by D. I. Telbat
"Regulations, Miss Sheffield," Luc said in his Walloon French accent. At thirty-seven, he was fit, and he appreciated that most women found his trimmed jawline beard irresistible. But Annette hadn't paid him any mind. He shifted his hand closer to hers. "The Israeli butchers have fired on UN convoys before. The helmet is for your own protection."
Annette's eyes strayed from the war-torn Gazan countryside outside Gaza City to Luc's hand. She moved her knee away from him. Luc looked out his window, snarling at Annette's reluctance to open up to his advances.
"How long have you worked for the UNRWA, Mr. Lannoy?"
"Please, call me Luc." He smiled broadly and touched her leg for balance as the Humvee bounced over ten-year-old potholes. "I volunteered for the Relief Works Agency two years ago. The Palestinian people need a voice and they need help. They can't fight the Israeli cowards alone."
"Aren't UN observers and aid workers supposed to remain neutral, Mr. Lannoy?"
"So naive, Miss Sheffield. You're a weekend humanitarian. Your camera crew in the next vehicle will take pictures of you in the middle of al-Shati, then you'll go home. You'll not see the slaughter of these forgotten people by merciless machines in the sky. If you stayed another week, I'd show you the real face of terror."
"Are you angry because I can't stay longer, or are you upset that I want to see both sides of this conflict?"
"We're entering Gaza City, Miss Sheffield," the driver said. He was a British sergeant in full UN uniform.
Annette leaned forward to see out the windows. Luc had seen the devastation before, but he hadn't seen a beauty like Annette in a long time. When he'd picked her up at Ben Gurion Airport, her identification had barely been checked while she signed autographs. The actress/model was an international celebrity, far too consumed with herself and her "world peace" mission to truly care about the Palestinian crisis. Yet, Luc still couldn't help but lick his lips. She wasn't skin and bones like most models, and she was at least six feet tall. A goddess!
"Why are these people on the street if it's so dangerous?"
Luc leaned forward to brush against her shoulder.
"Now that it's morning, they search for food and water. When the fighting resumes, they'll hide anywhere they can. Most have only holes in the ground since there are no bomb shelters in Gaza. The Israelis have hundreds of bomb shelters, but these people are left in the open to be slaughtered."
"But the world has given the PLO and PNA millions of dollars. Why doesn't Hamas build shelters to protect the people instead of buying M-75 rocket components that don't even fly straight?"
Luc eyed her carefully, shocked that a mere beauty could reason through the situation, even if he didn't like her conclusion.
"What do you know? If you have no compassion for these victims you see in rags, then go back to America." Luc sat back, pouting. He really hated her now. Of all the sympathizing celebrities, he had to get stuck escorting a Zionist!
The four-car convoy slowed through the Zeitoun District. A bullet struck the side of the Humvee. Luc instinctively reached for his sidearm. He'd been ordered to use the weapon only if fired upon, but lately, he hadn't cared much for following orders. Maybe now would be his chance to kill some Jews!
"Ambush!" the driver screamed as gunfire erupted all around them.
The Humvee in front of them exploded. Annette screamed and cringed against Luc as burning debris and bullets battered their vehicle. He shoved Annette against her own door to give himself room, and peered out the window, searching for Israeli Defense Forces uniforms.
"Where are they?" Luc ground his teeth, hungry for just one kill. After twenty-four months of quiet escorts, now was his chance for action. In all the confusion, no one would know a UN escort had killed an Israeli. "All I see are Gazans!"
"They're trying to kill us!" Annette screamed and tried to hide on the floor. "Get us out of here!"
The driver swerved the Humvee forward. Thrusting his pistol out the window, Luc fired at who he guessed were Jews dressed as Palestinians. He withdrew his arm suddenly as an RPG zipped toward their vehicle. Luc saw the grenade detonate on the front of the Humvee. A flash of light and a force that took his breath away threw him backward. He felt weightless for an instant, then found himself lying on the ceiling, fiery smoke choking him. A chopper with a fifty-caliber gun kicked up dust nearby. The Israelis were trying to kill them all!
