Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

“Stop it,” Gur snapped. It was hard enough to concentrate without the backchat.

  How would the Arabs contact the covers? Alayan and his thugs couldn’t hold the child for long. Would Hezbollah torture her for her father’s mobile number? Would that even work? How could they use her as bait, unless…?

  “Hezbollah knows where the covers are,” Gur said before realizing he was about to say it. The other two squinted at him, perhaps looking for signs of delirium. “They must, otherwise taking the girl does them no good. They must have followed Eldar and Schaffer.”

  Kelila and Sasha exchanged is-the-old-man-crazy? looks. Then Kelila said, very carefully, “If that’s true, this should be over already. Alayan’s people have no reason to wait.”

  She had a point, one he might have seen had his brain been working. He was too old for these all-night marathons. “If you’re right, it would be in the news.”

  Kelila pulled her silver netbook from her shoulder bag, turned it on, plugged in a set of black earbuds. She looked so frayed, so drained. Gur wanted to cocoon her in his arms and sleep the day away with her, warm and safe, anyplace but here. No chance of that now, damn it.

  After a moment, she leaned across the table toward him. “The Italians say they’ve rounded up a Hezbollah bomb team in Rome.”

  Another one? Gur swiveled the tiny notebook so he could read the three-line CNN “breaking news” bulletin. Then he thumbed a number into his secure mobile.

  “Good morning to you, Raffi,” Orgad said.

  Gur growled, “We have to find out about Rome on CNN?”

  “You could do worse. Our team in Italy—Lev Seitzman’s the lead, you know him—they broke a six-man cell in Stazione. This was two days ago. This morning they turned over whatever was left to the Carabinieri. The Italians are very proud of themselves just now.”

  Gur knew that by “turned over,” Orgad meant an anonymous call from a mobile that was on the bottom of the Tiber ten minutes later. “Two days ago? And you didn’t tell us?”

  “Without knowing exactly what we had? That’s useful now, is it?”

  “Yes, damn it. Anything’s useful. We’re grabbing at fog out here.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Gur heard a voice in the background, and Orgad’s palm squished against his phone’s mouthpiece. After a few moments, Orgad’s voice replaced the scrubbing sounds. “Are you still in contact with the covers?”

  Gur hesitated. The answer would only dig his hole deeper. “No. They’ve gone to ground again.”

  “Of course. They’ll be at the main chapel in Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn at six your time tonight. They plan to exchange themselves for the child, if you can believe that.”

  That made no sense at all. Gur snapped his fingers twice to startle Kelila out of her trance, mouthed “Green-Wood Cemetery,” then returned his attention to Orgad. “This is from your mystery source? How does he know this?”

  “He spoke to Eldar.”

  Who was this source? Why would Eldar trust him? Gur sorted through the possibilities. The police? If Eldar trusted them, he wouldn’t be running from them now. Eldar wouldn’t tell his uncle; it would get back to the police. “Chaim…tell me Alayan isn’t your source.”

  “He isn’t. He’d be very useful, certainly, and if you get the chance, you should try to turn him before you kill him. But no, he isn’t one of ours.”

  That left… “Kaminsky? He’s the only other one I can imagine Eldar talking to. Is he a sayan?”

  Orgad didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then, parsing his words carefully, he said, “No, he is not a sayan.”

  But he was the source, or Orgad would’ve denied it. The wheels in Gur’s head ground and clashed, spat out a solution that was simply insane. “He’s one of us?”

  Again, Orgad let a few moments pass before he said, “Yes.”

  “But not with the embassy station.”

  “No, not with them.”

  Kelila pivoted her netbook’s screen to face Gur, displaying the website for the cemetery. He ignored it; the implications of Orgad’s words filled his brain with an angry buzzing. “AL? He’s with AL? And you didn’t tell us?”

  “You needn’t be concerned with our America section—”

  “Goddamnit, Chaim!” Nearby heads turned in Gur’s direction. He throttled back his voice to a low snarl. “We needed those assets! You had replacements right here for Amzi and Natan and you didn’t—”

  “They weren’t available. They have a higher-priority mission.”

