by By Jon Land
”And what does the evidence on the scene say?” Danielle asked.
Al-Asi smiled and gazed at both of them. “That I should call the two of you.”
* * * *
Chapter 8
Y
ou need to understand the gravity of what we’re facing here,” the colonel said, as he drove the Mercedes SUV toward the village, his driver left on the hill above. “Under our new prime minister, Israelis and Palestinians have made some strides over the past months, or let us say things have not regressed further. But it’s fragile and the situation is more volatile than ever.” He glanced at Danielle in the passenger seat, Ben in the rear. “This massacre is sure to embolden the militants to launch a new wave of suicide bombings. And, as we speak, Israel is massing forces in unprecedented numbers, prepared to quell any uprising through whatever means are necessary.” Al-Asi paused and took a deep breath. “I’m told those means may include the forcible expulsion of all Palestinians from the West Bank.”
Ben leaned forward. “That information came from a reliable source, I assume.”
“Absolutely. The first four times he told the same tale over the years, it was disinformation meant to scare me. This time it’s not.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because this time, it was he who was scared.”
On the roads before them, Israeli troops rimmed the perimeter of Bureij, enforcing a general curfew to keep all residents in and all other parties, including the media for now, out. Ben and Danielle’s U.N. IDs were examined yet again at checkpoints both on the outskirts and inside of the village, passed back to them on both occasions accompanied by a scowl that was becoming rapidly familiar.
It seemed as though the soldiers were less bothered by Colonel al-Asi’s presence here than that of two U.N. investigators—not a total surprise given the fact that United Nations officials were held in even less esteem than Palestinians. At least, it was said, Israel knew what to expect from Palestinians, while the U.N.’s agenda was more complicated and obtuse. There had been talk in Parliament for a while of expelling United Nations representatives from the West Bank and Gaza, discussions that were extinguished only when prevailing legal opinion indicated Israel did not have the authority to do so.
Once they were allowed through, al-Asi drove Ben and Danielle to a central square that in better times had served as the village bazaar. Bureij for years prior to the current ongoing conflict had enjoyed a good relationship with the neighboring Jewish settlement, as well as a number of nearby Israeli towns. The village had relied on these to patronize the bazaar, and many of the villagers had relied on the bazaar to supplement their meager livelihoods. But it was empty today, the lines of pushcarts, kiosks, and tables full of wares and market produce present only in memory.
“This is where the bodies were found,” the colonel explained as he drew the Mercedes SUV to a halt. “There were well over a hundred in the square at the time, all rounded up by the soldiers.”
“Or men posing as soldiers,” Danielle reminded.
“Of course,” al-Asi said, with just the slightest hint of sarcasm, as he climbed out. “I forgot.”
Danielle and Ben followed him from the SUV, instantly noticing a number of well-spaced Israeli soldiers hanging discreetly back along the adjoining streets.
“No reason to doubt the identity of those,” Ben noted.
“Or their purpose in being here,” Danielle added. “Right, Colonel?”
“I was warned the movements of the U.N. investigative team would be closely monitored,” al-Asi told her.
“And if the U.N. had dispatched different investigators?”
“Then, Chief Inspector,” the colonel responded, still addressing Danielle by the rank she’d held with the National Police when they first met, “I suspect there wouldn’t have been any movements worth monitoring. That’s precisely why the two of you are here.”
Danielle turned her eyes from the windblown dust of the square and brushed aside some stray hairs that had wandered across her face. Along the street, she caught glimpses of frightened faces pressed against windowpanes or narrow slits in wooden shutters, all chased inside by the Israeli curfew.
“Has anyone spoken to potential witnesses?” Ben asked.
“The Israelis have.”
“Not you?”
“The witnesses have been taken into what the Israelis are calling ‘protective custody.’”
“We’ll need to interview them.”
“You might find access extremely difficult to obtain.”
“Then we’ll build our case elsewhere.” Danielle twisted to face Colonel al-Asi straight on, her eyes harsh and relentless. Looking at him as anything but the close ally he had proven himself to be over the years. “What can we be sure of, Colonel? What isn’t open to interpretation?”
Al-Asi sighed and glanced about to make sure all the posted Israeli soldiers were well out of earshot. Still, he lowered his voice. “That the perpetrators spoke Hebrew to each other. That their uniforms were Israeli army issue, their weapons American-made M-16s.”
“The ballistic reports have already confirmed that?” Danielle asked him.
“There are no ballistic reports, Chief Inspector. The Israelis took possession of the bodies and are holding them at an undisclosed location. I, though, was able to recover some errant bullets from the sides of buildings. They were 5.56-millimeter, consistent with American-made M-16s carried by the majority of IDF forces.”