With bullets peppering the burning vehicle, Luc gripped Annette's wrist and dragged her unconscious body out of the overturned Humvee and pulled her on top of him. He was six-three and weighed twice what she did, but she still made an adequate human shield.
He was blinded by dust as the chopper hovered down the street. After firing blindly at the sound, Luc climbed to his feet, dragging Annette by the arm, and struggled to the side of the street into a bombed-out shop. Coughing, he checked Annette's pulse. She was bleeding from the brow but seemed otherwise uninjured. With little effort, he hefted her over his shoulder and kicked through a back door as he fled the Israeli gunship.
Three blocks later, he dropped Annette through the broken window of a closed textile factory. The street was clear at the moment. Luc climbed through the window and hid behind the wall while watching the street.
Suddenly, two men came from around the corner outside. They each carried a pack. The first man was bearded and wore a T-shirt. He carried a pistol. The second one looked sickly and appeared unarmed. Luc wasn't taking any chances after the scrape with death he'd just had.
Snarling as he fired, Luc emptied his gun at the two men. Both went down, but only the second one was a sure kill. Luc jumped out the window and sprinted to the men. By the time he reached them, his pistol was reloaded.
"Stay down!" Luc yelled in Arabic. He kicked the bearded man in the ribs and picked up his gun. Luc frowned at the light-weight air pistol. An air pistol? It was useless in this war zone. He threw it aside. "Come on! Come with me!"
Luc unclipped the man's heavy pack so he could support him easier, then walked him across the street. Enjoying the opportunity to flex his strength, Luc pushed the injured man inside the window and jumped in after him.
"You're making a mistake," the bearded man said in Arabic. He sat against the wall, holding his chest wound. "I'm not whoever you think I am."
"Shut up!"
"I saw the ambush on the UN peacekeepers. You're European, right? Let's speak English. My name is Christopher Cagon. I'm British Red Cross. Those packs out there have medicine for these people. You're UN. We have nothing to do with this conflict."
"Shut your mouth!" Luc said in English. He thrust his gun into the man's face. Now that he was face to face, he could see the injured man wasn't Middle Eastern at all. "Everything's gone wrong. I was supposed to meet someone."
The wounded man ignored his own condition once he noticed Annette, and moved to check her vitals.
"She might have internal injuries. We should get her to a doctor. The Israelis are just a few blocks away. If you—"
"The Israelis just tried to kill me!"
"No, you're mistaken. I was watching, friend. Hamas attacked you. They've done it before. Later, they'll blame it on Israel. The IDF gunship came to your rescue."
"You're wrong! The IDF are murderers." Luc rubbed his eyes and gazed out the factory window. "We can't move, anyway. Both sides are liable to shoot us out of panic!"
"Like you did to us? That's my friend, Jachin, out there. Let me go see if he's okay. Let me take the medicine to his daughter. She'll die without it."
"You English call that collateral damage. There are greater things happening today. I have a meeting to get to."
"Let me go. I'll take this woman. We'll only slow you down, friend, whatever it is you have to do now."
Luc licked his lips and studied the shorter man. He was surprisingly calm for a wounded Red Cross ambassador. The man's British accent sounded authentic, but he had also spoken flawless Arabic, which was suspicious.
"No."
&nbs
p; "Why?"
"I might need you."
"I see." The bearded man nodded. "A UN official needs two hostages. Now we understand one another."
"What?" Luc turned slightly. "What do we understand?"
"That I'm not the only one who isn't who he seems to be."
"If you have enough energy to speak, you have enough energy to move Miss Sheffield behind that wall. We need better cover."
"Sheffield? Annette Sheffield? I thought she looked familiar."
Christopher Cagon pulled Annette into his arms. The front of the man's shirt was bloody, but he was surprisingly mobile. Luc held a gun on his captives as they moved deeper into the factory. As soon as Chris was situated in the next room, Luc took Chris's water bottle from his belt. He found the sat-phone as well, but knowing the signal was jammed, he dashed it against the wall. With his finger on the trigger of his pistol, he stood against a doorpost to plan his next move. Maybe the convoy ambush could work to his advantage . . .
