Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  Mahir swallowed hard. His shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs. Slowly the trembling hand aiming the pistol at Jake’s face drifted downward. “I must…” he rasped in Arabic. “I can’t…forgive me…”

  “It’s okay,” Jake said just above a whisper, the way he’d comfort Eve when she was upset. “It’s gonna be okay.” Jake slid forward, reached for the gun.

  The shot echoed like a cannon through the sanctuary.

  The bodyguard on the pew nailed Mahir’s head on a downward angle, spraying Jake with blood and bone. The bomber’s body collapsed like week-old broccoli. Jake lunged forward to catch the tank before it hit the ground. No explosion. Goddamnit! He was giving up!

  The security men were on Mahir in an instant, but it was too late to stop the stampede. People poured screaming out of every pew, clutching each other, their coats, their children, racing down the aisles toward the exit. Jake watched a middle-aged woman tumble to the aisle’s red carpet and nearly get trampled by the people behind her.

  “Who are you? Who are you?”

  Jake yanked himself away from staring at the oxygen tank to focus on the dark-faced security man braced before him, gun aimed at Jake’s chest. “NYPD!” Jake blurted. “This tank…this tank’s probably a bomb. Don’t let anybody mess with it.”

  He was going to say, “Don’t let anybody leave,” but he was too late. The front pews were empty. Knots of people huddled in the more distant pews, eyes the size of hubcaps. Behind him stood a mass of people crowded close together, watching now, their cries caroming off the tiled walls. He didn’t want to imagine what the street looked like, or whether the truck bomb was dead or on its way. Had he failed? Had he succeeded?

  “Show me ID!” the security man demanded.

  Jake steadied the tank, held up his right hand, reached behind himself to pull his wallet with his left. He slowly brought it out, let it fall open, held it in front of him.

  The man peered at the picture, then lowered his gun. “Okay. This is a bomb?” He nodded toward Mahir’s oxygen tank.

  “I think so. Call the cops. There might be another one outside.”

  Behind him, an echoing clang and a flurry of gunshots. He spun, looked automatically up and to the right, to the gallery’s back corner. Miriam. The Persian kid.

  The crowd at the back of the sanctuary broke screaming for the exits. Jake charged down a pew’s seat cushion for the side aisle. “Miriam!” he yelled into the earpiece. “Are you okay?” No, this isn’t fair, she can’t die, not after everything… “What happened? Answer me!”

  The Persian swung his pistol toward Miriam, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Miriam’s instincts took over. She hurled the stanchion at him, ignoring the supernova of pain the move caused.

  The base caught him in his upper chest, rocked him back just as he loosed off a shot that pinged off the stone walls. The metal-on-marble racket set her ears ringing. He tumbled backwards into the second stanchion, took it down. His gun popped out of his hand and slid a couple feet away.

  Miriam bit down so hard her teeth threatened to turn to powder. She rocked forward, yanked her purse out from under her, dumped it out on the floor. The pain fuzzed her eyes with tears, but she could see well enough to pluck the Beretta from the mess, swat the safety, and find the Persian just eight feet away. He struggled up on one shoulder, reaching for his gun.

  She put four shots into his chest, the pop-pop sound like a child’s cap pistol. The Persian shuddered, looked down, gasped, but didn’t fall. His shaking hand stabbed at his pistol.

  Goddamned wimpy gun! Miriam palmed her eyes clear, aimed one-handed at his forehead, fired.

  The Persian’s head jerked. He flopped onto his back, arms spread wide.

  Miriam aimed at his temple, pulled the trigger again, just in case. Blood spattered the floor. Then she fell onto her back, laid her head against the cool marble, and let out a strangled scream of agony.

  “Miriam! Are you okay?” Jake’s voice scratched out of the radio next to her. Thank God he’s alive! “What happened? Answer me!”

  She fumbled the radio out from the jumble next to her, found the “transmit” button. “I got him! I got him. Where are you?”

  “I’m coming. Hang in there.”

  An interminable minute later, two sets of running footsteps clattered up the stairwell. Jake’s face appeared over her, his eyes huge with worry and relief. “Are you okay?” He knelt, seized her hand. “What did he do to you?”

