Baksheesh (Bribes)

by D S Kane

  When he woke, the sun was rising through the aircraft’s windows. The steward, a member of the Israeli Embassy staff, appeared as Shimmel stretched his massive arms. The man handed him coffee. Shimmel took a sip. “How soon until we arrive?”

  “Twenty minutes, sir.” A clipped British accent. Shimmel saw scars on the steward’s arms. He wondered how they got there. Seeing him stare at the scars, the steward replied, “Lebanon, sir. We were royally whipped there.” He walked off to serve others of the mercenary force in the plane. Shimmel made a note to speak with Ben-Levy about whether there was a better way to recycle damaged Israeli army personnel. After all, couldn’t the man teach?

  * * *

  Cassie retrieved her emails and saw one from Avram. It wasn’t marked “urgent,” but when she read it she gasped. He’d taken almost all of the mercs out on a mission without letting her know in advance and no one on the Board of Directors except for him even knew they’d left. “Shit,” she muttered.

  She called Shimmel for a progress report. He didn’t answer his cellphone until the third ring. She could hear the rumble of aircraft engines.

  “Sashakovich? I’ve been expecting your call.”

  She tried to contain her anger. “What the fuck is this mission? How many mercs did you take? From your email, it sounds dangerous.”

  “All assignments are dangerous. This one maybe more so.”

  She tapped her fingers on the desk. “I’m still waiting. What’s the mission?”

  “Someone left a suitcase nuke in the Al Aqsa Mosque, West Bank, Jerusalem. Ben-Levy heard from a source that an Iranian Islamic fundamentalist terrorist group had purchased a small nuclear device and placed it there. We are sending an operational team to locate and disarm it. Destroying Jerusalem would be a catastrophe of monumental proportions. Given the current state of the Muslim and Christian fundamentalist movements, it might be the precursor to global thermonuclear war.”

  She sighed. “Okay then. It’s the right thing to do. Anything I can do to assist you?”

  “No, not yet. But, we will need you soon, to research exactly how the Russian mafiya vended the weapon to the Iraqi terrorists. Right now I have Wing looking, but you’re our expert on hacking into banks. Search the trail of bribes. Baksheesh.”

  “Okay. Good luck with this, and please, keep me informed. Shalom, Avram. Cassie out.”

  * * *

  The chartered 727 landed in Ben Gurion Airport with a screech of tires, taxied to a private hangar, and slowed to a stop. Shimmel sat at the very back of the aircraft so he could see the heads of every one of the sixty-three men and women he commanded. He watched their demeanors as they rose and headed for the aircraft’s exit. They seemed to be calm and ready. He looked at his cellphone’s screen. It depicted the interim objectives for the mission:

  Arrive Jerusalem at Ben Gurion Airport.

  He checked this first item off as now complete.

  Transport Mercs to the West Bank of Jerusalem.

  Infiltrate the Al Aqsa Mosque.

  Possible battle.

  Recover the suitcase nuke.

  Exit the mosque and the West Bank of Jerusalem safely.

  Disembark for US via Ben Gurion Airport.

  It looked easy on the screen, but the only easy day was yesterday. He knew people would die, and their deaths would smother his conscience. Not just mercs, but very possibly peaceful civilians who loved their mosque. How many deaths this time?

  Avram rose from his seat and moved down the aisle. Exiting the door and going down the steps, he turned, faced the troops, and spoke as if this was a trivial task he needed done. “Form up with your packs and remove your disguises from the satchels as you enter the bus. Put the disguises on and go to your seats. Our cover documents for this phase of the operation states we’re Muslim merchants called to prayer. When we’re finished with the op, we’ll return to the Israeli side via the bus and stay for the night before we go back home. In Israel our cover documents state we’re kibbutz workers for a furniture factory. Kill no one unless they try to do you harm, and may the Lord’s mercy be with you.”

  They were silent as they closed the distance from the ramp staircase to the red, green, black, and white air-conditioned bus. Seated in the bus, Shimmel mentally checked off the second item on the list. Those were the easy ones. Each one would become progressively more difficult and dangerous until the final item.

