The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Marcus, my boy, how are you?” Carter bellowed from where he stood at the counter, tossing a spinach salad in a large wooden bowl.

  “Better than I deserve, Pastor.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Carter laughed as Maya, still swooning over the daffodils, put the flowers in a vase and set them on the kitchen table.

  “Thanks again for having me over,” Marcus said. “I probably needed a night out.”

  “’Course you did—and it sure as shootin’ beats Chinese food and ESPN, don’t it?”

  Marcus shrugged and grinned. The man knew him too well.

  “Well, I hope you’re hungry,” Carter said as his wife checked the roast. “Maya made your favorites to celebrate your big new job. Can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  Before Marcus could respond, the prettiest girl in the world appeared in the doorway to the family room. She came sprinting into the kitchen and threw her arms around Marcus, squeezing him like she was never going to let him go, and for the first time all day—in too many days, actually—a smile broke across his face.

  “Young lady,” Carter said, “did I tell you or did I tell you, this here is the kindest boy in the entire church? Better snatch him up now before someone else snags him. And look—he even brought you your favorite flowers.”

  The Emersons’ granddaughter was only nine, but she was smart as a whip and effervescing with a joy that hardly seemed real. Beaming, Marcus scooped up the wiry little girl and whirled her around. She squealed with laughter and gave him two big kisses, one on each cheek. Marcus immediately kissed her back before she ran to the kitchen table, bent down, smelled the flowers, and hugged him all over again.

  Marcy wasn’t Carter and Maya’s only grandchild. She was, however, the one who lived the farthest away, and she was certainly the one who had experienced the most pain. Her father was nowhere to be found. Marcy had never even met him. Her mother lived in Seattle and had been in and out of jail and rehab more times than Marcus could remember. Each time, Gammy and Pop Pop had flown to Seattle to help out, then brought Marcy back to stay with them. So it was again. She was staying at least through Thanksgiving, Carter had said over the phone when he’d invited Marcus to dinner, and probably through Christmas.

  “I drew a picture of you,” Marcy whispered. “Want to see it?”

  “I’d love to,” Marcus whispered back.

  He set her down and winked at Maya before following the girl into the family room. There they curled up in a big chair by the fireplace and reviewed Marcy’s entire portfolio while Carter started a Duke Ellington album playing on an old Victrola in the corner. This was why Marcus had come tonight. For all the looming threats he and his country faced, how could he say no to Maya’s cooking and Marcy’s hugs?

  Dinner, as usual, was all about Marcy. She barely ate. Instead, she speed-talked about all that she’d seen and done at the National Zoo that day with her grandparents. Marcus quipped she should be a correspondent for Animal Planet, but Marcy thought that was ridiculous. She was going to be a veterinarian—“the best one in the whole wide world.” Marcus had no doubt.

  After dinner they played a compressed, one-hour version of Monopoly. Marcy cleaned their clocks. She bankrupted her grandmother in less than twenty minutes, and Carter and Marcus weren’t far behind.

  A bit after nine, Maya took the girl upstairs for a bath and bed. Carter brought Marcus a mug of hot coffee and a second round of cookies, fresh out of the oven. Marcus began to decline but instantly thought better of it. Who was he kidding? Maya’s cookies were simply irresistible, and he caved to temptation.

  “How are the ribs?” Carter asked as he settled into his favorite overstuffed chair and lit up his beloved pipe.

  “Better,” Marcus said, patting his side and wincing. “Well, not totally better.”

  “Still tender?”

  “A little.”

  “But you’re running again?”

  “Five miles a day—just so I can eat Maya’s cookies.”

  Carter chuckled and puffed away. “And how’s Pete?”

  “Pete’s Pete—what can you do? But at least his arm is healing nicely.”

  “You two still having breakfast on Sundays?”

  “Every week.”

  “Well, give him my regards.”

  “Will do.”

  “And tell him to come with you to church tomorrow.”

  “I ask him every Sunday.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s always got another excuse—he’s a stubborn ole coot.”

  “Is it my preachin’ or Maya’s singin’?”

  “Let’s just say it ain’t Maya,” Marcus replied. “Beyond that, I plead the Fifth.”

  “Fair enough,” Carter laughed as the cherry-scented smoke swirled about his head. “So tell me about this new job. You happy with it?”

  The two men had barely seen each other in the last several weeks, much less had a chance to catch up on all the latest developments in Marcus’s suddenly very different life.

  “Bit of an adjustment, you might say, but I think it’ll be a good fit.”

  “But the State Department?” Carter asked. “I don’t really picture you at State, son.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Well, you know, it’s not just State—it’s DSS.” Carter, a D.C. native, would know he was referring to the Diplomatic Security Service. “It’ll be sort of like my days in the Secret Service, but maybe not as much travel and hopefully not as much stress.”

  The moment Marcus said it, he wished he’d put it differently. It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But the truth was far more complicated. His job at DSS was real, but it was just a cover. The fact was, he had just been drafted into the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  3

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—16 NOVEMBER

  Marcus got up early and went for a run, past the Capitol and down the Mall.

