Poison Wind (Jackson Chase Novella Book 3)

by Connor Black

  I nodded.

  “Please, come back in the morning.”

  “I will need to stay here, Mahmoud.”

  He looked up at me, clearly not happy about this development. I sensed he was about to protest, but he surprised me.

  “Very well. You will be our guest. Come.”

  He took me up the stairs to his apartment. We arrived in a room that served as both lounge and kitchen, dimly lit with a single lamp. A thick piece of fabric separated the front and back rooms. I pulled it aside carefully and looked in. There was just enough light to see two beds, one empty. The other held Mahmoud’s son.

  I looked back at Mahmoud who was staring at me making this check of the building. He understood, and nodded slightly.

  “I will make a place for you,” he said.

  I went through the darkened bedroom. Another fabric divider hid a small washroom. There was a single window that looked out to the back of another building. There were no additional rooms or exits.

  I returned to find Mahmoud had pulled out a rug and a blanket. He went to the two chairs by the front window and began to move one. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the other. We made a space for him to lay the rug. My bed for the night.

  “Can I make you some tea?” he asked, apparently having adjusted to the intrusion.

  “No, Mahmoud. Thank you.” I said. “It is late.”

  “Very well. I will go to the mosque early. I will let you into the shop before my son wakes up. It is best if he does not see you.”

  I understood. “Shukran.” Thank you.

  When Mahmoud came out of his bedroom early the next morning, the sun was only a purple smudge fighting to light the sky. He stopped in his tracks, surprised to see that the rug and blanket were put away, and the chairs were back in their place with me sitting in one.

  He again offered tea, which I again declined. Nodding, he walked with me down the stairs to his shop, opened the door to let me in, and said he would be back after speaking with his cousin at morning prayers. As the muezzin’s call warbled from speakers at the top of the neighborhood mosque’s minaret, he left.

  I counted off a minute before slipping out the door myself.

  It wasn’t that I did not trust Mahmoud. His eyes showed that he had long ago resigned himself to Hamas ruling his homeland. No, not that. I simply wasn’t one to sit still and wait. I wanted to see where he went, with whom he spoke. And on the off chance I was wrong about his character, I wanted to be prepared.

  He made his way a block down the dirt street before turning right. I trailed well back, my posture relaxed and my eyes wandering no more than a local’s. Naturally, some men weren’t going to the mosque, but were setting about their business. Wooden poles were being pulled out to support tattered canvas awnings in preparation for the heat of the day to come. Sidewalks were being swept by women wielding rough hand-made brooms. Dirty pieces of plywood and fabric were being laid on the ground, soon to be covered with small items on display. It was the start of a new day.

  I turned the same corner Mahmoud did and found myself on a busier street, this one paved. Compact diesel trucks sputtered alongside dirty white taxis. A donkey pulled a rough cart that rolled on wheels from an old car. A few elderly men stood on a curb, smoking as the light on the sides of buildings changed from purple to orange.

  We took another turn, this time left onto another hard-packed dirt road. I saw a group of men removing their shoes. A minaret rose above them. I slowed my pace, giving Mahmoud time to enter and me time to consider whether or not I would follow him in. On one hand, there was the chance I’d be seen as an outsider. On the other, I would miss out on seeing if Mahmoud was indeed going to betray me.

  Knowing that the population in Gaza always had its shifts and movements of people through neighborhoods as different areas were attacked and then rebuilt, I considered the chance of detection was outweighed by the benefit of watching more closely. I approached the mosque, removed my sandals outside, and entered.

  A large semi-open front room had two rows of faucets above a small drainage area. I waited patiently until a space opened, and then moved forward. Taking some water, I washed my hands, mouth, face, feet, and arms. It occurred to me, as it always did when I watched Muslims perform this ritual, that while it was based on Muhammad’s teachings, it was also an effective way to bring personal hygiene to the masses in the seventh century. An Imam would probably call me blasphemous for saying so, but there you have it.

  Following the men into the mosque, I lined up with them in the back. Scanning for Mahmoud, I finally found him two rows ahead and on the opposite side. I watched for a minute, wondering if his cousin was one of the men on either side of him.

  As the men I stood shoulder to shoulder with began to shut off the outside world and concentrate on Allah, the prayer began with the Takbir. “Allahu akbar.” God is supreme.

  Despite being raised Anglican, I felt no sense of betrayal praying in a mosque. I do believe in the strength of religion in guiding decision making, and the support it provides during difficult times. But as far as organized religion goes, I find myself more secular than not. Perhaps it is my practical side, or the fact that I have seen how wars fought under one of God’s various names have destroyed people, families, and entire regions of the world. To me, there likely is a God, and people throughout history have organized and unified what they believed his guidance to be. These prophets to me were teachers, and like any teacher, they wove their personal experiences and beliefs into their messages. And as time progressed, so did the desire for power and proselytizing the masses into various belief groups. They divided into Jews, Muslims, Christians. Then further into Hasidics, Sunnis, Shias, Catholics, Eastern Orthodox. And on and on. And while those groups helped people belong and find purpose, I always wondered, if there was a God, why would he let them work so hard to destroy one another? Did he really want his teachers to control these masses with rewards, judgments, and punishments? There were no simple answers. And as I often do when thinking about religion, I ended my thoughts wondering if the Buddhists didn’t just nail it perfectly, letting the responsibility lay not with a God or a prophet or an organized group, but within one’s self.