“Lots of weapons take 5.56-millimeter load.”
Al-Asi’s expression didn’t change. “There is also the matter of the boot prints,” the colonel continued. “The grid design was consistent with a line manufactured in the factory district south of Tel Aviv. Palestinians used to make up the primary workforce at that plant. Now, I understand, Russian immigrants have taken their place. I’d be worried about quality control if I were you, Chief Inspector.”
“What were the names of the U.N. teachers killed?” Danielle asked him.
“David Lister and Franklin Salemme,” al-Asi replied. “I left their files in the car.”
“All right, so here’s what we know,” Ben said, and began walking the perimeter of the central square, careful to skirt the white tape strung round waist-high stakes that cordoned off the actual crime scene. Inside, fluorescent tags flapped like flags atop tiny poles driven into the street to denote the positions and identities of the massacre’s victims. “The soldiers, or those dressed like soldiers, rolled into town in search of this wanted militant Naddahr. In trying to find him, they herded the villagers out of their homes and brought them here.”
“What did this Naddahr do?” Danielle asked suddenly.
“He is accused of orchestrating simultaneous suicide bombings six months ago,” al-Asi told her.
“Guilty?”
“Almost certainly, Chief Inspector. Naddahr was born in Bureij. The soldiers claimed to have hot intelligence that he had returned to the village to visit his parents.”
“You, or the Israelis, have looked into that, I assume.”
“I can’t, Chief Inspector.” Al-Asi pointed toward a pair of fluorescent tags flapping ceaselessly in the relentless wind. “Both Naddahr’s parents were killed in the massacre.”
Ben turned once again toward al-Asi. “How many villagers did you say were gathered here?”
“Nearly two hundred at the time the shooting began.”
“Packed loosely in a circle,” Danielle concluded from the dispersal of bodies. “Not the way I would arrange them if I intended a massacre.”
“No one is gauging intent here, Inspector, only results.”
“Does that include us, Colonel?” Danielle asked him sharply.
Ben shifted sideways to position himself between them. “This is how your army conducts such an incursion, isn’t it, Danielle?”
She followed his gaze into the cordoned-off portion of the square and nodded. “Pretty much, yes.”
“Then somethin
g had to spark the shooting. What do the witnesses say about that, Colonel?”
Al-Asi glanced toward Danielle before responding. “That the soldiers simply started firing.”
“Without any provocation whatsoever?”
“None.”
“Any weapons found among the victims?”
“Israeli officials haven’t said. Those who tended initially to the bodies say no.”
“Which means nothing,” Danielle insisted, sounding even more caustic. “If there was provocation, shots fired, it could have come just as easily from others in the crowd who managed to get away.”
“The Israelis searched the homes and confiscated all weapons they could find,” al-Asi reported, “intending to test them to see if any had been fired recently.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Ben. “Results still pending.”
“I was thinking the two of you would prefer to have your own tests conducted, anyway.”
Danielle frowned. “On weapons we don’t have?”
Al-Asi smiled slightly. “The Israelis didn’t find all the weapons, Chief Inspector.”
* * * *
Chapter 9
I
managed to locate the rest,” the colonel continued. “But there’s no reason for you to test them.”
“Why?” Danielle asked him, as Ben drifted off toward the contingent of media that had just been allowed in to witness the U.N. investigators on scene, doing their job with no interference by Israeli authorities. Cameras flashed and whirred. A media truck for a network pool feed was the only vehicle on the street other than army issue and the colonel’s Mercedes SUV.
Al-Asi’s eyebrows flickered. “Because I already have, and none of them have been fired, Chief Inspector.”
”That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves the guns I recovered from hiding weren’t used to provoke the soldiers. That’s all,” the colonel said calmly.
“You know how my country works, Colonel,” Danielle said, her tone icy.
“Intimately.”
“Then you should know that if the IDF was responsible for this, there would already be a cover story, at least the semblance of one, in place. Israelis make very good shots, Colonel, but we make even better storytellers. When we say nothing, it’s because we’re confused, caught off guard by us something.”
“I’d say something like this qualifies there.”
“Twenty-four hours ago it did. But now, more than a day later?” Danielle shook her head. “They’d have everything in place by now. No, the absence of a lie concerns me more than your boot prints and bullets.”
* * * *
“I trust you’re not speaking from experience, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh, but I am, Colonel: twice with National Police I arrested soldiers or government officials involved in fabricating tales to cover their own asses.”