  As the bus pulled away from the private air terminal and moved slowly through the stacked traffic of the ancient city, the mercs drew down curtains inside and redressed in costumes that would make them indistinguishable from the Muslims who lived and worked in the Old City of Jerusalem. The colors of the bus were those of the Palestinian flag. No one who saw the bus seemed to pay attention. It stopped on the road just across from the eastern side of Al Aqsa Mosque.

  Shimmel had visited the area of the mosque many times, but he’d never been this close. He’d researched the site while on the plane ride from Washington. Now standing in front of the beautiful, ancient site, he compared what he saw to what he’d read. The notes were bland in comparison to the reality. The rectangular mosque was huge, about thirty-five acres in total, or one-sixth of the entire area within the walls of the Old City. He remembered reading that the spot called the Dome of the Chain marked the exact central point of the mosque. It was designed to accommodate up to four hundred thousand worshipers at one time. Two days from now would be Friday, the twenty-seventh day of Ramadan, referred to as Laylat al-Qadr. On that day, the mosque would often fill to capacity.

  He looked up and saw the four thin, gorgeous spiral minarets at the corners of the mosque’s walls. They were used to call Muslims to prayer five times a day, seven days a week, throughout the year. There were no minarets on the eastern side of the mosque because when it was built, there were no inhabitants to the east side. Not till the late nineteenth century did Jerusalem expand outside its original walls.

  Only seven of the eleven gates of the mosque were ever open. There was no entrance on the eastern side where the mercs and Shimmel now stood together, about two hundred meters away.

  Al Aqsa had three narrow arcades running along one end, with a huge atrium and a covered area at the south. Alongside the arcades were burial sites called maqamat. The atrium of the mosque was designed to be an oasis of peace and tranquility. It contained trees, lawns, fountains, the beautiful Shrine of the Dome of the Rock, small domed rooms and structures used by scholars, sheikhs, and religious court offices, and a small museum.

  He knew that inside the mosque were a central nave and six aisles. In the center of the southern end of the atrium sat the covered area, including the mihrab niche, which indicated the direction of prayer. Up to five thousand people could pray here at one time. The mosque’s covered area contained over one hundred clear and colored glass windows, fourteen arches, and twenty-seven Italian marble columns on the eastern side.

  Any gun battle here would yield massive, irreparable damage.

  Along the western side, there were an equivalent number of stone piers. The qibla faced south towards Mecca. The Rock within the Dome of the Rock was on the same central line.

  The sacred shrine’s lead dome had originally been built nearly thirteen hundred years ago by Muslim Caliph Al-Walid in 709 CE. He wondered how fragile it was, and hoped not to find out.

  In accord with Muslim tradition, men and women were permitted to pray within the covered area but in different sections, three times a day. The remaining two daily prayers as well as Friday noon prayers at Al Aqsa were for men only. Shimmel had chosen the most likely time for the mosque to be vacant.

  When he was a child in Tel Aviv, he’d been taught the mosque had been built on top of the ruins of King Solomon’s Temple. The basement tunnels were on that section.

  If Ben-Levy was correct, the suitcase nuke had been deposited somewhere in the basement tunnels of the mosque, probably right below the center of the dome. But he had no evidence to indicate that Ben
-Levy’s assumption was correct.

  Shimmel hoped his mercs, dressed as Muslims, could unobtrusively wend their way around the grounds. But as for looking for a well-hidden bomb, it would be more difficult. To complete their camouflage, as they prepared to leave the bus, the general gave each merc a Koran that inside its back cover had a scribbled page specifying the merc’s area for his or her search. Each also held a small rolled-up prayer rug. Under their specially treated robes—coated with liquid armor—each carried a silenced, customized automatic Ruger Mini-14 and a lead-lined satchel in which to place the nuke, so a cellphone couldn’t be used to detonate it remotely if a terrorist realized a merc had found the bomb. They donned in-ear Bluetooth devices under their kafiyas and head scarves as they exited the bus.

  Before Muslims prayed here, they performed a ritual ablution. A fountain called the Cup was used for this purpose. Sixty-one mercs slowly ambled onto the grounds and headed toward the Cup.