  After the Rak’ah, the men began to file out of the mosque. I chose my path carefully, allowing some view of Mahmoud while staying behind him. As I found my sandals, I saw him walk off to the side with what I imagined to be his cousin. They spoke briefly, and then shook hands.

  Again, I stayed back as we retraced our path to his shop. The door was open when I arrived, and I knew Mahmoud would be wondering where I was. I looked in the shop, and before going up the stairs, I listened.

  I could hear the voice of Mahmoud’s son, awake now and asking if he could not go to school. Mahmoud hushed him, and sent him to the washroom to clean up. The boy refused, and they began to argue. The boy was scared to go to his school, apparently, and the shouting intensified. After a final loud outburst from Mahmoud, the boy went quiet and I heard the patter of his feet head to the back.

  Once I knew the boy was out of the room, I went up the stairs. Mahmoud was setting a cucumber and a tomato on the table.

  “You went out,” he said. Not a question.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “To follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  He considered this for a moment. “I understand. Such is the world we live in.”

  “What did your cousin say?” I asked.

  Mahmoud pulled a knife out of a drawer, and after setting it on the table, walked over to the window. He drew the lighter day curtain back and pointed a few degrees west of north.

  “My cousin saw him going into a building next to the hospital. He has been going there regularly, but in the past two days, has spent more time there.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “My cousin does not know. Only that certain areas have been blocked off, and there is a lot of activity these days.”

  I nodded, knowi
ng all too well what Hamas used hospitals for. And it wasn’t healing.

  “Why does your son not want to go to school?”

  Mahmoud went back to the table, and began chopping the meager two vegetables. “This is new. He says there are bad men at the school. His word for Hamas soldiers. I walked him there yesterday, and did not see any.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “He is a boy without a mother, so this may just be a way for him to stay with me during the day. But he needs to go. He needs to learn.”

  “Where is his school?” I asked.

  Mahmoud pointed south, the opposite direction of the hospital. “Perhaps a kilometer that way.”

  I could hear Mahmoud’s son in the bedroom, and sensed he would be out soon. I decided it was best for him not to go to school talking about a stranger visiting, and took my leave.

  “Mahmoud,” I said, “thank you for your help, and for letting me stay.”

  He nodded. “You are welcome.” He didn’t call me by name, because I had not given him one. I think we both knew I would have needed to give him a false name, and it was simply better not to have that lie between us.

  “You are a good man, Mahmoud. Take good care of your son.”

  “I will,” he said, true sincerity in his voice.

  We shook hands, and I descended down to the streets of Gaza.

  9

  The hospital stood behind a small square. A few dirty orange cones and small signs supported a rope that blocked off direct access. Two Hamas soldiers, their faces covered, stood to one side of the hospital, scanning the locals going about their business. I walked past, giving the area a wide berth, my eyes forward and down.

  After passing, I turned away from the hospital. I’d noticed a vendor down a small alley selling coffee and tea. Circling the block, I wound my way back to the alley café from the opposite direction.

  A man sitting on a stool behind two large urns stood as I approached. I ordered a coffee and paid, and then took one of the short stools sitting on the curb. From this vantage point, I was able to see the left side of the hospital, where most of the activity appeared to be.

  The vendor brought my coffee on a tarnished tray. I thanked him, and holding the hot glass high near the rim, took a small sip. It was strong and earthy, thick with cardamom. I set it down by my feet to let it cool.

  A covered truck came out from behind the hospital. Two men, different from the two before, moved the barricade to allow it to exit. They waited a few minutes, one listening to a handheld radio. Just as he placed it back on his belt, another truck arrived.

  It made a three point turn, and backed in. It was larger than the last, with canvas stretched over the bed in a box shape, and could not back in as far. A few more men appeared, and there was an animated discussion with hand-waving and shouting.

  I watched, taking occasional sips from my coffee, as the men moved to the back of the truck and began unloading something. From this vantage point, I couldn’t see what it was until one of the men pulled back a section of canvas at the front of the bed in order to climb in. What he revealed, only for an instant, were the business ends of a tidy stack of rockets.

  I withdrew the phone I’d been provided and made as if to check for an SMS while triggering the camera function. While an image from this distance wouldn’t have ideal clarity, and the canvas had since covered the cargo once again, I wanted the team to get a mark on this location. Before putting the phone back in my pocket, I noted the time: 08:10. Enough time for me to find a better position to see the back of the hospital and still make the 10:00 pick-up.

  I wove my way in a random pattern around the hospital, looking for a vantage point. The streets were busy now that the day had started. Everyone went about their business, and I found that the clothes I’d been given allowed me to fit in well with the men I saw setting up shops and milling about. I stopped at a small cart on the edge of the street selling roasted nuts and purchased a bag. Mostly cashews, they were probably mixed with a few odds and ends left over from whenever the vendor was last able to elude the local police and sell on the streets.