Al-Asi and Danielle held each other’s stares, neither seeming to breathe. Ben looked back at Danielle from his position near the media contingent. She was wearing her auburn hair cropped slightly shorter than it had been. Her khaki slacks and white shirt looked perfectly tailored to a frame no less lean and muscular than the last time he had seen her, evidence of many hours spent in the gym. Working out for Ben, on the other hand, had become too much of a memory as of late. Passing forty in itself had not sparked any internal crisis, other than the realization that he had now outlived his legendary father. There was something cruel and unjust about that. Too often lately Ben found himself gazing into the mirror to compare himself to the great Jafir Kamal, hoping to find a resemblance where none had previously existed. He couldn’t say why the lack of one had been bothering him so much lately, unless he had foolishly expected that reaching his father’s age would somehow make him more like Jafir Kamal.
Ben strolled back and immediately sensed the tension between Danielle and al-Asi. “Were any children among the victims?” he asked the colonel.
His question had the desired effect of allowing the colonel to break off his taut stare at Danielle. “No, Inspector. They were confined to the school, never evacuated by the troops.”
Ben’s eyes flashed, his mind working fast. “Which building is the school?”
The colonel pointed away from the square, past the line of Israeli soldiers and cluster of reporters. “The two-story white-stone one diagonally across from the square.”
Ben squinted into the sun. “With a clear view of the massacre, especially from the second floor.”
Al-Asi nodded, his familiar smile returning. “I see your point, Inspector.”
“The question,” Ben began, “is whether any of the children saw more than that.”
* * * *
Chapter 10
F
ranklin Winters stood rigidly before the desk of the secretary of state, watching him read the letter that consisted of a single paragraph.
The secretary looked up grimly after completing it. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to make you change your mind.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“We go back a long way, Franklin. You can call me by my first name.”
Winters’s stance remained erect. “I’d rather not, sir.”
“And I’d rather not lose you, old friend. You’re the best damn ambassador to the U.N. this country has had since Albright.”
“I appreciate the compliment, sir.”
“Then stay on.”
“I can t, sir.”
The secretary of state sized Winters up from behind his desk, trying to match this man with the one who’d won the Silver Star, Purple Heart, and Medal of Honor in Vietnam. “How many administrations have you served, Franklin?”
“Seven, sir.”
“This one needs you most of any of them, Franklin. This country needs you, for Christ’s sake.”
“My decision is final, sir.”
The secretary of state eyed Winters warily. “How much of this is because of the death of your son?”
“Disappearance,” Winters corrected.
“Pardon me?”
“You said death. That’s never been confirmed. My son remains missing in action,” Winters insisted, feeling his mind drifting in an all-too-familiar direction.
Outside Baghdad: March 2003
Special Forces Team Bravo moved with the night. The twelve men approached from the north where they had entered the country through the Kurdish region. A native had guided them through the mountainous region south, but they had proceeded alone for the last several hundred miles to the outskirts of the city. Moving mostly at night, they wore civilian clothes to better blend in during the day on the chance they were spotted.
They had spent the bulk of their time over the previous seventy-two hours relaying positions of “hidden“ Iraqi air defenses to command headquarters in Qatar in preparation for the coming war.
Tonight Team Bravo was moving in single file, dressed in desert camouflage uniforms. With the start of war now a given, their final assignment was to infiltrate Baghdad in preparation to direct precision-guided missiles to hard targets inside the urban arena.
As the lights of the city twinkled before him, Team Bravo Commander Jason Winters signaled his team to stop as they neared a ridge. From that point their route into the city would be over flatlands providing little cover. Winters checked his GPS screen to make sure their position and heading were exactly as planned. Each member of the team wore a transmitter in his belt that continually broadcast his precise position back to SIT-COM in Qatar. The commandos carried customized M-16 assault rifles, Heckler and Koch submachine guns, Glock21 pistols with sound suppressors, Gerber MK2 killing knives, and night-vision goggles that instantly adapted to a sudden light source to prevent shock blindness.
Winters raised the palm-sized satellite radio to his ear. “CentCom, Team Bravo. In position.”
“Team Bravo, CentCom. You are cleared for entry.”
“Roger, CentCom. Cleared for entry.” Winters reclipp
ed the radio to his belt and whispered into the microphone that amplified the vibrations emerging from his vocal cords. “We move. Recon at Site Y.”
Winters was the first over the ridge, the other eleven members of Team Bravo falling in line behind him in perfectly synchronized rhythm, their progress followed at CentCom Headquarters as flashing specs moving across a terrain computer generated to replicate the northern pass into Baghdad in near perfect detail. For the past several months, there’d been only a token amount of technicians and intel analysts on duty at this hour. With the start of the war looming, though, CentCom was packed solid. The voices remained hushed, though, the officers living on black coffee, anxious but confident.
