Milliken said nothing as the lieutenant strode away. He closed the door and gently placed the briefcase atop the metal box of the PRC. He looked over at the lab man, who was blowing out air and shaking his head.
“Oh, man, am I fucked,” Milliken mouthed again as he began to pray that the woman was all right.
Mussa strode around the bumper of the Hum-Vee. Martina lay curled up in a fetal ball next to the baby carriage, much too close to the vehicle, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He knelt in the road with his thighs pressed up to her rump and bent over her. Her sunglasses reflected his white peaked cap, her mouth an expressionless line, one hand on the trigger grip of an Ithaca twelve-gauge pump swathed in a blanket inside the carriage. He let his full weight crush her as he placed a finger inside his left sleeve, found Nabil’s pin, and pulled.
There was a second’s delay, then a sharp, hollow bang shook the roadway, followed immediately by a high-pitched squeal that came from the rending of metal and the expulsion of gases from inside the Hum-Vee. The vehicle’s fuselage buckled outward like the waxed skin of a milk carton, a gas cap twirled off into the sky, and both cab doors flew open and banged against the body. A small fountain of orange flames and black smoke enveloped the cab and licked out through the shattered windshield, but there was no geyser of cloud, no chunks of shrapnel to speak of. Nabil had done his homework. Just enough plastique. Not too much.
The concussion did not cause Martina to hug the blacktop in a cringe of self protection. It signaled her, and before the echoes of the explosion rang back from the sparse buildings, she was scrabbling out from under Mussa’s weight, yanking the shotgun from the carriage, and sprinting away in a crouch to avoid having her clothes set afire. She stopped ten meters up the road and spun around, clutching the Ithaca two-handed. Then she straightened up and strode back toward the burning Hum-Vee, looking like a housewife in some urban cop’s nightmare.
Mussa rose to his feet and steadied himself, staring for a moment at the burning vehicle. No cries emerged from the inferno, but the pop of a rifle round cooking off snapped him back to action. He looked for Martina, saw her coming on, and quickly crossed her path, circling around the Hum-Vee’s left fender as he unholstered his Beretta.
In the cab of the deuce, Chuck Norman’s mouth was agape. His windshield was spider-cracked, and he reached up to find that his glasses were gone. The concussion had split them in half at the bridge, and he could feel the tickle of blood snaking down the side of his nose. His comprehension was lagging behind the realities. He did not get it.
“My fucking God,” was all he could utter. One second, Milliken had stopped to avoid smearing a pedestrian, and the next second, hell. A navy lieutenant was walking toward Norman’s cab now. On the right side, the woman, looking perfectly healthy and gripping a dark-gray pipe, strode through a cloud of smoke. In the sideview mirror, the blurred forms of armed Marines were sprinting up from behind the yellow rental truck.
Then he got it.
He spun to his passenger, a nineteen-year-old kid just transferred from Quantico.
“Perris!” Norman yelled. “Get the fuck out!”
The confused youth, desperate for elaborating orders, turned to speak. But Norman was already unholstering his sidearm and jumping down from the cab. Perris sobbed something and followed suit, clutching his rifle as he heaved on his door, stomped down on the running board, and launched himself into the road.
Martina stepped in close to the truck to avoid peppering its precious cargo and caught Perris in midair with a blast from the Ithaca. His body crabbed sideways and fell flat to the road, where his face bounced and his M-16 went spinning away like a rotor. She pumped the Ithaca at her hip, stepped over the body as the ejecting shell ricocheted off the deuce, and she went on, moving out to her left as Ali led Salim and Yaccub at a run from that side of the Ryder. On the far side, Jaweed led Youssef and Riyad up that flank. They were all moving too fast, the sheen of adrenaline in their eyes.
“Careful!” Martina shouted at them. “The cargo!”
A single pistol shot echoed close from the other side of the truck, and she spun toward it, until she heard Mussa shout, “Clear!”
In the rear of the deuce, Del Ray and Humason were lost. They were good Marines and would have fought like banshees had they realized the truth of the event. But no one was issuing orders, and they were faced by six Marines sticking rifle barrels in their faces.
