by Jeff Spence
The Deep Web lay beneath the Surface, unreached by standard search engines, and was purported to be many times larger than the part of the Web accessible by the usual means. Most of it legitimate, despite its dark reputation, but it was also ideal for anonymity, which attracted several, less savoury, subcultures as well. Criminals. Spies. That portion of the Deep Web was where Dhawan concentrated his searches. It was a network of pages seldom even grazed by the billions of users online every day. It was a warren of dark passages and encrypted files, a haven for pedophiles and human traffickers, smugglers and drug dealers of the upper echelon.
But it was also the motherlode for one who knew how to mine it. Someone like Dhawan.
There was seldom anything big there, at least nothing easily read, but there could usually be found a crumb of code, a few kilobytes of information that might tip a skilled observer onto another clue, to another crumb. Crumbs turned into trails, if the right person was tracking them. The right sensitivity to the code and a gifted hacker could come up for air with a fistful of data on which to build. So Dhawan had done so.
He had then taken the information and extrapolated from it, gaining some Surface Web traction and then some public information about the man he was trying to identify and follow. A detail here, cross-referenced with another from over there. Eliminate those who didn’t fit the profile. A million people at first pass, then a couple of hundred thousand, then a thousand, a dozen… and the final depression of the return key nearly cleared his screen, the string of names going dark to reveal just one. The seed of a greater search. The dangling end of a much longer thread. Gregory Jonathan Bass, Texas billionaire and narcissistic hoarder of priceless items that had belonged, for the most part, to people who would rather not have parted with them. He had learned that Bass was ruthless, fully committed to his collection, and backed up by some serious firepower.
He had fished for code that might reveal who it was Bass was using to help him. There was usually an expert involved, some greedy or timid academic, or antique dealer, who more often than not bore the brunt of legal repercussions if the process became messy, or public. It seldom did though, it seemed, as there was far less Surface chatter about Bass than Deep Web speculation. He may not have been liked, or even respected on an academic level, but he was most definitely taken seriously… even feared.
Dhawan had almost given up for the night when he had found a short string on the tail end of a message. It followed a set of seven characters separated by a dash — PGJ-WGXZ — which he had seen several times in connection with Bass's digital shadow. Something about it had seemed familiar and he had played with it a bit, trying it in a couple of decoders, then simply Googling to see what might come up by chance. He had reached a dead end, a page that was no longer there, but with a little tweaking of the address, deleting bits from the tail end of the IP, a page appeared: a volleyball team photo from Harcourt University in Bolt, Indiana.
A search of the departments revealed one for Archaeology and Ancient History, with a subheading indicating that it included Biblical Studies. A simple faculty search revealed that the department consisted of only five people, four men and a woman. Of those five, none of them had names with three letters for the first and then four for the last, as he had hoped. It would be an easy solution to the code, to line up the name with the garbled letters. He had paused and considered.
The family names would not be shortened, likely, but the given name might be, and they could be in any order. Only two of them had family names with four letters: Benjamin Gela and Christopher Glen. Christopher might be shortened to Chris, but nothing with three letters. Benjamin, however, could easily be Ben. He scanned down his professional profile page. A Facebook page open to students. There it was, in a welcome note to freshers taking his new course. A note of best wishes. Signed "Ben."
And Benjamin Gela was a specialist in the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Dhawan had even found travel information for Gela and a companion, to Tel Aviv. Right under his nose, or very nearly. Thoma calculated, over-optimistically, that this change in geographical location would decrease the compensation demanded by his hired men, and even toyed with thoughts that the professor might have the item there, on his person, ready to be easily taken and secreted away to Thoma’s credit and honour. So he had opened the email. Delivered his first message. Received his reply. And waited.
In the dark of the evening, Gulam Thoma still sat at his desk, foot tapping and teeth slowly making a tender pulp of his bottom lip as he waited for word from his men.
When it finally came, he closed his eyes and swore.
FIFTEEN
The whistle in her ears pulled inward as her gut tightened and the world jarred into sharp focus with a roar. "Come on, Ben! We've got to get out!"
Sharp, metallic pings rattled off of their vehicle and the driver slumped down, his torso leaning into the passenger seat.
Ben blinked hard once, snapped out of his shock, and responded to Marina’s hard pull on his hand as she dove from the car, handbag swinging wildly around her shoulder as she tried to keep the taxi between them and the sounds of gunfire. She was bent at the waist, but running for cover without a look backward. As they ran amid tiny clouds of dust and sand exploding around the vehicles, horns blared, tires screeched and the metallic pings burst in rapid showers across surfaces all around them, a horizontal, deadly rain. Her head began to spin. This wasn’t one set of attackers peppering them with gunfire; this was a full-on firefight. Where were so many bullets coming from? She wasn't shooting. Ben wasn't shooting. Who the hell was shooting?
