- 30 -
WINDING PATHS
It was rather small for a Tudor, but beautifully landscaped and in perfect condition. Much like the man himself, attention to detail was evident. One could not be a rare documents expert in a huge national museum without being more than a little obsessive. The home was furnished in old world style with huge oil paintings on dark paneled walls with heavy brocade furniture perfectly arranged. It was picture-perfect like a model room in a museum, not a single personal item anywhere in sight. Not a photograph, not a scrap of paper. It took them all of twenty minutes to go through the house from top to bottom and find nothing of meaning. Still they wandered around looking at the place where this man had lived since coming to Chicago, there had to be something someplace, they reasoned, and so they tapped on walls and removed objects from their frames and pedestals. After a 2 hour search two secret locations were found: one in a bathroom linen closet, the back of which opened to a small room filled with computers, communication equipment, and world maps bearing stick pins and a set of two-way radios. The team photographed and investigated the sight thoroughly but learned little about the underground network. The second hideaway was in the basement, behind a recently installed gas furnace. The space was about 40 feet long and nearly as wide. It was lined with glass fronted cabinets behind which dozens of different types of guns were labeled and displayed. Many of them were ancient, old pistols from World War I and II, musket guns from the revolutionary war. A Civil War cannon sat in the center of the room, round black balls stacked nearby.
Across the room, weapons of mass destruction were on display. Near each category a colorful poster hung, detailing the cabinet’s contents. Nuclear weapons were displayed with framed photographs, labels and descriptions. Biological weapons were displayed in vacuum sealed containers, agents such as anthrax, botulinum toxin, ricin, and smallpox sat ready to assault populated areas at a moments’ notice and lastly chemical weapons, like sarin, chlorine and cyanide were displayed along with hundreds of others. There was a special section with graphs and pictures devoted to the Nazi concentration camps and the gasses used to annihilate millions of people.
In another area, every naturally occurring poison known to man, ranging from poison arrow frogs, rear-fanged snakes and lion fish to plants like oleander, belladonna and English Yew, were displayed. All items were perfectly labeled, its poison detailed and displayed with museum quality precision. Also displayed were raw materials needed for making bombs, different styles of pre-assembled car bombs accompanied by eight by ten photographs of successful bombings by the IRA and Al-Qaeda along with handwritten instructions for assembling and deploying bombs. As they were leaving the room T-Max noticed Ari transfixed in front of the exhibit. “What’s up, Bro?” He asked coming up behind him and placing a hand on his back.
Jolted from his reverie, Ari stammered, “I was immersed into my thoughts, you might say.”
“Okay,” said T-Max turning to leave the exhibits, “We’ve got to move on now.”
“I shall come in one moment,” Ari replied as he pried open the lock and slipped a tiny brass vial, its label unmistakable, into his pocket.
Photographs along with detailed text messages were sent to Manny, with instructions to notify the FBI, the CDC, Homeland Security, the Chicago Police Department and anyone else that Manny could think of. This situation was well beyond the scope any of them expected and it was definitely time to bring in the ‘big guns.’ The home investigation team planned to split up in order to reduce complications with the Feds. T-Max remained behind to escort a group of tense-looking government officials through the picture-perfect Tudor home owned by one Herr Friedrich Müeller, a soon-to-be-ex employee of Chicago’s Field Museum.
Galed Rachid, First Deputy of The Sword of Justice’s protection squad, stared at the Yitshak Ben Zvi Hospital in Be’er Sheva through his Bushnell Elite binoculars. He was agitated and aggravated. Not only had they failed to capture the child, they had not killed her. He was certain he had wounded her and seriously. There was so much blood squirting from the helicopter’s open door, she had to be hit. But she had been alive when they took off, he heard her screaming. She could have died in the meantime, but he had to be sure. Crouching in the brush near a hospital parking lot he kept muttering curses at his enemies. They deserve to be hit with sixty shoes and Allah should destroy their houses. To make matters worse, he lost three men in an impromptu gun battle. May Allah protect their families… Where these attackers had come from was a mystery. Who in the world were these gunmen? Now he was down three men and it could take hours to bring in replacements. He might have to bring in men who were untrained, a risky move on his part. His men needed to be top-notch, trained, and ready to do battle.
Galed Rashid swore angrily, they should all be bald from ringworm. He saw himself as a warrior, fighting for the truth of his master, Shukri al-Sierawan, The Great One. He already had been humiliated by his master, for a mistake he didn’t make and now he could expect nothing less than more of the same, all because of some little girl. The whole idea was ludicrous! He was a soldier not a babysitter! What in the name of Allah was a child doing in the middle of this great movement anyway?
