Killing for the Company

by Chris Ryan

  There were eleven more such bags in his top. He divided the whole lot between the three men and one woman – four bags each. The men slipped the bags between the buttons of their shirts and into the pouches they were wearing beneath. For the woman it was different. Her undergarments were not so easy to access, so she merely placed the coins into her shoulder bag. It didn’t matter that they were not close to the explosives. She had more taped to her belly than the others. The coins would easily do their work on the crowd, while the plastic explosive took care of her, her unborn child and of course the wall.

  When the improvised shrapnel had been dealt with, the four young men removed their synchronised watches and handed them over to the others.

  ‘The detonators?’ the woman asked in Arabic when the watches were all fastened.

  The man with the stubble nodded and unplugged his phone. He handed it to the woman, then detached the lead from the earphones, unthreaded it from under his top and handed it over. The woman plugged the lead back into the phone and pulled the earbuds from the other end of the lead to reveal two wire probes. These she inserted into a section of the plastic explosive that was just peeping from below her right sleeve. As she did this, the remaining phones were handed over to the three men – each device with a lead ending in two probes that they pushed into their C4 body casings.

  The other four men stood back warily. ‘You don’t need to do anything,’ said the guy with the stubble. ‘We’ll call the numbers at eleven.’

  The bombers looked at each other, then back at their point men, who were edging away now.

  ‘Allahu Akbar,’ the pregnant woman muttered.

  The stubble-face man replied in kind, but he did not sound enthusiastic. Ten seconds later he was out of sight of the bombers and so were his companions.

  The four of them were on their own now. The pregnant woman nervously checked her watch. 10.40 exactly.

  Twenty minutes to go.

  Twenty minutes to paradise.

  Twenty minutes until they changed the world forever.

  The bombers whispered a quiet prayer and, after one last, long look at each other, left the anteroom, split up and walked slowly, unassumingly to their positions.

  Luke sprinted across the main road, causing the traffic to brake and swerve as he burned towards the Dung Gate. He passed an armed IDF man at the entrance to the gate. As he ran past, the guy shouted something at him in Hebrew. Luke didn’t stop. He could see the security gates to the Western Wall plaza fifty metres ahead. He crossed that distance in seconds but was brought to a halt by a line of men and a line of women, queuing to go in.

  Somewhere nearby a bell tolled. Three strikes. 10.45 hrs. Luke was still brandishing the ceramic knife, the black handle in his right hand, the white blade pressed up against the inside of his arm. Looking behind him, he saw the IDF man making chase. He cursed under his breath and quickly slipped the blade into his trousers, covering the handle of the knife with his T-shirt.

  The soldier was covering the ground quickly. Thirty metres between him and Luke. Closing.

  Luke sidestepped, then barged along the length of the queue to the front. A father and his young son were the next to go through the body scanner, but Luke pushed in front of them. He heard shouts from behind, harsh instructions in Hebrew, and it didn’t take much intuition to realise it was his pursuer. As he stepped through the security gate, he almost winced, expecting the alarm to go off; but it didn’t, and a few seconds later he was running down towards the plaza.

  He stopped at its edge, his heart sinking. The square was five times as crowded as it had been the night before. Scanning the crowd, he estimated that there had to be a couple of hundred Hassidim here, all dressed in the same way as the bombers; and a similar number of women were crowding round the female section of the wall.

  He froze with indecision. Try to find his targets here? It was like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack.

  It was noisy. The noise of a crowd. But suddenly, from somewhere near the wall, came the ancient, wavering, piercing sound of a horn being blown. Luke looked in the direction of the sound and could just make out the end of a long, gnarled animal’s horn, held up to the lips of an old man with a white beard. The sound continued for a good ten seconds before it was accompanied by another noise.

  Shouting. Behind him. Luke looked over his shoulder. The IDF guy was there – only now he had three others with him and they’d spotted him.

