Maya flashed the light at first one corner, then another, and her gaze settled on a small laptop computer sitting on a card table, its hard disk light glowing faintly. She held the beam on it as she got to her feet and walked over to it.
There was no CD case, only the computer.
She eyed it and tapped the touch pad.
The screen blinked to life and demanded a password.
Hoping against hope, she felt along the base of the laptop until she found the CD compartment button and depressed it.
The hatch opened with a soft whir, and she held the flashlight on it.
Empty.
Gil groaned and she looked over at him. He’d said something about the disk. She moved back to where he was struggling for breath and crouched by his head.
“Did they do something with the disk? Download it to the computer?” she asked softly.
He wheezed and she looked away. She knew that sound. The sound of life departing, leaving behind an empty shell.
Gil lay still, and she turned to face him. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and closed his one eye, the other… Maya tried to imagine what Gil had endured, and bile rose in her throat. She choked it back, but it was no good, and she leaned over and gagged, heaving until there was nothing left.
When the wave of nausea had passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood. The clock was still ticking, and time wasn’t her friend.
She closed the computer, tucked it under her arm, and moved to the stairs. After a final look around, she climbed up without looking back, listening with ringing ears for any sound of new arrivals.
Upstairs, she retrieved her bag and donned the soaking wet burka with numb fingers, putting the laptop in its place in the duffel, which she then zipped closed. The rain was hammering on the windows, the last of the storm pummeling the house, and she could only hope that it would slow any patrol sent to investigate the shooting – assuming anyone had reported it. Her weapon was suppressed, but the imam’s men’s weapons hadn’t been.
Then again, in the depths of a dangerous slum, it was possible that the denizens didn’t welcome the police for any reason, not wishing to visit grief upon themselves.
She’d know soon enough.
Maya pulled the front door open and stepped into the downpour. Muddy water stood in the yard at least two inches deep, and the wet ground squished as she walked quickly to the front gate. She unbolted it and eased out into the street, which was now a river of mud and effluence that carried trash and filth down the slight grade to the gutters many blocks away.
The only figure on the street was a three-legged dog, scrawny, its ribs jutting through its patchy fur, standing like a sentinel at the corner. Her eyes met the soaked animal’s and she picked up her pace, leaving the misery and ugliness of the imam’s torture chamber behind her, even though she knew the sight of Gil’s violated form would visit her nightmares forever.
Chapter 17
Manchester, England
Cliques of drunken fans yelled and cursed one another as they left the stadium after the match was over, Manchester having won by one point. Abreeq looked up from the sink where he was scrubbing pots and watched as the ill-behaved fools trudged to their cars, or to parties, or the local pubs, which would be packed with the louts until closing time.
The supervisor, Cliff, a particularly loathsome example of central English inbreeding, appeared by Abreeq’s side and snarled at him, as he’d been doing most of the night.
“An’ what do you think yer looking at, Omar?” he asked, his breath sour with halitosis. Cliff had been calling Abreeq ‘Omar’ all night, a not particularly clever slight he’d taken great pains to explain to Abreeq. “I don’t think any of those blokes would want one of your tents! Right, lads? Omar the tentmaker here best do his bloody job and stop poncing about, shirking, or he’s going to find himself out in the cold, isn’t he?”
Abreeq couldn’t afford even the faintest hint of rebellion or insult, so instead of ripping the buffoon’s throat out and beating him over the head with it as he died, he lowered his eyes and returned to his task. “Sorry, boss,” he mumbled softly.
“Well, don’t let it happen again, or I’ll dock you half the night’s pay, you laggard. I don’t want to be here till tomorrow. Hurry up and stop stalling.”
Abreeq renewed his attack on the pots, biting back the oath that sprang to his lips. Cliff was a bully, and like all bullies, reveled in being able to pick on those he supervised. In a position of power, a man like Cliff made up for every shortcoming he had by doling out misery.
Abreeq had known many bullies in his time, and he recognized the breed. There were hundreds in prison, and there they preyed on the young and defenseless.
Just like Cliff.
The man knew how hard it was to get steady work, and he knew that short of beating the members of his staff, they’d suck it up and take it, and not say a word to anyone. Nobody working to scrub slag from plates or mop up spillings or peel vegetables in the back of the house would dare complain. The outcome of protest was as preordained as their lowly stations in life: they’d be let go on a pretense, and Cliff would continue his reign of petty terror, as he’d been doing for years.
Abreeq didn’t dare sneak another look at his cheap waterproof watch for fear of drawing Cliff’s ire again. When he’d had the temerity to ask for one of the breaks he was allowed, Cliff had taken great pains to make it clear that if he did so, he wouldn’t have a job the following day.