*~*
Chapter Three
Egypt / Gaza
"It ain't easy being a Gazan civilian, huh?" Titus Caspertein shielded his eyes from the morning sun as he peered northeast from Egypt into the Gaza Strip. "I'd hate to be the fools going into that war zone."
"We are the fools, remember?" Oleg Saratov said with a scowl. His accent was rich, unlike his appearance. Titus would've been embarrassed to be seen with the short, stocky Russian if he weren't so reliable. "Let's go tunneling."
Titus looked away from Gaza's Rafah Crossing blockade to his partner's broad back. At forty-five, Oleg was an ugly creature, carrying as many scars as Titus' thirty-nine-year-old frame. Oleg's most notable scar was on his left nostril, as if scissors had cut a slice of flesh from his face.
With his back to the blockade, Titus followed his partner through the crowd to an Egyptian merchant shop. Food and supplies for sale at expensive rates were piled on the Egyptian side of the border, waiting for the Israelis to open the border into Gaza. But the blockade wasn't stopping those who had a little ingenuity.
"He says we were expected sooner," Oleg said to Titus as they stood before the merchant. Titus spoke Arabic as well, but Oleg preferred to translate. "You sure about this?"
"Does this look like a joke?" Titus patted a canister strapped over his shoulder. Though it was already seventy-degrees, Titus wore a jean jacket to cover his shoulder holster where he cradled a Glock 18, loaded with deadly parabellum rounds. He felt cockier than normal with the fully automatic handgun. Besides the case and the hidden gun, he carried only a water bottle on his belt, like everyone in the Middle East who knew the dangers of being caught without one. "Tell him to let us through."
Oleg translated in near perfect Arabic to the merchant, but the man still didn't permit the Westerners into the store.
"Tell him to let us through or we'll tell Crac Hassad he hindered our meeting with him."
"Crac Hassad?" the merchant asked without a translation. His eyes widened and he opened the door.
"We'll try that name first next time." Oleg led the way around piles of rice bags, some already priced to sell for ten times their worth to their Gazan neighbors. Fuel containers were stacked to the ceiling.
The merchant pointed to the floor against the back wall of the storeroom. Titus brushed his blond hair out of his eyes and tugged at a dusty ring on the floor. A well-oiled trapdoor swung open, exposing a light that shined on a ladder leading straight down. At the bottom of the tunnel shaft, a youth jumped to his feet and aimed an assault rifle up at the merchant.
"Selah!" the merchant yelled. "Wake up!"
"I'm awake, Papa."
"You go first." Oleg moved aside for Titus.
"I went first in Iran."
"But I went first in Libya."
"Okay, you win." Titus rubbed his hands together, eyeing the tunnel with uncertainty. "It ain't easy being an arms dealer. Look what we have to go through."
"You could always join one of the resistance groups you supply with arms."
"Do I look like someone who likes to get shot at?"
Hand over hand, Titus descended, with Oleg following. The second Oleg's giant head lowered into the hole, the merchant closed the trapdoor above.
"Salam Alaykum." Titus greeted the boy at the bottom with a clap on his shoulder. "How far to the other side?"
"Two kilometers, caphir." The boy wasn't shy about keeping his muzzle on Titus. "Go die in Gaza, caphir."
"Mouthy little kid, isn't he?" Titus said in English, frowning at Oleg. "Do me a favor and take that gun from him."
"Not me." Oleg chuckled. "He probably knows how to use it better than either of us."
Titus ducked his head as they entered the narrow horizontal section of the tunnel. Light bulbs hung from a thin cord along the ceiling. The floor was packed hard from constant foot traffic over several years.
"On any other day, this tunnel would be crowded," Titus said, maintaining a brisk pace. "You'd think with Israel bombing tunnels, we'd consider another route into the country."
"If you think this is foolish, Titus, you're welcome to skip across the border above ground."
"And miss the experience of a cave-in initiated by a missile? Never!"
Less than half an hour later, they reached the end of the tunnel with a ladder leading up to another trapdoor.
"Any idea where that opens into?" Oleg scratched his unshaved jaw. "Just curious who's going to shoot you when you show your head like a gopher."
"We're almost twenty miles from Gaza City." Titus checked his watch. "I don't have time to be shot. We have a noon appointment and we still don't have a car."