  At four stories, the hospital was one of the taller buildings in the area, and finding a suitable vantage point was proving difficult. I had spotted the shell of an abandoned apartment building and looked for a way to gain access.

  A small gate opened onto the side of the street I was on and a woman in a heavy black dress and white hijab came out, revealing a small alley that looked promising. As she exited and turned to go down the street, I slipped in behind her before the gate closed.

  With the angle of the morning sun as it was, the alley was dark. I paused to let my eyes adjust and was able to see a path that led to the empty apartment building. Taking a look around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I climbed over a small wall and found myself in the charred remains of what must have been a ground-level apartment. It had been shelled repeatedly, whether by the Israelis or during the intense infighting between Hamas and Fatah I didn’t know. Sections of the walls were charred, some peppered with bullet holes. Here and there, remnants of graffiti could be seen. Mindful that someone could still be in the building, I took my time, pausing every minute or so to listen. As I made my way up, each floor appeared to be empty.

  The stairs narrowed at the top floor, finally terminating at the roof. I stayed low, assessing the direction I needed to take and available cover. The roof was essentially flat, with any air conditioners or other building mechanics having been removed when the building was abandoned. A partial wall, perhaps a meter tall, bordered the entire rooftop. After checking behind the stairwell exit, I made my way to the edge and carefully took a look over the side.

  The apartment building was due west of the hospital, separated by 150 meters of open space. Both buildings were about the same height, which put me at eye level with the hospital roof. With my head tilted sideways to reduce my silhouette as much as possible, I scanned the top of the hospital for any sentries. It looked clear, so I rose slightly to get a view into the large open space between the buildings.

  Camouflage netting haphazardly covered some of the space. It was tattered and streaked with white and gray ribbons that would give the effect of rubble to any low resolution overhead imagery. But it was only over a small portion, and I was able to get a clear view.

  The large dirt lot was filled with activity.

  Voices made their way up as well. And from them, along with the movement I was able to see, my estimate was a dozen men working below. Two I could see were in uniform, but the rest largely wore camouflage pants with T-shirts. The uniforms shouted orders. The others carried material back and forth. Some men were welding rough metal scaffolding in triangular shapes, the crude launch rail system for rockets.

  Not seeing the rockets themselves, I ducked down and crawled south to the other end of the roof. Again, I first rose slightly and checked the hospital roof. Seeing it was still clear, I looked down. A triangular gap in the netting showed an orderly row of six rockets. They were about 3 meters long and black, with rough and scratched surfaces. As I watched, two men carried a seventh in, their arms wrapped around its surprisingly narrow girth.

  I took the phone out and triggered a set of images. Knowing that it would take a few minutes for the command post in the Pit to assesses the pictures and my location, I waited before calling in. It was time to secure a better OP, or observation post.

  I was due west of the hospital and the sun’s rising trajectory would only shine more and more on me if I stayed on the roof. Moving down one floor, I found an opening on the wall that was once a window. A lonely anemic palm tree cast a small amount of shade across the opening, giving some degree of concealment. Taking a look, I found that I could still see down into the lot between the two buildings. Men below were moving an eighth rocket in.

  I looked south, towards the square, beyond which I knew was the café I’d used. The truck was almost immediately below me, and I could only see one side of it without hanging o
ut of the opening and risking exposure. I was looking at its position, noticing it was wedged into the narrow open spot next to a utility shed, when suddenly it started. The low diesel patter echoed up to the window, followed by a clunk as it went into gear. Slowly, it pulled out.

  A white Toyota Hilux pickup arrived and took the spot the truck had just left. Still in the shadow of the palm, I adjusted my position and saw a man get out of the front passenger seat. He wore camouflage pants and a leather jacket. An olive green keffiyeh covered his shoulders. From this angle, I could not see his face. Only the top of his head. But the hairline looked right.

  I withdrew from the window and silently made my way through the building to a set of rooms further north. Finding a window that I hoped would give me the right angle, I looked out. My angle still wasn’t perfect, but I was able to see the knot in his crooked nose. It was Farid Hassan.

  I pulled back again, and found a small space on the opposite side of the building. It was time to call in. Using the radio net rather than the phone, I depressed the key and said, “Base, Hillary.”

  “Hillary, Base,” came the reply. A male voice, pronouncing my call sign with a deep R from well down his throat. “Your images have been received.”

  “Roger.”

  “Are you headed to the exfil site?”

  “Negative, Base. Target was just sighted,” I said, letting them know that Hassan was here.

  “Ken. Wait one,” was the reply. He was apparently running this up the chain.

  He came back a moment later. “A mission is being put into motion to handle both the rockets and the target. Please proceed to your exfil.”

  With Hassan just below me, I wasn’t leaving.

  “Negative, Base. I’ll stay for the fireworks.”

  “Negative. This is not your mission. Without weapons, you will only be a problem.” The voice was flat, completely without emotion. Just a radio operator, his commanding officer likely standing behind him, telling him to get the bloody foreigner out of his area of operation.