by [Kamal
Three minutes later they were on their way again in a stolen minivan, Brickland more relaxed now, at peace with the accelerator.
“You’re working for Israel too, aren’t you?” Danielle asked suddenly, her voice icily calm.
“I was until ten minutes ago, ma’am, tracking down some people who were out of control.”
His final word made Danielle snap forward. Control . . . The unnamed man in Herschel Giott’s office had used the same word, told her everything was under control, that she didn’t have to worry. Brickland must have been what he was referring to.
“Who were those men back there working for?” Danielle asked.
“I don’t know exactly, and I don’t care. I doubt your government does either. They wanted things handled quietly. If they didn’t mind noise, they could have hired someone else.”
“What exactly did they know?”
“Not much more than you do now, ma’am. That’s why I needed the two of you. If I had played this out in the open, it would have been a different game altogether. So I had hoss here front for me. Fed him just enough information to keep him where I wanted.”
“Thanks,” said Ben.
“Your girlfriend’s bosses knew what was going on, but they didn’t know all the principals involved or how to stop them. Didn’t even know who they could trust, how deep it went.”
“So they brought in someone from the outside,” Danielle concluded. “A contractor.”
“If I got paid by the body, I’d be a rich man by now, ma’am,” Brickland told her, his eyes twinkling. “Thing is, hoss, if they couldn’t find this group that went bad, I figured what chance did I have? So I came up with a plan.”
“The investigation,” from Ben.
“The two of us working together,” Danielle picked up. “The joint effort.”
“Your idea?”
“Mostly, hoss. They didn’t pick you, I did.” His eyes flicked a glance at Danielle. “And I picked the lady too. Last-minute decision.”
“After what happened in Old Jaffa.”
“Showed me you were my type of gal, ma’am, someone I could rely upon. What the hell, I figured the two of you together just might be able to pin bull’s-eyes on my targets for me.”
“In other words, you used us as bait.”
“I was always watching your back, hoss, remember? Gave you a little boost, when I could, to keep you moving. Then, lo and behold, the two of you went and did it. Forced them out into the open, where I’d get my shots.”
“So your assignment didn’t include the ones who actually did the planning,” Danielle concluded.
“People who hired me just wanted the whole mess stopped and everyone who was in the know removed from the scene.”
Ben and Danielle looked at each other.
Brickland laughed. “Relax, people; if I wanted the two of you dead you’d be back in the amphitheater with the rest of them. I can still think for myself and the truth is, shit, I like you. Another goddamn American who doesn’t belong in this fucked-up part of the world any more than I do. I did my job.” He cocked a brief gaze at Danielle. “Your bosses ain’t happy; maybe I’ll just go after them instead.” A chilling smile crossed his features. “I don’t think they’d be happy about that.”
“What about us now?” Danielle asked.
“I kept you alive. That’s the best I can do. Benny, here, being the smart man that he is, should head on home. You, getting along with him like you do, should go with him.”
“It’s not over,” Ben said stridently. “Listen to me! Fasil had closed a deal with the Russians. They’d already been paid and he was waiting for delivery.”
“Delivery of what, hoss?”
Ben gazed at Danielle and swallowed hard before answering. “Nuclear weapons: what else could it be? Tens of millions of dollars had changed hands, the transactions completed those two nights, two weeks apart, that Fasil had spent in Israel—the same times he visited Jericho.”
“Russians,” Danielle echoed, remembering the gun fight in Old Jaffa in what felt like another lifetime, realizing. “He stayed in Israel because he had to meet his Russian contacts. ...”
“But Fasil was also making lots of trips to New York City,” Ben reminded.
“His stays in Israel are still the key,” she insisted.
“Key to what, ma’am?” asked Brickland.
“How we can find out when he planned on picking up his merchandise.”
* * * *
D
anielle explained herself as Brickland drove on toward Tel Aviv.
“The day I received this assignment, there was a gun fight in Old Jaffa.”
“We got to work on your aim a little, ma’am,” the colonel said lightly.
“An Arab-Israeli smuggler was about to send his latest shipment into the West Bank and Shin Bet was finally ready to nail him,” Danielle continued. “Trouble is, somebody beat us to it: Russians. How do I know? Because one of them called me suka, a bitch in that language.”
“I’ll kill him,” promised Brickland.
