Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  Miriam watched a gloved hand slide around Kaminsky’s waist, first on his left then his right, then feel under each arm and disappear into his coat pockets. A plastic card—the hotel room key—whisked out of the left pocket. The hand slipped a pistol butt out of his right pocket.

  “Take this for me, Mrs. Schaffer.”

  A gun could be useful. Miriam put down the computer, then edged to her left to block the crowd’s view. She took the Beretta from Kaminsky’s pocket and slid it into her own.

  Kaminsky suddenly pivoted, rammed an elbow into Elena’s side, then sprang for the curb. Elena stumbled backward, swearing. Miriam managed to grab the middle two fingers of his right hand, used his own momentum to wrench the hand up between his shoulder blades, the way she used to do on the border. When he tried to twist out of it, she clawed the fingers of her free hand into his hair—he squawked in pain—then charged him head-first into the aluminum scaffold pier. His skull rang like a church bell.

  It wasn’t until he crashed to his knees that Miriam noticed the staring faces all around her. “Police business!” she called out, from old habit. “Move along, please.” Then she realized she needed to repeat the command in English. To her surprise, most everyone obeyed, although a couple took cell-phone pictures before leaving.

  “Good job, Mrs. Schaffer.” Elena, face red and eyes blazing, dug a white zip-tie from her chunky black nylon shoulder bag and presented it to Miriam. “Make it real tight.”

  “Sandrine, listen to me,” Kaminsky croaked while Miriam bound his wrists. Blood dribbled down his forehead. “The bombers are coming here! Let me help you stop them! Let me clear my name, please!”

  “In your dreams, you bastard,” Elena growled. “I hope they send you to Lebanon.”

  Jake ignored Ephraim’s raised hand, his urgent murmurings into his phone. “Who are you? What do you want? How’d you find me?”

  Ephraim pressed his phone to his chest. “We followed you from the hotel, but never mind all that now. Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  Jake closed on him, fighting the urge to beat the man senseless. “Why?”

  Ephraim stiffened as Jake approached, maybe reading Jake’s mind. “There’s a bomb on Wall Street. Please, what did you see back there?”

  “Oh, shit.” Was it the NYSE after all? Had he screwed up? Jake took in the spreading pool of evacuees across the street. “White Ford Econoline, ‘Eastside Electric’ on the sides, New York tags 49612YR two weeks ago. There may be a black guy driving it.” He pointed to the still-hemorrhaging building. “But what’s with all this…?”

  Ephraim repeated the information into his phone, then shoved it into an inside pocket. He grabbed Jake’s elbow and set off toward Miriam. “It’s possible they’re both targets, or neither is. I need to talk to you and Mrs. Schaffer—now.”

  Kelila couldn’t take her eyes off the computer Schaffer hugged against her chest. What had Grossman managed to keep to himself? “This is really the target? You’re sure?”

  Schaffer said, “Jake thinks so. You must, too, I mean, you’re here. Do you know something different?”

  “We’re here because you are. Ephraim thinks the target’s Wall Street. What’s your intel?”

  Schaffer hesitated, then passed the computer to her. “If it means anything, I’ve looked it over and I’m not so sure, now.”

  Kelila opened the lid and brought up the desktop. As she read the names on the dozens of folders, her face began to burn. This was everything they’d needed, and far more. “You bastard,” Kelila hissed. “You sat on all this?”

  “No!” Grossman’s eyes popped. “We sent everything to Tel Aviv! Everything!”

  “Snake.” Both her hands trembled. After all these years, she still reacted this way to the thought of him. To break her heart was one thing; it was already missing pieces when they’d met. But to break a three-year-old girl’s heart, too? For that alone he should burn in Hell.

  Kelila glanced right to see two squads of NYPD officers in tactical gear approaching from Fifth Avenue on either side of the street. A cop would stop at each parked car, nod into the radio handset on his or her shoulder and say a few words. Trucks and cars and vans headed out the roadblock one by one. The locals were finally clearing the place; about time.

  She balanced the computer with one hand and pulled off her black cashmere scarf with the other. “Mrs. Schaffer, cover his hands with this. The police are here.”

  Schaffer twisted the scarf in her hands. “Is that an order?”

