The Hijack

by Duncan Falconer

  The driver, a large, unshaven, gruff-looking man in a sweat-stained t-shirt with a cigarette in his mouth, turned to look at him and said something in Hebrew which Zhilev did not understand.

  ‘Jerusalem, old city,’ Zhilev said, expecting that was the answer to the question.

  The driver said something else but when his passenger did not reply he realised it was because he was not being understood.

  ‘English?’ the driver asked in a harsh accent.

  ‘A little,’ Zhilev said.

  The driver studied his passenger a moment before removing his cigarette to smile, revealing a bad set of brown teeth that still had food in between them from his last meal. ‘Gavaritye pa-russki,’ he said, more a statement than a question.

  Zhilev looked at the man again who was deeply tanned with black hair. Now that he was speaking in Zhilev’s native tongue and asking him if he was Russian, it was suddenly obvious the driver was neither Arab or Israeli.

  ‘Da,’ Zhilev replied, deciding it made no difference if the man knew he was Russian or not. He had not spoken a word of his language since leaving home and Russians were not famously suspicious characters in Israel. On the contrary, thousands escaped Russia during the communist era by pretending to be Jews and were shipped to Israel.

  The man was pleased to have a fellow country-man in his cab and began to rattle on as if they were old friends.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he said in Russian. ‘I’m Moscovite.’

  ‘Latvia,’ Zhilev said. It was pointless saying otherwise because of his accent.

  The taxi driver nodded although his smile waned as his eyes checked out Zhilev more closely. Zhilev suspected a hint of discrimination in the man’s look but ignored it. In his younger days, he would have baited anyone who acted derisively regarding his so-called impure Russian blood. More than one fellow Spetsnaz had suffered crushing blows from his massive fists for making disparaging remarks about his nationality, but this was not the time or place.

  A slam on the bonnet startled both of them and they looked up to see an Israeli soldier in full combats and carrying a Canadian M16. There were no other cars in front of them and the soldier had obviously become frustrated with his attempts to wave the taxi forward to his cubicle.

  As the driver wound down his window, the young soldier began to complain but the driver, obviously the short-tempered type and not remotely intimidated, interrupted heatedly in what appeared to Zhilev to be an offensive tone.The car behind honked its horn and the taxi driver immediately switched his attention to that driver, shouting back from inside the car. Zhilev looked behind to see an irate Israeli family packed inside a small car with the man at the wheel gesticulating abusively. The soldier banged the roof again to get the driver’s attention, which he got in the form of further abuse. The young soldier was becoming increasingly agitated and pulled open the door, raising his voice and demanding something of the driver. The driver climbed out of the taxi, obeying the soldier, but without interrupting his own vitriolic dialogue.They walked to the back of the car and the driver opened the boot. A moment later, he slammed it back down but the catch did not operate and the boot bounced open. The driver then proceeded to take out his anger on it, repeatedly slamming it shut until the catch finally hooked. He returned to his door continuing his verbiage as if in chorus with the soldier and climbed back into the car. It seemed he was talking more to himself than the soldier as he slammed his door shut hard enough to rattle the glass, put the engine into gear, revved it far too high and jerked away out of the checkpoint and up the hill.

  Zhilev remained silent in the back, revelling in his good fortune. He had been completely ignored in the heat of the exchange. It occurred to him he might have been overly concerned in the first place. Whatever, he was through the checkpoint and on his way into Jerusalem.

  ‘Goddamned soldiers,’ the driver continued in Russian. ‘It makes my blood boil to be talked to like that by a twelve-year-old with a gun. I hate the Israelis. I hate the fucking Arabs too. Where did you say you were going?’

  ‘The old city.’

  ‘Hmmph . . . Fucking Israel,’ he went on.‘My stupid father and mother came here thirty years ago. They lied about being Jews. Russia was a shit hole. Now Israel is a shit hole and I’m stuck here. I have cousins in Russia who are rich.They make ten times, a hundred times more money than I can earn all my life in this shit hole. The economy is fucked. No one comes because of fucking war. Shit hole . . .You a tourist, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First tourist I’ve had in a week. How’s a man supposed to keep a wife and children alive?’

  The driver went on for a while, castigating the Israelis and Arabs, pausing only to hurl abuse at other cars which impeded his selfish, aggressive driving as he made his way through the colourless city that appeared to be built of either concrete or stone.

  ‘I’m going to get into prostitution,’ the driver announced.‘I’ve been saying it for years but I’m going to do it soon. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a postman,’ Zhilev said.

  The driver glanced at him in his rear-view mirror. ‘Postman? How can you live as a postman, even in Latvia?’

  Zhilev didn’t answer.

  ‘These Jews are horny people. Especially the Hasidic. There is no law against slavery here. They bring in whores by the truck load. The Hasidic is so ugly he has to pay for his pussy, and he likes his pussy. Fucky, fucky, fucky all the time. And most of the women come from Russia and Eastern Europe. I have contacts. I could open a whorehouse with the best pussy from Russia and clean up. Soon, I tell you . . . You live in Latvia?’