  It was the last time they would all be together until the mission was completed. As the mercs washed their hands, each said a prayer and turned to face the dome.

  Over the next ten minutes they walked into the mosque, surrounded by a few devout Muslims who had no idea how close to the end of their lives they might be. Men walked toward the dome’s center, women toward the southwest corner of the atrium. Each prayed, mercs and the devout, for different private reasons.

  The evening sunset prayer call echoed through the city. Soon, the mosque would fill. Mercs walked the grounds, seeming to show interest in the mosque’s beautiful architecture.

  But Shimmel, standing outside by the Cup, heard only negative reports as the evening sky darkened. He shook his head. “Team seven. Phase one, negative result. Now, phase two.”

  He reviewed the more detailed plan on his cellphone’s screen. “All teams, migrate to the far south end of the grounds and outside. Find the grates covering the basement entrances. Cluster so no one can see what those in the center are doing. Deposit as many soldiers as you can within the basement tunnels.”

  He could neither see nor hear them, but before too long he heard a familiar voice. “McTavish here, Avram, and we’re all below in the tunnels.”

  “What do you see?”

  “We’re at the first corner. This tunnel is at least two hundred meters long and has multiple intersections, all off on the right. My guess is the design is a grid. Possibly excavated by the Templars during the Crusades, but my background doesn’t include archeology. The closest I ever came to excavation was watching an Indiana Jones movie. I’ve sent men up the tunnel path to begin searching. We’re using night-vision goggles. I’ll be in touch again in about three minutes. McTavish out.”

  Shimmel paced. Where was the suitcase nuke? Were his men were even close to the location of the missing weapon? And, how much time remained before it clocked down and detonated?

  * * *

  Eleven mercs searched the tunnels on the east side below the mosque. On the west side, fourteen more hunted for the elusive aluminum suitcase. The remaining thirty-six were on the long, straight, narrow arcade tunnels north and south.

  Twenty-four minutes had passed without progress or accomplishments. Shimmel used the hem of his Islamic prayer shawl to wipe perspiration from his forehead. Even in the shade of the dimming dusk, the heat was brutal.

  “Lieutenant Laney Birk here. No love in quadrant three. Moving on to four.”

  “Sergeant Ina Boric. Nothing in quad six. Moving to seven.”

  “Captain Lisa Schmidt. Nine is also empty. On to eight.”

  Shimmel’s brow wrinkled in worry. Six of the nine quads held no indication of a weapon. If they found nothing in the last three, they’d have to start searching the ground level, a much more exposed and dangerous hunt. And if that didn’t work, they’d move on to the four spiral minarets, where they’d have to break down the locked doors to enter.

  The mosque’s covered area and prayer room directly under the dome would be a last resort, since their chance of conducting a search there without being detected was absolute zero.

  * * *

  Dr. Henry Sheldorf was the first person off the American Airlines flight from JFK when it landed at SFO. His instructions were both brief and specific: meet a man holding a sign with the word “Swiftshadow.” What his client wanted was ridiculous, probably a product of the woman’s cloak-and-dagger mentality. But what she were paying him was also absolutely insane. He shook his head, reaching for his cellphone. But then he remembered: she’d had him remove its battery. He was sure she was certifiable. A loon. A new face every six months.

  As he exited security into the greater terminal waiting area, he saw two men in suits with wires coiled into earpieces. They stared right at him, then looked at the newspapers they held as he passed. He continued on to the Crab Pot restaurant, as he’d been directed. As he entered, a lean, tall man in military fatigues smiled, holding the expected sign. This is way over the top, Sheldorf thought. He wondered if he should salute, and the thought made him chuckle. “I’m Dr. Sheldorf.” He extended his hand.

  The soldier shook it. “RG. Do you have any luggage?”

  “Uh, no. I was told not to bring anything. Everything I need will be provided. That’s what she told me.”

  RG nodded. “Right. So let’s go.” But then as the man’s head looked around, he pushed Sheldorf against the wall. “Shit. You’re being followed.”

  Sheldorf shrugged. But then his eyebrows rose. “You mean the two men wearing suits?”