Staring through the blazing sunlight, he barked out instructions to his diminishing band of soldiers ordering two of them to enter the hospital and get a status report on the child, find out her medical condition and where she was being treated. They needed to eliminate her, but could not afford to get caught so for now the instructions were ‘observe and report.’ Two of his men ripped and dirtied their clothing so it looked as if they’d been in a car accident before they limped into the Emergency Room looking for Saroyah Ajram.
- 31 -
HI HO SILVER, AWAY
Sammy saw it first and pointed it out to Elisabeth. It was a light blue head scarf with pink flowers on it. They had several in stock. The two of them had been trekking through shop after shop in downtown Tel Aviv; picking up items that were on their shopping list. The plan had been devised while they were waiting at the hospital for Saroyah to come out of surgery. Their long list of necessary supplies were divvied up, Simon was combing through medical supply houses looking for the things they needed to make their plan come together. It was a high risk plan, involving many people, disparate locations and several check points. Yosef was coordinating with Manny, both hard at work making plans with youth organizations and paying their way through a maze of bureaucrats to obtain the needed documents.
A serious talk with Musnah was needed. It was decided that Elisabeth would travel to the Olive Grove and interview the cook. Layla, Jamila’s oldest daughter was assigned to act as translator. It promised to be a difficult discussion, but the tearful cook had essential information.
Assuming the posture of a grieving husband Gil McCray, traditionally dressed, positioned himself on the floor across the hall from the curtained area where Saroyah lay. Head down and eyes averted, he watched the crowd around him, seeking out those who meant harm to the child. He did not expect them to try and kill her here in the hospital, but he couldn’t count on that. These were desperate circumstances and desperate men. He watched as two men in tattered clothing limped past the child’s bed, peeking behind the curtain as often as they could. Gil kept an eye on them. Their clothing was dirty, but the dirt appeared to be spread on the clothes with even strokes. There was no blood on the clothes and their limping was inconsistent. No, Gil thought, these men had been sent in here to complete a mission. To watch or kill he wasn’t sure, but he knew they were enemies.
With his cell phone buried in his sleeve, Gil texted Hadara who sat behind the skimpy curtain, patting her niece with one hand and pointing her gun toward the curtain with the other. They had agreed that a gunfight in the hospital was to be avoided if at all possible and believed that the two limping men would avoid one here too. Another attack on the child was to be expected but would occur later, after she left the protection of the ER. The Sword of Justice could not afford
to be caught in an investigation about a gun battle in an Israeli hospital. That would stir up ill will. Besides, Hadara thought, it served their plan perfectly if the soldiers followed them. In fact, their magnificent plan would not work if they didn’t.
He sensed rather than heard the voice. Like a whisper, it roused him from a troubled sleep, frowning he tried to recapture it, but it was gone. He tried to remember what he had heard. Was it Moshe? Was it Ari? He couldn’t be sure it was either of them. He waited and focused, soon it came again. Two men in the front of the truck whispered softly. “…before daybreak…must be done …a traitor…ordered it…” His hair pricked at the back of his neck as fear shot through his body. He strained to make out more words, but it was impossible.
He was convinced they were talking about him. He had to notify Moshe, but how could he do that? The ear com worked in only one direction and the pea-sized mike sewn into his collar would not pick up his thoughts. Then he pictured Ari. Ari would know what to do. If the whispers were about him things would rapidly deteriorate.
Breathing deeply he went into a deep meditative state. Oceans away, Ari was logged into a wine-tasting chat room used by Mossad for covert conversations, when he was jarred by a flash. He signed off and turned his attention inward. Within seconds, he knew his twin was in trouble.
Rafi’s anxiety came through in jagged waves. ‘I’ll take care of it’ was Ari’s response to his brother. Using more conventional means of contact, Ari tracked Moshe down and texted him ‘Rafi may be in trouble prepare for emergency extraction.’ Reading the text Moshe was momentarily puzzled about Ari’s information then he figured it out. Within minutes Rafi heard “Got your message…” Grinning in spite of himself, Rafi felt like a kid again. Faster than the speed of light! He and Ari were up to their old tricks and Baruch Hashem, they still worked. Rafi settled in with the movement of the truck and fell asleep.
- 32 -
BY THE SEA
To the uninformed observer it looked like any other business meeting taking place this large comfortable room. The sea was magnificent, a rich blue dotted with white yachts floating past. With men sitting around the table tapping on their laptops, it seemed like an ordinary meeting until you noticed four attentive, muscular men with bulges under their jackets positioned around the room. Two stood stoically at the windows gazing out intently, another stood with his back to the door facing inward and a fourth stared fixedly at the prisoner. Duqaq Boulos, slouched in his chair, appeared carefree as he sipped his tea with a self-satisfied expression on his face. To him, this was the greatest outcome possible. Gathered around him were representatives of some of the most powerful nations in the world. He was amazed, impressed with himself. He’d always liked an audience and this was the most exclusive one ever.
