by Davis Bunn
As they met again at the doors after the service, Sandrine’s phone rang. She answered, spoke briefly, then told them, “Our ride is here.”
Marc met Rhana’s gaze. “Return to Sharm el-Sheikh. Please.”
She had clearly been expecting this, for she responded without hesitation. “All my life I have worked toward this moment. Even when my motives were wrong. Even when my actions were false. Even when my thoughts were all lies. I must do this, Marc. For my father.”
Marc did not understand, but he accepted that further argument was futile. He looked at Kitra and said the words, knowing they were pointless, but needing to try.
“It is my country under threat, Marc,” Kitra said before he could begin. “My people. I must do what I can to help them.”
He turned to Amin, who had his response ready. “I too have spent a lifetime waiting for this moment. This is the beginning. I know you fear it will also be my end. But for this, I am ready. I have been ready all my life.”
“We are all coming,” Kitra said. “We are a team.” She slipped her arm through Rhana’s, caught Sandrine’s in the other, and the three started toward whatever awaited them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
They hiked the gorge leading away from the monastery and found the truck precisely where it had been described to Sandrine, parked in a defile so narrow the doors could not open without scraping the rock on either side.
The driver was a grizzled Egyptian with a lazy eye. His teenage son was slender and handsome and very sullen. Both smoked rancid cigarettes and watched as a bearded man walked over and swept Sandrine up in a fierce embrace. She accepted it for a moment only, then pushed the man away. Marc saw the man wipe his eyes as he spoke. Sandrine clenched her entire body and nodded a response. The man stepped over. “You are Royce?”
“Yes.” Marc introduced the others.
“I am Schlomo. Dov’s uncle. Your friend in the boat with Dov, he lives?”
“Bernard is going to be all right.”
“Is good.” Schlomo gave each word a guttural twist. “Sandrine says you tried to warn Dov.”
“I wasn’t sure of anything. I could have said more.”
“Dov was a good man. But he disliked the thinking and the planning. He was like bullet. You point, you shoot—how you say?”
“Impetuous.” Marc shrugged. “If I had been team leader, I would have climbed into the vessel just like he did.”
Schlomo liked that enough to clap Marc on the shoulder. “We go, yes?”
Schlomo had come with a backpack of supplies and another of clothes. He handed Marc and Amin outfits similar to what he and the driver wore, shapeless and ancient and moderately clean. They walked around a boulder and changed. The shoes were a problem, leather-soled and slick with wear. Marc kept on his hiking boots and told Amin to do the same. Keeping traction in a moment like this was crucial.
When they returned, the women had slipped voluminous black robes over their clothing and tied up their hair with brightly colored polyester scarves. Rhana traded her designer sunglasses for a pair of knockoffs. Marc climbed into the back of the truck and seated himself on the hard wooden bench next to Kitra. She gave him a tentative smile. As the truck climbed away from the monastery, Marc asked Schlomo, sitting across from them, “You trust the driver?”
“His other son, his eldest, is in a Tel Aviv jail on smuggling charges. He does this, we live, his son comes home.” Schlomo nodded and gave a warrior’s grin that split his beard. “I trust him.”
Sandrine sat on the other side of Marc. Across from them were Rhana, then Amin, along with Schlomo. They climbed slowly through the Sinai hills. The canvas top blocked most of the wind and captured the heat. The truck’s shocks were long gone, and the springs jounced and squeaked. The rear hold stank of rancid lettuce and animals. Marc watched the world through the truck’s rear opening, occasionally catching a glimpse of Kitra’s face, wishing he could somehow accept her confidence and calm as his own. Tomorrow. He could still hear her say the word.
He felt Schlomo’s eyes on him and confessed, “My mind is like this road—full of twists and turns.”
Sandrine called over, “That is a general’s challenge.”
Schlomo raised his voice to be heard over the engine’s grinding roar. “Is true, this. A general must be constantly searching out the unseen, asking the difficult questions. There are never enough answers. Never enough evidence. Never.”