She ran through a small parking area beside the road and toward a low stone wall. Ben kept his head down and followed. In the distance, a large, stadium-like building dominated the skyline and the pair fled toward it. Once up and over the low wall, Marina dropped to her belly and used her knees and elbows, soldier-style, to propel herself forward under full cover of the stones. Ben did his best to do the same. Once they had covered a short, level distance, the ground sloped steeply downward and the two of them slid to a stop at the bottom of it, on a paved walking path.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He didn't hear her at first. "Ben, are you okay?"
He nodded. "You?"
"I think so. We can't stay here. Whoever that is will be looking for us."
"Where can we go? Our bags!" He looked back toward the road.
"Forget them. We can't go back."
Ben knew that the photos were in Marina's handbag for safe keeping, still slung around her neck and shoulder, despite the crash. He assumed she had her passport in there too. Ben himself had his own passport and the stacks of cash in his money belt tucked under his left arm, beneath his shirt. His credit card was in his front pocket. The rest of the items they could replace if need be. He thought for a moment. "That building there, some kind of stadium? Sports complex?"
"Looks like it."
"Lots of people, security maybe. We could get lost in there and they wouldn't find us… If we can clean up a little first."
The sound of gunfire dropped to an occasional burst of a shot or two.
"We had better get going," Marina whispered, "It should be safe enough until whoever is left shooting finish the job and come after us." The two bent double and moved off down the path, ready to duck away and run as soon as a break in the retaining wall allowed it.
Magazine glanced down at his leg. He had taken a grazing wound as he broke cover to gain a better position in the firefight. His opponents were better than he had expected. Likely former military or, God forbid, they might be current military personnel from the Israeli armed forces. Nothing like living in a constant state of high-alert to hone the skills of your soldiers.
Either way, Magazine's job was clear: give the professor and the woman time to get clear, then neutralise this situation before the two got too far away for him to pick up their trail. He lifted his pistol up over the hood of the car where he crouched and let fly three rounds in rapid succe
ssion. His Jericho 941 had a fifteen-round capacity, and by his count he had four shots left. His spare ammo was back in the Range Rover. He cursed himself for changing positions without thinking it through first. Stupid move, but he had sensed a window in the fire and taken it. At least he was still alive, and that was his primary concern, despite his dangerous vocation.
Three sharp reports echoed across the traffic circle. In the distance, the harried wail of Israeli police vehicles could be heard, no-doubt already on their way to the scene. This was Jerusalem, too, and any number of armed security guards might be closer to them, running silently on foot, or speeding along in cars not equipped with the sirens and markings of the official peace force.
As the last echo of gunfire fled up into open air, Magazine popped his head up and back down, taking in the area in a brief glance. Seeing nothing, he bobbed back up, pistol at the ready, aiming in the general direction of his last remaining foe. A hand popped up, two rounds fired from a pistol, then it was gone. Magazine steeled his nerves to remain where he was, risking that the blind shots wouldn't find their target.
He waited.
His opponent waited too — or was reloading for a fresh volley.
The sirens grew louder.
Ben Gela and Marina Saalik were making their way further from him. Getting harder to find. More likely to get lost and meet this kind of challenge on their own next time. He couldn’t let that happen.
But still he waited.
His gun fired before his conscious mind registered the eyes and gun barrel that suddenly popped into view above the hood of the other car. Two rounds. The first one probably missed, but the second one passed through the man's forehead, sending a mist of blood and brain-matter up in a tiny pink cloud. The man sank down behind the vehicle.
Magazine waited a few seconds more. Then he stood up, floated over to the Range Rover in a half-crouch, stuffed his trouser pockets with ammunition, and ran.
He had seen the direction Ben and Marina had taken, and guessed rightly where they would be headed. It was where he would go in a similar situation, had he needed help and lacked the training for a more strategic, self-directed solution. He was up over the stone embankment and through the brush in a moment, then settled into a swift walk, stifling the pain in his wounded leg. It was just a graze, anyway, and wouldn't do him any lasting harm.
Behind him, one of the fallen forms rolled onto his belly, picked up his fallen gun, and jogged across to the retaining wall. He tucked the gun inconspicuously into his tan canvass jacket and glanced around to make sure he wasn't being followed. The appearance of the gunmen from the Land Rover had been a surprise. It had become quickly apparent that they were professionals, and that his own team was out-gunned — or at the very least, well-matched. A decision needed to be made. Feigning death would decrease his team’s chances of success in that engagement, but it would greatly increase his chances of gaining the upper hand in the next one. Besides, each body was another five grand in his hands, and fewer shares to pay out for duties done. In the midst of a volley of fire, he had dropped down, alongside the driver of the van, and lay still, carefully controlling his breath, to appear as still as possible. It was a risk, as his opponents might take the precaution of a safety kill-shot into each fallen form, but he calculated that the approaching sirens and the increasing distance gained by the fleeing targets would make such precautions impractical in the time frame. He had been right.
It was clear that this was no accidental interference, that these unexpected defenders were working for the other side, one of the other sides, and he deduced that his best chance of finding the Americans again was to follow their bodyguard. He could dispatch the remaining man easily enough now that he knew his face. Especially since his quarry thought they were all dead. Strictly-speaking it had been a mistake, not checking the fallen. Softness born of living in the peaceful West, maybe. Ah well, the man wouldn’t make the same mistake again, the gun tucked under the edge of the tan jacket would ensure that much.
