Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  “So you’re starting an operation inside the U.S. without telling them? Our closest ally? If they find out, it won’t be just the liaison station we lose.” Gur squeezed his eyes shut. This was a worse decision than the hit on Talhami. The damage this could do…“Who are you sending?”

  “You, of course.”

  Kusemek! Back in the field again? So soon? He’d settled into being a normal person. He enjoyed living in his homeland. He liked the Watch Center. But he couldn’t tell Orgad any of that; he was supposed to be a professional. “My face is still out there,” he said instead.

  “It’s out of my hands. The P.M. chose you himself. He said, ‘Send the guy who did Talhami, make him clean up his mess.’”

  “I never wanted the Talhami job to begin with! I told you it’d turn to shit, and it did. Now you’re sending me to America into a carpet-bombing of shit?” Gur wished there was enough room in this little office to pace off the sense of doom building up inside him. “What exactly do you expect me to do over there, anyway?”

  “Find the Hezbollah team and neutralize it. Seriously, a heart attack? We do that sort of thing. These men are too good to let them live. If you can save the people on the list, then do it, but that’s secondary.”

  “We don’t even know who we’re looking for! Kelila’s been looking for missing Hezbollah squads and hasn’t found any. Who’s my target?”

  Orgad shrugged. “Find the people on the list and the terrorists will be someplace near. It’s all going to be ‘operational requirement.’ Find them and eliminate them. You have the Director’s support. Understand?”

  “As much as I understand any of this.”

  “Then think of this.” Orgad tapped the blotter again. “Let’s assume Hezbollah is behind this. Assume they’re killing the people on the Qataris’ list. Yes? That’s your theory?” Gur nodded. “Suppose they succeed. Then that bastard Nasrallah announces to the world that the all-powerful Party of God has killed twelve Zionist agents and got away with it. Can we deny they’re ours? No. We’d have to explain how we know. The host countries may know better, but they’ll be angry we caused their citizens to die. Or they won’t know better, and they’ll be angry we have people living under non-official cover inside their boundaries. And by ‘angry,’ I mean more than cancelling museum exhibits. I mean recalling ambassadors, cutting trade, U.N. resolutions. Perhaps now it’s clearer to you?”

  Gur heaved out a sigh that took a part of his soul with it. The Institute had done some truly stupid things in the past, but this plan was idiotic even by those standards. He could—should—resign in protest, but then someone else would go. His people would have to deal with a leader they didn’t know or trust, someone who’d turn this into even more of a disaster. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Take a small team, no more than six of you total. Keep a small footprint. We don’t have time to work up fresh covers for you, so you’ll go in with your police credentials. We’ll fly you direct to New York City, private aircraft. Okay?”

  “No, not okay. But I suppose we don’t have a choice.” Orgad arched an eyebrow. “Right. After this is over, if I survive it, I’ll want a permanent transfer. I’m done with this.”

  Orgad just nodded as if he’d expected that.

  Kelila slouched in Gur’s Watch Center chair, fiddling with her cell phone. She glanced up with sad eyes as he plodded into the room. “Where are we going?”

  “America.” He collapsed on the guest chair, ran his fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow. I’m sorry. You didn’t have to stay this late, I’d have called.”

  She nodded. “Will this end it?”

  “Does anything we do ever end it?”

  “No, I guess not.” Kelila punched a button on her keypad, closed the phone. “I’ll call my mother, see if she can take Hasia for a while. Sir?”

  Gur winced. Now they were on a mission, he was “sir” again. “Yes?”

  “Would you mind a lot if I tell my old boss I’d like to go back when this is done?”

  He patted her forearm, rested his fingertips on the warm, tanned skin of her wrist. “No. Maybe you should. Before this—” he waved his free hand toward the door “—ruins your life.”

  She glanced at his hand on her wrist and smiled. “I guess no dinner tonight.”

  Damn it. When would he get another chance? Was he foolish to even think about Kelila? “No time, now. I’m sorry. I wish I’d asked earlier.”

  “So do I.”

  She did?