  When he got back to his apartment, he showered, dressed, and headed to Manny’s Diner, just a few blocks away. Pete wasn’t there yet, so he grabbed a booth, ordered coffee, and began reading the Washington Post.

  By twenty minutes after nine, Pete still hadn’t arrived. When Marcus checked his phone and found no text messages or emails from him, he began to worry. Just as he was about to call Pete and read him the riot act, however, a woman he’d never seen suddenly dropped into the seat across from him.

  “Hey, old man,” she said, grabbing a menu. “What are we having?”

  Marcus tensed, though he didn’t take the woman for a threat. “And you would be?”

  “Your new partner,” she said without looking up.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Wow, Ryker, you really are old—lost your hearing, have you?” she quipped, now looking up as the waitress approached the booth. “Coffee—black; scrambled eggs—dry; and . . . do you have asparagus?”

  “’Course,” said the waitress.

  “Good—then a side of asparagus instead of the hash browns, if that’s all right.”

  “You got it.” The waitress smiled and turned to Marcus. “And you?”

  “Give us a minute, okay?” he said, and she shrugged and headed to the kitchen.

  Marcus turned back to the mystery woman across from him. Younger than him by nearly a decade, she looked to be about thirty or thirty-one, with light-brown skin, chocolate-brown eyes, and jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail. She had an athletic build and struck Marcus as a runner. She wore no rings—no jewelry of any kind, actually—and her hands were calloused and strong. Her nails were unpainted and carefully trimmed. She wore a jean jacket over a black turtleneck, and he had no doubt that under the jacket was an automatic pistol.

  Before he could speak, she slid a leather case across the table. Marcus recognized it immediately, as he’d recently been given one of his own. Sure enough, when he opened it, he found the woman’s badge and ID. Her full name was Kailea Theresa Curtis, and she was a DSS special agent.

  “Your buddy Pete wo
n’t be coming. He’s in a meeting,” she said.

  “With whom?”

  “The director.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid he’s getting some bad news—he’s not cleared for field duty.”

  “Why not?”

  “His arm isn’t healing properly. He needs another surgery. It’s scheduled for Wednesday. So I’ve been assigned to you. We’ve got three days to prep for the NSA’s trip to the Middle East, and we fly out Tuesday night.”

  She was referring to the president’s national security advisor, General Barry Evans. This was the first Marcus was hearing about any trip. Neither the director of DSS nor his real boss, CIA director Richard Stephens, had said a word. But for some reason he believed her.

  Suddenly his phone buzzed. He was getting a text.

  “That’s me,” Kailea said. “Now you’ve got my number.”

  His phone rang. This time it was Pete.

  “Where are you?” Marcus asked. “I thought we were supposed to—”

  But Pete cut him off, and Marcus just listened as Pete relayed the same information Kailea had. A minute later, Marcus set his phone down on the table.

  “You see, old man? I really was telling the truth.” The woman smiled. “Now try to stay with me. We’ve got a briefing at Langley at eleven with the rest of the general’s detail. So get yourself some breakfast and let’s hit the road. Got it?” Then, raising her voice as if she were talking to someone in a retirement home, she said, “GOT THAT? BREAKFAST NOW. BRIEFING LATER.”

  Marcus held his tongue and sipped his coffee. “So, Agent Curtis, what’s your story?”

  Before she could answer, though, an explosion pierced the morning calm.

  “Just a car backfiring,” the waitress said as she arrived with a mug and pot of coffee. “Happens all the time.”

  But Marcus knew better. It wasn’t a car backfiring. It was a Glock semiautomatic pistol firing a 9mm round. It was a sound he had heard a million times before, and it was close.

  “Check the back door,” Marcus said as he quickly slid out of the booth. “And make sure the manager locks it.”

  Kailea nodded and walked immediately to the kitchen. As she did, Marcus noticed her right hand move almost imperceptibly toward the bulge under the back of her jacket where she kept her weapon.

  Brushing past the waitress, Marcus unzipped his leather jacket, giving him quick access to his Sig Sauer, though he didn’t draw it yet. As he headed to the front door, he scanned the eyes of the various customers seated about the diner. None of them looked nervous. None of them seemed alarmed. Apparently none of them had even noticed the shot or cared, or they assumed like the waitress that it was a car backfiring. They were simply eating their omelets or reading their papers or doing their crossword puzzles or lost in their smartphones, oblivious to the danger or just numb to it, having lived in the southeastern section of D.C. all their lives.

  Marcus stepped out onto Eleventh Street and looked left.

  It was now almost nine thirty on a brisk, cloudless, spectacular Sunday morning, the kind of day that made him love living in the nation’s capital, especially in the fall. The leaves still clinging to their branches were vibrant gold and maroon and yellow and orange. But nature would have her way. Even those were falling to the ground, swirling along the sidewalks and spinning down the streets amid stiff breezes that signaled winter was coming soon.

  Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Marcus looked right.

