Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  He imagined a car bomb going off in front of the skyscrapers across the street, the scattered body parts, the bloodied women and children and old people. Scenes he’d witnessed in Beirut and Baghdad. Images that had saddened him so on 9/11. And for what? Did he really want to be part of that?

  For the first time since he’d returned home after university, he didn’t know how far he was willing to follow the Party. He’d have to decide soon.

  FIFTY-THREE: Dearborn, 7 December

  “Did you hear me?”

  Al-Shami whispered “Fucking finally,” then clicked off his microphone’s mute. “Yes, I heard you. We’ll leave on the tenth.” He had no intention of leaving that early, but saying it would keep his handler off his back.

  “Good.” A tinny ringtone version of a Lebanese pop song squawked in the background at the other end of the Skype connection. Al-Shami’s handler in Beirut muttered something profane; the music stopped. “Don’t call your contact in the target area until you’re ready to leave. He doesn’t know about you yet, and he very likely won’t be happy to hear from you. Let me know if he becomes a problem. Oh, and Majid? Don’t get arrested like those fools in Hamburg. We can’t afford to lose any more of you.”

  “Of course. It’s definite? We’re going to do this?”

  The handler’s pause gave al-Shami time to think dark thoughts about committees and indecision. “Nearly so. Your contact has a mission he very likely won’t complete. If by some chance he does, then you stand down, but his time has almost run out.”

  “Fine. We’ll be ready.” Al-Shami disconnected before his handler could hedge any more.

  Out in what the rental agent had called the “family room,” Fayiz huddled over a tripod-mounted video camera while Haroun made his martyrdom declaration in English. He’d learned his faith in a Michigan prison, but not much of the faith’s primary language. “Martyrdom is not death,” he said, his black face both serious and serene. “Martyrs live in Paradise with Allah. We live forever because we’ve given everything to advance His will…”

  And so on. This wasn’t the first martyrdom video al-Shami had witnessed in the making, and insha’Allah, it wouldn’t be the last. He stood a few feet behind Fayiz, arms crossed, letting the words float past. He wondered whether Haroun—the former Marlon Taylor Jackson—would fade into the black flag pinned to the wood paneling behind him, despite the twin studio lights aimed at him.

  Haroun raised his fist and ended his declaration with “Allahu akhbar!” Very nice, al-Shami thought. It’ll play well on al-Manar.

  “Is good, Haroun,” Fayiz said in English, not his best language. “You have passion, strength, is good. I make work on sound, put in pictures, is good video, yes.” He jolted when al-Shami clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, sidi?”

  “We’re going,” al-Shami murmured in Arabic. “On the 19th. From now on, they don’t leave the house.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Fayiz replied in Arabic. “I need to fix Mahir’s video. He comes off flat and I can’t liven it up with music. He’s going to have to re-record.”

  Al-Shami shook his head in wonder. Fayiz used to shoot cheap music videos in Syria; now he was Martin Scorsese. “Whatever keeps them occupied. Feed them all the motivation you can, books, videos, whatever. I need them 100% ready when we leave here.”

  “Of course.” Fayiz smiled. “Mahir and Haroun are good men. They’ll make you proud.”

  “Insha’Allah. No matter what happens, they’re not coming back alive.”

  FIFTY-FOUR: Cherry Hill, 8 December

  Gur glanced from the treadmill’s digital display to Kelila. She glanced back. They’d done this for the past half-hour. Just as well they had the hotel’s gym to themselves; the air between them sizzled like the summer sky just before a lightning storm.

  She stood at the universal machine, hauling on a handle attached to a hefty stack of weights. Her black, second-skin calf-length tights and rust scoop-necked tank top showcased her figure. He’d seen her in trousers, skirts, dresses, fatigues, hiking shorts, hijab, skydiving gear, a wetsuit once (that was memorable) and ski clothes, but not until this mission had she worn anything this revealing. Strangely enough, that wasn’t what kept his attention.

