“Shh. We do.” She stretched up to kiss him again. “This’ll be over soon. Then we’ll have lots of time.”
Gur wished he could believe her.
Mahir watched the pews around him fill with well-dressed Jews. So many in one place. Only a handful of Jews remained in Iraq, and they stayed out of sight. He’d never met a Jew until coming to this country; now they surrounded him.
He knew he stood out, but not in a way that would make anyone suspicious. The people who edged past him couldn’t mask the pity in their eyes. They’d never believe why he was really here, or that someone so obviously frail could do such a thing. He hoped he’d have the strength when the time came. Sitting on this cushion, leaning into the end corner of the polished wood pew, was very comfortable. Leaving would take some will.
“Excuse me, sir. Sorry to disturb you. Are those seats taken?”
She was young—perhaps in her early thirties—her open, pretty face still unlined, her blond hair still thick and shiny. A perfect miniature of herself held her hand. The little girl’s big blue eyes stared at his face. It was the tube, he knew; children always noticed that first. He tried on a smile. “No, no. Please. Sit.”
“Thanks.” She returned his smile, shooed the little girl past his feet, then edged by facing forward, giving him a fine view of slender hips in a cadet-blue pleated skirt. Then a young man stepped in, towing a boy of perhaps six or seven. The boy thumped onto the cushion next to Mahir, wiggled to get settled, then craned his neck to take in everything there was to see.
Mahir turned away to watch the last few stragglers dart into their places. A few moments later, a little voice peeped, “What’s that in your nose?”
He looked down at the puzzled green eyes staring back at him. Diya’s eyes had been green until he was almost six, when they’d turned amber. So long ago. “It helps me breathe.”
“Are you sick?”
Sick? Yes, his body was sick, enough to kill him soon. But his spirit was sick, too. Sick of what the Americans had done to his country, sick of living with the memory of a slaughtered wife and son, sick of being just another broken man with splintered dreams.
“Brandon, that’s not nice,” the father chided his son, saving Mahir from answering. He was also young, fresh and unlined as his bride. He and his son wore matching blue jumpers and dark trousers, their hair as dark as the woman’s was fair. “Don’t bother the man.”
“No, is okay.” He’d come to kill these people; how could they show him such consideration? “He is…like my sons, asking the questions always.”
The young man nodded. “You know how kids are. Want me to trade places with him?”
“No, no. Is no problem.” Diya and Rashad showered him with “why” when they were little, before they’d learned the danger of asking questions in Saddam’s Iraq. When the Americans came, his sons started again with questions, but it was still dangerous. Little Brandon could ask anything he wanted and risk nothing more than a scolding. What would his sons have become if they’d had that luxury? Would Diya be alive? Would Rashad be free?
Mahir settled back and let the organ music wash over him. That was all done, all in the past, beyond reach. He needed to savor the next few minutes. His last few minutes.
Brandon fidgeted next to him the way Diya had at the mosque so long ago. Mahir watched the boy and wondered if there were such things as ghosts.
NINETY-SIX: Central Park East, 23 December, 6:30 PM
The organ segued into the almost Anglican “Maoz Tzur.” The crowd buzz died away with the first major chords; only the sharp squeaking of a few small children broke the sudden hush.
Jake made a slow scan of the sanctuary with his eyes. The pews were nearly full except in the far back, but the gallery was empty. Two thousand, maybe? A little less? The two ambassadors sat under their yarmulkes with their wives and entourages in the center section’s first two pews. Dark-suited security men lurked in the side aisles.
“Maoz Tzur” gave way to the choir singing “O Chanukah” from its loft above the ark, accompanied by the piano. Jake’s childhood in Hebrew school stirred inside him. While part of him watched the crowd, another part sang along silently with the choir, in Hebrew to their English.
The guy with the oxygen tank sat across the aisle and one pew up. He, too, looked all around, his eyes amazed. Jake had picked a seat near him to see if he could figure out why the man seemed so familiar. The oxygen tank rested outside the pew’s side panel; a clear plastic tube snaked over the man’s shoulder to his nostrils. Their eyes met. The man bobbed his head, either as a greeting or in embarrassment, Jake couldn’t tell which.