  RG’s mouth blew air. He shrugged. “You led them right to me.” He pulled out a cellphone and keyed a number. “It’s RG. We’ve got a couple of repeaters.” The soldier listened and frowned. “Have command send at least three with hand-to-hand and firearms to the security exit. And send them fast. More than three would be better. We’ll exit through the security gate. RG out.” He pocketed the cellphone and stared at Sheldorf. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 32

  April 21, 5:37 p.m.

  Al Aqsa Mosque, Jerusalem, West Bank

  The shadows on the ground lengthened and crept closer. Shimmel looked at his wristwatch. This was taking too long. The mosque gleamed like gold reflecting the setting sun. He paced behind one of the pillars.

  Of the mercs on ground level, half were stationed along their escape route, trying to look inconspicuous. The other half, fifteen men and women led by Captain Jameson, casually explored the entrance to the northwest minaret. Their detection equipment showed no radioactive signature. “Captain Schmidt. Nothing in the northwest minaret. Moving to northwest.”

  Shimmel imagined them slinking along the dark walls. He shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other. They’d found nothing in almost two hours of searching. Two minarets remained. If they found nothing, their last and most difficult search would be the eastern prayer area, currently emptying as worshipers and visitors strolled to the seven open exits. While his mercs didn’t need light to search for a radioactive signature, being discovered by the caretakers there would be a disaster. When all the worshipers were gone, the caretakers would clean the prayer area, exactly where his mercs would be after searching the remaining minarets.

  “Sergeant Boric. Negative on the southeast minaret. On to the northeast.”

  The last minaret. Major McTavish and Captain Jameson were bracing to enter the prayer area.

  If it came to that, he’d have Boric and Schmidt stand watch outside in the atrium. A cold breeze stirred dust swirls at the edge of the entrance gate nearest Shimmel. His gaze shifted, seeing a robed figure strolling through the gate near him. He froze.

  The figure was now walking directly toward him, and reached into one of the pockets of his robe to pull something from within its folds. A cellphone!

  Avram hurried toward the man’s left flank, using the few trees in the arcade as scant cover. Coming up just behind the man, he heard the phone’s tones as the man pushed its buttons. Shimmel ran behind the man, tore the cellphone fr
om his hand and terminated its dial sequence.

  When he looked up, he saw the man had drawn a handgun and taken a shooter’s stance. He pointed his weapon at the cellphone, then at Shimmel’s head. “Give it back,” the man said in Arabic, motioning toward the phone. “Now, or I swear I will kill you where you stand.”

  Avram looked around. None of his mercs were visible. He was sure he was facing the trigger man for the nuke. A suicide bomber. Shimmel pointed over his shoulder. “IDF soldiers and other people are nearby. Shoot me and you too will die.”

  The man stood still where he was. He grinned and thrust the gun into Shimmel’s face. “It does not matter. Hand me the phone. Now.”

  Shimmel dropped the phone into his pocket. His hand gripped the Benchmade switchblade and placed his index finger on the button to pop the blade open. “Okay, calm down.” He grinned and shrugged, then concealed the weapon within his hand. Very slowly, he removed his hand until it was just outside the pocket. “Yah, I will hand it to you. I don’t want to die.” As he spoke the words, his index finger pressed the button flipping the knife blade open while his wrist flicked the knife at the man.

  Too late in the dimming light, the man realized something was closing the distance to him. The bomber’s choice was to drop lower or fire the gun and risk death before completing his mission. He started to drop down but it was too late. The knife Shimmel had aimed to the top of the man’s torso hit him in the throat as he ducked. Blood sprayed from the man’s neck as he fell gracelessly to the ground.

  Avram was on him in a second, pulling the knife out and using the man’s robe to try and staunch the blood. “Where’s the device?” The general’s voice was loud, and in seconds three mercs had emerged from the mosque and were running toward him. The bomber’s throat was filling with blood, the gurgling sound from his attempts to breathe got progressively louder.

  Avram glared at the mercs now with him. “I took the detonator from him. He was two digits away from completing the call. Use cellphone countersurveillance measures to backtrace the receiving phone where the bomb is. Captain Jameson, tend to him. He must not die; we need to question him.”