Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  “Because fucking Spielberg made that movie about them,” Sohrab snarled.

  “Yes, but why? Because they’ve got balls the size of melons. They tracked down Black September after Munich and wiped them out. They went at it for twenty years. They went all over Europe to do it. Even when they failed, like they did in Norway, they got through it with sheer balls.

  “How many Hamas men have they killed? How many of our people have they martyred? I can’t keep track. They do it, and everybody knows they do it, and they still almost never get caught. Yes, Ziyad, they’re bastards, but, think about it.” Alayan watched the team’s faces harden. “I’m not praising them, don’t think that. But look at what they did to Talhami. He didn’t just die. He died a drunken heroin addict in bed with a Western whore. The Mossad didn’t just kill him, they destroyed his reputation. They used his own weaknesses against him. That’s what they do best.”

  Ziyad and Sohrab looked away, not so willing to be indignant now. Good. Alayan needed these men to think, not just be mad. Anger would make them sloppy, and he couldn’t afford that, not this time.

  “How would we have done a job like that? We’d get righteous and pledge our lives to Allah and blast the face off a hotel and kill dozens of people. All the Western news programs would show video of bloody women and dead babies and talk about ‘terrorists’ and ‘murderers.’” He watched Kassim nod; they’d talked about this before. “We probably wouldn’t even kill the man we’re trying for. That’s what the Jews expect. They expect us to be stupid.”

  Ziyad’s eyes crinkled as if he would cry. “How can you say these things about our martyrs, sidi?”

  “Because it’s true. Yes, we revere them, we pray to Allah to take them into his heart and reward them in Paradise, but we’re not winning the war. So we’re going to use Mossad’s rules.” He drained his water bottle and set it on the tiled floor beside the chair leg, waiting for the puzzlement to settle on the men’s faces. “The Mossad country team used American and European passports belonging to real people in those countries. They’ve been doing that for years. They did the same thing in the Dubai job, with Mabhouh. In that one, most of the people lived in Palestine. This time, they all live in other countries.” Alayan paused, let them think. “We’re going to find them and kill them.”

  Gasps. Wide eyes.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Rafiq leaned forward, held up his hand to signal “stop.” “They’re not Mossad. They weren’t in the Gulf. Why are we wasting our time?”

  “Because it’s what the Zionists would do if they were us.” He stood, rotated his bad left shoulder, then stepped around the chair. “What do we want to do? Kill Mossad agents? Who would care besides the Zionists? We want to send a message to the rest of the world. ‘Mossad is killing your people too. They brought this on you. They’re the real terrorists.’”

  Alayan did another face check; five pairs of eyes stared back. Kassim and Sohrab seemed to be getting the point. He focused on Gabir. If the dullest one of them understood, they all would. “Remember, the Jews used to ask before they used other people’s passports. If these people let Mossad use their identities, they’re part of the same gang. If they didn’t, then they’re innocent victims of Mossad’s murderers. Look at the reaction after Dubai. Australia almost recalled their ambassador. The British started saying things we usually do. Now imagine if their citizens die because of something those Mossad bastards did.” He let them imagine. Even Gabir nodded now. “Rafiq, if it makes you feel any better, they’re all Zionists, just living outside Palestine.”

  He watched them absorb the terms of this new mission. He’d prepared them for this over the past eighteen months; their surprise didn’t last long. It wasn’t time yet for them to know the rest of the Council’s orders. With any luck, that time may not come.

  Sohrab, the slightest and youngest-looking of them, awash in a too-large blue track suit, put on the most evil smile. “When do we start?” His heavy Persian accent made his Arabic sound mumbled, even when he spoke up.

  “We pick up our documents tomorrow. Once we enter Europe, we’ll travel on European passports. Gabir, how’s your French these days?”

  “Tres bon.”

  “Good. You’ll be French Moroccan again. If you weren’t so dark, we could do something else with you.” A couple of the others chuckled. Kassim ruffled Gabir’s shaggy black hair. “We’ll fly into different airports at different times and meet in Amsterdam in four days. We’ll make contact in the usual way. Save your questions until tomorrow. Now go get ready.”