“One helluva fuckin’ exercise,” Humason grunted as he freed the canvas flap, placed his hands on his head, and kicked out the tailgate pin, letting the steel door fall and bang on the bumper.
“Exercise, shit,” said Del Ray as he also assumed the position and hopped to the ground next to Humason, who glanced over at him, bewildered.
Del Ray had barely straightened up when Jaweed butt-stroked him in the jaw with an M-16. But the American weapon was not designed for close-quarter abuse and marine skulls, and the stock split with a crack as it sent Del Ray sprawling and unconscious.
“Hey! You fuckin—” Humason began to shout, yet it turned to a wheeze as Ali plunged his rifle barrel into the big man’s solar plexus. Humason sat down hard in the road, fell on his back, and rolled onto his side.
“Disable him,” Martina ordered as she turned away and began to jog back up the hill.
Ali thumbed the safety to semi, stepped back, and fired a round into Humason’s thigh. The Marine jerked hard, but he did not scream.
“Move!” Martina shouted over her shoulder as she ran for the staff car. Her kerchief sailed out into the road and the glasses also spun away, leaving her cropped blond head bobbing over her black cloak.
Mussa bested her speed, and he was quickly inside the staff car and turning it around in the roadway, slowing for her as she reached the passenger side, yanked on the door, and dove in.
The deuce-and-a-half, fully occupied now by its new owners, jumped jerkily forward, then cruised slowly around the burning Hum-Vee. Rounds were still cooking off inside the smoking wreck, their echoes like a distant, hesitant firefight, and the gasoline was beginning to burn, leaking streams of fire into the road. Riyad was driving the deuce, and he gave the Hum-Vee a wide berth, then came back off the shoulder, picked up speed, and chased after Mussa’s car.
The black limousine emerged from where it had halted back at the junction. It cruised to the left of the Ryder, picked its way around a corpse and shards of glittering glass, then joined the procession, followed closely by the hearse.
Humason rolled slowly onto his stomach and came to his elbows. Tears ran off his big cheeks and onto the cold tar. He looked over at the abandoned rental truck, its cab doors open on their hinges. Then he turned his head to where the deuce had been. Del Ray lay on his back in the road, peaceful, like he was catching some rays. Chuck Norman’s boots poked up from a shallow ditch in the far shoulder. That new kid, What’s-his-name, was laid out flat across the double yellow line, three shiny rivulets of liquid crawling away from his body.
Through the curling smoke of the blown-out Hum-Vee, which was really starting to go now, he could see the staff car, leading its convoy of murderers, just disappearing over a distant hill. From the passenger window of the car, the black shape of the woman’s coat fluttered out into the air, billowed like a pirate’s flag, then drifted to the road in a heap.
He reached down with his left hand and found his Motorola in its pouch, struggling to free it, trying to ignore the rippling agony lancing upward from his thigh and the hot puddle soaking his lap against the macadam. He dragged the black box to his mouth and pressed the transmit button.
“Bravo Base,” he whispered. “This is Bravo Two. We got a bonfire here.” He took a long, slow breath, trying to keep his head up. “I say again. We got a bonfire.”
Then he passed out.
It did not really matter. The walkie-talkie was dead, and he didn’t have the range anyway.
Chapter 12: Washington, D.C.
An undulating
quilt of mist crawled slowly over the barricaded property of the embassy of Israel, the white evaporation drawn by an unseasonable sun from the snow between the forecourt cobblestones. A light morning breeze drove it through the iron perimeter fence and across the gardens scanned by all-weather cameras, until it finally curled and dissipated against the sand-colored granite walls.
Benni Baum sat in the rear of a taxi at the corner of International Drive and Van Ness, squinting at the building through unrested eyes. The engine idled, the driver tapped his fingers on the wheel, the meter was running, and still Baum did not move.
The regal residence of his nation’s representatives reminded him too much of an Ottoman fortress. Despite its modern half-moon windows and the Israeli colors fluttering in the breeze, it was no less than a prison, isolating them from the rest of the diplomatic community. It was his final way station before returning gratefully to the normalcy of routine, yet he sensed that within these walls waited secrets best left unexplored. He felt like a rookie teenage player of Dungeons and Dragons, vortexed by false leads that offered only further riddles.
