Kayla shrugged. “Well, you’ll have to play it as you see it. You’ve been in situations before. Just don’t lose sight of the mission. We need to get inside the house, to al-Zahani.”
Liam took a sip of his drink. “You mean you need to get to al-Zahani.”
Kayla looked hard at Liam and emptied her glass. Liam freshened it.
“This mission doesn’t depend on ransoming Sophie,” Liam said quietly. “A military squadron could neutralize the compound in a New York minute.”
“Neutralize? As in ‘destroy’? Of course. But what of the terrorist operation? What of the IEDs already in place in Jerusalem? The threat is legitimate, and we don’t know the particulars. I’m positive the secrets are locked away in the outbuilding, and we can’t allow it to be destroyed. If everything goes down as planned, that’ll be the best of all worlds. We’ll get al-Zahani and enough information to stop the attack.”
“And our evil doctor? You don’t want him neutralized, do you? That’s too easy. This mission’s about you and al-Zahani.”
She took another drink. “I want him alive. He needs to be interrogated. He’s a fountain of information. But you’re right, it’s more than that. It’s personal.”
“It has to do with the wedding, doesn’t it?”
Kayla nodded and took a deep breath. “Yes, it does. His gang of terrorists, the Sons of Canaan, killed my husband, Brian Cummings. We’d been married barely three years. Two teenagers shot him out of the window of a car on the streets of Hebron. At Ma’arat HaMachpelah, the holiest of sites. They fired wildly at the wedding party and sped away. A wedding party, Liam. Just peaceful, happy celebrants, dancing their way to a marriage ceremony at a holy site. Not soldiers, politicians, combatants. Not policy makers or oppressors. They threatened no one, they harmed no one. Just a fucking wedding party. They all deserved to live long, happy lives. But they were cut down by brainwashed, misguided youths, driven to murder by hateful puppeteers.”
“And al-Zahani?”
“The most wicked of them all. He was not only vicariously responsible for the death of my husband, he personally murdered my sister.”
Liam said nothing. He sat in shocked silence, his hands wrapped around the tumbler. He stared at the counter, unable to meet her gaze. Finally, he lifted his head. Kayla’s eyes were red but her face was steeled.
“Until Jack and I talked recently, I hadn’t put the pieces together. I didn’t know what al-Zahani had done. I didn’t know the depths of his wickedness. I had no idea until I learned the details of Jack’s story. Then it all came together.” She pushed her glass over for a refill. “My sister, Naomi, was to be married that day.”
“She was the bride?”
Kayla nodded. “She was standing right beside me. I was the maid of honor. I held her as she fell.”
“Oh my Lord, I’m so sorry.”
Kayla emptied her glass. “As she approached the ceremony on the happiest day of her life, she took a bullet. Critically. In her lower abdomen. She needed medical care immediately. They shouted for a doctor and were directed to al-Zahani’s home by a security guard. Joshua, her husband-to-be, carried her unconscious body into al-Zahani’s house. Reluctant at first, al-Zahani agreed to treat her. He stopped the bleeding and bound the wounds. He saved her life!”
Liam looked at her quizzically.
“He wouldn’t accept any money, or even a thank-you. He directed Joshua to take her to an Israeli hospital, which we did.”
Kayla reached over and grabbed Liam’s forearms. He felt her fingernails dig into his flesh.
“Naomi lay at Jerusalem Memorial for three days, recovering nicely. We talked about my husband. She comforted me. We talked about the others, the ones who were laid to rest while she was in the hospital. I urged her to reset the wedding as soon as possible, for herself, for my husband, and for all those who wanted to rejoice with her.”
Kayla paused, her lips quivered. She moistened them with her tongue. “And then … then the infection set in. At first she thought she had the flu. But then it got worse. The doctors attributed it to the Good Samaritan care she received after the shooting—closing the wound and being stitched in a nonsterile environment. A likely consequence, they said. They would treat it with antibiotics, they said. But they couldn’t control the infection. It was a wildly aggressive bacterium. It had spread internally, attacking her organs. It ate her up from the inside out. She died six days later.