“I already did. Now Ismael Atturi—the smuggler—was mostly small-time, but this shipment turned out to be machine guns, lots of them. He was trying to move up a notch, and somebody took offense at that.”
“The Russians,” Ben concluded.
“Because they must see guns as their territory. This is the Russian underworld we’re talking about, and apparently they’ve set up shop in Israel, specifically Old Jaffa.”
“They’re Fasil’s contacts!”
“The middlemen between him and the Russians he was dealing with in New York City.”
“And that means they must know what Fasil had purchased, Pakad.”
“Along with when and where he was going to pick it up.”
They both looked to Brickland at the same time.
“Are you with us, Colonel?” Ben asked.
Brickland’s stare remained noncommittal, the road ahead all that mattered. “I’ll drive you to Jaffa and watch your backs. What the hell, it’s on the way to the airport anyway.”
* * * *
Chapter 58
B
rickland parkedoutside theflea marketand Danielleled the way in, following her nose. The area never seemed to change, the same merchants from last week assaulting her again with claims of bargains and one-of-a-kind items.
She led Ben and Frank Brickland into the heart of the market and walked casually toward the row of warehouse shops across from its busiest section. The deadly street battle from seven days before had led to the posting of more soldiers, and she did her best to avoid them on the chance they had been warned to expect her.
Ben and Brickland made sure to walk on either side of Danielle, offering as much cover as they could while she tried to identify all the shops they passed that were operated by Russian immigrants. One of these shops, she was certain, would be owned by the middleman between Fasil and the Russian criminals in New York City he had been dealing with.
Danielle was able to rule some of the shops out by the appearance of the proprietors, others by the merchandise available, and still more by the clear intonations of native Hebrew. It took several passes up and down the street before she positively identified a cluster of three warehouse-style shops as being Russian-operated.
“It’s one of those, but I can’t tell which one,” she reported to Ben and Brickland, after signaling them to follow her further up Jaffa Street.
“That shop selling stoves one of the three you’re talking about?” Brickland asked her.
She looked at him, surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Only shop with a pair of guards in the upstairs windows keeping a very keen eye on potential patrons. Where I come from, not very good for business.” Brickland’s eyes stayed rooted on Danielle. “You think you and your boyfriend can handle things downstairs?”
“Just fine,” she replied.
“Give me a few minutes,” Brickland told them. “Say about fi
ve. Then head in.” He paused. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
* * * *
B
en and Danielle waited five minutes, wandering around like distracted tourists, then entered the warehouse that was packed with ancient, rusting stoves. Their entry coincided with a lull in business, and they found themselves the only potential customers inside the shop. The sharp scents of fresh fish and falafel grilling sifted in from the outside
“May I help you?” a man with a flabby stomach asked them.
“We’re looking for a stove, but a newer one, something in better condition, anyway,” Danielle said to him.
“You mean one that works,” the man smiled and flapped a hand at them. “This way. My private stock.”
He steered them through a thick curtain into a smaller room in the rear. At first glance the merchandise didn’t look any newer or better than the stoves showcased in the front.
“Ah, but these are powered by propane,” he boasted, sensing their reaction. “Less to break down. Much longer lifespan. And it’s been a lousy week, so I’ll make you a good deal.”
“A friend recommended you to us,” Danielle told him.
“Really? Who?”
“Mohammed Fasil.”
The man’s eyes wavered and he started to backpedal for the curtain. Ben blocked his path.
“I would advise against this,” the Russian threatened. “I’m not alone here.”
“Yes, you are,” Danielle said coldly. “We gave your men upstairs the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Are you from the police? The army? Because if you are, I am used to dealing with your kind. You forget I’m from Russia. I came here to escape people like you.”
“We’re not from the police or the army,” said Danielle, “but you may wish we were before this is finished.” She advanced toward the man. “You see, we are not accountable for what we do. There are people who want us dead and we have already killed to stay alive. It wouldn’t bother us terribly to kill again.”
The man had backed up as far as he could, his lower back pressed up against one of his propane stoves. Danielle’s advance mirrored his every step, threatening in its deliberateness.
“I know Fasil! All right? I know him! He came here looking to be set up with some contacts I have in America. I put him together with them and that is all. I swear, that is all!”
“You’re a salesman, of course.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet you’re very good.”