  Attitude was the last thing Kelila needed now. She forced a smile and said, “Please.”

  Grossman gazed out at the cops for a moment, then watched Schaffer wrap the scarf around his wrists to hide the zip-tie. His sagging shoulders and drooping head told Kelila the spirit had gone out of him.

  Then he bolted.

  He was in the street before Kelila could shove the computer at Schaffer and pull her weapon free. He angled toward the cops on the other side of the road. “I surrender!” he cried in English. “You look for me! I surrender!”

  “Don’t you dare!” Kelila spat. She couldn’t let him go to the locals; he knew far too much. She tried to snap off a shot, but Schaffer pushed her arms down.

  “They’re too close,” she said into Kelila’s ear. “Let the police have him.”

  “It’s not that simple!” Kelila spat back.

  Half a dozen police voices began yelling, “Put your hands up! Hands up! Halt! Stop!”

  Grossman swung his bound hands upward, the tail of Kelila’s scarf flapping. “Please! I surrender!”

  “Gun! Gun! Gun!”

  The gunshots sounded like midnight of Chinese New Year. Kelila stood stunned as four assault rifles and two pistols unloaded into Grossman. The crowd screamed and dived for the sidewalk or behind parked cars, but she couldn’t move.

  Hands grabbed Kelila’s arms, dragged her behind a nearby black panel van. She twisted to break free until she saw Raffi bending over her. “What happened?” he demanded.

  “He just…ran.” She felt like a stupid rookie. He’d looked so defeated. She’d forgotten what a good actor he was. Then she realized: Grossman’s dead. She’d fantasized about that for years, but this wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “Never mind,” Raffi said. “We have to leave. Now. The police will lock this place down. We’re all at risk now. You, too, Mrs. Schaffer, Mr. Eldar.”

  Schaffer watched the cops approach Grossman’s prone, bloody body, a hand over her mouth. “What about the bombers?”

  “If they haven’t made their move by now, they won’t,” Eldar said, “I screwed up.”

  Raffi said, “Perhaps not. Let’s go, we have a lot to talk about.”

  NINETY-THREE: Midtown Manhattan, 23 December, 4:05 PM

  Jake stalked into the suite’s bedroom a few paces behind Ephraim, or whatever his name was. He’d just been able to hold himself together while the four of them marched back to the now-late Kaminsky’s suite, but no more. “I have a message from my wife,” he growled.

  Ephraim stopped next to the bed and turned, scowling. “What are you—”

  Jake crashed a right uppercut into the man’s jaw. Ephraim staggered back a step, then the bed caught him behind his knees. He toppled backward, bouncing when he landed.

  Jake waited for him to struggle up on his elbows before he said, “She’s dead because of you. Our baby’s dead because of you. My daughter’s head is broken because of you. Tell me why I shouldn’t put you through that window.”

  A pistol’s hammer cranked behind him, cutting through his words. “Is there a problem, Mr. Eldar?” Elena said from the doorway, her voice loud and hard.

  Then another pistol hammer cocked. Miriam’s voice cooed, “Is there a problem, Elena?”

  Jake looked over his shoulder. Miriam pressed the muzzle of a Beretta against the back of Elena’s skull. Elena stood rooted, her pistol aimed at Jake’s head, self-disgust all ov
er her face.

  Ephraim barked, “Both of you, stand down. Mr. Eldar and I have things to talk about. Leave us to it.”

  After a moment, Kelila raised her pistol beside her head, decocked, and let it dangle by the trigger guard from her index finger. Miriam slowly lowered her weapon and stepped aside. She swept an “after you” hand toward the table outside the door.

  “You’ve made your point, Mr. Eldar,” Ephraim said once the two women left. He rolled into a sitting position, massaging his chin. “Hit me again and I’ll break your arm.”

  Jake could barely see through the red haze in his eyes. “Now what?”

  Ephraim dabbed his fingertips on his tongue, examined the wash of blood, then rubbed his hands clean. “Believe it or not, I know what you’re feeling. I am not your enemy.”

  “You know what I’m feeling.” Jake let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You assholes got me thrown into prison, then court-martialed and kicked out of the army. Then you steal my name and get my daughter kidnapped and my wife killed.” His voice had climbed from a growl to a roar, then broke on his last word. He gulped down a knot of air. “You’re not my enemy…?” He stalked toward the window, his hands wrapped around the back of his neck.