As they started up another rise, Marc started to tell them both that he was not a general. But something in Kitra’s calm presence beside him kept him silent.
Schlomo went on, “Me, I am the good sergeant. I keep it simple. I focus on the next step only. I protect my men. I trust my generals to look beyond the bend, study the terrain, ask the questions for which there are no answers.”
They descended into the central plains, connected with the Taba Highway, and turned north. The main road ran within sight of the Egyptian-Israeli border fence. The heat and humidity rose steadily. Marc knew the women must have been sweltering beneath their double layers of clothing. But no one complained, not even Rhana.
They halted at midday. The air was still and stiflingly hot. The fence ran to their right, horizon to horizon. They had passed several watchtowers and seen a number of military vehicles driving a similar road on the Israeli side of the fence. The region was flat and featureless, a truly timeless desert. They stood in the shade of the truck and drank lukewarm water. None of them was hungry, but Schlomo made them down two energy bars each. The driver and his son squatted as far from them as they could get and still stay within the truck’s shade. The two Egyptians talked softly, ate dates and cashews, then lit up more of their vile cigarettes.
Rhana asked, “Why are we here?”
“This is the only road running from the southern Sinai to Gaza,” Marc told her. “The people we’re tracking won’t risk taking this route, not with nine container loads of gear.”
“The Israeli vehicles you see,” Schlomo confirmed, “they are all hunting these trucks.”
Marc went on, “So the Iranians have just one option. They transship to dhows and travel up the Suez Canal to Abu Zenima. The road from there heading north is awful. They join the highway at Ismailia and head east.”
“Which means we could be ahead of them,” Amin noted.
“That’s our hope,” Marc said. “That’s why we’re pushing so hard.”
“Even if they traveled all day and all night, they won’t reach Rafah before nightfall,” Schlomo said.
“You are watching that road as well?”
“We can’t. The Muslim Brotherhood rules Egypt now. The new ambassador, he has told us that an overflight of Egyptian airspace would create an international incident.”
Rhana said, “But how can you be certain they are going to Gaza at all?”
Kitra looked at Marc. “You asked Chaver about the direction of the wind.”
“That’s right. I did.”
“This time of year, it blows from the south and east for days on end,” Kitra said.
Schlomo asked, “How are you knowing this?”
“I was born and raised in a Galilee kibbutz,” she replied. “So they will blast holes in the Gaza wall. They will attach the blowers. And they pour poison gas into Israel.” Her voice trembled. “All the cities between Ashdod and Tel Aviv—”
“No, Kitra. Look at me. We are not going to let this happen.”
Sandrine spoke for the first time since boarding the truck. “Dov gave his life to stop them. Dov did not die in vain.”
Schlomo brought out a small butane stove and made tepid tea, which he sweetened heavily. He offered the first to the driver, who hesitated a long moment before accepting it. The rest of them passed the other two mugs from hand to hand. Schlomo heated pan after pan, urging them to drink all they could. Marc disliked the flavor, but drank nonetheless.
The driver watched all this, rose and climbed into the rear hold. He unlatched a metal tr
unk welded to the back of the cab, lifted out a tray of tools, and withdrew two bundles tied with hemp cord. He unfurled a pair of blankets, spread them on the truck’s floor, then laid a threadbare Turkish carpet on top. The other bundle contained a half-dozen cushions. He climbed down without a word, accepted Schlomo’s thanks with a single nod, then returned to the cab.
Rhana asked Amin, “Why are you smiling?”
Staring at the carpet, he replied, “I was thinking of another journey. In another truck. On a carpet just like this one. It is one of my earliest memories. News had just arrived in Isfahan. The shah had fallen. We fled with everything we could carry. The owner of the truck was my father’s distant relative. Still he demanded the ownership of our apartment as payment for this journey. My parents and my older sisters were terrified. I thought it was a lark. I played on the carpet and wished the journey would never end.”