  She could have died in the car park or the station. All through the two long days since the second attack, this thought had raced circles around Gur’s mind until it wore ruts in his brain. Before the actions, he’d worried about making a misstep that would drive her away; now he understood a bullet could take her from him in an instant.

  Kelila dropped the weight handle, dabbed at her face and throat with the hotel hand towel, then drifted to the front of Gur’s treadmill. She watched him jog, folding her toned, golden arms atop the console, a serious expression shifting across her face. After the station disaster she’d hacked off her lush bronze hair just above collar length and dyed it jet black. She’d never be identified as the woman whose face kept appearing on the television news, but it made her look older, harder. A future Kelila, if she didn’t get out of this business.

  After a few moments, she reached over the console and stabbed the “Stop” button. The treadmill moaned to a halt. Gur didn’t object; he wanted to know what was on her mind.

  “I’ve been thinking about Eldar and his wife,” she said after a long pause. “I’ll bet they thought they had forever, just like me and Yigal. We thought we had forever. We’d give Hasia a brother or sister and watch them grow up and have their own families. We’d grow old together.” She sighed. “But we didn’t get to. You and Varda, did you think you had forever?”

  He swallowed the catch in his throat. They’d wanted to see the boys become men, retire together, travel, make up for all the time apart. “There is no forever.”

  “I know that now.” She circled the console, stepped up on the treadmill to face Gur, close enough for her heat to curl around him. “With this job, we may not even have tomorrow.” She placed her palm on his chest, fingers spread. “Look at poor Amzi.”

  Kelila’s hand burned through his track-suit jacket into his breastbone; a blue-hot flame danced in her eyes. Gur’s heart pounded harder than when he’d been running. He found himself bending toward her, her mouth now a whisper away from his, her breath quick and warm on his skin. The meadowy scent of her shampoo mingled with the tang of her sweat.

  Last chance to stop, Gur’s better judgment warned. But something even deeper inside him murmured, she’s right, she’s right. He’d wasted so much time fighting their attraction, and for what?

  The instant their lips met she leaned into the kiss, flowing her body against him, pressing her hips against his when she felt his reaction. He wrapped his arms around her, caressed her strong, graceful back and firm rear. Her fingertips raked through his hair and down his back. The moment exploded in his head like a lightning flash.

  When at last they surfaced, gasping for air, a twinge of regret shoved its way through the swirl of his emotions. “This isn’t how I wanted it to happen,” he whispered. He pulled back from her, checked the front door for spectators. “Not in the field, not with all this—”

  “You wanted perfect,” she shot back, also whispering. She hauled his body against hers again. “I don’t need perfect anymore, it doesn’t last. You’ve got that lovely big bed, and that fancy bathtub and shower, and room service. That’s plenty good enough for me. You too?”

  Yes, more than enough. But… “You have to relieve Sasha—”

  “In four hours.” She stole a quick kiss, then leaned back. “You know what we could do in four hours?”

  The possibilities flooded his mind. They kissed again, harder this time, more desperately. Gur forgot about everything except Kelila and this moment. His fingers found the strip of hot, damp skin below the hem of her top, slid up her bare back to the strap of her sports bra, down her flanks, over her hips. Her hands explored his body, torching everything she touched.

  After a few false stops they broke the kiss, their chests hea
ving against each other. Gur tried to focus on her eyes. “We have. To be discreet. Around Sasha.”

  “Too late.” Kelila shook her head. “The guys thought. We were sleeping together. In Mombasa last year.”

  They did? The absurdity pulled a trigger in him, and Gur started to laugh. After a moment, Kelila joined him. The laughter felt as good as her body did against his. After it died down, he bent to her ear and whispered, “It’s too damned public here.”

  She kissed his throat, then smiled. “Yeah. Just think what we can do in the elevator.”

  He kissed her earlobe. “Let’s find out.”