  FOUR: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 15 September

  Miriam had just returned to her desk when her intercom buzzed. “Ms. Schaffer? Could you come here for a moment, please?”

  “Yes, sir.” She took a deep breath, straightened her charcoal suit skirt, gathered her notepad and pen, and stepped into her boss’ office.

  The high-backed leather chair put a great halo of black around Clark Dickinson’s blond, white bread-handsome head. He twisted a heavy silver pen in his hands. “Close the door, please.”

  Now what have I done? Miriam shut the door silently, then turned and stood at attention. The office could double for a squash court; it always made her feel small, no matter how hard she tried to ignore everything but the big, modern tropical-hardwood desk.

  “Carla at Reception tells me those were FBI agents who came to see you. Is that true?”

  Miriam made a note to strangle Carla the next time they were alone together. “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there something I should know about?”

  All the firm’s partners thought they needed to know everything about everybody; Dickinson was no different. “It’s all a mistake, sir. The people who killed that terrorist in the Middle East a couple weeks ago used other people’s names. Mine was one of them.”

  Dickinson swiveled left and right, over and over. His eyes never stopped examining her. “Why would they use your name?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m wondering the same thing, myself.”

  “Is it because you’re from Israel?”

  “It could be.” That would explain a lot. But why her? The woman who’d used her name was maybe in her mid-thirties like Miriam, but looked nothing like her. How do things like this happen? Hadn’t she paid enough already?

  “I see. And you knew nothing about this.”

  She recognized the accusation in his voice. Miriam knew Mossad used to ask permission to borrow people’s identities; her stepfather had let them do that once. But they’d never given her the opportunity to tell them “no.” “No, sir, I didn’t. It’s a surprise to me, too.”

  Dickinson flexed his shoulders. He probably thought it made him look tougher, but to Miriam it just made him look like a squirming little boy. “Is this going to become a problem, Ms. Schaffer?”

  A problem? “Well…no, sir, I can’t think why it would.”

  “Really.” Dickinson tossed his pen onto the open case file in front of him. “This firm has a number of important clients from the Gulf region, you know that, right?”

  “Yes, sir, I know that.” It also had a few Jewish clients, but she knew he wouldn’t go into that.

  “So now some of your people killed one of theirs, and used your name to do it. You can’t see how that could be a problem?”

  She almost blurted, “My people?” but swallowed it. Then she nearly led with, “That man was a terrorist!” but cut that off, too. She had no comeback that wouldn’t result in “you’re fired.”

  “Sheikh Saleh has already mentioned your attitude to me. This could upset him further.”

  That weasel Saleh probably funneled his zakat straight to Hamas. “Sir, I’m perfectly polite to the Sheikh, just like I am with every other client. Mr. Henshaw never had any issues with my work or my attitude, and I haven’t changed a thing.”

  Dickinson put on his you-poor-dear smile. “Miriam, Saleh’s a sheikh. He expects more than ‘perfectly polite.’ And I have different standards than Hen
shaw did. I can’t allow your feelings about Moslems to harm this firm or its clients. Understand?”

  “With Arabs, not Moslems.” She wanted to grab the words and stuff them back into her mouth the moment they escaped, but too late. Then the regret turned to contempt. He simply had no idea. What would this Main Line rich boy do if he had to sit through a rocket attack, like she had? Piss his two-thousand-dollar suit?

  Calm down, she reminded herself. You need the job. “Yes, sir.” She just couldn’t fawn over that toad Saleh the way her boss did, no matter how many billable hours the man was worth.

  “All right, then. As good as you are at your job, you’re just a secretary and secretaries are replaceable. For now, please take your nameplate down. The Sheikh will be visiting tomorrow, and I don’t want to have to explain any of this to him. Is that clear?”

  Miriam squared her shoulders and jaw. She knew it made her look taller. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “That’s all.”

  She turned a crisp about-face and marched from the office. She could still do that after all these years, even in heels. She tried very hard not to slam the door on her way out.