Benni hesitated, looking down at his wrinkled trousers. His unpressed blue shirt and creased paisley tie suggested a man who had slept in his clothes, in a chair, which was precisely the case.
On the previous night, he had checked into the Ritz-Carlton in a snit of vengeful mischief. For most of his career, Benni had heeded the naggings of stingy AMAN comptrollers, staying in flophouses and cheap pensions, yet as he headed into Washington from National Airport, he suddenly decided to stick it to Itzik Ben-Zion. The general would froth when he saw the bill, and Benni might just tell him to go to hell.
He had settled into his room, then remembered that in Washington a suit would be the uniform of the day. His blue serge was a mess, but rather than summon the laundry valet, he pulled it from his valise along with a wrinkled oxford shirt, dressed in them, then stood in the bathroom for ten minutes while the hot shower roared into an empty tub. Yet the steam treatment did little for the patchwork of creases, and he came out breathless, fell into an armchair, then dragged his valise over and plucked Ruth’s thesis proposal from the pile of his own maps and notebooks.
And there he had sat, marveling at every page, stunned by her felicity with the English language and her profound analyses of terrorist psychology. When he succumbed to the urge to call her, he saw that it was past 1:00 A.M., thought better of it, and read on. At some point, he slept. He dreamed of her, as a happy child, a stunning teenager, an angry woman. And then she turned into someone else, and he awoke to the sun, a full ashtray, the taste of stale Scotch, and a pain in his temples. . . .
Now he stared at the embassy, manacled by his own reluctance. The entrance drive for diplomatic vehicles was closed off by a massive black gate on trolley wheels. Outside, a District of Columbia cop appeared in Benni’s view, taking up a position between the taxi and the gate. He realized that if he prolonged his loitering, he might soon be dragged to a station house for questioning.
“Kadima.” He ordered himself into the fray, paid off the driver, and got out. The sunny breeze stung his bloodshot eyes as he carried his battered valise across the road, forcing a smile at the policeman. The cop nodded glumly, eyeing the suitcase, yet he did not intercede. That was up to the Israelis inside the compound.
The gate held an access door for visitors on foot. Benni was about to press the intercom button when the lock buzzed, and he looked up at the smoked windows, assuming that General Avraham Yaron had given the order.
He crossed the wide forecourt, entered the building, and dropped his passport in the drawer at the security booth. Still harboring the superstition that he carried bad luck to youthful warriors, he declined to engage the GSS officer behind the Plexiglas in pleasantries.
“Would you like us to hold your suitcase, sir?” the young man offered.
“Yes,” was all Baum said, and another Shabaknik appeared, to politely retrieve the bag.
He stepped through the next magnetic door, into the cavernous vault of the embassy’s foyer. It had been designed for press conferences, cocktail parties, and even appearances by the Israel Philharmonic, yet today it was just an empty hangar. Symmetrical staircases led up to a girdling balcony.
“Baum!”
Benni looked up to see Avraham Yaron leaning over the balustrade. “Bo,” the general ordered as he waved a hand, and Baum made his way up the stairs, unable to force his legs into a pace of appropriate enthusiasm.
The office of the military attaché was a wide affair designed for the reception of Pentagon counterparts. It had a large, plush couch faced by a long coffee table, wooden armchairs, and a rolling trolley of coffee carafes and soft drinks. Yaron’s desk was stately, a counterpoint to the general’s tastes at home, where he was more comfortable surrounded by ammunition-crate stools and steel filing cabinets encrusted with sand. The papers on the green blotter were ordered behind a line of four telephones, while brass plaques from a dozen IDF combat units and framed photographs of Israeli weapons systems covered the wall.
The general was wearing that peculiar woolen IDF dress uniform issued only to officers who host foreign dignitaries. He was apparently scheduled for such an event today, and he looked down at his own bladed creases when he saw the smug smile on Baum’s face.
“Like a clown, eh?” Yaron said, with the expression of a shorn poodle.
“Not really your style, Avraham,” Benni agreed.
“Oh? I didn’t know I had style.”