  She didn’t want to talk, just lie there, hold Jake’s hand, let his voice cover her in a warm, safe blanket. “My leg. He got my knee, I can’t walk.” She noticed the streaks of blood on his face and shirt. “Oh no, are you hurt? There’s blood all over you!”

  “Security shot the guy with the tank.” He looked over his shoulder, snapped, “Call an ambulance, now! Call several, we’re gonna need them.”

  Miriam tilted her head up enough to see one of the ambassador’s security men holding two fingers to the Persian’s throat. He let go, pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  Jake slid closer to her, brushed hair from her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  Since the safe house she’d wondered how he felt about her. Now his eyes and his gentle voice told her everything she needed to know. She touched his cheek. “You, too. I heard the shot and I thought…”

  “I’m okay.” He squeezed her hand. “They’re fighting each other to get out down there, but I think Refael’s guys found the truck bomb. It’s over.”

  Kelila pounded down Fifth Avenue, dodging the scattering of other people on the sidewalk, trying not to slip on the thickening crust of snow. The facades of towering apartment blocks blurred by. She kept replaying the sound of the gunshots. They’d been too throaty for Raffi’s Beretta; the Institute’s issue weapon was a .22, meant for close-in work, designed to make minimal noise.

  At 66th she caught a break at the light, raced across Fifth Avenue, dodged a cab accelerating into Central Park. A dark shape sprawled in the snow on the southwest corner.

  “Raffi! Oh God!”

  He lay on his back, his legs turned in unlikely ways, pistol still clutched in his right hand. Kelila dropped on her knees next to him, took his face in both her hands. “Raffi! Are you shot? Where are you hurt?”

  Raffi flopped his left hand onto her nearest arm. “Listen,” he panted. “It’s al-Shami. He was here. Watching. I shot him, two or three rounds. He went north.”

  Kelila tried to stuff down the panic rising in her throat. Think! she screamed at her brain. He needs you to think! “The van’s north of here.”

  “Yes.” He coughed, a phlegmy sound. “Is it secure?”

  “I have the keys. The driver’s dead. I checked it for a second man, but didn’t touch anything. You’ll be okay, we’ll get you out of here.” She slapped the button on her earpiece. “Sasha, get the car! Raffi’s been shot!”

  “Chyert podyeri! Where?”

  “Fifth Avenue at 66th, park side. Call Tel Aviv, find a sayan who’s a doctor. Hurry!”

  Raffi tried to squeeze her forearm, but there was no strength behind it. “Kelila. Stop him. Before he gets to the van.”

  She leaned closer, brushed the snowflakes from his face. “I’m not leaving you.”

  Down at the corner of 65th, a stream of people scattered from Emanu-El, moving fast, squealing and shouting. It’s happening! No, not now, not with al-Shami out there, no…

  “Stop him!” Raffi’s voice broke. “Finish the job!”

  “Jake!” Kelila’s screech drilled straight through Jake’s head. “We need help! Raffi’s been shot, and al-Shami’s heading for the van!”

  No! It should be over! Jake slapped his earpiece. “I can’t. Miriam’s hurt.”

  “Go on.” Miriam brushed his free hand. “If the people downstairs are going outside—”

  “I’m not leaving—”

  “Jake!” Her voice was far stronger than he expected. “I’m safer
here than anyplace else. Go. We’ve got to stop him.”

  He could feel the pain he saw in her now-soft brown eyes. He wished he could say something, do something to help her, but he couldn’t do anything more here. Jake muttered “shit” under his breath, then barked, “Where?”

  “Fourteen East 69th.” Kelila’s voice was on the verge of cracking wide open. “A white van with ‘Newtown Electric’ on the sides. The driver’s window is down. Hurry!”

  Jake squeezed Miriam’s hand one more time, then laid it carefully on her stomach and sprung to his feet. The security man was already moving toward the stairs. “Where the fuck are you going?” Jake demanded.

  The other man stopped on the top step. “To the ambassador.”

  “Bullshit! You’re staying with her. Nobody gets to her except EMS, understand?” Before the man could answer, Jake plunged down the stairs.

  Al-Shami stumbled across 68th Street, slipped on the slick curb, nearly fell. When he pulled his hand from his midsection, it came away bloody. The waistband of his trousers was soggy and warm in front and in back. Whoever that man had been, he’d done some damage.