“O Chanukah” became “S’vivon.” The women in the choir made a sound like the wind whistling around a corner while the men chanted the words. The minor chords and Oriental melodies reached out to something elemental inside Jake. He wasn’t devout; his parents hadn’t been, either. Still, more than anything else, the music linked him to the hundreds of generations before him, spoke to him of roots and tradition. He prayed he wouldn’t let them down tonight.
After the final flourish of “Ocho Kandelikas,” the graying, balding rabbi in a black robe raised his arms in greeting from the north pulpit. “Good friends, good shabbas! Happy Hanukkah to you all! This is truly a joyous Hanukkah celebration this evening in our congregation, as we welcome to our temple and into our hearts two very special, surprise guests. With us tonight is His Excellency, the Ambassador of the State of Israel to the United States, Avraham Steinitz…” a murmur bubbled through the crowd “…and His Excellency, the Ambassador of the State of Israel to the United Nations, Lev Avital.” The rumble grew louder for a moment until the rabbi raised his hands again. “These two esteemed gentlemen honor us with their presence and together will light the first Hanukkah candle. Your Excellencies, to you we say baruch ata b’shai modunai; blessed are you who cometh in the name of the Lord.”
Jake glanced at a movement across the aisle. The guy with the oxygen tank leaned forward, eyes wide, mouth cracked open, as if he’d just discovered his favorite movie stars were a few feet away. Whatever turns you on, Jake thought. He opened the leather-bound siddur to the page the rabbi called for, kept one eye on the prayer book and the other on the crowd.
Ambassadors! Mahir couldn’t believe his luck. Al-Shami never mentioned this. Had he even known?
It didn’t matter. Mahir’s timing had just been decided for him. He’d strike when the two Zionists rose to light the candle. He’d make what little was left of his life count.
Kelila marched westbound on 67th Street, blinking away the snowflakes. Windows glowed from the stone apartment blocks and co-ops all up and down the street, making even this paved canyon feel homey. Colored Christmas lights twinkled around window frames; elaborate evergreen wreaths hung on several doors. Not that she had a lot of time to appreciate the décor.
She tapped her earpiece. “Sasha, find anything?”
“No. A lot of the right kind of vehicles, but nobody in them.”
“Same here.” She checked her watch. The worship had already started. “Keep looking. It’s got to be here somewhere.”
This Jewish place didn’t impress Sohrab. His father had taken him to the Goharshad mosque in the Imām Ridhā shrine back home, a 15th-Century imperial Persian riot of blue tile and massive arches. This synagogue was almost understated by comparison. These snooty Jews all around him with their expensive clothes and squawking dress-up-doll children were nothing like the boiling mass of humanity at Goharshad, either. Twenty million pilgrims went there every year, the old and young, the rich and poor, a cross-section of the Shia world.
The Jews who really held his attention were the security men standing under the balconies on either side of the hall. If anyone would try to stop Mahir, it would be those thugs.
When the choir launched into yet another song (so much singing!), Sohrab slowly scanned the audience again. A few young men, none of them remarkable; women, children, old people, fat peo
ple. No threats he could see.
Wait. Twelve or fifteen rows behind him, other side of the aisle. Is that…?
The Schaffer woman.
Dark suit, blue shirt. She looked different with her hair down—not as old, not as hard. But it was her, no doubt.
An! Eldar must be here, too. The last thing he needed was their interference again. They knew what he looked like. They could call down the thugs on him.
He snapped his face forward and shrank in his seat. Now he couldn’t look behind him. He couldn’t pick out Eldar in the crowd, but he had to be there somewhere, waiting. He felt trapped, unable to find the enemy, vulnerable. He needed a secure observation post, someplace where he could see everything and act immediately if he found a threat to him or Mahir.
Sohrab’s eyes zoomed to the empty galleries just below the large stained-glass windows.
Something was off with the sick guy.