Seated around the table were representatives from several countries including Lt Walter Ross of the US Navy, Gerald Magnum Harris, Assistant Secretary of Defense, CIA station chiefs from the Beirut, Damascus, Baghdad and Eudora Winders, representing the English Prime Minister and Sol Aaronson.
Sol began the meeting “Mr. Boulos,” he began “As you can see there are many people who are interested in what you have to say. The agreement that we reached before still stands and your agreement is between you and Mossad. Everyone here knows about our agreement” he said passing out copies to all present. “Even though your agreement is with Mossad these people are interested in this terrorist organization you seem to know so much about so they have been invited here to talk with you, as well. You can feel free to answer their questions, no harm will come to you from me or any of them no matter what you know or don’t know. Is that clear?”
Boulos nodded his head and grunted assent. “I will be happy to tell you what you want to know. Ask away,” he invited with a crooked smile.
Aaronson: “Now Mr. Boulos, since this is an official debriefing, we are going to use a more formal question and answer format, do you understand?”
Boulos: “Sure, whatever…”
Aaronson: “Mr. Boulos, you were hired to do some work for a group called The Sword of Justice, is that correct?”
Boulos: “Yeah.. uh huh…”
Aaronson: “Mr. Boulos, do you know the real name of the person referred to as The Great One?”
Boulos: “I have heard several names for him so I’m not sure. He goes by Shukri al-Sierawan, but once I have heard him called Arman. I think that is his real first name but I never heard his real last name so I don’t know if that helps or not.” He shrugged.
Aaronson: “Do you know where he is from or where he lived as a child?”
Boulos: “Somewhere in the north part of Lebanon near the Syrian border, I don’t know for sure, I never went there, ya know.”
Aaronson: “Why do you think that is where he was from?”
Boulos: “I heard him say his soldiers were never to go near that area. I assumed it was because he has family there.
Aaronson: Do you think he is protecting them or perhaps is estranged from them?
Boulos: How can I know such things? Never in my presence did he speak of family. It is just that of all the places he refuses to go, this area he most avoids. He is an odd one, do you know? He rarely talks and when he looks at you has this strange distant look in his eyes.”
Aaronson: “Do you think his strange look is due to drugs that he uses?”
Boulos: “Of course he uses hashish… he is always with the hookah many times a day, but I do not think that is the reason for his look. It’s something else, more different than the drugs.”
Aaronson: “Does he make sense when he talks or does he seem confused, off point?”
Boulos: “He makes sense, but if a person thinks of the things he says they are not really possible. He is not hard to understand but the things he believes will happen cannot be real.”
Aaronson: “Like what things?”
Boulos: “There are many crazy things like invisible tents to be forming over the Arab world. Things such as this...” Boulos drifted off. “I am not certain but the things are not real. I pick up ideas, you know from the people around there.”
Aaronson: “Okay, do you know if he went away to school, like to a university somewhere in the US or England?”
Boulos: “No. I do not know of this, but he speaks English clearly and I have heard him speak about England many times, so I think it is there that he attended school. He is very smart. Perhaps he is smarter than anyone I have ever known. Intelligent, but strange, you know? Like they say about geniuses, they are smart, but crazy. Do you know?”
Aaronson: “When he speaks does he speak with any kind of accent?”
Boulos: “Of course yes, he speaks Arabic with a Lebanese accent, but there is also a touch of English to some of his words, so that may be why I think he was in England. Is it not true that you have to be someplace for many years before you speak with the accents of that place?”
Aaronson: “So your best guess would be that he was in England for a while?”
Boulos: “Yeah, he says a few English words that are only from that place you know like … stuff like that… little words.”
Aaronson: “What about his religious practices?”
Boulos: “He is a devout Muslim and demands the same from all of his followers. Everyone must come to pray five times a day and there are no exceptions. Even those preparing the food and serving it must come and pray.”
Aaronson: “So there is nothing unusual or different about his Muslim devotion?”
Boulos: “No, only he says that he needs to think after prayers and asks those around him to speak to one another so he can listen. It is how you say, weird. He goes into a sleeping state, closing his eyes and sighing. He refuses to speak or be spoken to. I think he does this after every prayer. I think it is some kind of religious thing but I guess it could be a kind of spying. So he can hear what the people are saying about him.”
Aaronson: “How long does that dream state last?”
Boulos: �
�Oh it could be an hour or more. He just sits there with his eyes closed and listens or sleeps or whatever he does.”
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 17