  Again, nothing was obviously amiss. All was quiet. No cars were moving. No trucks. Barely anyone was on the streets, save a few young girls playing jump rope nearby. Marcus heard no pounding of running feet, no yelling, no screeching tires or approaching sirens. The only sound was that of an American flag, its colors now a bit faded, snapping sharply atop a tall steel pole outside the diner.

  “All clear out back,” Kailea said, coming up behind him. “What’ve you got?”

  Marcus just stared up Eleventh Street, then started walking northward.

  “What is it?” she pressed.

  Marcus said nothing, but his pace increased. Soon he was jogging, with Kailea hastening to catch up. When they reached East Capitol Street, Marcus stopped abruptly in front of a dry-cleaning shop. He swept left to right, then turned his attention to the nearly barren trees of Lincoln Park. That’s when he heard the Glock again. This time four shots rang out in rapid succession. A moment later, an automatic rifle erupted. It was an AR-15, or perhaps an M4, and the burst was followed almost immediately by bloodcurdling shrieks like nothing he’d heard since Kabul and Fallujah.

  “The church!” yelled Marcus, and he broke into a sprint.

  4

  Kailea Curtis raced to catch up with Marcus, who was a good twenty feet in front of her.

  She could see Lincoln Park Baptist straight ahead. The massive brick building—a historic landmark—took up nearly a city block. She saw a muzzle flash from the bell tower. Bullets began whizzing past their heads, and both she and Marcus ducked for cover behind enormous oak trees.

  Drawing her weapon, Kailea tried to assess the situation. For starters, it was definitely an AR-15. That much was now clear. She could see someone lying in a pool of blood on the church’s front steps. There was no sign yet of any law enforcement. The big question was, how many shooters were there? She could hear shots being fired inside the building, so that was one. The guy in the bell tower was two. Were there more?

  Kailea spotted a minivan coming down East Capitol. Suddenly more gunfire erupted from the tower. Marcus pivoted around the tree and fired off three shots, trying to draw the man’s fire. He did, but not in time. The windshield of the minivan was blown out. The vehicle smashed headlong into a lamppost. The driver—a Caucasian woman, her face covered in blood—threw open her door. She tried to make a run for it but was quickly riddled with bullets.

  Next the shooter turned his fire on a sedan heading north on Thirteenth Street. Both Marcus and Kailea opened fire on the tower, but it wasn’t enough. The shooter kept firing at the sedan and soon every window was blown out. The car rolled to a stop and the driver—a Hispanic male who looked no more than seventeen or eighteen years old—slumped forward onto the horn, which now wouldn’t stop blaring.

  Kailea glanced back and found Marcus on his phone. He had dialed 911 and was explaining their location and relaying everything they were seeing. When Marcus hung up, he motioned to Kailea to cover him. She nodded, took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the Glock, and pivoted to squeeze off six shots at the bell tower. This time the shooter responded with a volley of shots in her direction, and she pulled back just in time.

  Seeing that Marcus had safely made it across the street, Kailea used the moment to reload. The moment the shooter did the same, she fired off three more shots, then bolted across Thirteenth Street and bounded up the front steps of the church. Marcus was kneeling beside the man sprawled out on the steps, checking his pulse, but she could tell it was too late. He was gone.

  Inside the church, the shooting had temporarily stopped, but the screaming had not. On Marcus’s signal, the two yanked on the handles of the huge oak doors, only to find them locked from the inside. An instant later, someone inside unloaded an entire magazine at those doors, forcing Kailea and Marcus to retreat around the left side of the building. There they found another set of locked doors and kept moving. Under the cover of a cantilevered roof, Marcus led the way around the corner to the back doors as Kailea guarded his six. Unfortunately, these too were locked.

  Once again automatic weapons fire erupted inside. Kailea could hear sirens in the distance. They were faint, but she knew police units and ambulances would soon be approaching from every direction.

  “Cover me. I have an idea,” Marcus hissed.

  “What are you, insane?” she shot back. “There’s no way to get in, and the cops will be here any minute. We should hold here until they arrive.”

  “Agent Curtis, people are dying in there—my people.
We have to go in now.” Marcus didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and bolted out into the parking lot.

  Kailea tensed. Standing at the corner of the building, she’d be able to see threats emerging from either of two directions. Yet because she was still under the cantilever, she couldn’t see the bell tower. Nor could she see any of the third- or fourth-floor windows. Thus she had no way to know who was lying in wait and no way to cover Marcus, who had just raced into the open without explaining his plan.

  Sure enough, gunfire opened up above them. Kailea glanced over to see if Marcus was okay but quickly turned back. She knew a shooter could come out the rear doors or along the side of the building at any moment, so she had to stay focused. But it was hard. Behind her she could hear parked cars being shredded by round after round, and she feared for Ryker’s safety. Despite the cool November air, sweat was pouring down her face and back. Yet all she could do for now was raise her Glock 22 and brace herself for whatever was coming next.

  Just then, she heard the roar of a truck engine coming to life. An instant later came the squeal of tires and the blast of a truck horn. Kailea turned just in time to see a red Ford F-150 roaring across the parking lot and picking up speed. To her horror, she saw Marcus behind the wheel. The man was heading straight for the building.