“We found the van in the Hampton Inn car park by the Newark airport, around three,” David reported. “Good hunch, sir. Around three-forty, two men came out and got in the van.”
It was almost more than a hunch, Gur thought. He and Kelila had followed the white van for miles until the driver bolted, veered away from the entrance to the New Jersey Turnpike at the very last moment and disappeared into the industrial port area. So close…
David clicked to a telephoto shot of the white van and two men in winter coats, the shorter one’s head half-turned to his taller companion. Dark curly hair almost in ringlets, a Roman nose, a Mediterranean complexion.
“Anyone?” Gur asked the group. They shook their heads. No one recognized the man.
David advanced to the next picture. Now the taller man turned full-face to the shorter one. Good-looking, light-skinned, short black hair.
Kelila bent, examined the picture. “I’ve seen him,” she said. “When we were tailing Eldar on Tuesday. He was in a suit, and when Eldar crossed Court Street to go to the store, this one turned north and walked off.”
“Are you sure?” Gur asked, already knowing the answer. Kelila didn’t speak out unless she was sure of what she was saying.
She glanced up at him, still grumpy from the morning’s failure. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Right.” If only they had enough people, they could’ve kept watch on Eldar’s place properly. But they didn’t, and Eldar’s wife was dead because of it. Another innocent dead, a family torn apart. He knew what Eldar was going through right now, and that knowledge made him feel weak and useless. He sighed, put those thoughts away for later.
He turned back to David. “What happened then?”
“They took the van to Hertz, where they dropped it off and took the train to the airport. Natan tailed them. They got off and got right back on going the other way. They took a shuttle to the Enterprise rental office, where they rented a Ford Econoline cargo van with New Jersey registration plates. We followed them back to the airport Renaissance.”
These Arabs had done this before. Amateurs would hold onto the other van, or rent another at the same place or one next door. “Did they make you?”
“If they did, they didn’t act like it.”
“Natan, how close did you get to them in the train?”
Natan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his suede bomber jacket and shrugged. “In the next train car, so they didn’t see me.”
Good tradecraft, but not helpful. “Did you hear anything?”
“No. They were quiet at the bus stop. Alert, but no talking.”
Gur leaned back, laced his fingers on top of his head and forced a breath between his lips. “Right, there’s at least three of them then, probably more.”
“More,” Amzi said. “They did Brown last night and Eldar’s wife this morning. Even we’re not that good. They have two teams going.”
“Good point. So six or eight, perhaps more, and we’ve seen three. Kelila, any help from Research?”
Kelila stood straighter, going into briefing mode. “I talked to the desk officer when we got back here. Six known Hezbollah militiamen flew out of Beirut on 10th October. Each of them headed for a different country, but we lost track of them there. The analyst thinks they switched to European passports when they touched down, then flew to Amsterdam. Our guys are checking security footage at the airports now.”
“No identities?”
“Not yet, but we’re leaning on our Hezbollah sources.”
“Excellent.” Gur stifled another sigh; the Watch Center had begun to look like paradise. “Kelila, send the pictures of these two over to Research and see what they can come up with. Also, see if they can pull the passport photo for Mr. Alvarez.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Amzi, Sasha, go to the Renaissance. One of you watches the van, the other checks out the lobby and restaurants. Switch off, stay on post for four hours. David, Natan, you’re next, four hours. Kelila and I will relieve you. We watch that van until it moves, then we follow it. Understand?” Everyone nodded. Gur pointed to Amzi and Sasha. “You two, dress warm. It’s supposed to start snowing tonight, and the last thing we need is a pair of frozen Jews.”
“We Russians don’t freeze, boss,” Sasha said, straight-faced. “Just you sabra pussies.”
A couple of the others chuckled. Amzi flicked the back of Sasha’s blond head. Gur snorted and said, “Get to work, people.”
They filtered from Gur’s room one by one until only Kelila was left behind. She perched on the edge of her chair, lips pressed flat, pounding her laptop’s keys as if they were bugs needing to be squashed.