“Until I met Jack, I never realized what had really happened. He told me about his wife, Alina, who had come to Hebron when her mother had a heart attack, and returned to Chicago with an infection. Just the same. The doctors could not control it and she died. The way Jack described Alina, all the symptoms, he could have been talking about Naomi. And then I remembered the boy in the hospital, the one I told you about.”
“The shooter.”
“Right. IDF caught one of the shooters, a seventeen-year-old boy, who had been wounded in the leg, but not a serious wound. I made several visits to the hospital to question him. Most of the time, he was delirious, in a drugged-out state. I caught him a few times in half-lucid moments and he identified Nizar Mohammed, Fakhir Ali, Fa’iz Talib, and the Sons of Canaan.”
“But not al-Zahani.”
“Here’s the thing—al-Zahani was his doctor.”
“No doubt the reason he was drugged out and couldn’t talk to you.”
Kayla nodded. “After three days, the boy came down with an infection. The same as Naomi. The same as Alina. Horrible. Internal bleeding. He lasted nine days.”
“He killed them all,” Liam said.
“He killed them all. He poisoned them with virulent bacteria. He killed the boy to silence him. He killed my sister because she was an Israeli Jew who came to him for treatment. And he killed his own daughter, his very own daughter, because she had the temerity to fall in love outside his ordained parameters.”
“I’m so sorry for you. I almost wish you’d never found out about the connection.”
“So painful a death. The brutal way in which they suffered. That’s his plan for the attack, you know. It has to be. He’s not a munitions expert, he’s a laboratory scientist.”
“How could he possibly infect two thousand people with a superbug?”
“I don’t know. That’s why we have to get into that building. But I know one thing—the bugs are already in Jerusalem.”
“Let me ask you something, be honest with me, do you know for a fact that al-Zahani has rigged the building to explode?”
Kayla shrugged. “For a fact? No.”
“I knew it.”
“You said ‘for a fact.’ I heard him say so on the recording. Do you want to take that chance? Personally, I think al-Zahani would go to great lengths not to destroy his laboratory. As I said before, he’s arrogant and ambitious. He’s like Dr. Frankenstein in there, growing genetically modified germs, superbugs, for use as weapons in his jihad. I doubt very much he plans to blow up the building. But a quick takeover before anyone can pull the trigger would remove any possibility that I’m wrong, and the best way to quickly secure the building is for us to get inside.”
“The IDF could secure it quickly enough, you know that’s true. They’d also stand a damn good chance of taking out al-Zahani and rescuing Sophie.”
“I don’t have that level of confidence. I don’t want to rely on a damn good chance. Al-Zahani will blow up his lab and all his workers in a minute to save his operation. Human life means nothing to him. We’re better off getting inside with the ransom exchange and preventing him from pushing the button. And besides, I want him alive. I want to take him into custody, interrogate him, and bring him to justice. Not just him, but everyone he’s connected with, including Nizar Mohammed. And Fakhir Ali. And the godfather, Fa’iz Talib. And whatever group’s been funding them. I want them all and I don’t want any suicides. No martyrs. I don’t want any Hebron elementary schools named after al-Zahani or the Sons of Canaan.”
L
iam nodded. “Assuming he buys this ransom charade, when do you think he’ll make his move?”
“Outside, after the payoff. I agree that he won’t want a gunfight in his home in front of his wife and granddaughter. He’ll complete the transaction, get his money, and walk us outside where he thinks his security guards will be waiting.”
“But the IDF will be there instead?”
“That’s the plan. If they’re not, I hope you have a gun and you’re a damn good shot.”
Liam swallowed the last bit of whiskey and set his glass down. “I keep thinking about what Mike Tyson said: ‘Everyone has a plan until you punch them in the face.’”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
A ROOSTER CROWED LOUDLY and the sun broke brilliantly over the Judean hills. Shafts of sunlight knifed into the Kiryat Arba apartment. The windows were open and the morning breeze played a soft rattle on the blinds. Jack and Marcy were sitting on the living-room couch when Liam entered the room. Kayla was in the kitchen.
“Did anyone sleep?” Marcy asked.
Liam raised his hand.