  He looked into the crowd. Could he lose himself among them in time? He had to. Luke burst forwards and seconds later he was engulfed by people. They were pushing, shoving – jostling to get towards the wall. For a couple of seconds Luke felt himself being taken along with the tide.

  And then there was a tap on his shoulder. He spun round. One of the soldiers was there, glaring at him and talking quickly in Hebrew. Luke felt his knuckles clenching as he looked left and right, trying to decide on an escape plan. But then he realised the soldier had switched to English.

  ‘This,’ he snapped. ‘You dropped it.’ He was holding something up in his hand – a black wallet.

  Luke shook his head. ‘Not mine,’ he said in a level voice.

  A pause. The soldier looked rather offended that he’d chased after Luke for no reason. He sighed heavily before forcing his way back out of the crowd, barking orders as he went.

  Luke checked his watch. 10.48. Sweat poured from his body as he turned and used his bulk to force his way towards the wall.

  On a nearby rooftop, Maya Bloom’s eyes shot open.

  The first thing she felt was pain. A stinging, burning pain across her face and a dull ache in her abdomen. She could deal with that.

  The second thing she felt was anger. That she couldn’t deal with. Not one bit.

  She sat up suddenly. A wave of giddiness crashed over her. It took her two seconds to realise she was tied and another two to realise she was alone.

  A sound drifted through the air. A horn. The shofar, which she had heard ever since she was young girl. And it was coming from the Western Wall. It meant the people had congregated.

  She looked around.

  Her assailant had removed her bag. That meant she had no weapons and no blade. She closed her eyes. Breathed deeply.

  And then she looked around again.

  Her eyes fell upon the skylight and immediately she had a strategy. Lying down lengthwise, she rolled towards the glass before sitting up again with the lower part of her legs stretched out upon it. She inhaled deeply again and, with a sudden, violent strike, raised the heels of her boots as high as possible and brought them slamming down on the glass. There was a splintering sound and a crack webbed out from the point of impact. She raised her heels again and slammed on the glass for a second time.

  As it shattered she felt a hot stinging as the sharp edge of the glass remaining round the edge cut into the skin on the back of her legs. She quickly realigned her body so that she was lying on her back diagonally across one corner of the skylight. Fumbling blindly, she manoeuvred her wrists so they were touching a jagged shard, and started to make small movements back and forth.

  It was impossible to slice just the bootlaces and not her skin. As she rocked her wrists back and forth, she felt flesh tear and moisten. But she barely noticed the pain. She rubbed away at the laces and in just over a minute she felt the tension around her hands suddenly release. Rolling off the glass, she brought her hands round to the front. They were gashed and bloodied, but that didn’t slow her down at all. The knot around her ankles she couldn’t untie, so she broke a shard of glass off the remnants of the skylight. It was about the size of her palm and shaped almost like an arrow tip with an evil-looking point, which she used like a saw to hack away at the second bootlace.

  Seconds later she was free.

  She jumped to her feet just as she heard the shofar ring out a second time. The image of her assailant rose in her mind.

  He was going to ruin everything.

  She wasn’t goin
g to let that happen.

  Maya Bloom stashed the piece of glass in a pocket and rethreaded the remnants of her laces into her boots, ignoring the way the blood oozed over her hands and nails.

  That done, she ran to the other side of the rooftop and started climbing down the ladder. She was at ground level in thirty seconds, and already sprinting.

  THIRTY-ONE

  10.49 hrs.

  Luke pushed through the crowd. Those waiting patiently to approach the wall shouted at him in Hebrew, but he ignored them. Luke was a head taller than almost everyone else here, and a lot stronger. There was nothing anybody could do to stop him barging through.

  Ten metres from the wall he halted. The strange sound of the horn had filled the air again, and for some reason it chilled him.

  He scanned around. More men in traditional dress.

  Stop, he told himself. Think.

  He’d seen four people emerge from the van. Four bombers, he reckoned. But they wouldn’t be together. That would be a tactical fuck-up, because if one was caught, they’d all be caught. No, Luke’s targets would be spread out, along the wall. He looked forward and to the left, where he saw the entrance to the tunnels. There’d be fewer people there. Easier to spot one of his targets.