  Winded, al-Shami sagged against a tree trunk just past the traffic light. One more block. Haroun hadn’t answered his call, which meant he was dead or arrested or fled. With Jews escaping the synagogue like rats, now would be the perfect time for the van to drive to that corner and detonate, but it needed a driver.

  Him?

  Sirens approached from at least two different directions. This wasn’t ever how he’d planned to die, but his chances of escaping alive were very slim now. A cloud of anger boiled up inside him. He wouldn’t allow himself to be arrested or to be cornered like some pathetic animal. He’d control his death the same way he’d controlled his life.

  Al-Shami pushed away from the tree and staggered toward the next set of traffic lights, red halos in the falling snow. Pain pulsed from his midsection to every inch of his body.

  Flashing blue lights and an ear-punishing siren raced toward him. He readied his weapon, holding it tight against his stomach, and waited for his last gunfight. The police car filled his vision and his brain. Headlights stabbed his eyes. Then it charged past. A second police car followed moments later.

  They’d block the street, he figured. Nothing would get close to the synagogue. Well, he may not be able to kill Jews tonight, but he could still deliver Hezbollah’s message to the world. If he had to die, he certainly wasn’t going alone.

  He reached 69th, grabbed the traffic-signal pole, took a second to gather his breath. His head echoed; his eyes blurred, breaking the lights into rings of colors. Blood loss? No matter.

  Al-Shami shuffled unsteadily across Fifth Avenue. A couple of taxis steered around him. He missed the curb with his first step, paused, then lurched onto the sidewalk. The van was halfway down this street. He could make it on his hands and knees.

  The street grew longer with every step. When he reached the green awning at number eight, though, he spied the van in a pool of streetlight ahead. Almost there. Just beyond he heard female laughter. Four gabbling girls in coats, skirts and knee-high boots approached from Madison Avenue. No threat.

  He’d just reached the glowing twin carriage lights at number twelve when he heard the unmistakable ratchet of a pistol’s hammer cranking back. A man’s voice said, “Freeze.”

  Gur stared up into the snowflakes falling sharp against his forehead. Melted snow and cooling blood chilled the back of his head and shoulders. Something in the left side of his chest reminded him of a child twisting a stick in an ant hole.

  Below his rib cage, he felt nothing. He told his legs to move, but the command vanished. He tried to shift his hips, but his hips weren’t there anymore. He knew what this meant.

  Kelila knelt over him, anxiety and fear twisting her face. The streetlights glimmered in the tears hanging on her bottom eyelids. She’d ripped off her gloves, and her bare hands stroked his hair and chest and face. Her skin felt so lovely against his. If only…

  “You hang on,” she urged him, softly, fiercely. “We’ll get you home. Sasha’s coming with the car. We’ll get you fixed.”

  He shook his head. “This can’t be fixed.”

  “No!” She grabbed his coat lapels, leaned down until their noses nearly touched. Her face radiated heat. “No! You can’t die! I won’t let you!”

  Such fire, such strength. It shouldn’t be wasted on a cripple. He wrapped a hand around her wrist. “It’s not up to you, yakiri. I can’t live as half a man. And I can’t be arrested. The shame, the scandal—”

  “No! You don’t have my permission to die.” She swallowed, blinked. “We haven’t had enough time.”

  They hadn’t, and wouldn’t. One last regret to pile on all the rest. The approaching sirens told him they had at most a few more seconds. “Get out of here. Don’t let the police get you—”

  “No!”

  “Kelila, yes. Go. Now. I’m done.” He knew she’d stay until they dragged her off to prison, that she’d fight, she’d get hurt. And if they saved him for whatever reason, she’d stay with him, in his wheelchair or hospital bed or whatever hell he’d be consigned to. She’d be ruined along with him, disowned by the Institute, abandoned. Her loyalty would destroy her. He couldn’t have that. “Go. Please, do this one last thing for me.”

  Her tears dripped onto his cheeks, warm against the gathering cold. Kelila struggled to keep her jaw firm, to keep from sniffling, to be strong. Her face threatened to shatter. Then she thrust her mouth on his and kissed him with a fury that eclipsed even the first time they’d made love. He let the passion and sadness and anger and fear wash over him, warm him, and he tried to give her what little courage he had left to help her on her way.