“Yonit should be here any minute,” Kayla said, staring into an empty refrigerator. “I hope she brings breakfast.”
“I hope she brings you a Smith and Wesson .40 caliber with extra clips,” Liam muttered.
Kayla answered a knock on the door. Yonit entered the apartment with two young men, smartly dressed in olive IDF uniforms, pants bloused into black boots, red berets, their arms full of paper bags and packages.
Yonit handed a nurse’s folded white uniform—shirt jacket and trousers—to Kayla. “Size six?”
Kayla nodded and left the room to put it on.
Yonit laid a silver metal briefcase on the coffee table. “Here is your booby-trapped case. The combination on the left is one-two-three-four, and on the right four-three-two-one.” She clicked it open. Inside were stacks of €500 bills, neatly bound. On top of the currency was a red rod, eight inches long, with wires protruding from each end.
“This is a replica of a small explosive, inoperative of course, consistent with our threat that the case was rigged. It may also serve as a visual deterrent if all else fails, maybe to buy you a few seconds of distraction.”
“Why isn’t it real?” Marcy said. “Couldn’t Jack have a need for an explosive?”
“If things deteriorate to the stage where he’d need an explosive device … well, it would probably result in getting Jack killed or providing an extra weapon for al-Zahani. In the exchange, if Jack hands the case to al-Zahani, well, we prefer that weapons, if any, be in the hands of Kayla and Liam.”
“If any? What does that mean?” Marcy said.
Yonit shrugged. “Just a figure of speech.”
“It means she thinks that we will enter the house unarmed,” Liam said. “She thinks they won’t allow me to approach the house with my gun, and she’s less than confident of my ability to grab the guns hidden in the van. Am I right, Colonel?”
Yonit turned and walked to the kitchenette. “Just a figure of speech.”
“Did one of you bring breakfast?” Liam asked. “Or should we just take a five-hundred-euro bill to the corner deli for some bacon and eggs?”
“You wouldn’t get any bacon.” Yonit took a paper bag from one of the soldiers and set it on the counter. “Here’s some fruit, juice, and breakfast rolls.”
Yonit cleared the coffee table and unrolled a schematic of the compound. Liam and Kayla hovered over the drawing.
“We’ll have sharpshooters here, here, and here, but we’re hoping for a quick grab without the need to fire. There’s typically one guard, maybe two, at the front gate. Others patrol the perimeter. We’ve allowed for the possibility that they may increase the number for your arrival.
“You know the routine at the gate, we’ve been over it before. We’ll be watching and listening. If anything goes amiss, we’ll move in. If it all follows the plan, we intend to neutralize the perimeter guards after they open the gates and let you in. We’ll have troop transports here and here, around the corner and out of sight. They’ll enter the compound after you’ve gone inside the home.”
“What if the gate closes after we’ve driven inside?” Liam said. “I doubt they’d leave it open. What if you can’t get in the gate?”
“The wall is only eight feet high. We can manage it.” Yonit took a small button from a pouch. “This is your microphone,” she said to Liam. “It replaces the button on your jeans.” She smiled. “I need to put it on. You’ll have to take your pants off.”
“You’re putting the mic on my pants?”
“When you arrive at the gate, we expect a thorough search. They’ll pat you down, they may ask you to take off your shoes, they may ask you to take off your shirt, they may even wand you, but we don’t think they’ll ask you to take off your pants. But even if they do, the mic is pretty much undetectable. It’s very sensitive, won’t set off the wand, broadcasts half a mile, and will pick up everything in the room. Now, let me have your pants.”
“I have to take off my pants?”
Yonit grinned. “Unless you want me working in that neighborhood with a sharp tool. Now, will you stop being such a baby?”
Liam stepped out of his pants, stood in his boxers, and frowned at the general chuckling in the room.
When Yonit had finished, Liam examined the brass button on his jeans and pulled them up. “Very cool. Looks good. Can’t tell the mic from the original button. Is it working? Picking up the sound?”
One of the soldiers with earbuds nodded.