Jake’s eyes kept creeping back to the man. He was always late to stand or sit, and when the congregation recited a passage the man’s jaw didn’t move. He’d wiped his forehead with a pale green handkerchief several times since the worship had begun. Maybe that was from his meds or his disease; it wasn’t all that warm in the sanctuary.
Jake murmured along with the others, “It is He who redeemed us from the path of the oppressors, and revived our spirits when our own strength failed us.” Again, the sick guy’s mouth didn’t move.
The rabbi called out, “His works and wonders surpass our understanding; His gifts and blessings are without number.”
“We rejoice in His sovereign heart. We praise and give thanks unto His name.”
While the cantor and choir sang again, Jake kept coming back to the oxygen tank. Sixteenish inches tall, four or so in diameter, on four-inch wheels. Maybe his time in Yahmam had warped him, but the thing reminded him of a small artillery shell.
Paranoid? Maybe the guy was a foreigner, here for the big show. Maybe he couldn’t read English. Maybe he was sicker than he looked and couldn’t move quickly.
Still, someone could pack a lot of ugliness in that tank.
Jake ducked his head away from the grandmother sitting to his left, tapped his earpiece. “Can you get the security guys on the radio?” he whispered in English.
Refael’s voice came back instantly, in Hebrew. “Is there trouble?”
“Maybe. There’s this guy, something’s off.” The grandmother shushed him; Jake held up a hand and tried an apologetic smile.
“No, I’d have to go through the embassy. Approach them yourself, or check the subject.”
Sure, and get thrown out. Or shot.
“Jake?” Miriam’s voice, tight, barely audible. “The Persian boy from the station is here, about ten rows behind you. I just saw him.”
Shit. This was really the target. The bomb was here, maybe just ten feet away. Jake switched to Hebrew and hissed, “Refael, call the cops, now!”
A pause. Then Refael said, “When a policeman walks into the temple, the man with the bomb will explode. Find the bomber, neutralize him, then we’ll get the police involved.”
Gur checked his watch again while he plodded north into the shrinking tunnel of visibility along Fifth Avenue. No parked cars to shelter behind, remarkably few people, narrow tree trunks. He was so exposed out here. Not even the thickening snowfall offered cover.
He stopped halfway down the block, watched the three-lane parade of cars rolling by. It would be a miracle if he saw anything, much less stopped it. He could just visualize the van exploding in Times Square, bodies and blood and fire everywhere while he stood blocks away.
No, Alayan’s Persian was here. It was the first shabbat of Hanukkah. They’d had their chance at dozens of secular targets today. It had to be here.
A man not much older than himself trundled past in a northbound wheelchair, a thick blanket shrouding his dead legs. A shiver skittered up Gur’s spine. A prison on wheels, a life sentence with no parole. Kill me if you must, God, but don’t do that.
The snow turned the middle distance into a gray Impressionist watercolor. Beyond the wheelchair, Gur could just make out the dark shape of a man at the next corner. He’d been there for at least fifteen minutes. Unlike the rest of the steadily dwindling number of passers-by, he stood rooted in place.
Gur’s internal anomaly detector began to ping softly. He slipped his hand around the pistol grip in his coat pocket and padded toward the end of the block.
Kelila’s feet and face had become cold, dead wood. Not even Paris had been this cold. She huddled under the antique iron-and-glass portico between Cartier and the Marina Rinaldi boutique, stomped some blood back into her feet, beat the clinging snow from her coat and hat. She stole a quick glance into Cartier’s windows: only disappointingly empty display stands.
Across the street, in front of a brick-fronted townhouse, a white van idled at the curb.
She snugged her cap over her ears and jogged to the other side, then strode past the van, absorbing the license number as she went. Steam from the exhaust, melting snow on the roof, a dark-skinned man tapping the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel’s rim. Was he al-Shami’s African? She couldn’t tell.
Kelila yanked her mobile out of her pocket as if it had just rung and pressed it against her radio earpiece’s switch. “I need info on a registration plate.”
Raffi’s voice barked in her ear. “Did you find the van?”
