by Paul Sussman
He stepped into the shaft and stopped, listening. The noise was definitely coming from within, although where exactly he couldn't tell. He craned his head forward, squinting into the murk, but aside from a small section of wall and floor directly in front of him that was dimly visible in the glow from the moon outside, he could see nothing, just velvety, impenetrable blackness. He clicked on his cigarette lighter and, holding it aloft, started shuffling his way along the corridor, the rumble of the generator growing more distinct with every step, the beating of his heart more violent.
He went twenty metres, then halted. There was something ahead, barely discernible, a sort of dim, ghostly haze hovering in the air hard against the tunnel's right-hand wall, like a will-o'-the-wisp. He rubbed his eyes, thinking perhaps he was imagining it, then moved on again, the haze seeming to expand and thicken the closer he came to it until he realized that what he was seeing was not some paranormal apparition but a faint corona of light issuing from an opening in the shaft's right-hand wall. He came up to it and, bending, looked through into the tunnel beyond.
'Allah-u-akhbar!' he mumbled, taking in the shadowy rows of boxes and crates, the brightly lit cavern at the tunnel's far end.
He clambered through. As he did so he heard what sounded distinctly like a woman's scream. He straightened, listening – yes, there it was again, definitely a scream – then continued to walk. Two metres in he found an open crate packed with rifles. Mauser, the same as he'd used at police training school. He pulled one out, examined it, then banged in an ammunition clip, slipped a spare clip into his pocket and continued on his way, the glow at the end of the tunnel getting ever brighter, the putter of the generator ever louder until eventually, blinking, he emerged onto the broad stone platform on which Layla and Ben-Roi had been standing fifteen minutes earlier.
At the same moment the generator stalled for a second time, the cavern lights blinking and failing so that barely had his eyes had time to take in the high arched ceiling, the mass of boxes and crates, and the giant Nazi flag hanging from the rear wall before everything was suddenly swamped in a giddy tide of blackness. He froze, disorientated, remaining that way for what seemed like an age but was in reality only a few seconds before the motor somehow coughed itself back into life again. As swiftly as it had invaded the cavern, the darkness was driven off by a brilliant burst of light. He crossed to the front of the ledge, dropped to one knee and, raising the rifle, played its muzzle back and forth over the sea of crates beneath.
'Ben-Roi!'
No response.
'Ben-Roi! Are you there?'
Still no response, and he was about to shout a third time when, like a snarling wolf bursting from a thicket, the Israeli's voice suddenly raged upwards from below.
'Khalifa, you stupid cunt! What the fuck are you doing here?'
There was movement about a third of the way down the gallery, and Ben-Roi emerged from between two crates, a Schmeisser sub-machine gun held in one hand, the other clasped around the collar of Layla's jacket. He dragged her out into the middle of the central aisle and yanked her to her knees. There was blood caked around her nose, and a fan of bruising on her upper left cheek, purple, like a birthmark.
'You animal,' Khalifa thought. 'You dirty Jew animal.'
He clicked back the bolt of the rifle and sighted down the barrel.
'Drop the gun, Ben-Roi!'
The Israeli's mouth was twisting this way and that, his eyes wide, bulging and bloodshot. He looked crazy, deranged.
'Listen to me, Khalifa!'
'I was top marksman in my class and I'm aiming right between your eyes,' shouted the Egyptian, finger tightening around the trigger. 'Now, drop the gun.'
'Listen, you fucking idiot!'
'Drop the gun!'
'He's coming! You understand? Al-Mulatham. He's coming here. For the Menorah! She works for him. She fucking works for him.'
In front of him Layla was staring up at Khalifa, her eyes frantic, imploring. She gave a faint shake of the head and mouthed the word la – no. Khalifa shifted his weight slightly, trying to keep the rifle steady despite the trembling of his hands.
'I'm not going to tell you again, Ben-Roi. Drop the gun and move away!'