  Zhilev didn’t answer and the driver glanced at him again.

  ‘Why don’t you make some money and round up some women when you get back home and send them to me. I’ll make you rich. Eh?’

  ‘How far are we from the old city?’ Zhilev asked.

  The driver was miffed at being ignored. ‘Five minutes,’ he said. He then pulled a bottle of vodka from under his seat, unscrewed the top, took a swig and offered it to Zhilev.

  ‘You want?’

  ‘No,’ Zhilev said.

  The driver shrugged, screwed the top back on and replaced it under his seat. ‘Which gate you want?’

  ‘What?’ Zhilev asked.

  ‘Which gate? I can’t drive into the old city. You must walk. Which gate? There are eight.’

  ‘Any will do.’

  ‘Where you staying? You need a hotel? I know a good hotel. Cheap.’

  Zhilev could only imagine what this man’s hotel recommendations would be like. ‘No, thanks,’ he mumbled.

  The driver shrugged as they pulled to a stop at a set of traffic lights and he pulled his bottle from under the seat and took another swig.

  Zhilev had not thought about staying in a hotel, but now that the driver had mentioned it, it sounded like a sensible idea. There was no rush. He had originally planned to plant the bomb as soon as he arrived, but there were several good reasons why a delay of one day made sense. He wanted to make a final check of the device to ensure he had bypassed the protection protocols, and run through another arming rehearsal. He would need complete privacy for that. There was also the possibility that something might prevent him from carrying out his plan right away and he would need a base. On top of all of that, the thought of a hot bath and spending the night in a comfortable bed with clean sheets was very appealing.

  ‘I want a good hotel,’ Zhilev announced.

  ‘Good? How good?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘The best?’ the driver said with a smirk. He had already begun to smell Zhilev and was wondering if the man could pay his taxi fare. He looked in his rear-view mirror and this time Zhilev was looking him in the eye. The driver’s smirk melted as he saw something in the big Latvian’s eyes that was clearly a warning.

  ‘What kind of hotel you want?’ the driver asked. ‘Israeli or Palestinian?’

  Zhilev considered the question. He cared f
or neither in particular, but the Palestinian was closest to his enemy and the thought of bedding down amongst them before he ended their lives appealed to him. ‘Is there a good Palestinian hotel?’

  ‘We are coming to it,’ the driver said. ‘And it’s just a five-minute walk to the old city.’

  They approached a roundabout, took the first exit and a few yards up a slight hill the driver pulled the car into the kerb and stopped. Zhilev looked out of the window at a bronze plaque on a wall by an entrance that advertised the American Colony.

  ‘It’s called American Colony but it’s Palestinian,’ the driver said. ‘Expensive.’

  Zhilev opened the door.

  ‘Thirty shekels,’ the driver said, holding out his hand and putting on his mean expression just in case Zhilev thought of running.

  Zhilev pulled a US five-dollar bill from his pocket and put it in the driver’s hand.

  ‘That’s not enough,’ the driver said.

  ‘It’s enough,’ Zhilev said as he climbed out of the vehicle with his bag and closed the door.

  The driver rolled down his window and called out an expletive as he drove away. Zhilev ignored him as he walked to the entrance and stopped to look inside the grounds, the hotel being mostly hidden by trees and groomed vegetation. It was inviting and he could already feel himself soaking in the hot bath. He looked down at his feet, his trousers and the sleeves of his shirt. They were grubby and worn. If he was going to clean up, he should not do it by halves. Some new clothes were in order, the question was, should he buy them now before he entered the hotel, or after, when he was refreshed. The obvious answer was to have something clean to put on after his bath.

  He looked up and down the street.There were no shops in the immediate area, but further up the hill, at the top of the road, there were what appeared to be several stores. Perhaps others were around the corner.

  He shouldered his bag and walked up the hill.

  As Zhilev reached the top of the hill and the first of the shops, a car turned into the road at the bottom, past the spot where he had alighted from the taxi and drove in through the old stone entrance of the hotel. It slowly navigated a sharp turn around an ellipse of dense foliage that led into a tight-fitting portico where it stopped outside the main doors of a three-storey stone colonial building.Tastefully overgrown creepers and huge-leaved plants hugged the pillars, portico and walls of the building and much of the entrance and driveway were in the shadow of a variety of tall trees.The hotel, in exceptional condition, was a marriage of old European walls and Middle Eastern windows.

  A bellhop stepped through a pair of modern heavy glass doors set behind what appeared to be the original oak doors and opened the rear passenger door where Stratton and Gabriel sat together.

  ‘This is where the East meets the West,’ Raz said.

  Stratton glanced inside the lobby at its highly polished stone floors covered in rich Persian carpets and bedecked in a tasteful collection of Eastern and antique European furniture. It looked very chic and very expensive.