  Kelila stood, brushed down the front of her rust-red skirt. “Has it ruined your life? All this?” She echoed Gur’s gesture toward the door.

  He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Pack for cold weather. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  FOURTEEN: Near Blythe, California, 12 November

  Alayan settled on an English-language pop-music radio station to break the silence. He repeated words the announcers said, trying to knock down his accent. He’d considered a couple of Spanish stations—he’d taught himself the language since he’d started travelling on a Spanish passport—but knew he’d never be able to pass as a native speaker in a city full of Mexicans. Generic “foreigner” was the best he could hope for.

  Four days ago, he’d been in an Italian factory town. Now he crossed a great desert an ocean away. The change always gave him mental whiplash when he allowed himself to think about it.

  He pushed his palms hard against the big rental sedan’s steering wheel. Over two hours on a motorway—Interstate 10, according to the red-white-and-blue signs—that ran so straight for so long he wondered if he could doze off and wake up still on the road. Driving this distance from Beirut would have put him in Turkey, but here he’d barely crossed into California, only a third of the way to his destination.

  The scale of this country was something he couldn’t fully understand. He was used to the eastern Mediterranean’s tiny nations, or the slightly larger ones of Europe. He’d been to New York City before, but as crowded and overbuilt as that place was, it was still a manageable physical size. But this, this was unimaginably huge, and so undeveloped.

  Still, some parts reminded him of home: the dusty, low-rise towns full of stucco walls and tile roofs, the groves of palms, the jagged brown mountains floating on the horizon. The big four-wheel-drive vehicles that blew past him in the left lane were familiar, too. All the rich people drove them back home, huge battering rams to get them safely through roadblocks or kidnap attempts. He wondered why the Americans needed them. Surely that sort of thing didn’t happen here, too?

  Alayan hadn’t been in this country since before the 2001 attacks, and despite all he’d heard from other Party members, he’d worried whether the team would get through security. But despite all the money the Americans had spent, all the controversy and argument, entry was still easy enough. European passports, European names, enough of the right languages to get them by, and the immigration officers waved them through—even dark-faced Gabir with his false Moroccan surname. They hadn’t even needed visas. In the meantime, the Americans still believed more machines and guards would keep them safe. Fools.

  The others were on the ground by now, in Los Angeles, San Diego and Las Vegas. Alayan had flown into Phoenix, where Kassim had bought the weapons now hiding under the spare tire in the car’s trunk. Kassim’s experience proved their research had been correct; it was absurdly easy to buy guns in this state of Arizona, which appeared to still be the Wild West. He’d sent an email to Alayan: “It’s like a Bekaa Valley bazaar here.”

  He passed a green sign that said, “Los Angeles 215.” Miles, not kilometers. Three hours, perhaps more if the traffic in Los Angeles was as bad as everyone said.

  As the miles unspooled behind him, Alayan thought about the upcoming action.

  Now they were in America. For people who went on so much about freedom, the Americans had so many police, and they were so powerful. The team would have to fly from Los Angeles to the next target in Washington; another exposure to airlin
e security. Ziyad would insist on praying no matter what. That would draw the wrong kind of attention.

  But they had an advantage: Americans had no idea about personal security. In the old days, it could take weeks for a skilled team to work out the patterns of a target’s life. Following, photographing, long hours in parked cars or dark hotel rooms watching the target come and go.

  Now all Alayan had to do was follow a Twitter feed.

  By the time he reached the suburb of Los Angeles called Burbank, he’d have a good working knowledge of the rhythms of Frank Demetrio’s life. The 33-year-old estate lawyer worked in a tall, black office building on the outer edge of what appeared to be the central part of this Burbank place. On Wednesdays and Fridays, he joined friends at one of the bars and restaurants surrounding the large shopping mall that, as far as Alayan could tell, was the town’s actual center. Alayan even had pictures of Demetrio from the man’s Facebook page—far more and far better than agents could get under normal field conditions.

  He’d sent the team the link to a post Demetrio made to the page on the eleventh of September: “Hoo-YAH! Mossad kicks terrorist ass AGAIN!”

  We’ll see.