“Not sure yet. White van, ‘Newtown Electric’, engine on, a man with dark skin inside.” She ducked down a concrete staircase thirty meters west of the van, next to the green awning over the entrance to a tan-stone apartment block, and put her phone away. “I’m on 69th between Fifth and Madison. New York registration, five naught one nine three Vingeyt Sefer.”
“Hold a minute.”
Kelila snatched a peek over the stone railing along the stairs. The van hadn’t moved; the driver was still behind the wheel. Her heart banged away, ready for action. While she waited, she checked her pistol, already rehearsing her next moves. She removed her watch and zipped it into one of her shoulder bag’s many pockets. “Come on, Raffi,” she mumbled to herself. “Come on, before he leaves…”
Miriam just caught the rabbi’s “Be Thou a shield about us, protecting us from hate and war” when the Persian rose, stepped past the person to his right into the aisle, then hurried toward the back of the sanctuary. His body bent slightly forward as if fighting a headwind.
Their eyes met as he passed.
He knows we’re here. She felt the familiar jolt of adrenaline dumping into her system. “Jake, the Persian boy just left. He saw me.” She swung out of her seat. “I’m going after him.”
“No! Wait for me!” Jake’s voice hissed.
“Watch the other one. If I need help, I’ll call.” If she got the chance.
“Be careful.”
She burst through the doors into the foyer just in time to hear footsteps slapping up the stairway to her right. Upstairs, into the empty gallery. Miriam sucked in a breath and some courage, slung her purse strap over her head and left shoulder, and rushed toward the stairs.
Jake’s anxiety level hit the rafters a hundred feet up. Damn it, why couldn’t she wait? Was she seriously going to take on that guy with her gimpy knee and no backup?
The music stopped. A moment went by filled with the rustling and scattered coughs of two thousand people waiting for the next event. Then the rabbi announced, “For a special Hanukkah prayer, turn now to the bottom of page 89 as we call upon all the young people and their parents in the congregation to join us on the bimah for the lighting of the menorah.”
The piano began to play. Brandon’s father stood, leaned over his son and murmured to Mahir, “Excuse me, sir. Sorry to disturb you.”
Mahir reached over the pew’s arm, twisted the knob on the phony oxygen valve through two full turns. Another quarter turn would close the valve completely and trigger the bomb.
Now?
Mahir
labored out of his seat, stood in the aisle, watched the young family file toward the raised platform at the front of the nave. The two ambassadors were already stationed behind the tall, eight-armed brass candelabrum. All around Mahir, children and their parents streamed toward the front.
The children. Dozens of them, scrubbed and wide-eyed and beaming with excitement.
Something other than his familiar nausea gnawed at him. Allah, is this really your will?
The sick guy’s hand dropped to the tank, drawing Jake’s attention. The guy covered the black knob at the top, twisted counter-clockwise twice. Shutting off his oxygen?
A mother and her twin sons edged their way down the pew toward Jake. He used their approach as an excuse to stand in the aisle and do a full sweep of the sanctuary. The sick guy lurched upright and shuffled into his side of the aisle, grabbed the handle on his tank for support.
Chattering, excited children everywhere, filtering toward the bimah. Jake’s mind flashed him a vision—or a nightmare: an explosion, dozens of tiny burned bodies, screaming that wouldn’t end. He fought back the bile scraping up his throat. Stop this. Even if you have to throw yourself on the damn bomb, don’t let it happen.
The young family who’d sat next to the sick guy was gone now, but he still stood. The man took a hesitant step forward.
Don’t let this happen!
Jake crossed the aisle with two quick strides, took the man’s elbow as if to help him. “Who are you?” he whispered into the man’s ear. “And what’s in the tank?”
The stairs led to a stone-walled vestibule with two exits, an arched one in front of Miriam, a square one to her right. The space wasn’t any larger than her apartment’s bedroom and bathroom put together. Ranks of empty pews stretched out from each, leading to other arches.
The Persian boy stood in the arch before her, perhaps ten feet away, an arrogant tilt to his head. His shadowed eyes examined her as if he was thinking of buying her. A thin, black sectioned tube stretched from his right hand, the tip tapping against his calf.
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