing and threw it into the well. Seconds later, she heard it hit the water.

  “Go back in the tunnel,” he whispered to Omar and the two men. “I’ll send someone here to retrieve you.”

  At first they refused.

  “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in an Israeli jail?”

  Reluctantly they complied.

  The siren cut off, yet Carla could still hear it echoing off the walls of the city. “Don’t you want to hide?” she said.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

  Footsteps approached from behind her, but Dean didn’t take his eyes off of her. Nor did he flinch when a voice addressed him.

  “Dean Wells?”

  Fixing her with his gaze, Dean unfastened the lock.

  She took her cue from him and didn’t react when policemen surrounded him and put him in handcuffs.

  Tears were welling up in her eyes when she heard a distant, angry noise like the buzzing of bees that rose from the city below.

  She turned and listened.

  Police grabbed their rifles and hurried off to the nearest wall.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, what she heard were angry voices rising up from every corner of the city.

  Chapter 82

  From his office in Langley, Virginia, CIA Inspector General Hart Baxter watched television coverage of riots in Jerusalem.

  The initial car bombs in the Palestinian motorcade that triggered the revolt had turned a handful of nearby cars into smoldering heaps and ripped off the faces of nearby buildings.

  The ferocity of the blasts had shocked ordinary Israelis into an old nightmare and a new reality. Israel had suffered no bombings in the past few years, and certainly not such a high-profile assassination attempt.

  The delayed reaction from the Arab population was astonishing. They were running everywhere, particularly toward government buildings.

  Yet the announcers seemed transfixed by the event that had precipitated the uprising. They talked about body counts: two bodies had been recovered, none from the car that had exploded. Police feared that the passengers’ remains were so badly destroyed that they would never be recovered or identified.

  The television images took the audience back in time to the Palestinian governmental delegation leaving Ramallah. Chanting slogans, Israeli protesters broke through a human chain of Israeli police and charged the convoy of black Mercedes Benz limousines. The alert video cameraman caught a reporter placing a magnetic object under the frame of the fourth car in the motorcade.

  The announcer reported that Israeli police had confiscated the original footage and was reviewing it for clues.

  The image of the man who purportedly placed the time bomb was fairly clear. He was muscular, of medium height, and blond.

  After more live footage of the demonstrations and the police’s rapid transition to riot gear and the deployment of water cannons, the announcer came back with breaking news. Police had a suspect in custody and were trying to determine his identity.

  An Israeli security expert in the New York studio wondered if the sources of the explosions were bombs planted by the reporter caught on videotape, and she speculated that the target might be the Foreign Minister of the Palestinian Authority. Police had yet to release the identity or nationality of the reporter or the victims.

  The analyst offered suggestions as to the suspect’s motives.

  “According to recent intelligence reports, there have been a number of radical Jewish groups carrying out terrorist acts within Israel. You could attribute it to friction between extremists and moderates within the state of Israel. The situation resembles that which preceded the assassination of Itzhak Rabin in 1995.”

  Hart Baxter clicked the television off. He needed no offhand analysis.

  Chapter 83

  Carla was hustled with Dean into the back of the police van. They left Gihon Spring in a cloud of dust and were sped down the street into East Jerusalem.

  She and Dean watched through the wire mesh of the back window as throngs of demonstrators emerged from side streets. Their faces hidden behind black-and-white scarves, young men wielded knives and clubs as they ran. They appeared to be chasing the van.

  “Dean?”

  He was seated beside her, trying to keep his balance with his hands shackled behind his back.

  “I told you not to worry,” he said.

  “Maybe for someone like you this isn’t troubling. But to my eyes, this situation does not look very promising.”

  Bouncing along with them in the back of the van was a beefy, older man with aviator sunglasses and a grim look on his face.

  “Ari,” Dean said, “I’d like you to meet Carla Martino with the CIA. Carla, this i
s Ari Ben-Yosef. He’s with the Mossad and he’ll keep us safe.”

  Ari nodded at her, then turned to watch the demonstrators trying to catch up with them.

  “Safe,” Ari said, “is a relative term.”

  The van honked and its siren wailed, and a mob of people seemed to be anticipating their arrival. So did a battalion of police in riot gear. Batons were flying, shields were shoved into faces, and a few stray warning shots were fired.