'For fuck's sake, Khalifa,' bellowed the Israeli. 'She admitted it. She works for him. He's coming! He killed Galia and now he's coming here!'
His voice had risen to the point where it was now almost a scream. He's cracked, thought Khalifa. Having some sort of breakdown.
'Just drop the gun and we can talk,' he cried,
'There's no time, you fucking fool! He's coming! Al-Mulatham's coming.'
He seized a handful of Layla's hair, stabbing the gun against the back of her head.
'Tell him!' he cried. 'Tell him what you told me!'
'Leave her, Ben-Roi!'
'Tell him, you bitch!'
'Ben-Roi!'
'How you recruit the bombers! How that whole article was a lie! Tell him, you murdering Arab whore!'
He was shaking her like a rag doll, jerking her head back and forth.
'Please!' she screamed.
Khalifa increased the pressure on the trigger, taking it almost as far back as it would go. He yelled another warning, then, when the Israeli showed no sign of backing off, fired, aiming at the floor just to his left. The bullet pinged off the stone, pinged off the back wall, ricocheted away into the crate stacks. Ben-Roi froze, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, his eyes blazing insanely. For a brief moment he just stood like that; then, with a snarl of impotent fury, he released Layla's hair and took a step backwards, the machine gun still clutched in his hand. Khalifa jerked back the bolt to engage another bullet. Layla slumped to the floor.
'Thank God,' she coughed, clasping her head, wincing. She took a couple of breaths, then looked up at Khalifa. 'He's working for Har-Zion,' she croaked. 'The Warriors of David. They know about the Menorah. They're following us.'
The Israeli let out an incredulous bark of laughter, eyes flicking wildly from Khalifa to Layla and back to Khalifa again.
'That's bullshit!' he spat. 'She's bluffing you!'
'It's the truth! I've seen them. In Jerusalem, at the airport. He's been feeding them information all along.'
'She's lying, Khalifa! She's fucking lying!'
'He's been playing us all,' she said, stumbling up onto her feet, backing away against a crate. 'You, me, everybody. He's Chayalei David. They're coming for the Lamp. They're going to start a fucking war.'
'Don't believe her!'
'We have to get it out. Before it's too late.'
'You lying Arab . . .'
He took a step towards her, raising the Schmeisser. Khalifa fired off another shot, the bullet again ricocheting around the cavern before disappearing among the box stacks.
'That's the last warning, Ben-Roi!' he shouted, working the bolt. 'Now drop it!'
'You don't know what you're doing!' screamed the Israeli, flecks of spittle bursting from between his lips. 'Please, Khalifa, you have to believe me. I've been watching her, following her. She works for al-Mulatham!'
He was starting to jabber. With a superhuman effort he reined himself in, slowed his delivery.
'Listen,' he said, drawing in great gulps of breath, his voice straining with the effort of holding itself steady, 'she wrote an article. A year ago. Just after Galia died. An interview, with al-Mulatham. She said he was wearing aftershave – Manio. Said she recognized it. But I wear Manio, Khalifa, and she didn't recognize it. I wear Manio and she had to ask me what aftershave I was wearing. She didn't know. She didn't fucking know!'
Khalifa flicked a bemused glance down at Layla, who raised her eyebrows as if to say 'I don't understand either.' Ben-Roi caught the exchange, jerked his head in frustration.
'For God's sake, you must see!' he cried. 'It was fiction. She made it up. The aftershave, the meeting, the whole fucking article. She invented it. To put people off the trail. To protect the real al-Mulatham. To protect her maste
r.'
His voice was speeding up again. He fought to control himself, raising a hand and clasping it around the menorah at his neck.
'I've investigated her. Ever since that article. A whole year. Every bomber, Khalifa. Every fucking al-Mulatham bomber – she's interviewed them all. Every single one. That's how he recruits them. Through her. She interviews them, makes sure they're suitable, then passes their names along. That's how the whole thing works. That's the system. She's in it up to her neck!'
'He's crazy!'