Gur read her face: frustration, helpless anger. He leaned forward, tried to catch her eye. “Kelila.” The keyboard’s clicks didn’t slow. “You’re taking the letters off the keys.”
She slapped her palms on the tabletop. “We should’ve done something. We let her down.” Kelila threw a half-pleading, half-accusing look at Gur. “We’re supposed to protect people like them, but we didn’t and now that little girl doesn’t have a mother anymore. I think of Hasia without me, and it just makes me…” She rushed out a hard breath. “I feel like I should’ve tried harder. Like it’s our fault. My fault.”
Gur understood all too well. Rinnah Eldar was yet another name to add to the long list of people he’d failed to save. He rocked out of his chair, eased behind her, gently laid a hand on each of her shoulders. “Yes, we let her down. No, it’s not our fault.” He began to knead the tension out of her shoulders. She dropped her hands to her lap and rocked with each stroke. “Remember who did this. Hold onto that, you’ll need it later.”
“It was easier running agents in France with the DCRI on my butt.”
“I warned you about that when you first came to us.” Kelila smiled with only one corner of her mouth. Gur slid his hands up until his thumbs brushed the sides of her neck. The softness of her skin melted through his hands. “I know how you feel. It’s miserable. It helps to have someone to talk to, someone who understands. I’m happy to listen.”
She twisted to look up at him. “I hate whining. You know that.”
He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “It’s not whining. Either you let it out, or it chews its way out. It’s better to let it out, believe me.”
She turned away and sighed. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. It feels great.”
How many times had he done this for Varda? She’d come home from the Ministry tired and frustrated, and he’d help her wind down—when he’d been home, which hadn’t been often enough. The feel of Kelila’s strong shoulders relaxing under his fingertips and her warmth flowing from beneath her blouse awakened a jumble of old memories and newer feelings.
Kelila let her head roll back until her hair just brushed the front of his heavy twill shirt. The silence lingered. Comfortable, Gur thought. Natural. I’ve missed this so. But what had he missed—the physical contact? Well, yes. The gentle weight of her hair against his stomach stirred a reaction he hoped she wouldn’t notice, or she wouldn’t mind if she did. But more than that, he’d missed being, sharing quiet time, companionship. Comfort. Had she missed it too?
Her breathing became deep and content. It would be so easy to bend down and kiss her, to run his hands over the rise of her breasts. She’d let him know in the Watch Center she’d welcome that. But so many traps lurked along that road; falling in one would cost him not just her, but this. Being. Was it worth the risk? Really?
Gur sighed. “Just be glad you can feel this way. It means you’re still human. There’s still hope for you.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
She slipped a warm hand over his, looked up at him, smiled. “Thank you, Raffi. And if you can say things like that, there’s hope for you, too.”
He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
THIRTY-TWO: Newark, 1 December
Two hours after he’d left, Kassim
charged back through Alayan’s door. “We’re leaving.”
“Excuse me?”
Kassim grabbed the suitcase off the wardrobe floor, tossed it on the bed. “We were followed to the airport.” Alayan stood rooted by the door, absorbing this latest disaster. Kassim watched him for a moment, then spread his hands. “Fadi? Did you hear me?”
“Yes. Yes.” Alayan shook off the momentary shock and strode to the bed. They’d been so careful; how did the police find them? “Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter. It was time to go this morning, this just confirms it. We’re done here. Let’s go south, eliminate Schaffer and get out of this country.”
“And leave Eldar and Kaminsky? Fail to finish the mission? You remember what happens then, don’t you?”
Kassim closed the distance between them and clapped his hands on Alayan’s shoulders. “Think. We’ve eliminated nine of the twelve in two and a half months. Kaminsky’s disappeared, and Eldar’s life is destroyed. If the Council wants to start throwing bombs around after all that, there’s no satisfying them. Being dead or in prison won’t stop them, either.”