  “Higher than a Hezbollah hit team in America? What, they’re stealing American weapon designs again? We’re chasing these fucking Arabs all over—”

  “Enough, Raffi.” Orgad’s voice was calm but cold, as upset as he ever got. “Remember which side of my desk you sit on. AL is not yours to use or even think about. Understand?”

  Gur understood. He pulled his phone away from his head and muttered curses that made Kelila’s and Sasha’s eyes pop. “What idiot decided to use his name for Natan’s cover? That’s—”

  “He did. Some questions were being raised about his employment. He felt the quickest way to cement his credentials as a private citizen was for us to use his cover for the Doha operation. No one would believe we’re stupid enough to burn one of our own. Brilliant, yes?”

  “Wonderful.” Gur knew he should admire the chutzpah, but instead he just felt like biting his coffee cup in half. “Any other surprises?”

  “Nothing that concerns you. Forget Kaminsky. Make do with what you’re given. You still haven’t redeemed yourself for Philadelphia. Be sure you do this time. Ring me when you’re done.” The connection dropped into the usual post-call clunking and static.

  Gur muttered a couple more particularly vile curses and scrubbed his face with his palms. That old son of a bitch! Playing his shitty little games even with innocent lives and this operation at stake. They had to go to the exchange; it might be their last chance to catch Alayan and his crew in the open. “Well,” he finally said through his hands, “we can get some sleep now.”

  “You know where the covers are?” Kelila asked.

  “Yes. Kaminsky’s one of us, you probably heard. Try again to get the original ID photo from his passport. Sasha, do you still have David’s rifle?”

  “Yes, boss. Why?”

  “Because you’re going to need it.”

  SEVENTY-SIX: Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn, 22 December

  Green-Wood Cemetery’s gray Gothic fantasy of a main chapel emerged from the bony, leafless trees as Jake and Miriam approached from the south. A cupola and dome topped the central core; smaller domes capped each of the building’s four corners, and a large, arched art-glass window faced them from beneath the roof’s elaborately carved gable end. They stopped at the same instant.

  “It’s lovely,” Miriam said. Her sad smile betrayed her mixed feelings. “I wish we weren’t here for…”

  “I know.” Jake reached out, touched her coat sleeve with the backs of his fingers. “It’ll be okay. We’ve got help this time. Come on.”

  He and Rinnah had often come to this beautiful green place. They’d played hide-and-seek with Eve on these rises, in these trees. He knew this place better than any other unpaved area in Brooklyn. That might just keep them alive tonight.

  Inside the chapel, the great brass ring of the central chandelier blazed with light but couldn’t take the chill out of the air. They dropped their bags; Jake slumped exhausted on one of the ranks of benches. He watched Miriam prowl the periphery, taking in the big stained-glass windows and stone carvings. At five minutes to five, he ushered her into a janitor’s closet. The smell of cleaners and damp mops surrounded them in the tiny, utterly black room. A groundskeeper called out “Closing!” The lights clacked off, the front door clunked shut, its lock ratcheted. When not even echoes disturbed the still outside the closet, they slipped out into the semi-dark sanctuary. The fading sunset straggled through the western windows, leaving just enough light for them to move witho
ut injury.

  They sat side-by-side but not touching at the aisle end of the bench closest to the door. The chapel dimmed around them. Streetlights became glowing white balls behind the windows.

  Sitting in the dark, he thought. How appropriate.

  They’d spent all day cris-crossing New York City on one subway train after another, getting out at random stations, changing directions on a whim. They’d taken turns catnapping, one keeping watch while the other snatched a few minutes of restless oblivion. Jake could still feel Miriam’s head on his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek. Rinnah used to do that after a night at a film or the theater. Those Rinnah memories had ganged up on him under Harlem and he’d cried quietly into a McDonald’s napkin while Miriam slept. He was glad she hadn’t seen that; he didn’t want to look weak in front of her, not now.

  He didn’t know whether he could protect Eve or if he’d even survive. He’d had all day to think about these next few minutes but could never see it all the way through. In every version, he saved Eve—perhaps not himself or Miriam, but Eve always got away. He hoped—prayed—that wasn’t just wishful thinking.