The man nodded, no idea obviously where Danielle was going with this. “In Russia, I was known as—”
“A salesman knows his customers better than that, no matter what product he is brokering. I’m sure you know more about Fasil than you’re telling us now. But you will tell us. Believe me, you will.”
Danielle smiled almost seductively and eased an arm around his shoulder. Faster than Ben’s eyes could record, she thrust him downward and slammed a knee into his stomach. The man gasped, slumping, halfway to the floor when Danielle grabbed his hand and jerked it over one of the burners.
Ben heard a hissing sound and then saw the flames shoot up with a soft poooooof, as she worked one of the propane stove’s control knobs.
“You’re right,” Danielle said, holding the man’s hand just a few inches above the flames. “This one does work.”
“Please,” the man rasped.
“Tell me about Mohammed Fasil.” She turned the knob ever so slightly, just enough to make the tips of the flames lick the Russian’s palm.
“All right! All right!”
She brought his hand up a little and waited for him to continue.
“The men I set Fasil up with . . . horrible bastards. They’d kill their mothers if it was good for business. Hell, they have killed their mothers.”
“Get to the point!”
“They deal in major contraband, like guns.”
“What about strategic weapons?”
“You mean . . .”
“Nuclear weapons.”
The Russian nodded slowly, eyes glued to his hand. “If anyone does, it is them.”
Danielle stole a glance back at Ben. “You’re saying you don’t know what he purchased from them.”
“No, I swear I don’t! My hand, please, it’s starting to hurt.”
“Get used to it.”
“New York City! It was all handled on their end. I made the initial contact, played middleman when the payments were collected. That’s all!”
“It didn’t bother you, a Jew, that you were helping a terrorist?”
“I spent the better part of my life choosing sides, trying to do the right thing; I came here to do business.”
Danielle’s fingers tightened over the knob. “I think I’m going to burn your hand now.”
“No! I told you what you wanted to know!”
“Tell me everything else. Now.”
“There’s not much more to say. Fasil was going to return to New York to make the pickup.”
“Himself?”
“Unless something went wrong.”
“In which case . . .”
“A surrogate would take his place.”
“Then how did he handle the arrangements?”
“A meeting was set—I don’t know where, just that it was in New York City. Fasil—or whoever came in his place—would be bringing something that would identify him as the buyer so the transfer could go forth.”
“What would he be bringing?” Ben asked suddenly, bursting forward from the curtained entryway.
“I never knew, never asked. Something unusual and unmistakable, that’s for sure. Something unique.”
“Simple as that?” Danielle resumed, as Ben backed off again.
“My countrymen in America already had their money. What did they care?”
“Then what kept them from keeping the money and just not showing? It seems too easy.”
“That’s a question I never asked. I don’t know the answer.”
“And you don’t know when this delivery was supposed to take place.”
“Only that it was going to be soon. Very soon.”
“Before the peace talks reconvene?” Danielle demanded. “Before Wednesday?”
When the Russian refused to answer, she twisted the knob and the flames shot upward, singeing his palm. He screamed and she turned it down again, as Ben caught the stench of burned flesh in the air.
“Answer me!”
“Yes, yes!” the Russian managed between winces.
“That’s two days from now!”
“I’m telling you the truth!”
Danielle let go of him and turned off the burner. The Russian sank to the floor with his back against the stove, cradling his burned hand against his stomach and whimpering. She started back through the curtain, but Ben followed slowly, distracted.
“What is it?” she asked when they were again in the main body of the warehouse.
Ben waited until they passed a pair of browsing customers. “What’s the date tomorrow?”
“September 30.”
“1997.”
“Why?”
He fished through his pockets and brought out the crinkled piece of paper Danielle recognized as having come from Mohammed Fasil’s hotel room at the Tel Aviv Hilton:
Max Peacock
1100 AMsterdam Avenue
New York, NY 93097
“Look at the zip code. The cop in New York I asked to check out the address told me to look in California. Now I see. It’s not a zip code; it’s a date. Tomorrow’s date.”
“Then the rest of it . . .”
“He also told me that there’s no number eleven hundred Amsterdam Avenue. But notice how the A and M are capitalized?”
“AM ... as in morning?”
“Eleven o’clock in the morning,” Ben continued, nodding.
“So Fasil was going to meet someone named Max Peacock at eleven o’clock in the morning tomorrow in New York City.”