“You don’t,” said Baum. They grinned at each other and shook hands. Yaron was aging, yet he retained his full crop of soft brown hair, graying only slightly at the temples. His facial wrinkles, hardened by the years of squinting in the sun, were overshadowed by two long scar scimitars across the left cheek. Yaron’s smile was quick, yet if you did not know him, the lips, torn by grenade shrapnel, could make you unsure as to the intent.
The general pointed at the couch, and Benni backed into it and slumped down. The mess of his attire caused Yaron to comment as he poured two cups of coffee, settled into a chair, and crossed his heels on the table glass, making it shimmer.
“You look like shit, Baum.”
“L’chaim,” said Benni as he sipped the dark brew.
“Seriously.” Yaron came up with a pack of Time, lit one, then tossed the box to Benni, who sighed gratefully as if he had been thrown a life preserver. “I’ve seen you more relaxed in the Golan after a six-hour bombardment.”
Benni blew out a stream of smoke and looked up at the ceiling. “Life was simpler then, wasn’t it?”
“And shorter, for a few of us, if you remember.”
They smoked in silence for a few moments. “Well, Avraham,” Benni said, “I’m retiring soon anyway.”
“Sure, Baum,” Yaron commented wryly. “When Itzik marches you out at gunpoint.”
“No. Really.”
“Whatever you say, Bibi.” Yaron did not buy the scenario of Baum contentedly sunning himself on a beach somewhere. “I’m the one who’s retiring. This is my last stop.”
Benni nodded. “I know it.”
A general officer who had held major IDF commands, such as Chief of Paratroops and Infantry, was often given a foreign posting as his last career stop. Military attaché to the United States was the pinnacle of such assignments. There was nowhere to go after that.
“So maybe we’ll open a business together,” said Yaron.
“Small arms? Communications gear?” Benni suggested with a disdainful tone, as every other hackneyed IDF colonel seemed to gravitate toward such ventures.
“I was thinking more along the lines of string bikinis,” said Yaron, and both men enjoyed a raucous laugh. “Anyway, to business.” He placed his feet on the floor and stubbed out his cigarette. “That pain in the ass of yours, Ben-Zion, called again this morning. Made me promise to deliver you to Dulles for the next plane out.”
“Ahh. Home,” said Benni with all the enthusiasm of an e
xtraditable.
“You two working on something big?”
“A minor conspiracy.”
“Don’t tell me about it,” said Yaron. “I’ll just get jealous and wind up bucking for a field command again.”
“I won’t,” said Benni, although he knew that Avraham would not really expect him to share compartmentalized issues.
“So, they’re almost done with your package.” The general turned toward the open door and shouted, “Sheila!”
After a moment, a chubby brunette wearing a peach-colored pantsuit appeared in the doorway. Her features reminded Benni that the general’s wife insisted that his secretaries be less than comely. The tactic was questionable, as it failed to blind him to the attributes of other women, but it did put a respectable face on his office environment.
“Yes, Avraham?” Sheila inquired.
“Get Nadav in here, please.”
“He’s coming up the stairs now.”
Yaron waved a hand like a dismissive crown prince. Sheila withdrew without taking offense.
A tall, slim man entered the general’s office. He was wearing the “uniform” of all GSS chiefs of security abroad: an inexpensive dark suit, soft shoes with rubber soles, and a Sears tie. He had short red-blond hair and a mass of freckles permanently darkened by years in the fields of his kibbutz.
Nadav halted in the doorframe, planting his palms at the sides as if launching himself from the door of a C-130.
“Boker tov. Good morning,” he said brightly.
“Nadav, this is Benni Baum,” said Yaron.
“Ah, our ‘recipient,’ ” said the GSS man, meaning the addressee of the suspicious package. He marched toward Baum, who half rose from the couch, shook hands, and fell back into position. Nadav spotted the coffee trolley and made straight for a carafe. “You’re a friend of Uri Badash.” He poured himself a cup and sat down next to Baum. “He mentioned you in a telex.”
“Yes.” Baum sighed. “But it seems more like he’s keeping an eye on me. Maybe he thinks I’m a mole.”
The Nylon Hand of God Page 29