  FIFTY-FIVE: Crown Heights, Brooklyn, 8 December

  Jake circled the edge of the stained concrete pad behind the house, hands deep in his coat pockets, sucking in great lungfuls of the damp, cold afternoon air. For the past six hours, three FBI and NYPD interrogators had dragged him face-down by the heels through the past two months—everything he’d done, where he’d gone, who he’d talked to. He’d looked at pictures of what must have been most of the male population of Lebanon. Another two cops did the same to Miriam in the kitchen. Yesterday they were at it fourteen hours straight. If this was how they treated people who’d come in voluntarily, he could just imagine what they did to suspects.

  It had been a rough night. Eve had cried herself to sleep, and eventually so did Jake. He’d had Rinnah dreams—a couple good, then one featuring a dead but walking and angry Rinnah that ended when he bolted awake at four in a hot sweat.

  Eve clutched at his coat. She looked nearly as tired as he felt. Would she ever smile or laugh again, or would she wear that solemn, wounded look forever? Even Jasmine seemed downcast as she peeked out of Eve’s parka. Jake had hoped being together again might jog a few words out of his daughter, but no.

  His cell phone started playing “All You Need is Love.” Startled, he dug it from his pocket. “Hello?”

  “Jake Eldar?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Stuart Kaminsky. You called me several times.”

  Jake’s brain burned some rubber as it tried to gain traction. Finally, the name emerged from the smoke and dust. “Oh, yeah, I did. I almost forgot. Your office said you were travelling on business.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Eldar?” Kaminsky’s accent was just thick enough to make Jake pay closer attention.

  Jake glanced down; Eve’s watchful eyes stared back. He switched to Hebrew. “You’re on the list of people the Qataris released in September.”

  “Yes, I know. So?”

  “So I am too. And so a Hezbollah team is trying to kill us all. That’s why I called, to warn you.”

  Kaminsky made a clicking sound. “I see. How do you know this?”

  “I’ve seen at least five of them so far. I’m with a woman who’s also on the list. They tried to kill her twice in twelve hours on the fifth and sixth.” Jake gave the man a quick rundown of the days since Rinnah’s death.

  “Such a story,” Kaminsky said once Jake finished. “I’m very sorry for your loss. You say the NYPD has you now?”

  “Yeah, we’re in a safe house.” And for the first time since Thursday, he did feel safe. Would Eve ever feel that way again?

  A yank on Jake’s coat caused him to switch his attention to Eve, who pointed toward the house. Miriam stood at the kitchen window, curtain pushed aside, holding up the kettle. He gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re protected. I’ll do the same, in a way. My company owns flats around the city that we use for much the same thing.”

  Jake dredged up what he remembered of the website for Aluma Consultants, Kaminsky’s company. The wording in the “Our Services” tab was artfully ambiguous, but he recalled the phrase “full-spectrum security.” No kidding, if they ran their own safe houses. “Well, great, it sounds like you’ll be okay, then.”

  “Yes, for now, at least. Mr. Eldar—”

  “Call me Jake.”

  “Of course. I very much appreciate your call. This isn’t the sort of thing one expects to happen. Thank you for taking the time to warn me, and for looking after Ms. Schaffer.”

  “Um…no problem. Take care.”

  “I will. Would you mind if I call again in a few days, to check up? We survivors need to stick together, to bear witness.”

  To what? The last time Jake had heard that phrase, it was a great aunt talking about Bergen-Belsen. Who was this guy? “Well, no, I guess not. Goodbye, Mr. Kaminsky.”

  Jake stared at the phone for several seconds. Kaminsky didn’t sound surprised, or scared, or worried. Curious, maybe, but nothing more. Did that come from having a security company at his fingertips? Alarms, safe houses, big guys with guns? Well, Jake had done his duty and warned the man. If Kaminsky thought he could take care of himself, more power to him.

  FIFTY-SIX: Cherry Hill, 8 December

  They didn’t just vanish, Alayan told himself again, although it was getting harder to believe. He bolted from the cheap motel table to walk off some of his frustration. Fourteen days left to find and eliminate those two damned Jews.

  Back at the table, Rafiq crossed off a name on his list of local hotels, took a swig of Deer Park bottled water, then tapped the next number into his cellphone. “Front desk, please…yes, hello, ma’am, this is Detective Turner with Philadelphia PD. We’re looking for two people who may have checked into your hotel two days ago …”

  He’d repeated this story forty-three times. Nobody had seen the targets or admitted to it.