“I also traveled in just such a truck,” Rhana said. “Though I find no reason to smile.”
“We have survived,” Amin said. “We are here. Seeking to cast out those who robbed us of our homeland. If we are successful, perhaps those who have persecuted us will be the ones in the back of ‘just such a truck.’ What better reason is there to smile?”
Schlomo’s grin defied the day and the heat. “I carry a message to you from my superiors. They wish you to know that they acknowledge their debt. My government seeks allies inside the Persian community. They seek friends they can trust. They hope to forge such ties with you and those you represent.”
The truck started with a rumbling cough. The driver ground the gears. Amin climbed into the hold and reached down to offer Rhana his hand. “You see? Already the miracles have started to arrive.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Rafah, a miserable excuse of a town, reminded Marc of the shantytowns sprawling around Mexican border cities like Juarez or Tijuana. Rafah had a fishing port of sorts. The boats were heavily monitored by the Israeli Coast Guard. Petrol stations lined the east-west highway. Otherwise the place was simply a web of dirt tracks and rutted lanes, makeshift dwellings and rusting warehouses. The settlement existed for one purpose only: to smuggle into Gaza.
The truck halted in front of a diner, its outdoor grill formed from an oil barrel split lengthwise. The kitchen consisted of a vintage mobile home missing one entire side wall. A mildewed canvas shade flapped noisily in the hot wind. The driver and his son were loudly salaamed as they descended from the truck.
Marc and Kitra and Sandrine were taking their turns on the cushioned carpet. Kitra had fallen asleep, then struggled up through the heat to wakefulness. “What is happening?”
“Looks like a smuggler’s rendezvous,” Marc replied, peering out the back.
Schlomo passed around bottles of water and more energy bars and asked, “Do I need to urge you not to eat in the diner?”
They stationed Amin and Rhana by the rear opening, for they both spoke fluent Arabic and could pass for Palestinians. Schlomo instructed them, “If anyone asks, we are the driver’s relatives from Taba.”
Kitra asked, “What are we waiting for?”
Schlomo said, “Our driver is negotiating. He seeks a deal for ‘us and our animals.’” He grinned meaningfully. “We hope to sell our mules in Gaza for a sizable profit.”
Kitra rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “But we don’t have any mules.”
“We also are not entering Gaza,” Sandrine put in.
Schlomo shrugged. “They would come in a second truck.”
Marc said to Kitra, eyebrows raised, “You really need to wake up.”
Schlomo went on, “Smuggling animals means we can use only one of the largest tunnels that operate hoists at both ends.”
“Just like the blowers,” Amin said. “Very smart.”
“It was Marc’s idea,” Sandrine said. “A good one.”
Schlomo addressed Sandrine in Hebrew. Sandrine replied in English, “I am fine. We will succeed and we will stop the attack. That will make me better still.”
Schlomo opened his pack and drew out a black computer pad similar to the one Sandrine had given Marc to navigate the Red Sea. “If we separate, we rendezvous at the BP station we passed on the highway into town. Everyone knows the station, yes? Just follow the main road south.”
Schlomo turned the pad so all of them could see. “Our people, we monitor all the smugglers’ tunnels from Sinai into Gaza.”
Sandrine corrected, “All that we know of.”
“We learn of them very fast. It is how we survive.” Schlomo tapped the pad, revealing a drone’s-eye view of the border region. “There are rumors of a new tunnel. Very deep. Run by Hamas. It operates from a business four hundred meters from here. This place, it is supposed to repair cars.” He flicked the photographs forward. “But see in the garage bay’s open doors when they take delivery. No cars. Surprise, surprise.”
“They have been very smart,” Sandrine said. “They have another deep tunnel forty meters away.”
“Yes, is so. The second is older and is located here,” Schlomo said, pointing.
Marc studied the pad but could make out nothing more than another concrete-block structure beneath the man’s finger. It did not matter. He liked the way they tag-teamed the discussion. They had studied the terrain and the enemy’s movements. They knew what they were doing. That was all that mattered.