  “Tell me this is a good thing,” Carla said.

  “It is,” Dean said. “We’ll be safe in a minute.”

  The crowd swarmed around the entrance to grounds that were protected by a high cement wall.

  The front of a white, monolithic building came into view.

  “Welcome to National Police Headquarters,” Ari said.

  A heavy rock bounced off the back window and a crack formed across the glass.

  “Shall we go inside?” Ari said.

  Carla noticed that his holster was empty. When he jumped out of the van, his pistol was aimed at the noisy demonstrators just outside the gate.

  “Clear,” he said, and stood guard while Carla and Dean jumped out of the van.

  Police had been mobilized from the headquarters and raced out in troop carriers similar to what soldiers used. Then it struck her. They were deep inside occupied East Jerusalem.

  The three of them made it safely past the torrent of policemen rushing to take up positions around the building. Soon they were on an elevator heading for the top floor. The elevator was playing “Killing Me Softly.”

  “Kindly disregard any implications of that song,” Ari said.

  On the top floor, Ari removed Dean’s handcuffs and led him to a restroom to dry off from his wading through the tunnel. Police officers stood at the windows with binoculars, trying to gauge the size of the crowd.

  There was a simpler way to see the damage being inflicted on the capital city. A television played a live feed of youths pelting riot police with random objects in running battles throughout Jerusalem, and then in other cities across the country.

  The Israeli announcer seemed overwhelmed by the fast-moving story. “It all began with a terrorist bombing,” he tried to remind his audience. A bevy of talking heads around him nodded in agreement.

  Political analysts had been rushed into the Jerusalem studio to make informed guesses as to who had perpetrated the initial act. Subject matter experts gave scientific descriptions of the tons of explosive force required to blow such large holes in the pavement. Senior statesmen tried to offer soothing reassurances that Israel was on top of the situation.

  All the while, the television depicted scenes of violent protest.

  Carla gave a wry smile. “Clearly, Israel can’t get itself to state the obvious.”

  “Which is…?” Ari said.

  “They’re saying an Israeli couldn’t possibly assassinate a Palestinian foreign minister.”

  “An Israeli didn’t assassinate anyone.”

  “I know that. You know that. But they don’t.” She pointed to the screen where a sweating government spokeswoman was trying to dodge direct questions from her national media.

  “They’re in denial. They can’t face the possibility that one of their own is capable of such brutality.” Carla said. “I thought Dean had been in denial for the past few weeks. I even developed a name for it. I called it the Aleppo Syndrome, where the disorder first manifested itself. It’s a collection of symptoms characterized by a tendency toward violent behavior that is subsequently denied, rationalized, or simply forgotten. It’s a sort of dissociation from one’s own criminal behavior.”

  Ari looked confused.

  “In moral terms,” she said, “you might call it irresponsibility.”

  He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

  “I have only one problem,” she went on.

  “What’s that?”

  “In order to qualify as a syndrome, a condition must present itself in more than one individual.”

  “Collective denial is a syndrome.” He indicated the news on the television. “It has affected the entire Middle East for years.”

  Carla caught a trace of smoke in the air. At first it smelled like a campfire, with burning paper or wood. Then she saw a black cloud billowing up from the stairwell.

  “I think this building is on fire,” she said. “I hope you have a fire exit.”

  “Dean!” Ari yelled. “We have a problem.”

  Dean rejoined them, having dried his clothes and straightened his mussed hair.

  Below, they heard the sound of footsteps rushing up the stairwell from which the smoke was pouring.

  “That’s the only fire escape,” Ari said. “Let’s take the stairs to the roof.”

  Suddenly, the pounding footsteps below were accompanied by menacing shouts. The mob had infiltrated the building.

  Ari drew his gun. “Go ahead. I’ve got your back.”

  He tried to gather a team of policemen to confront the mob that had entered the building and was approaching their floor.

  Carla and Dean ventured into the ashes that drifted up the stairwell. The sun was blinding when they opened the door onto the rooftop. A roar of angry voices rose from the grounds below. A police cannon fired off a volley. A moment later, a cloud of blue smoke exploded and the protesters dispersed.

  Carla’s eyes began to smart. The police were firing tear gas.

  More than smoke began pouring out of the stairwell. A scraggly group of a dozen young protesters burst, coughing, onto the rooftop. Their feet skidded on the gravel surface as they adjusted to the sunlight.