  Ephraim stood, shook out his shoulders. “I understand, Mr. Eldar, and I can’t blame you for being angry. You were used shamefully. But everyone in this suite has also been wronged—Elena, Mrs. Schaffer, even myself. A larger wrong is about to happen and we’re running out of time. Right now, you and Mrs. Schaffer are the two most valuable assets the Institute has.”

  “We’re not your assets.”

  “Yes, you are. You know what Kaminsky has on that computer, you’ve had time to look it over. I need to know why you went to the Diamond District.” They both glanced toward the sound of the TV switching on in the sitting room. “I know you hate me and the Institute and quite frankly, I would too. Forget it for now. You’re an analyst, a good one according to your record. Report your findings.”

  This didn’t make any sense. Enough of the red fog cleared away so that Jake could try to think. “Are you saying you don’t have this intel? Kaminsky said he’d sent it to Mossad.”

  “We have some, but not what you have if you know about a vehicle and suspects.” Ephraim held up both hands. “I can’t explain what’s going on. All I know is that you and I and the women and my other man are on the same side for now. When this is over, you can beat me bloody if you want, I won’t resist. I need your help now. Do you understand?”

  Shit. Jake turned to stare out the window past the Chrysler Building a few blocks away. He’d so hoped he’d get the target right, that the PD would roll up the bombers and he could finally bail on this and go home to Eve. But that didn’t happen. His frustration exploded when Eve’s drawing filled his head again. He slammed his palm against the wall over and over until he couldn’t feel it anymore, roaring to drown out the banging of his hand and in his head.

  Help this Mossad asshole? Jake would sooner stuff him down the nearest trash chute. But it sounded like Mossad was playing this Ephraim guy, too, which was just twisted enough to be true. “I don’t get it. Doesn’t Mossad want you to find these guys?”

  “I don’t know.” Ephraim rustled behind him. “Oh, to hell with it, yes I do. They won’t mind if we find them, but they also won’t mind if we don’t. They win either way.”

  Figures. “So you’re off the reservation.”

  “If by that you mean we’re exceeding our brief, then yes.” Ephraim joined Jake at the window, hands in his pants pockets, his face grim. “Would you like to help me screw the Institute, Mr. Eldar?”

  Jake rewound and replayed that in his mind to make sure he’d heard right. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Put that way, Jake didn’t have to think twice. “What do you want to know?”

  Kelila plucked two Stoli miniatures from the back of the minibar. She resumed her seat at the computer and watched Schaffer scribble lists of places on a portable dry-erase board, her movements quick and confident. “Would you really have shot me?”

  Schaffer, scattering notes beside the place names, didn’t even turn around. “Yes.”

  Kelila didn’t doubt it. The past three weeks had showed her Schaffer was a hard woman. “I’m glad you didn’t.” She drained one of the vodka bottles in one long swallow, then debated downing the second one. The burn took her mind off Grossman’s execution and her disappointment she hadn’t killed him herself.

  She’d powered her way through the folders Schaffer pointed out and a couple others that looked promising but would have to wait. If she’d had this stuff yesterday, they might have been able to figure out what was going on and stop it before now.

  “Where are those lists coming from?”

  “Jake built them when we were with Kaminsky. I’m trying to think if I’ve forgotten anything.” Schaffer spanked her palm with a marker. “I can still remember lists pretty well. I guess it’s from memorizing license plates on the border.”

  “Oh, God, they did that to us at the Academy too.” Kelila leaned back into her chair. “I’ve seen the way Eldar is with you. I’ve got to ask. Are you two sleeping together?”

  “No!” Schaffer wheeled on Kelila, horrified. “How can you—”

  “He’s a good-looking guy. You’ve been through a lot together. You’re both single—”

  “His wife died three weeks ago! He hasn’t even been able to bury her yet. He’s just…” She hesitated, clearly searching for a word. “He’s just…a friend.”