  FIVE: Rotterdam, The Netherlands, 23 September

  Albert Schoonhaven pedaled carefully down the red asphalt bike path along Prins Alexanderlaan. He’d been overheated in the pub, but now the damp evening chill clawed through his trouser legs and down his neck. He took one hand off the handlebars to pull his rough wool coat collar tighter around his throat.

  He knew he’d had too much to drink. Everyone was having such a good time, though, with plenty of fun at his expense. Pieter had bought a bright yellow water gun for him and waved it at everyone at the pub. “For your next secret mission!” he crowed.

  It had been that way for two weeks, ever since the Qataris announced the names of the people who killed that Arab. Albert had awakened one day to find his name in the Algameen Dagblad. He hadn’t even thought about the Mossad in the twelve years since he’d left Israel, and now he was linked to some spy adventure. How crazy the world was.

  The humming streetlights wore amber halos in the mist and flashed off the windshields of the oncoming cars. Apartment-block windows glowed softly on the other side of the tram line to his right; offices sat dark on his left, with the occasional lit house or flat in between. Even at night, everything was very Dutch—clean and orderly and a little cold.

  He rolled past the blocky brick-and-concrete De Nieuwe Unie building—the glass lobby dark and still—and braked at the intersection with Kralingseweg. He obediently waited for the green light, got a wobbly start in the crosswalk. He passed the Schenkel tram station, bumped over the tracks. Almost home.

  Traffic was just a rumor off the main street. Not many people were out at this hour. Albert noticed a man crossing the little bridge over a night-black fragment of the Hollandse Ijssel, just past the bus shelter. The man moved slowly, as if he had no place to go. Albert registered blue jeans and a gray pullover with a hood that shadowed the man’s face.

  They passed each other at the bridge’s end.

  Albert Schoonhaven didn’t notice the man turn. He never heard the shot that killed him.

  Alayan watched the Jew tumble backward off his bicycle, bounce off the bike path and roll against the curb. The bike glanced off the bridge railing, clattered onto its side. He tucked the still-warm pistol under his sweatshirt. He always took the first kill of every mission to show the men he could do the work, not just plan it.

  He glanced toward the tram station’s car park. A couple dozen meters away, Sohrab held up their compact black video camera and smiled. All on tape.

  Just as we’d planned, Alayan thought. He quickly dragged the body onto the grass next to the bridge, tugged out the man’s wallet, then rolled him into the canal. Gabir jogged out of the nearby bus shelter, grabbed the bike, dropped it over the railing. Two minutes later, they headed north on Prins Alexanderlaan toward the A20 and, eventually, Amsterdam.

  Perfect. Alayan leaned back into his seat and sighed. Eleven to go.

  SIX: Staten Island, New York, 1 October

  “Well, look who’s here! It’s James Bond!”

  Jake shook his head in exasperation. If he’d had a buck for every time he’d heard that over the past three weeks… “Hello to you too, Gene.” He stepped back to allow room for the screen door, then walked into his uncle’s beefy arms.

  “Hey, kid, don’t let it get to you.” Gene Eldar pounded Jake’s back, then held him out at arm’s length. “Glad you could make it way out here in the country.”

  “Like we’d miss Petey’s birthday.” He held out the present wrapped in shiny blue paper. “Where’s the monster grandson, anyway?”

  “Out back, with all the other little monsters.” Gene took the box, let Jake through the door, then threw his arms open again. “Rinnah! Come here, beautiful!” He buried Jake’s wife in a hug, traded loud cheek-kisses with her. “You’re way too good for this nut. Ready to run away with me?”

  Rinnah pulled back and aimed a deadly eyebrow at him. “Monica says you can go now?”

  Gene turned her loose and clapped a hand to his heart. “The way you do me, it’s good you’re gorgeous.” His white dress shirt threatened to split across his back when he leaned over the little girl hanging back at the step’s edge, all pink dress and wild black curly hair, a Princess Jasmine doll clutched to her chest. “There’s my Chava! Look at you! Say, will you marry me? Your mama won’t take me.”

  Eve smiled and stuck an index finger in her mouth. “No. I’m gonna marry Petey.”

  Gene let her hug his neck, then told her, “Your future husband is out back, go get him.” Eve burst past and charged down the hall. “Come on in, you two. Chava’s grown, what, a foot since last month?”