'Explain it, then!' he yelled, glaring at Layla, his eyes so wide and wild it looked as if they were going to burst right out of his head. 'Explain how it is that every al-Mulatham bomber happens to be someone you've interviewed!'
'I can't explain it!' she cried, shaking her head helplessly, her own voice now beginning to rise. 'Coincidence, I'm being set up . . . I don't know! I went through all this with Shin Bet after I wrote the article.'
'She had a tracker on her, for fuck's sake!' Ben-Roi fumbled in his pocket, withdrew a small metal object about the size of a cigarette packet, brandished it triumphantly in the air. 'It was in her bag, Khalifa! He's following us. Al-Mulatham. He's fucking following us!'
'They went through my bag at the airport,' she cried. 'There's no way I could have got something like that through.'
'Then how? How?'
'I don't know!' she yelled, raising a hand to her forehead, confused suddenly, disorientated. 'Someone must have planted it on me. I don't know!'
'You filthy lying bitch!' bellowed the Israeli, no longer making any attempt to sound calm or rational. 'Don't believe a word she says, Khalifa. She's playacting. She works for al-Mulatham. She's always worked for al-Mulatham. She's a murderer! She murdered my Galia!'
'We're all murderers as far as he's concerned!' she screamed. 'Every Palestinian, every Arab. Al-Mulatham killed his fiancée and we're all to blame. That's why he sold out to Har-Zion.'
'Bullshit, you fucking bitch!'
'They're following us!'
'Don't believe her, Khalifa! She's a filthy fucking—'
A third shot rang out, silencing them, the bullet disappearing harmlessly into a heap of tarpaulins, the cavern echoing to the sharp retort of the rifle. Layla sank back against a crate, Ben-Roi stood with his arms at his side, both staring upwards at the stone platform, motionless, like defendants awaiting a verdict in a courtroom. Khalifa bit his lip, blinked away a pearl of sweat that had dropped onto his eyelid, tried to get his thoughts clear. That Layla was right about Ben-Roi he had no doubt. Yet there was something in the Israeli's eyes, the way he had pleaded his case . . .
Mohammed Gemal, that's who it reminded him of, during the Schlegel interrogation all those years ago – the same desperate fury, the same frantic, wide-eyed protestations of innocence. Gemal had turned out to be telling the truth. But Ben-Roi . . . The words of his father echoed at the back of his mind: Be careful of them, Yusuf. Always be careful of the Jews.
He blinked away another sweat droplet, gazed from Layla to Ben-Roi and back to Layla again, then snapped back the rifle bolt.
'Drop the gun, Ben-Roi.'
'No!'
'Drop it and get on your knees!'
'You don't know what you're doing! You don't know what you're doing, you stupid Arab—'
A fourth shot rang out, the bullet grazing the floor less than an inch from Ben-Roi's right foot. The Israeli looked down, up, to the side, eyes flaring like sparks of molten steel, his mouth so contorted with fury it looked as if the whole lower part of his face was going to shear away; then, with a high animal howl of despair and impotence, he cast the Schmeisser aside and sank to his knees. Layla hurried across, snatched up the weapon and, backing away, motioned him down onto his belly.
'These Warriors of David people,' called Khalifa. 'How long before they—'
He broke off, silenced by the cold nudge of a gun barrel in the nape of his neck.
'I think that answers your question. Now, put the rifle on the floor and raise your hands.'
For a fraction of a second Khalifa thought about trying to shout a warning to Layla. It was a suicidal notion, and he dismissed it before it had even fully formed, laying the Mauser on the ground and locking his fingers on top of his head. The gun barrel was withdrawn and a rough hand yanked his arm up behind his back, hoisting him to his feet and turning him.
There were six of them, including the one holding his arm – tough, stern, expressionless, all wearing ski-jackets and, somewhat incongruously, black skullcaps. Five were armed with Uzis. The sixth, the eldest and, it seemed, the one who had just spoken – a squat, thickset man with gloved hands and a pale, heavily bearded face – was clutching a Heckler and Koch pistol. With the pristine clarity of thought that fear confers, Khalifa instantly recognized him from the picture on the front of the Time magazine in Piet Jansen's living room: Baruch Har-Zion.