  ‘You will be comfortable here,’ Raz said. ‘It’s more popular among Europeans and Americans than other hotels. Just be careful what you say or where you say it. Nearly everyone here is either a spy or a member of the media. It’s Palestinian and one of the best hotels in the city . . . and the most expensive. I know how cheap your English bosses are,’ he smiled. ‘You can tell them you had no choice since I would not take you anywhere else.’

  Stratton wondered if there was a meaning behind the gesture, and why he had not taken them to an Israeli hotel.

  Gabriel climbed out of the car with his bag and Raz watched him walk into the hotel. His eyes then fell on Stratton.

  ‘Your friend. Is he okay? He doesn’t look well.’

  ‘He just needs some rest.’

  ‘If he needs a doctor, let me know. I don’t want anything happening to my guests.’

  As Stratton opened his door, Raz stopped him. ‘I’m going back to my office,’ he said. ‘When would you like to give your brief?’

  Stratton paused, trying to decide how best to stall him. Of course they would expect a brief but no one said anything about it to Stratton on the aircraft. Sumners would have prepared one. He probably deliberately omitted to mention it after Stratton cut him off. He wondered what else the petulant bastard had forgotten to give him.

  ‘Can I get back to you tomorrow on that? Just between us, we’re a little ahead of ourselves. I need to catch up on the paperwork.’

  Raz smiled insincerely, his suspicions increasing that these people were playing some kind of game with him. He was not concerned though. He was used to it. The CIA were always coming into town on their fact-finding tours and then secretly, or so they thought, meeting with Hamas and other terrorist groups, negotiating behind the Israelis’ backs. The Americans’ partners, the British, usually preferred more clandestine methods, disguising themselves as members of NGOs, non-governmental organisations such as the Red Cross and UN, or as human rights observers. But they were on Raz’s turf and therefore vulnerable. Raz had his own extensive spy network that included the NGOs, hotels, media organisations such as the BBC and CNN, and, of course, the various Palestinian terrorist organisations. He thought about inviting Stratton to dinner as was customary when a fellow intelligence operative came to town, but decided against it. He could detect a level of tension in the two men, which suggested their concerns were more immediate than long term. It would be prudent to give them as much room as they wanted and set up a surveillance team right away.

  ‘Fine,’ Raz said. ‘Why don’t you get settled and I’ll come by in the morning.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Stratton said, and climbed out of the car.

  Raz and his driver watched Stratton walk into the hotel. The two men shared a look, then, on Raz’s nod, the driver pulled away and they left the grounds.

  Darkness fell around 7 p.m. and three hours later Stratton was in his sumptuous ground-floor room in an annexe building situated the other side of a large garden from the main hotel. On the coffee table was a tourist map showing the main roads across Israel and the West Bank, and on the reverse side a gaily illustrated guide to the old city. He had spent the past few hours considering how he was going to get into Ramallah and then back to the hotel by the morning. Getting there and back was not the problem. Taxis were in ample supply in the city, and from what he could gather from talking to the receptionists, disguising his intent with dozens of questions about all aspects of travel in the West Bank and Gaza, there was also no difficulty in finding one in those places either. His problem was getting out of the hotel without being seen. He had found at least one reason why Raz had chosen this place. It was surrounded by a high wall on all sides that backed on to well-lit streets, private gardens and a school that was in itself surrounded by a high-fenced wall. Basically, it would need only a small surveillance team to watch all possible exits and there was little doubt Raz would have that covered. It was beginning to look as if it might require something radical to get out of the area. That category included ruses such as calling in the emergency services, the fire department or bomb disposal, or anything that brought a lot of activity with it and required people to leave the hotel grounds. Stratton would rather avoid going that far but his choices were beginning to look limited.

  As he sat on the bed studying the map, the patio light outside the French windows went out, plunging the immediate area into darkness. There were lights across the other side of the garden but none strong enough to illuminate Stratton’s garden entrance.The light switch was inside the room on the wall near the door, which meant the bulb must have gone. Stratton remained still, his eyes fixed on the small gap in the curtains, when something moved across the window.

  There were a couple of light taps on the glass and he got up and moved to the side, away from the gap in the curtains.

  The tap came again.

  Stratton looked at the door handle, the key in the lock beside it. Someone obvious
ly wanted him to come to the door but did not want to be seen themselves. If they meant him any harm, all they had to do was knock at the front door as he would have been less suspicious. There was only one way to find out who it was.

  Stratton walked to the front door and turned off the light inside the room. He went back to the French windows, turned the key, pushed down the handle and opened the door. He waited behind the curtain a moment but no one ventured inside. He moved to the door, opened it fully and stepped through it.

  ‘All right, mate?’ a voice said in a forced whisper from the darkness across the patio where there were several large bushes. ‘It’s me - Morgan.’

  Stratton checked to see there was no movement in the gardens and walked towards the bushes.

  ‘’Ow you doin’, mate?’ Morgan said. Stratton moved to where he could see his big friend’s beaming face.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.