  Carla grabbed Dean by the arm. “Stop them,” she squeaked.

  The group focused on Dean. “Assassin!” they shouted.

  The mob rushed through the glowing cinders that blew around them. Their clothes smelled like smoke. Their voices rose in pitch.

  Dean did not attempt to fend them off, and drew their attention away from Carla. She was propelled backward by the flailing elbows and moving mass of men toward the low wall that separated her from a long drop-off to certain death.

  “Leave him alone!” she shouted. “He’s innocent!”

  They pushed her aside and shoved Dean roughly toward the wall. The upward rush of tear gas didn’t stop the men from competing to be the one to push Dean to his death.

  Just when Dean’s fate seemed sealed, a voice shouted, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

  The mob paused. They grudgingly stepped aside and a familiar figure squeezed through, a scary looking, heavy-duty handgun in one hand.

  “Stand back,” the man ordered. “I will shoot him!”

  As soon as she heard the Cuban accent, Carla put a name to the face. It was José Gomez, Dean’s boss at the CIA.

  Gomez found Dean exposed against the wall. “This is for killing Omar,” he growled, and released the safety on the weapon.

  She rushed to Dean’s side. “He didn’t kill Omar,” she cried, but the evidence and emotions were stacked against him.

  The crowd pulled Dean away from her to line him up for execution by a firing squad of one.

  Dean stood near the edge of the roof where flames licked up from below. The air was a pungent mixture of charred wood, melting plastic, and tear gas.

  “Assassin! Assassin!” the young Palestinians chanted.

  Gomez aimed the heavy thing with its long, intimidating barrel. The throng spread out to witness the moment.

  The look on Gomez’s face turned to pure pleasure as he squeezed the trigger. The gun rattled off multiple rounds.

  Dean staggered backward and collapsed against the wall.

  Carla couldn’t see the wounds, but smelled the gunpowder and watched the agony on his face. She threw her body over him as the mechanical gunshots continued unabated.

  Yet she felt no burning sensation, no flesh wounds. She wasn’t hit.

  “That will be enough,” a cool voice said.

  Sobbing, Carla turned around.

  It
was the FBI agent Greg Ferguson. He was taking the gun away from Gomez with a firm hand.

  “You’re under arrest for assaulting a federal officer,” Greg said, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  Carla spun back to Dean. His eyes were closed. His face was placid. He had taken his fate with more grace than any mortal ought to.

  Then his eyelids fluttered open. They locked eyes. “Is it over?” he asked.

  “No, it’s not over! You’re going to make it.” She hugged him tighter to comfort him.

  His body responded. His arms moved. Miraculously, he had the strength to pry her away.

  “How…?” she said.

  There was a gentle smile on his lips. “He had blanks,” Dean said. “I told you not to worry.”

  She unfastened his belt and ripped his shirt open. His chest was smooth and untouched. She didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him in the face.

  The Palestinians backed away, as if witnessing some sort of miracle.

  Carla jumped to her feet and confronted Greg Ferguson. “What is going on here?”

  “This is your scumbag,” Greg said. “José Gomez has been using Dean as a dupe all this while.”

  “No!” Gomez cried, still able to express himself despite muscular police officers hauling him away. “That’s the killer! He killed Omar al-Farak.”

  “He did?” came a voice from the stairwell.

  Everybody turned.

  A blond man in a blue business suit emerged. He matched Dean’s appearance from his facial features down to the last stitch of clothing.

  Carla shot a look at Dean lying on the rooftop.

  He was transfixed with confusion, and muttered, “Who the hell are you?”

  Chapter 84

  A huge plume of water sprayed upward over the low wall surrounding the roof, and rained down on Dean’s face. Either the police were using a water cannon, or firemen had come to the rescue. Dean saw that smoke no longer poured from the stairwell.

  A police captain placed a pair of handcuffs on the imposter in the doorway.

  Dean got to his feet and stared at the man.

  The sight of him rising caused the Palestinians to scramble for the exit.

  José Gomez and Dean’s imposter were led away by the police. Carla rushed to Dean’s side. He didn’t need her support, but it felt good to feel her presence. If anything, he had to console her. Her shoulders were slumped and trembling. He hated to see her that way.