  Gene and Monica would take care of her if Jake didn’t make it. The idea he might not get to see her grow up filled him with blackness more absolute than the dark surrounding him. It was leavened only by the knowledge she would grow up, have adventures, fall in love, get married, have children of her own. He hoped.

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  Miriam’s fingers found his coat sleeve, slid down his arm until they reached his hand. “Thank you.”

  The gentleness of her touch surprised him. Jake let the feeling linger for a moment before he said, “For what?”

  “For…for staying with me through all this. For reminding me what it feels like to be alive. For making me care about something other than me.”

  “You’re welcome.” He interlaced his fingers with hers. Those hands. So strong, but now so warm and soft. “Wish I could say I’d planned all this.”

  “We survived two weeks with a pack of killers on our tail. You did fine.”

  Would Rinnah think so? “I…well, I don’t think I’d have made it without you around. You got Eve talking again. You and Eve gave me…I don’t know, something to wake up for.”

  They sat holding hands until Jake’s watch dial showed a glowing, straight-up-and-down line. He rose and pulled Miriam to her feet. They stood face-to-face for a moment, then fumbled into each other’s arms, held each other as tight as their body armor allowed. Jake tried to borrow one last cup of strength from Miriam but sensed her stores were running low, too, so he simply took comfort in her warmth and nearness. “I’m glad you didn’t throw me out of your office.”

  “So am I.” Her sigh filled the chapel. “If I had, I’d be dead now. I can’t ever repay you for that.”

  They let each other slip away. She was only a dark shape now. He wished he could read her eyes. “You don’t have to. Just stay alive.”

  “You, too.” Miriam touched her fingertips to his chest. “Let’s go get Eve.”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN: Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn, 22 December

  Sasha swept his rifle’s night-vision scope across the dark tangle of trees on the other side of the chapel’s car park, watching for movement or light. There was just enough ambient light from the streetlamps and the bounce off the overcast to wash out the picture. Night vision or no, there was still a lot he couldn’t see.

  His station behind the sober dark granite monument gave him a panoramic view of the entire arena—the chapel to his right, the car park in front with its oval of green shrubs, the wooded, tomb-flecked slope to the chapel’s east and north, the access road to his left. He’d have an unobstructed line on Hezbollah wherever they were. All he had to do was not shoot the covers or the kid, and not get shot himself.

  Movement to his right caught his eye. He swung the rifle toward the knot of gray trees just west of the chapel in time to see a figure drop to its face in the grass behind a large black headstone. Kelila. Once Sasha put Hezbollah on the ground, he’d cover her while she moved in for the coups de grace. The boss would patrol the woods north of the chapel for squirters.

  It was time to make those bastards pay for Amzi and Natan and David.

  Sohrab pressed himself flat against the roof of a tomb halfway up the steep slope northeast of the chapel. He slid the SIG-Sauer rifle from its sheath, uncapped the scope, and checked his sightlines. His scrubby new beard scratched against the stock. Everything south and west of him was clear. Excellent.

  He’d spent the past half-hour slipping through the trees, checking positions, looking for enemies. A few times he thought he wasn’t alone—a sensation, a half-heard sound, the unexplained twitch of a branch. He never saw anyone, but that didn’t mean anything.

  Sohrab settled his rifle onto the granite, fished the night-vision monocular from the scabbard, switched it on. The lens coated the world with a couple dozen different shades of green. He scanned 270 degrees clockwise, alert for the yellow-green bloom of body heat.

  Headlights flared in the monocular. Sohrab shut it off, took up his rifle. A few moments later, the van’s familiar blocky shape trundled down the narrow road. He checked his watch: 6:07. They were late.

  Did it matter? Just an extra few minutes of life for Eldar and the woman. He was less than seventy clear meters from the chapel’s front doors, and the Jews would be standing still the moment Rafiq brought out the brat. Now he knew they had body armor, he’d go for head shots. They wouldn’t get away this time.