The others went about their work in silence, a collection of immigrants too down on their luck to defend themselves. Unlike most restaurants Abreeq had worked in over the years, there was none of the jocularity, the joking and lightheartedness that made the work bearable. The assembly had the feel of a prison, and as the night had progressed Abreeq had found himself fighting an urge to throttle the bully, and damn the consequences.
Only by reminding himself of the importance of his work was Abreeq able to maintain the flat expression he’d perfected in prison – a look that gave nothing away. It was a survival skill he’d learned early, when circumstances had become so damaging he was dancing on the edges of madness. Instead of plunging into the void when they came for him at night, he retreated inward where nothing could reach or hurt him.
Of course, the other survival skill he’d acquired, that of being as deadly as a cobra, had served him better – one by one, those who had abused him were found stabbed, strangled, and in three cases, tortured before they were killed, their manhood stuffed down their throats.
The appetite for Abreeq had waned quickly once it became obvious he’d grown into a lethal force, but he never lost the ability to go somewhere else in his mind, leaving his body wherever it was, a disembodied thing, a vessel he could abandon for as long as he needed.
A powerfully built older African man from Zaire whom Cliff had nicknamed Mongo approached with another cart laden with filthy dishes. He gave Abreeq a long-suffering sigh and tilted his head at the pile.
“Last batch, boss man.”
“That’s a relief,” Abreeq said, and immediately regretted it. Cliff stalked over to them and glowered, meaty hands on his hips, color darkening his puffy face.
“Didn’t I tell you lot to get to work? Christ Almighty, I turn my back for one minute and it’s a bloody meeting of the United Nations here. How do you people get anything done back in whatever mudholes you crawled out of? No wonder you’re still living in the Middle Ages. Now shut your gobs and scrub, or you’ll be worse for it. I won’t have no loafers on my shift.”
Abreeq gave his companion a sympathetic look – a bad idea. Cliff’s flushed face reddened at least two more shades. “And what the hell was that?”
Abreeq returned to scrubbing, hoping Cliff would lose interest. Mongo shuffled away, head down, anxious to be away from the escalating confrontation. Abreeq remained silent.
Cliff sputtered with rage and then leaned in
to Abreeq and snarled menacingly. “Think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you? Well, I have news for you, my fine lad. When the employment office opens tomorrow, you’ll get your marching papers, if I have anything to say about it. I’ll even come in early just to file the report. What do you think of that, yer crown prince of camel shit?”
Abreeq considered possible responses, but merely kept scrubbing. Nothing he said would do anything but pour gasoline on a volatile situation, so he elected to remove himself from the altercation and refuse to participate.
Cliff stalked off, stiff legged, fuming at being ignored. Abreeq allowed himself a small smirk, which he hid by looking away, and swept the pot he was scrubbing with the back of his hand. Clean as a whistle.
When the shift was over, Cliff kept everyone a half hour later than usual as punishment for Abreeq’s insolence, although he didn’t say so. Nobody complained, but the entire crew looked tired after the seven hours of unbroken toil, and the tension was palpable.
When he finally let everyone go with a wave of his hand, Cliff made a point of staring at Abreeq, a cruel smile on his face. Abreeq’s could have been carved from granite, showing nothing.
Three hours later, Cliff was staggering around his small row house in the lower-class neighborhood he called home, a bottle of cheap Scotch in one hand, the TV remote in his other, a rerun of one of his favorite movies on the fifteen-year-old television, when his front window shattered and a flaming bottle broke near his feet.
The last thing Cliff registered before the living room exploded in flames was the overpowering stench of gasoline, and the realization that perhaps he’d misjudged his men’s hatred of him.
It took twenty minutes for the fire department to arrive, and another hour for them to extinguish the blaze.
A week later the fire would be ruled arson by the police, who issued a statement to the effect that the perpetrators of the heinous act would be brought to justice and punished to the fullest extent of the law.
The list of possible suspects ran four pages.
Privately, the police were not optimistic.
Chapter 18
Dhaka, Bangladesh
Uri answered his phone on the second ring, his voice tense.
“Yes?”
Maya’s tone was flat, wooden, her wording careful. “Gil was compromised. They tortured him. You have to assume that he told them everything.” Maya paused. “He didn’t make it.”
“Damn.” Uri stopped, thinking, his breathing heavy. “But that explains a lot. My watcher went dark on me an hour ago.”
“Your place isn’t safe.”
“I have backups, of course.”
“Did Gil know about them?”
“Not the one I have in mind.”
“I was able to retrieve the laptop that they used to read the CD the motorcycle messenger picked up at the mosque.” She hesitated. “What did HQ say?”
“Are you on your cell?”