  The team would be in Burbank Sunday night. Demetrio would be dead Wednesday.

  FIFTEEN: Teterboro, New Jersey, 13 November

  Gur staggered down the ladder to the hangar’s polished concrete floor. Fresh air was a fine thing, even if it was cold and smelled of jet fuel. The chill cut through the muzziness blanketing his brain. Fourteen hours in the Gulfstream business jet was like being packed in a particularly plush coffin and shaken regularly.

  He buttoned up his slate-gray overcoat to his throat and scanned the area. Their vehicles—a cypress green Nissan Pathfinder and a dark blue Chevrolet Suburban—waited at the far side of the metal hangar. Between him and them hunched an anonymous gray Ford sedan, retiring almost to the point of embarrassment.

  A man—fair, rimless glasses, styled blond hair—pushed off the car’s side and strolled in Gur’s direction, his hands in the pockets of his khaki overcoat. Gur knew he could be from one of only two places; he’d know which one the moment the man opened his mouth. If the man spoke English, they might as well get back on the plane and fly home.

  The man stopped three paces away. “Ephraim?”

  “You are…?” Gur replied in English.

  The man watched Amzi lumber down the Gulfstream’s ladder, then turned his attention back to Gur. “They made us fly over on El Al.” Hebrew. Not the FBI.

  “You’re from the embassy?” Gur asked in Hebrew.

  “Until Thursday, when they’re kicking us out. Brian Doron. I used to be the station chief until you pulled that stunt in Doha.” He snapped a nod toward the cowering Ford and turned back in its direction. Gur followed. When they reached the car, Doron pivoted, folded his arms and scowled at Gur. “Police credentials? The Institute is getting lazy.”

  “That’s all we had time for. It’s true, your whole section’s being expelled?”

  “Yes. This was a good job. My wife loves D.C. My son loves his school. They’re not speaking to me right now, thanks to you Komemiute idiots. You just had to use American passports, didn’t you?”

  Gur sighed. “It wasn’t my decision. Talk to the man in the Director’s office. If it helps at all, I told them it’d go bad.”

  “It doesn’t.” Doron let a long breath hiss out as he massaged his neck. “At least you got the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I’m sorry.” Apologizing to the boss for making mistakes wasn’t hard anymore; apologizing to a fellow combatant whose life he’d screwed up was. Just another victim of Doha.

  Doron nodded. He pulled a stiff manila envelope, folded lengthwise, from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Gur. “You and your team are registered at a TSA conference downtown. That’s officially why you’re here. These are your badges. They get you into the workshops and the trade show, but not the lunches. Don’t bother to go, it’s just a cover.”

  “Nothing good to see?”

  “No. They’re discovering things we knew fifteen years ago, except they do them half as well and spend five times as much doing it. And that, ‘Inspector’, is all you’re going to get from the embassy. We have to wind up our work and brief in our replacements.” Doron shot a hateful look at the Gulfstream. “They also have to fly El Al.”

  “Honestly? I’d rather have the movies and the flight attendants.”

  “I’ll bet. I also put in the secure number for the katsa in the U.N. delegation. I’ve no idea if he’s been briefed. I doubt it.”

  Gur stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket. “How many others know about us?”

  “You mean, know who you are? Just me. I don’t plan to tell my relief. My assistant made your arrangements, but she thinks you’re really police. Don’t be surprised if the law enforcement attaché calls up and wants to have drinks. You people are on your own. Keep it that way.”

  That’s how things usually were. Gur didn’t hold it against Doron or the embassy; in their place, he’d want to ignore this operation too. “Thank you for this. We’ll take it from here. Again, I’m sorry you have to leave.”

  Doron frowned into Gur’s eyes for a silent moment, then pivoted on his heel, circled to the driver’s door and climbed in. The Ford lumbered from view with hardly a sound.

  “He wasn’t very happy,” Kelila remarked.

  Gur turned and smiled at her. Her cheeks flushed in the cold; he squashed the impulse to warm them with his hands. “Our last physical contact with the government. We’ve ruined his life. Come on, let’s get to work.”