  “It’s Eve,” Jake said, “and yeah, we can’t keep clothes on her.”

  Jake knew his uncle’s two-story Colonial wasn’t large by neighborhood standards, but compared to the apartment in Brooklyn, it was a palace. Cream-colored walls covered with framed photos, crown molding, wall-to-wall carpet, rooms the size of nightclubs; was this even the same city?

  Short-haired men wearing loose, untucked shirts or light windbreakers overflowed the house. Bulges that weren’t cell phones appeared at waistbands and the smalls of backs. Cop parties. Jake never knew whether to believe he was incredibly safe or one drink away from a firefight.

  Gene ushered them into the crowded family room overlooking the back yard. “What can I get you to drink?”

  Rinnah broke away from admiring the grassy back yard. “Wine?”

  “Out back, with the women.”

  She uncorked one of her neon-white smiles. “I’ll talk to Monica about that trip to Tahiti you keep promising to me.” Rinnah gave Jake a quick kiss, then sauntered through the milling cops out the open patio slider.

  Gene said, “Love that accent of hers.”

  “I can get her to swear at you in Hebrew, like she does to me. That oughtta really turn you on.”

  Gene snorted and shook his head. “Beer?”

  “Sure.”

  Bottles in hand, they pulled up a corner of the kitchen counter overlooking the yard. A swarm of little kids charged around like multicolored locusts, laughing and squealing and falling down.

  “Never thought I’d see an INTERPOL Red Notice on any nephew of mine,” Gene said. “Seriously, kid, how you doing?”

  Jake shrugged. “Okay. Crank calls have petered out. Since that jumper on the D line, I’m old news, reporters aren’t ambushing me outside the apartment anymore. Now it’s just little stuff, people calling me ‘James Bond.’” Gene held up his hands, a silent what can you do? “There’s a regular at the store, Mrs. Daumberg, sweet old gal, comes by every day. She’s volunteered to babysit Eve if I have to go off and kill bad guys again.”

  A shaved-bald hulk slid by, draped in an aloha shirt that fit like a tarp. He slapped Jake hard on the bicep. “Hey, Jake, good going with that terrorist fuck
.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Jake sighed. “See that, Gene? That’s my life now.”

  “Could be worse. Your name could be Talhami.” Gene angled his stoutness closer to his nephew. “You, um, haven’t had any trouble? No guys hanging around who shouldn’t be, anything like that?”

  “Nooo. Why?”

  Gene held up his hand. “Nothing. Just wondering.”

  “Bullshit. What?”

  Jake watched with a tinge of alarm as his uncle began to look uncomfortable. Gene ran his thick fingers through his wavy gray hair. “Okay, look. Shit like this brings out the crazies, you know? The religious fanatics, the bush-league holy warriors, the skinheads, the Trilateral Commission cranks, all the wingnuts.”

  The beer soured in Jake’s mouth. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying whoever did this hung a sign around your neck. I don’t want to see some wanna-be Johnny Jihad or some cut-rate Nazi take a crack at you.”

  “You seriously think anyone’ll bother?”

  “Look, kid, I’m a Jew, I worry, it’s in my DNA. Just keep an eye out, that’s all.”

  “I live in Brooklyn. You think I don’t pay attention when I go outside?”

  They fell silent, nursed their beers and thoughts. Jake watched the kids run around outside, Eve in the middle of the pack. He could handle whatever came his way, but what if someone went after his wife or daughter? The shadow of that thought ran a shiver up his neck.

  “I hope this is serious man talk, because the women are arguing about wallpaper.”

  Jake turned, looped an arm around Rinnah and pulled her against his hip. She fit well with him; she always had. Her touch made him feel warm and safe again. He cranked up a reassuring smile. “You gave up wallpaper for us?”

  “Just shop talk,” Gene said. He waved his beer bottle toward her wine glass. “Refill?”

  “No, thank you.” She put down her glass, swiped the bottle from Jake’s hand and took a long pull. “Police talk or book talk? I hope police talk. Bookstore gossip is really boring.”