  Luke started shoving his way through the crowds again. Thirty seconds later he was at the entrance to the tunnels. He burst into the room that led into them. There were about twenty-five men in here, talking to each other quietly. Those who paid Luke any attention frowned at his appearance. He scanned their faces, trying to recognise one of the people he’d seen at a distance, or to identify anything suspicious about any of them.

  Nothing.

  He hurried through the room and took the tunnel leading north.

  His field of vision was full of people. Many stared at him as he headed along the tunnel, keeping the covered section of the Western Wall to his right, and he just stared back at them, occasionally wiping away the sweat that ran into his eyes.

  Peculiar glances.

  Suspicion.

  Once or twice one of the celebrants said something to him in Hebrew. He hurried past, every sense heightened.

  Luke was fifty metres along the tunnel when he saw him. There were fewer people here now. The tunnel had just opened up slightly and there was a single Hassid facing the wall. His head was bowed, his eyes closed and his lips were moving silently. Luke stopped five metres from the man and didn’t have to look at him for more than a couple of seconds to know something was wrong. The guy was shaking. A thin trickle of sweat was dripping down the side of his face – a face whose skin was several shades darker than that of any of the Hassidim he’d seen so far.

  And in his right hand there was a mobile phone.

  Luke instantly recalled the tourist sign he’d seen yesterday in the plaza: ‘on the sabbath and holy days, smoking, photography and cellphone use are strictly forbidden.’ Surely a devout man would know that?

  He slid the ceramic knife from behind his belt; just as he did this, the guy opened his eyes and raised his left hand to look at his watch. But then he noticed Luke.

  His eyes widened and a look of panic crossed his face.

  He glanced down at the phone in his right hand.

  But by then Luke was on him. He hurled himself towards his target, thrusting his left hand up to his neck and slicing the knife across the back of his right hand. There was an eruption of blood; the man cried out in pain and his fingers spread out of their own accord as the blade severed his tendons. The phone hung loosely from the wire that was threaded up his sleeve and the man grabbed at it with his left hand.

  Too late. Luke pulled the device loose, then yanked the man’s sleeve several inches up his arm. A strip of plastic explosive was taped to the skin. No doubt about it. He had his man.

  Luke looked along the corridor. He saw three figures approaching from the direction of the plaza, but they were deep in conversation and after a few seconds they stopped anyway to face the wall. Looking north, nothing.

  The bomber was shaking violently now, and the blood was flowing more freely from his hand. Luke pocketed the mobile, yanked the guy’s left arm behind his back, just a fraction of an inch from breaking point, and forced him down the corridor, out of sight of the approaching men.

  Now they were alongside the ancient cisterns Luke had recced the night before. He tightened the bomber’s arm another few millimetres. The man gasped and the shaking became uncontrollable.

  ‘Where are the others?’ said Luke.

  The man just shook his head.

  Luke didn’t fuck about. He put his spare hand over the bomber’s mouth and yanked the arm upwards. There was a sharp crack as the bones broke and splintered, followed by a muffled, deadened shout of pain.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  It was the bomber’s eyes that told Luke everything he needed to know. They flickered, almost involuntarily, in the direction of the plaza. Luke sighed. It was time to dispense with the fucker.

  He let go of the broken arm, which flopped awkwardly. He moved his left hand from the bomber’s mouth so that his palm was under his chin, which he pushed upwards so that his throat was fully exposed. It was the work of less than a second to slice the sharp blade of his knife across the bare flesh to create a gash half an inch deep and three inches wide. The wound vomited blood and the bomber tried to scream. No sound came from his throat, however. His larynx was severed and the life was draining from him. Luke knew how deep the cistern was. It took barely any strength to push the body sufficiently for it to fall into the cavity. The bomber’s body fell more heavily on to the ground than the mortar he’d thrown down last night – out of sight. They’d only find him when he started to stink.