  “You threatened to kill me for a ‘just friend’ you met three weeks ago?” Schaffer opened her mouth for a counterattack; Kelila raised her hand. “Okay, if you say so.” Let her kid herself. Kelila watched Schaffer for a few more moments, then played a hunch about the woman’s character. She pulled her pistol from her coat hanging on the chair back, dropped the magazine, locked back the slide and placed it at the far edge of the table.

  Schaffer turned to watch the whole process. They read each other’s eyes. Then she drew the Beretta from her waistband at the small of her back and repeated what Kelila had done.

  Kelila held up the surviving tiny vodka bottle and smiled. “You told me you had a theory about the targets. Come walk me through it.”

  Gur followed Eldar out the bedroom door to find the women sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the small, round table, talking with their heads together like best friends. He noted the empty pistols and liquor bottles and shook his head in wonder. Less than an hour ago, Schaffer had threatened to blow Kelila’s head off. How do women manage these things?

  Eldar had briefed him on the Hezbollah team and the targets in Europe. Gur now understood why he’d picked the Diamond District. Tension still hummed between them. Gur recalled how angry he’d been after Varda was murdered; had their situations been reversed, Gur would still be looking for a chance to slit Eldar’s throat. Détente was all he could hope for now.

  Gur stepped to the table. “Elena, do you have anything for us?”

  Kelila leaned back and smiled at him. “Yes, Raffi, we do. First, I told Miriam our names. With what we’ve put them through, they deserve to know.”

  Gur stifled a growl. So much for cover. “And?”

  “Miriam has a theory about the target.” Kelila turned to Schaffer. “Go ahead, tell them.”

  Schaffer turned her chair so she could talk directly to Gur and Eldar, who idled near the minibar with a bottle of beer. “Look, I know I’m not a spy or an analyst or anything,” she said, her hands steepled in front of her lips. “But I was a cop. I learned to look at a situation and figure it out quickly so I wouldn’t get myself killed.” She pointed to the whiteboard. “The only special thing those four places have in common is the pictures they paint.”

  “Pictures?” Eldar said, bewildered.

  This was what Gur had wanted to avoid: amateur “theories.” “Really, Mrs. Schaffer—”

  “Just let me show you.” She reached
in front of Kelila to click on one of the computer’s browser tabs. “Jake couldn’t understand why they picked the target they did in Berlin. Well, this is the Rykestrasse temple in Berlin, the biggest one in Germany. It’s a brick wall.”

  Gur moved closer to the screen. She was right; an attractive brick wall, perhaps, but a wall nonetheless. He knew it screened a courtyard with the sanctuary behind that. “So?”

  She clicked on the next tab. “Now here’s the target, the Oranienburger Strasse temple. It’s gorgeous.” The picture featured a huge central onion dome with gilded ribs, flanked by two smaller companions atop towers. She stepped through more photos showing the intricate stonework, arched windows and ornate tripled front doors. “Now imagine this with burning cars and dead people. It’s even more horrible because it’s so pretty there. That’s why they’d attack a congregation of two hundred instead of the one with two thousand.”

  “These savages don’t think that way,” Gur said. “You can’t—”

  “Let me finish,” Miriam snapped. She popped up the next picture, a striking white Art Nouveau building with a squarish silver dome. “This is the Tempio Maggiore in Rome. Did you know it’s not the largest in Italy? The largest is in Trieste, but it’s just a big gray box. Look how pretty this is. This is the view the news cameras would have. Imagine dead and wounded people all over this little plaza. Obscene, isn’t it? It’s another picture of beauty and evil.”

  “Um, Miriam—” Eldar ventured.

  “Jake! Just wait!” She brought up the Anne Frank House, no longer visible behind the modernist façade screening it. “Here the neighborhood’s pretty. All these little brick townhouses, the canal, the trees. Here’s the Westerkirk, isn’t that steeple great? With the red clock? It’s all so Dutch. Now put dead burned people all over the street and floating in the canal.”

  She burst off her chair, hurried to the TV and thrust a finger at the picture. “Paris. Does this building look familiar? There’s something like it in every Western country. The columns, the stairs, the statues—it’s like our Capitol, or the Supreme Court, or the British Museum. It’s pretty, it’s impressive, it says ‘power.’ How many Christmas parties do you think are going on in Paris tonight? Why attack this one? Maybe because of how it looks.”