  The sirens were very close. She drew back, the streetlight shining in the tears now pouring down her face. She glanced down the street, then back to him. “Raffi…”

  Gur’s heart ripped itself to shreds. “Go, yakiri. My dear one. Go home to Hasia. Live.”

  After one last look, she stood, squared her shoulders, held up her head. She marched away like a mechanical soldier.

  He waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps, until the police lights flashed against the walls and trees. While he waited, he whispered the Kaddish.

  …May He who makes peace in His high places grant, in His mercy, peace upon us…

  Gur pressed his pistol to his temple and closed his eyes.

  …and upon all His nation Israel…

  He pictured Kelila’s face in his bed in the morning light, the life they might have had together. Then he saw Varda on their wedding day.

  …and say Amen.

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  The face Jake had studied on Kaminsky’s computer now stared at him, the man’s eyes tight with pain. The streetlight behind him threw a shadow from his hat over his face, but the bounce from the snow-covered sidewalk picked out the lines, the nose, the large ears. Dark, wet stains marred the front of his hip-length coat. Something metallic glinted against his stomach.

  Jake aimed the Beretta between al-Shami’s eyes. He was still breathing hard from the four-block sprint; keeping the sights steady was a chore. He knew he could just shoot the man and be perfectly justified, but he also knew someone like al-Shami would be worth his weight in diamonds alive and talking to the FBI. “Drop the gun. Now. It’s over.” He noticed the chattering girls approaching al-Shami from behind. “Stay back!” he shouted. “Get away from here!”

  The four girls—teenagers?—halted a couple feet behind al-Shami, just ahead of the van. Dressed for a night out, short skirts and high-heeled boots in a snowstorm. One giggled, but her friends shushed her. They looked among themselves, confused.

  Goddamn fearless New York girls… “This man is dangerous! Cross the street now, get away!”

  Jake almost didn’t see al-Shami’s right arm twitch away from his stomach. He swirled to his left, fired blind into al-Shami’s center of mass, just a
s the gun in al-Shami’s hand blasted once way too close and something hard and hot slammed through the left side of Jake’s chest. He stumbled, ended up on his butt in the street between two parked cars.

  The teenagers screamed and scattered. Al-Shami swiveled, grabbed the nearest one by the hair and reeled her against him, one arm across her throat, the pistol in her ear. She shrieked, struggled, but he held her tighter, forced her chin in the air.

  Shit! Jake heaved himself to his feet. He couldn’t breathe right. A rib floated free on his left side, stabbing something tender under the skin. He coughed, staggered forward a step to face al-Shami, panted in a couple breaths, then leveled his gun at the bomber’s head.

  Al-Shami lurched a step closer to the van. Another two or three steps and he’d be at the driver’s door. Jake could see the dead man slumped behind the wheel. He wouldn’t let al-Shami get there.

  “You kill her, you’re done,” Jake said. “You’re not the martyr kind, are you? Not like your boy in the temple.”

  Al-Shami dragged the girl back another step. She gripped his forearm with white-knuckled hands. Her tears ran her too-heavy mascara down her cheeks. “Please don’t please don’t please please please don’t kill me I don’t wanna die pleeeeease!” she whimpered.

  God, twice in one night. Jake’s insides were still the size of a baseball and about as hard. Even in the cold, sweat poured down his sides, stinging his wound, mixing with the blood on his belly. In the temple, it had been just his life he’d pleaded for; now it was this girl’s life, too.

  Blue-and-white lights bounced off the buildings lining 69th ahead of him. The cops rolled out, took cover behind their car doors. A loudspeaker grated on. “Drop your weapon!”

  “NYPD!” Jake bellowed. “Hold your fire! He has a hostage!” Thank God he’d watched all those police shows. He turned back to face al-Shami. “Now you’re fucked. You hurt that girl, you’re dead before she hits the ground. Let her go, you survive this.”

  Al-Shami glanced over his shoulder, then back at Jake. Jake couldn’t see enough of the man’s face to tell what he was thinking. What do I say? How do I reach him?