  SIXTEEN: Burbank, California, 16 November

  Demetrio’s tweet at 5:03 PM told Alayan—and everyone else in the world who could bring themselves to care—where to go: “elephant bar @ orng grove c u there.”

  The Zionist made this so easy. Alayan and the team had done everything so fast: less than three days of surveillance, and they’d first driven inside this parking structure two hours ago. So many loose ends, unfilled holes. But it had to work. They had to make up the time lost in Europe. Kassim waited for them in Washington D.C., guns and rooms ready for their next exploit.

  “Why don’t we just blow up his car and get it over with?” Gabir grumped.

  Alayan sighed, shook his head. “How many targets do we have in America?”

  “I don’t know. Four? Five?”

  “Six. How many of those would you like to hit?”

  “All of them.”

  “Of course. And how many do you think we’ll get to if we start setting off bombs all around this country?” Gabir scowled, turned his face toward the side window. “We can’t announce what we’re doing until it’s done, or we’ll never get to finish. We have to make each job look like something normal, like Americans killing each other. They do that so much, I’d be afraid to live here.”

  “So we hide in shadows and shoot people in the back. We’re warriors, sidi, this isn’t our way.”

  “It’s Mossad’s way. If we act like them, we’ll succeed like them.” Alayan plucked his phone from the dashboard, selected Sohrab, pushed the button that made the phone chirp like a cricket. “Status.”

  “Clear.”

  He selected Rafiq. “Status.”

  Rafiq’s easy voice came accompanied by a jitter of crowd noises, televisions, laughter. “Still here,” he said in English.

  Still? Alayan chirped Ziyad. “Status.”

  “Waiting.”

  “Hold.” He placed the phone back in the cupholder, pushed both hands against the steering wheel to work the stiffness from his shoulders. His entire body was wound tighter than the stitching on the leather seats.

  Alayan’s phone bleeped. “Heading out,” Rafiq announced.

  Finally. Alayan selected the three others, pressed the button. “Stand by.” He nudged Gabir. “Get the camera ready.”

  This was the worst part: the target moving, walking into the trap, so close to success, but so many
things could still go wrong. The seconds take hours to pass. Alayan rolled down his window, both to get a better view and to let some fresh air chase the body-sweat funk out of the car. Still warm outside, just like home at this time of year.

  Sohrab’s voice from the phone. “In the stairwell.”

  Gabir silently slipped through his door to set up the video camera. Each of the men had taped one of the European actions; Gabir’s video had come out best, so he got to shoot their first job in America.

  The rapid-fire clack of a woman’s footsteps echoed from Alayan’s right. Damn it! He leaned over the passenger seat, hissed, “Gabir, get back in here!”

  Sohrab. “Out of the stairwell, on your level.”

  Gabir slammed into the seat, pulled the door closed. Alayan could hear a man’s steps on concrete behind him. Demetrio? He chirped Rafiq. “Slow him down. Someone’s coming.”

  This damned flashy car was as conspicuous as an elephant. When he’d replaced the sedan he’d rented in Phoenix, he’d wanted another boring, forgettable American four-door. The rental agency instead upgraded him to a wine-red Jaguar. He knew better than to object; that would be suspicious. There hadn’t been time to get rid of it. No time. He’d said that a lot lately.

  Lights flashed on the bronze Lexus four-wheel-drive across the aisle from their car. Alayan whispered “Get down!” to Gabir, pulled the newspaper from the back seat, opened it on the steering wheel. Gabir slid down the passenger seat until his head sank below window level.

  Just in time. The woman strode into view, immersed in thumbing her cell phone. Alayan didn’t dare even rustle the paper, she seemed so close. She was a Western kind of pretty, with long blond hair down her back, a tight white shirt unbuttoned far enough to show her cleavage, and a tighter yellow skirt that exposed her legs from the knees down. Alayan was used to such costumes on Beiruti Christian women—even many of the Sunnis—so it didn’t shock him, although since he’d never liked blonds, it didn’t do much else for him either. He knew people who’d be scandalized by her “undress.” Ziyad, for one.