'You bastard, Ben-Roi,' he thought. 'You lying Jew bastard.'
Words were exchanged in a language he didn't understand, Hebrew presumably, and as one the group moved to the front of the ledge, the man holding Khalifa's arm yanking him around so that he was again looking out over the sea of boxes. By this point Layla had clocked there was something going on above and had shrunk back against one of the crates, her face white, her Schmeisser still covering Ben-Roi, who was lying face down on the floor. For a moment Khalifa was worried the Israelis were going to start shooting, but they merely stood staring down at her, stony-faced, their Uzis held ready at their sides, while one of their number – a tall, crew-cut man who seemed to be Har-Zion's second-in-command – stepped right up to the edge of the stone balcony and leant out, gazing at the elevator below.
There was another muttered exchange, then, slinging his Uzi over his shoulder, the crew-cut man turned, dropped to his knees and, shuffling backwards, eased himself over the ledge's lip and started to climb down, using one of the vertical elevator tracks as a ladder. Thirty seconds passed, and then there was a whirr of machinery as the elevator started to ascend, the man slowly rising before them as though levitating. When he was level with the ledge he cut the power and, at a nod from Har-Zion, they all moved onto the platform, Khalifa's arm still jammed up behind his back, the barrel of an Uzi pressed into his ear. Another nod and they began to descend, the stage sliding downwards with a rattle and a judder before jerking to a halt at the bottom.
On the floor, Ben-Roi was trying to crane his head around to see what was going on; Layla had moved out into the centre of the aisle and half-raised her Schmeisser as if to block their path. As they came up to her Khalifa tried to catch her attention, convey that she should stay calm, not do anything stupid, but her focus was locked on Har-Zion. For a moment the two of them just stood staring at each other, eyes glued, his grey and hard as granite, hers emerald green and fierce, a faintly defiant twist to her mouth. Then, with a nod, she handed her gun to one of Har-Zion's men, swiped a cuff across her bloodied nose and stepped aside.
'You took your bloody time.'
* * *
It was so unexpected it was a moment before Khalifa actually realized what she'd said. When he did, his mouth fell open in shock. On the floor, head twisted round at an unnatural angle as he struggled to peer at them over his shoulder, Ben-Roi likewise didn't seem immediately to register what was going on, his eyes jinking this way and that, his features spooling through a whole slew of expressions before finally settling themselves into a grimace of horrified disbelief.
'Oh God,' he whispered, turning away and pressing his forehead into the cold stone floor. 'Oh please God no.'
For a moment everyone remained motionless, the scene freeze-framed; then, slowly, Ben-Roi heaved himself up onto his knees and then his feet, dazed, like a boxer rising drunkenly from the canvas. Layla backed away so that she was standing with the Israelis, her eyes flicking momentarily towards Khalifa, a faint rash of red staining her cheeks – whether from shame or some wholly different emotion the Egyptian couldn't tell. Ben-Ro
i no longer seemed to notice her, his gaze now focused exclusively on Har-Zion.
'The Palestinians simply aren't that good,' he murmured, voice tight with suppressed fury. 'The way the brotherhood operates is way too sophisticated for a renegade Palestinian cell. The impetus has to be external.'
Khalifa was still trying to marshall his thoughts, work out what was going on.
'I don't understand,' he mumbled, looking from Ben-Roi to Layla to Har-Zion and back to Ben-Roi again. The latter's face had completely drained of colour, the skin a dirty translucent white, like stained alabaster.
'It's like I told you, Khalifa. She works for al-Mulatham. Recruits his bombers, writes bullshit articles about him, just like I said. Only one thing I missed.' Ben-Roi's fists clenched, eyes never leaving Har-Zion. 'It turns out al-Mulatham's been murdering his own people.'