Magazine trotted along, keeping an eye out for better routes toward the stadium, or for indications that his wards had changed their direction for some other haven. He stuck his gun in his belt, pulling his shirt out to hang over it in case some jogger were to overtake him and see it. The bleeding leg he could explain easily enough as the result of a fall. He pulled his tie loose and paused just long enough to wrap it around his leg in an effort to stop the bleeding and assess the damage. Just as he had thought: nothing major nicked. No arterial bleed. Just a meat wound.
He kept moving.
"There!" Marina pointed at a three-story, white stone building built into the hill. The front doors were propped open with small wooden wedges, despite the heat. A few young men were skateboarding further down the concrete walkway, flipping their boards over and attempting to balance on a handrail.
Ben looked toward the parking area and spotted the sign, "Youth Science Center" in small English letters below the Hebrew script.
"What are you thinking?" He glanced behind them.
"Find a place to clean up? Lie low?"
"Unnoticed?"
"As easy in there as it will be at the stadium… probably more so. And it’s here. Right now. If they’re following us…”
It made sense. The people chasing them — whoever they turned out to be — couldn't search every building in the area. He doubted they would even try. They would make their best guess, and if that failed, escape would move up the priority list pretty quickly. Ben hadn't been in Jerusalem for some years, but he was willing to bet that the police were nearly at the scene of the firefight, if not already there. He had heard the sirens even through his shock. They acted quickly here, and with decision. Their attackers would either be incapacitated by death or wounds, or they would be getting the hell out of Dodge City, in a hurry.
He nodded and the two of them entered the open doors, Marina walking a little behind Ben, trying to hide the now-crusted blood on her hands and the front of her shirt. She looked back down the path, the way they had come. Again, she wished she had a weapon.
Once they were safely inside and their eyes had adjusted, the dimness was comforting. The foyer itself was deserted and they would be invisible to anyone passing by on the bright outer walkway. Marina pointed to a women's restroom and took Ben by the arm. "C'mon, we go in here together. I'm not letting either of us be alone for the sake of social correctness."
Ben didn't argue.
They stepped into the room, locked the little deadbolt on the outer door, and checked the two stalls for occupants. No one.
They were alone.
Marina set the tin wastebasket against the door, both of them aware that it wouldn’t slow down anyone determined to get through the tiny bolt, but feeling comforted by the appearance of further fortifications nonetheless.
Marina leaned back against the wall and let out a long breath. Ben felt the tremor in his knees and feared he might collapse. Instead, he took two unstable steps toward the sinks, and slid up to sit on the countertop. Marina pretended not to notice the tremors. Her own adrenaline was pumping, and she guessed that Ben had never been in a situation like this before.
"Okay," she said, "Time to clean up."
She pulled her outer shirt up over her head and moved over to the sink beside Ben. There were a few shallow cuts from the broken window glass, but nothing deep, and nothing still bleeding. Bandaids would do, once they got to someplace safe, or if they saw a pharmacy or convenience store on the way.
With the tap running cold and strong, she rubbed the garment with soap and pressed the cloth out, repeating several times until the stains were as faded as they were likely to get. The pinkish splotches were still obvious, but it no longer looked like she — or someone else — had been bleeding all over her clothing. With the colour faded and spread from dipping it back into the sink, it was coming out looking like a low-quality pink dye job. She could live with that.
As she washed her button up shirt, Be
n watched intently from his perch beside her on the countertop. Despite the severity of the situation — or perhaps because of it — his mind was not dwelling on their danger or on what move they might make next. Instead, his eyes fell to the low opening at the neck of her tee-shirt. It had a generous v-neck, and the smooth skin of her breasts jiggled and rippled slightly as she scrubbed in the sink. She was shiny with sweat and flushed with the strain and efforts of the last half hour. As he noticed her nipples growing erect in response to the cold water, he felt similar shifts in his own body and slid from the counter to stand again on the floor.
Marina smiled to herself, fully aware of the attention, and not immune herself, to the urge for friendly physical contact and comfort. Not the time, she told herself, not the time.
She chose not to analyse the fact that she had, sometime in the last twenty four hours, decided that there would be a time, a proper time, somewhere in their future. She thrust all such thoughts from her mind, and took a look at herself in the mirror. All in all she had come through it alright. She looked then at Ben, who stood staring at the floor tiles and lost in thought… or the lingering effects of the shock.
His shirt was of a thicker material than Marina's was, and the glass hadn't cut through it or flown through the collar. There were a couple of small scrapes on the backs of his hands, and his knee looked like it had taken a beating scrambling through the bushes, but nothing obvious or serious overall. He was dirty, looked like he had just gotten off of a trans-Atlantic flight and rolled in the dust in celebration, but other than that he might pass as someone who wasn't running for his life from armed gunmen. That was, after all, the goal.