Alayan looked away. They were so close to success. Kaminsky couldn’t stay away forever. Eldar would come out of hiding eventually. But how long is that? Alayan asked himself. Before the start of Hanukkah? Before the Party sets off its bombs? The sense of Kassim’s words finally seeped into his better judgment. “You still have to clean up from this morning.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I will. But we need you to get out of here first.”
“What about the others?”
“They’re already packing. I told them you’d ordered it.” He tried on a smile. “You’re not going to make me a liar, are you?”
It felt like a defeat, running away like this. But Alayan realized Kassim had a point—staying would be foolish and could lead them to disaster. Be smart, listen to Kassim, he told himself. Mossad would move on, live to fight again tomorrow. And so would he.
THIRTY-THREE: Detroit, 2 December
Al-Shami finished wiring the light bulb and ducked between the twin banks of gray-painted metal shelves, straight out the van’s open back doors. He straightened and made a leisurely circuit of the vehicle, examining his work.
The Eastside Electric logo on the back doors and each side of the cargo box came from a real Upper East Side firm he’d found on the Internet, phone numbers and all. Weathering had taken some time, since he’d needed the van to look used but not wrecked; a bit of gravel scour at the rear edge of each wheel well, a crease in the right front fender, bare metal on a windshield-wiper arm, scrapes in the white paint, scratches on the chrome grille. He was especially happy with the New York commercial plates. He’d found them in a junkyard in Buffalo on a mangled van much like this one, hammered them flat, repainted them so they’d look weathered but undamaged. He’d even had a contact print replica registration stickers for them. Perfect.
He stopped when he reached the rear doors once again. Al-Shami slid his cell phone from his back pocket and thumbed in a number. He punched “dial.” One ring. The light bulb on the floor behind the seats glowed white.
Satisfied, he put away his phone. The van’s electronics were complete. The cheap pre-paid cellphone he’d bought in a Buffalo Wal-Mart was now a detonator. He’d learned in Iraq that no matter how dedicated the shahid, there was a huge gulf between the theory of sacrificing one’s life for the cause and actually pushing the button. If the driver of this bomb-on-wheels lost his will at the last moment, al-Shami could call a single phone number to set off the explosives.
The van was ready. The wheeled aluminum oxygen tank was ready. The parcel in the businesslike brown cardboard box was done. The shuhada were nearly ready. All al-Shami needed was the final go-ahead from the Council. Then the 650-mile drive to New York City, and an appointment in Manhattan.
THIRTY-FOUR: Staten Island, 2 December
Jake wasn’t even trying to go to sleep anymore. Every time he started sliding off the edge of consciousness, what slithered out of the back of his brain jolted him awake. The eerie quiet didn’t help; he was too used to the white noise of home, the traffic, the old building’s groans, the thumps of his neighbors. Music outside, TVs inside. Rinnah softly buzzing next to him.
The empty grayness inside him slowly retreated, making room for the hurt and fear and sorrow and anger that kept him alert and open-eyed in his uncle’s darkened guest bedroom. And the guilt. He should’ve told her what was happening. He should’ve been there. Any other day, he would’ve been there. He was supposed to protect Rinnah, and he’d failed her catastrophically. The image of the hole in her forehead stayed burned into the movie screen of his mind.
He’d failed Eve, too. The walls of his heart cracked as he stroked her hair. She’d lasted perhaps two minutes in the other bed before she crawled into his. Now she was a tight coil of girl burrowed into his chest. The pills Dr. Kwan prescribed were supposed to drop Eve like a rock into a deep, dreamless sleep, but her broken whimpers and twitching feet disproved that theory.
When the clock plowed past two-thirty, Jake gave up. He carefully slid out of bed, tucked up Eve, and stumbled to the little desk where he’d placed his laptop. Maybe he could read himself to sleep.
The shockingly-bright computer screen lit half the room in pale blue. He let his eyes adjust, then opened a browser. The Feeds tab listed half a dozen publishing blogs he followed. He stabbed the top one with his mouse pointer and started to read.