  Miriam edged Jake aside to peek past the chapel’s heavy wood door into the night.

  A van slowly circled the landscaped oval in the center of the tiny parking lot, its headlights blaring off random tree trunks and monuments. It squeaked to a halt alongside the walkway leading to the chapel’s steps.

  I should be scared. Every time she’d walked into a firefight in Israel, she’d felt the icy drizzle of fear in her brain and gut. Not this time. Had she become used to being a target?

  Adrenaline trickled into her system, making her aware of the pulse in her ears, the extra sharpness creeping into her vision. Her body was hiding the fear from her, distracting her with a flood of input. Well, that was okay. She’d rather be hyped than scared, even if the rush made her stupid. She’d survived stupid before.

  She reviewed their plan again. Jake would step outside first, finish the negotiations with Alayan. The Arabs would demand to see her before they let Eve go. Miriam would drift to her left, staying in shadow as much as possible. When they released Eve, Miriam would dash twenty or so feet to the building’s northwest corner, lay down covering fire for Jake while he collected Eve and bolted for the chapel. Covering fire like hell—I’m going to shoot these animals. Kaminsky’s sniper would keep Hezbollah busy and maybe pick off one or two of them while Miriam faded into the night.

  That was the plan. Would any of it work?

  It had to. They had to rescue Eve. There was no other way.

  “Two of them just got out,” she murmured. “One of them looks like the big Arab from the station. He’s got a bandage on his forehead.”

  “The other must be Alayan,” Jake said. He shifted his pistol into his right coat pocket. “It’s showtime.”

  Alayan stepped from the driver’s seat to the asphalt, his boot soles crunching tiny fragments of pavement. He left the van’s door open; they’d need every extra second to get away after they finished the Jews. The engine chugged and the headlights threw a dazzling white-blue patch on the road. Eldar and the woman would have to look into the light, while it would be at Alayan’s back. Every little advantage counted.

  They’d come to the end. In a few minutes, their mission would finally be complete. Eldar and Schaffer would try to fight the way they had before, but they were alone and up against himself and Gabir, while Sohrab commanded the entire arena with his rifle and scope. They wouldn’t slither away this time.

  He joined G
abir on the sidewalk. They stationed themselves at the outside corners of the bottom step, Gabir to his right, a good eight meters between them. A clear field of fire for each of them, a spread target for the Jews.

  A dark shape squeezed around one of the cracked-open front doors, took a step forward. “Alayan?” Eldar’s voice.

  “I am,” Alayan said in English, just loud enough to carry the five or six meters between them. Sohrab should be lining up his shot now.

  “We kept our part of the deal,” Eldar said. He sidestepped to his right, propped a foot atop the boxy half-wall flanking the top four stairs. “We’re here. Where’s my daughter?”

  “The woman. She is here? I see her where?”

  “Not until I see my daughter. Bring her out.”

  Alayan nodded to Gabir, who dropped back a few steps, slapped the van’s side twice. Gabir advanced a pace and brought his pistol out in front of him, aimed at the concrete.

  One of the van’s back doors thunked open. Adult feet hit the road, then a murmur of what could be comfort, then Rafiq’s voice: “That’s a good girl.” Rafiq stepped up on the sidewalk, the child in his arms, his eyes firmly aimed toward the chapel.

  “Your daughter, Mr. Eldar,” Alayan said with a sweep of his hand. “Now, the woman, please?”

  Sasha anchored the scope’s crosshairs to the chest of the beefy Arab standing near the van. Fifty meters and a big target; an easy shot. He’d already rehearsed the sequence: two rounds in the big bastard, a couple degrees swivel, two in the smaller one. Three, four seconds, and with his suppressor, the Arabs wouldn’t know where the shots were coming from. Kelila could deal with the one who’d just scooped the kid out of the van.

  He forced his breathing to slow. He had to wait until the Arabs either released the child or started shooting. Any moment, now.

  Sasha caressed the trigger.

  Sohrab had the Jew’s head locked in the T-shaped crosshairs of his scope. An easy shot.

  He had to hold his fire until the woman was in the clear. Where was she? Had she even come?