  “All right then, thanks for your help.” Rafiq stabbed a button on his mobile and sighed loudly. “How many more do I call before we give up?”

  Alayan had wondered that himself. “Until we run out of numbers.”

  “Right.” Rafiq shuffled through the lists in front of him, shaking his head. “You’re assuming they haven’t gone to New York or Washington or Baltimore or—”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do. They could be staying with friends or relatives. They could’ve taken a train to Florida or Chicago or Canada, for that matter. That’s what I’d do if I was Eldar—get as far from here as possible.”

  Alayan scowled at him. “Just keep calling.”

  While Rafiq made his forty-fourth call, Alayan tried to ignore the truth behind Rafiq’s words. The targets could be anywhere in this vast country by now. Unless the team was impossibly lucky, they’d never see Eldar or Schaffer again. Alayan wilted onto the end of the bed in front of the television and dropped his head in his hands.

  They’d failed. They’d been so close. Success was just a whisper beyond their fingertips. A black gloom billowed through his insides like octopus ink. Shame for all of them, a bullet for him, disgrace for their families, the Party’s self-destruction. All my fault.

  When he jerked his head away from this vision of doom, his eyes locked on the graphic on the television screen. He fumbled with the remote, turned up the volume on CNN.

  “…are reportedly in custody and cooperating with the investigation into the dramatic Tuesday-morning shootout in Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. Philadelphia police will not confirm the whereabouts of the pair, but a police spokesperson has said the unidentified man and woman are in a secure location and are providing valuable information concerning what law enforcement officials believe may have been a terrorist attack on America’s rail network. We’ll now go live to…”

  “Did you hear that?” Alayan asked Rafiq.

  “Yes, sidi.”

  Alayan stood. The inky black gloom faded into something like gray overcast. They might still salvage this wreck. “See what else you can learn about this. Find them.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN: Cherry Hill, 9 December

  Gur stared at the man in the grainy black-and-white frame capture from a security camera at Rome’s Fiumicino airport. Medium-light skin, shoulder bag, conservative Western casual clothes: this Fadi Alayan could be from any point along the Mediterranean coast. But he could also be Federic
o Alvarez from the white van outside Eldar’s flat. “Perhaps. It could be the same facial structure, but it’s hard to tell from this crap.”

  “That’s the best Kaisarut could get from the State Police,” Kelila said.

  It felt so empty in the hotel room with just the three of them huddled around the little table, peering at Kelila’s computer. Four days before, the team had filled a room psychically if not physically.

  “We have nothing linking any of them to any operations?” Gur asked.

  “Not so far, nothing solid. Research is still looking, but they’re overwhelmed right now.” Kelila brought up the three surveillance photos sent from Tel Aviv. Alayan, Kassim Haddad, Gabir Raad. Names to faces, at last.

  Gur pointed to the picture of Raad, the big, dark Arab. “This one was with the Persian and the other Arab?”

  Sasha said, “Yes, on the train.” He looked shockingly young with his white-blond stubble and his hair buzzed to a recruit’s 4mm brush.

  “And Haddad was with that other man at the hotel.”

  Kelila nodded. “The really good-looking one, yes.”

  Gur did his best to ignore Kelila’s remark. And her bare neck. So graceful, so soft, that little tender spot behind her ear… He forced himself back to work. “Six so far, then. And we think they’re what, one down? Two?”

  Kelila started stroking the laptop’s touchpad. Gur’s mind flashed back a few hours to his bedroom. He felt his neck flush.

  “The Persian drove the van out of the car park in Philadelphia,” Kelila said, “but Haddad was in the driver’s seat when I first got into position. He left and I heard gunshots behind the van, so Eldar may have shot him. And there were two blood trails at the station, Raad’s and the other Arab from the train.”

  So at best they were evenly matched, Gur calculated, the remains of their team against the remains of his. At worst, Hezbollah had men Gur’s people hadn’t seen yet.