  Luke’s hands and T-shirt were spattered with the man’s blood. It didn’t matter now. He was already sprinting away.

  Maya Bloom’s wrists were still stinging and sticky and her hands were clenched against the pain. None of this slowed her down. None of this was going to stop her doing what needed to be done.

  Her head was down and her eyes forwards as she ran towards the gates leading into the plaza. The female queue snaked a good thirty metres back, but she hurried straight to the front, deaf to the shouts of complaint as she pushed through the body scanners. Moments later she was looking out over the crowded plaza.

  She studied the crowd, paying particular attention to the area round the wall. Was there anything untoward there? Anything unusual?

  Nothing. Just the faithful gathered on their holy day.

  Her eyes caught movement. Three armed IDF soldiers pushing clumsily through the crowd towards the entrance to the tunnels. She turned to the right. A woman, her face lined and her body wrapped in a black robe, was about to walk past her, back towards the exit. Maya Bloom stood in her way.

  ‘What time is it?’ her hoarse voice demanded in Hebrew.

  The woman looked taken aback. She glanced at Maya’s bloody hands, then back up at her face. ‘Five to eleven,’ she stammered nervously then continued to stare, clearly alarmed by the woman’s total lack of expression. The old lady sidestepped, put her head down and continued to walk. ‘Happy Hanukkah,’ she muttered as she passed.

  Maya Bloom said nothing. Her mind was already elsewhere.

  Luke stormed back down the tunnel. There was no way he could hide the blood on his clothes and skin, so he didn’t even try; and as he approached little groups of the faithful, who were either facing the wall or standing in learned discussion, he was aware of the horrified looks they gave him as they stepped aside to let him pass.

  As he approached the opening to the plaza, he saw three Israeli soldiers fifteen metres ahead of him. One of them was giving instructions to the other two, and they immediately split up, one of them heading to his left at right angles to the main tunnel, two of them heading towards Luke.

  He quickly backtracked, retracing his steps until he reached the entrance to a small anteroom opposite the wall. He ducked into the shadows, grip
ping the knife handle firmly, but with the blade hidden. Luke didn’t want to take these guys out, but if he had to, he would.

  Footsteps approached. He found himself holding his breath. The soldiers were talking quietly to each other. Their voices grew more distinct as they got nearer, though Luke understood nothing of what they said, then they faded away as they walked past his hiding place. He gave it ten seconds, then slipped out again and ran towards the plaza.

  The crowds were buzzing and he felt a moment of nausea as he emerged blinking into the light. It was a sea of people. Hundreds of them. How the hell was he going to find the remaining bombers among this lot?

  Think, he told himself. Fucking think! What’s the bombers’ objective? Where will they be?

  When the wall falls . . .

  The wall was the target. Not the crowd, not the plaza. And to take out the wall you had to get close.

  Luke rushed forward, pushing through the lines of people waiting to approach and pray. He knocked three men from their feet – they toppled back into the crowd and several people started shouting at him, but he hurried on. The wall was towering above him now, all twenty metres of it; and the horn rang through the air for a third time. Luke barely heard it. He barely heard anything. He was behind the front line of worshippers now, pushing himself along the length of the wall and examining the hands of each man he passed. Some were pressed, palm forwards, against the stones. Others had their hands clenched together in devout prayer. One or two were even kneeling down, with their arms stretched up to heaven.

  One man, though, was doing none of these.

  Luke was about fifteen metres from the tunnel entrance when he saw him. He was dressed just like the other bomber in a black jacket and black hat, and was standing quietly with his head bowed. His shoulders were shaking slightly but there was no sign of prayer. And no sign of his hands, which were secreted in front of him . . .

  Luke took up position behind him. Slowly, so as not to alert anybody around him, he drew his knife and held it in his left hand. With lightning speed, he hooked his right hand round the man’s waist. His thin body went suddenly rigid, and there was a fumbling of his hands, but by that time Luke had a grip on the mobile phone he was carrying.