Sandrine went on, “We used to think two deep tunnels so close would be too risky. The earth could become unstable. But our information suggests this new one is the deepest ever. Almost two hundred feet. Built by miners they brought in from Morocco. Brick walls and steel I-beam supports. With a guide-rail system to transport heavy loads. Pneumatic hoists at both ends, like generator-powered elevators. Very sophisticated.”
“So they use the proximity of the first tunnel to hide the other,” Marc said. “Where does it come out?”
“We think here. Two hundred meters inside Gaza. Farther than any other tunnel we know of. This building to the south is a Hamas political office. This other structure is supposed to be a residence. Four families.” He tabbed the controls. “How do I shift to infrared?”
“Give it to me.” Sandrine reached for the pad.
“I can do it.”
“If we had days, perhaps.” She took it from him. “Just like a man. Considers it an insult to let anyone else drive. Even when the woman knows where we’re going.”
“I asked for help—not a critique of my life.”
“Good, because I do not have the weeks for that.”
Schlomo flashed a grin at Marc. “Such a pleasure, being in the field with this one.”
“All right.” Sandrine shifted the pad so they could all see. “This image is from last week. And these from every night the week before. Twelve to twenty people. Everyone stands. No one sleeps. You see? Very interesting for a residence of families.”
“You do drone flyovers of Gaza every day?”
“Every day and every night,” Schlomo replied. “It is how we survive.”
Sandrine switched to a new image. “Now look carefully. Can everyone see? This is from last night.”
Marc felt the breath clog his throat. “How many are in there?”
“So many they make one heat image. Two hundred? Three hundred?”
“A wedding?” Rhana asked. “Or funeral?”
“On all three floors of this building?” Sandrine flipped back to another daylight image. “This from today. See how they spill out into the area by the Hamas office?”
“Not a funeral,” Marc said. “An invasion force. Enough to blow two dozen holes and attach blowers and fend off the Israelis who try to stop them. This is our place.”
Kitra asked softly, “What do we do now?”
“What I told you,” Marc said. “We don’t let this happen.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The driver and his son completed their discussions and returned to the truck, dissatisfied expressions telling the world that the negotiation
s had not been successful. Which of course was a lie. They had not been after making a deal. They had been after explaining why these people riding in their truck were here. Their street creds were established now, the negotiations done.
There followed a quick conversation through the window connecting the cab to the rear hold. The driver nodded understanding and ground the starter a few times before the engine rumbled to life. Schlomo told the others, “He knows a place where we can rest, close to the site. We will go to ground. It buys us time.”
Their temporary accommodation was basic in the extreme. Their need for a line-of-sight on the suspect garage reduced their choices to one. The two rooms had formerly served as stables and still smelled of their former occupants. The floors were covered in threadbare carpets. The drywall separating the rooms was so flimsy it ballooned each time a door opened. A small barred window overlooked the rear alley. Beyond that was a slightly larger lane, and on the other side stood the garage.
Schlomo, now calling the shots, broke them into teams. He paired with Kitra, Amin with Sandrine, Marc with Rhana. An Arabic speaker and an operative in each group. His second holdall contained pistols for them all, the Israeli-made Jericho 941. Marc considered it a poor weapon for high-intensity situations. The power-weight ratio meant it rode up with each shot, spoiling the shooter’s aim. His reaction to the choice of weapon must have shown, because Schlomo smiled and said, “You think the gun is too lightweight, perhaps? A pistol for scholars and women?”
Marc started pulling 9mm bullets from the open box between them and fed them into the clip. “Six in the clip isn’t enough for field conditions.”
“You Americans need so many bullets because you can’t aim,” Sandrine scoffed, resisting a grin.
“You like your Colts,” Schlomo agreed, “because when you run out of ammo you can use it for a club. Here, give it back, you don’t like it so much.”