Titus climbed the rungs quickly and threw open the trapdoor. Three young men with new beards scrambled from a domino game to their carbines that leaned against a footlocker. They each aimed at Titus, displaying their bravest faces.
"Crac Hassad," Titus said, ready to duck back into the hole if bullets started flying.
"Crac Hassad?" One of the men stepped closer. "You American?"
"I have a meeting with Crac Hassad."
"Crac Hassad is not here, American."
"I know Crac Hassad isn't here. He's in Gaza City. He's waiting for me. I'm his favorite American."
"What's your name, American?"
"You may call me the Serval."
"Serval? The cat?"
Titus climbed completely out of the hole and turned to offer his hand to Oleg, but the man slapped it away.
"You shouldn't tell people you're the Serval," Oleg said in Russian. "That's not for their young ears."
"It probably doesn't mean anything to them. They're too young to know or care who I am, really."
"I'll take you to Crac Hassad, Serval, but you tell Crac Hassad I helped you. I am Seif. I will fight for Crac Hassad one day, if he finds me worthy."
"There's a man with his priorities straight," Oleg said in English and slapped Titus on the back. "You could learn something from him."
"What? Fighting for Crac?"
"No, being worthy of something."
Titus shook his fist at Oleg as they followed Seif out of the shack. The two other men exited the shelter and climbed into the back seat of what Titus recognized as a Toyota Land Cruiser, silver-colored with rust peeking through the paint around bullet holes. He glanced at Oleg.
"Stolen IDF vehicle. We climb into that, Titus, and we're targets."
"We're in Gaza. Everyone's a target."
"I drive." Seif patted the hood and climbed into the SUV. He could barely see over the steering wheel.
"This isn't exactly low-profile, Titus," Oleg said, still not climbing into the vehicle.
"You're welcome to walk, caphir." Titus winked and held the front door open for Oleg to take the middle seat. He looked south toward the border they'd walked under. Slum shacks crowded the Rafah Crossing blockade where Israelis had barricaded themselves safely inside steel-plated buildings.
"What are you thinking?" Oleg asked as Titus climbed i
n and closed the door. "Something wrong?"
"I've never been inside Gaza before, but I imagined it'd be more difficult to get in."
"Israeli Satan-dogs bomb one tunnel," Seif explained as he floored the Toyota, "so we dig another. It is a game we will win."
From Rafah, Seif drove west to the coast. The Palestinian man was the average age for all males in the Strip. Seif was intelligent and desperate, and Hamas offered a cause, which made Seif also willing and dangerous. Dangerous or not, he knew how to drive, throwing Titus and Oleg against one another at every swerve around corners, bomb craters, and burnt vehicles. They reached the coast in twenty minutes, then flew north on the empty Rasheed Coastal Road.
"No gas," Seif said as he pushed the needle to ninety. "No gas, no cars."
"Did you imagine the Eastern Mediterranean would smell like that?" Oleg asked Titus. "Like a summer breeze in an Austrian meadow?"
Titus took a sniff and choked.
"No plumbers," Seif said. "No toilets."
Thirty minutes later, Seif drove onto Gaza City's Rimal Salah ad-Din Street and slammed on the brakes.
"Saraph!" Seif cursed and gazed at the object cruising over the city a mile away. "We stop here."
"We can't go by foot to Crac Hassad." Titus elbowed Oleg. "Where's his sense of adventure?"
"No, we stop here. Too dangerous. You want Crac Hassad? You walk to Crac Hassad."
"I don't feel like walking." Titus slipped his Glock out of the holster. "You feel like walking, Oleg?"
"Not really. When I was climbing that ladder, I think I pulled my—"
Titus turned on the two men in the back seat faster than either of them could raise their carbines. On cue, Oleg placed his own Beretta pistol against Seif's temple.
"We drive, you walk," Oleg said.
"Leave your guns and walk away, boys." Titus gestured with his pistol. "You're too young for me to kill, but I've killed younger, so don't tempt me."
Seif and his companions sulked as they slid out of their seats. Oleg scooted into the driver's seat as Titus collected the carbines.
"You drive, you die!" Seif spit at the SUV. "The Saraph never misses."