The text bounced off his eyes and landed on the floor without making the tiniest impression. Instead of dozing off, his brain started listing all the things he needed to do. He hadn’t yet told Rinnah’s parents, or his own. He needed to make arrangements. That’s how it came into his mind, “make arrangements,” code for the details of morticians and caskets and graves. How do people do that? The worst day in their lives, and they’re expected to make decisions about things they’ve tried to never think about. He needed to talk to Rabbi Teitelman; she’d know what to do.
Which reminded him he hadn’t prayed for Rinnah yet. He was very out of practice with praying. Why would God listen to him now? But if He existed, He could look after Rinnah. This was all Jake could do for her now, so he should at least try. Maybe later Jake could ask God just what the hell He was thinking, letting this happen.
He noticed the “Doha 12” folder’s name showed in bold, meaning it held new feeds. He clicked on it, found the Google News feed for Nathan Brown also in bold. Jake hesitated, then clicked. After reading it he stared at the screen, hands covering his mouth.
Jake knew who killed Rinnah.
THIRTY-FIVE: Staten Island, 2 December
Jake hunched over Gene’s and Monica’s dining table, chin on his hands, staring at his phone. He’d done enough damage with it already this morning; could he stand to do more?
He rubbed at the caffeine headache he’d developed after finishing off most of a pot of coffee since five A.M., when he started calling Israel. He’d told his parents first; it went just as badly as he’d expected. He got a lot of “You should’ve stayed here” and “you went there to be safer?” He’d hoped maybe this once they wouldn’t bust his chops. It was too much to hope for.
Rinnah’s parents were even worse, but in a completely different way. They were far more gracious than they should have been, considering the news he brought them. They worried about Jake and Eve, sympathized, asked “Are you okay?” a million times. In the end, their concern made him feel more worthless than his parents’ barbs.
He’d cornered Gene in the kitchen when his uncle came out at six and showed him the article about Nathan Brown, how the East Islip father of two was one of the victims of a double-murder at FlashDancers. Surly and sleep-deprived, Jake had demanded, “How many more of us get to die before you guys take this seriously?”
Gene frowned at the screen and ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, you got a point, kid, this is getting too weird. I’ll hit JTTF with it this morning,
hard. That okay?”
The Joint Terrorism Task Force people lived for this kind of puzzle. If anyone would break it open, they would. “Yeah. Thanks, Gene.”
“Go back to bed, kid. Take care of Chava.”
The clock on the mantelpiece read eight-thirty. Monica was giving Eve a bath. Jake spun his phone with his fingers, watched the snow trickle down outside. Lack of sleep and blankness instead of a future left him feeling half dead. Concentration became an exotic mental exercise. Every time he looked at Eve, his heart turned to sand.
Only two of the other Doha 12 were still alive. Should he warn them? What if he was wrong? He’d look and sound like a nut. Would he believe this story if some stranger called to tell it to him?
But what if he was right?
Miriam picked up her phone on the third ring. “Mr. Dickinson’s office, may I help you?”
“Are you Miriam Schaffer?”
“Yes, I am. May I help you?”
The man on the other end of the line took a deep, hesitant breath. “My name is Jake Eldar, I live in Brooklyn. You don’t know me, but we have something in common.”
She pulled the receiver away from her head, checked the earpiece to see if anything was crawling out. Who was this person? Was one of her friends trying to set her up with someone? “Um…what would that be, Mr. Eldar?”
“We’re both on the INTERPOL list, from the thing in Qatar. And neither of us had anything to do with it.”
Something went still and watchful inside her. Was this a joke? Yet another crank call? She brought up her computer’s web browser and looked up the INTERPOL Red Notice page. A moment later, there he was. “I’ll assume this picture isn’t yours, Mr. Eldar.”
“No, just like the one for you isn’t you.” He took another deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry to call you like this, but I need to tell you something. It’s going to sound pretty weird, but, well, please just go with it, okay?”
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