“It’s on a dedicated frequency,” Yonit said. “No one but the IDF will hear it. Bear in mind, it’s not only for your protection, but ours as well. Should things break down inside, it’s there for the safety of my soldiers. If you see al-Zahani move to trigger explosives in the outbuilding, you have to alert us. We don’t know how he’s got it wired, but if he gives you any reason to think he’s going to blow the building, let us know. We’ll be listening.”
For the next two hours the group made small talk, fidgeted, reviewed the protocols, paced the room, stared out the windows, and watched the clock. The movement of the minute hand was imperceptible.
Liam had hesitated all morning, but finally took out his cell phone and made the call.
“Hey, Cat.”
“Liam, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. We’re about to head over to Hebron to pick up Sophie.”
“Oh, hell, Liam, I wish you weren’t going.”
“I know. But, it’ll be a simple little operation. I don’t have to do much. The Israeli army’s going to handle the heavy stuff.”
“You are such a liar.”
“No, really, Cat. I … I just called to … say hello.”
“Liam…”
“Cat, I love you very much.”
“I know. I love you more.”
“Cat, I gotta go.”
“Liam, wait.”
“Can’t. Gotta go.”
“Call me. The moment you’re done. I’m going to sit by the phone.”
“Good-bye, sweetheart.”
Marcy sat on the couch with Jack, her arm around his shoulders. She smoothed his hair. “Jack, what can I say?”
“Don’t say anything. Arif’s a bastard, but he loves Sophie. He will not harm her or put her into danger, no matter what happens. It’s a good plan. When this is over, the IDF will bring her out. You must promise me that you’ll take Sophie to Deborah.”
“Jack, you’ll take her—”
“No, Marcy. Promise me. No matter what happens to me, you must make sure she gets to Deb.”
“Jack—”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Tell her … tell her that I never left her. Tell her that I never stopped loving her, not one second. Tell her—”
“Jack, stop. She knows.”
He nodded and took a picture out of his wallet. “This picture of Alina, show it to her, give it to her, and remind her that
her mother loved her very much.”
Marcy bent over and hugged him tightly. Her lips quivered and tears ran down her cheeks. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let Liam and Kayla handle it. Just go get Sophie and come back.” Then Marcy stood up and threw her arms around Liam’s neck. She tried to speak, her voice caught in her throat, and she put her head against his chest.
“We’ll bring him back,” Liam said gently. “Sophie too.” He gently patted her head. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back.”
Yonit looked at her watch. Eleven thirty. “It’s time.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
LIAM GUIDED JACK OUT to the van, slid the door to the side, and paused. In the momentary interlude, he stood to take in the setting. To his right lay the rolling countryside, a palette of earthy colors, peaceful, pastoral, dry and thirsty. To his left sat tens of thousands of white stone buildings on the Hebron hills, all boxlike, all with dark windows that looked like hollow eyes. What was it Kayla had said, “a spawning ground for terrorists”?
He rolled the wheelchair onto the platform, pushed the controls, and engaged the lift to raise it into the van. As he did so, the hidden panel released and opened just enough to permit access to the two handguns. Liam checked to see that the guns were in place, shut the panel, and nodded to Yonit.
“Are we set?” she said.
He nodded.
“Okay, follow me.”
Kayla slid into the driver’s seat, smiled nervously at Liam, and started the van. She followed Yonit’s blue BMW down the hill, through the checkpoint, and along the bumpy streets of the ancient city of Hebron.
Along the route, on the walls of shuttered buildings, graffiti proclaimed GO DANCE ON YOUR OWN STREETS, END THE SIEGE IN GAZA, and RECLAIM HEBRON. They drove slowly, inconspicuously, bypassing the marketplace and heading north. Soon Kayla recognized al-Zahani’s neighborhood, and his walled compound came into view. They watched Yonit drive past the property and turn around the next corner. No soldiers were in sight. “Everyone ready?” Kayla said.
She slowed the van, took a deep breath, and turned into al-Zahani’s driveway. Three men stood in front of two black metal gates, eight feet high and ten feet across. They watched the van approach, took a last drag on their cigarettes, and ground them out on the pavement. One guard, in a weathered, tan cargo jacket and checkered keffiyeh, grabbed his assault rifle, stepped away from the gate, and approached the driver’s window.
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