“Negative. A landline.”
“Any other issues? Are you all right?” She understood what Uri was asking. They had protocols, and if her call was being made under duress, this was her chance to use a code word that would tell him she was in trouble.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Do you have a pen? I’m going to give you an address. It’s a small office building about twenty minutes from your hotel. By the airport.”
“Shoot.”
Uri rattled off a street and number.
Maya repeated it back. “Give me half an hour. And Uri? It was as bad as you can imagine, so I wouldn’t hang around there any longer than you have to. If they come for you…”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been at this for a long time.”
“See you in thirty.”
“Be careful. Make sure you don’t pick up a tail.”
“Of course.”
Maya hung up and stared at the receiver. She was in the lobby of a medium-sized hotel near the bus station. She’d stopped at her old hotel and checked out, and after confirming that she wasn’t being watched, checked into her new digs and changed into dry clothes.
She’d resisted the urge to try to access the laptop again, figuring that it was possible the imam’s men had configured it to wipe its hard disk if the wrong password was entered more than once. She knew far too much about computers from her interest in them, as well as the comprehensive course the Mossad had put her through, to assume she knew all the possible hacks or security programs. Better to leave that to a specialist.
Maya checked the time. It would take fifteen minutes to get to Uri’s new rendezvous spot. That left her a little leeway to find a pharmacy and get some antibiotics for the scrapes and cuts she’d gotten from her fall down the stairs and her roll on the roof.
A block away she found what she needed, and after buying ointment, antibacterial swab, and several roles of gauze and bandages, she retraced her steps to the hotel. After stripping off her top, she hurriedly cleaned her back the best she could, and then wrapped her torso and ribs, several of which felt broken – certainly sore enough to be, she reasoned, although there wasn’t much she could do about it.
She opted for a rickshaw now that the rain had abated, and sat wincing with every bump the driver hit, the jarring from the pavement excruciating. She arrived at the office building five minutes late and headed up to the second floor and a hallway that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. The second door on the right had the name of an export company on it. Uri’s cover.
Maya tried the knob, but it was locked. She knocked and heard a shuffle inside, and then the door swung wide and Uri stood frowning, a pistol clutched in his hand, the stink of cigarette smoke following him. He pushed past her and looked down the hall, and then wordlessly closed the door behind them and moved to one of the desks.
Maya sat in front of it and regarded Uri calmly. He returned her scrutiny with a sour expression and then noticed the laptop in her hand.
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me everything that happened. Start at when you arrived at the address where Gil was being kept.”
Maya nodded and began her account, her voice unemotional, conveying only the facts, keeping her sentiments out of her report. When she finished, Uri rose and began pacing in front of the window, his eyes on the bank of monitors on the table next to it, where black-and-white images of the entry and the approaches to the building flickered in silence. Eventually he turned to her.
“You try to access the data yet?”
She shook her head and explained about the password, and her fears of losing whatever lay on the hard disk or in memory. “The only thing I did was plug it in while I changed clothes so the battery wouldn’t die. That way anything in RAM should still be recoverable.”
Uri grunted in reluctant approval. “Sounds like a job for Raj.”
“Are you sure he’s up to it?”
“He’s the best. If there’s a way to discover what’s on that thing, he’ll know it.”
Maya eyed him. “You mentioned your watcher went dark?”
“Yes. Right after he called to report that the imam was unexpectedly on the move. That was only a few minutes after you left.” Uri didn’t have to say that Kahn’s home was near the house where Gil had been held. They could both work out the math. She’d probably just missed him – or an even more alarming thought occurred to her: he could have still been in the house, if that’s where he’d gone, when she’d arrived, and evaded pursuit while she was walking the neighborhood, or even when she was in the tenement preparing to make her roof jump.
She voiced her misgivings and Uri waved them away. “No way of knowing. Right now, what’s important is finding out what, if anything, we can glean from that computer.”
He picked up the landline’s handset and Maya leaned forward. “And if there’s nothing on it?”
Uri stared at a point a thousand miles over her
left shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Then everything that happened today was for nothing. Because sure as hell Kahn’s going to vanish now, and we’ll never know what he was up to.” He let his words sink in and then dialed Raj’s number from memory.
After a terse discussion, Uri hung up and leaned back in his chair. “You checked out of your hotel?”
“Of course.”
“You use a different alias at the new one?”
“Yes. They didn’t ask for ID.”
“Very good. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to ask you to step into the other room. I need some privacy while I talk to headquarters.”
Maya stood and walked to the connecting door. She stopped when she reached it and turned to Uri. “Did Gil have family?”
“We were his family.”
The words echoed in the room with the finality of a eulogy. Maya nodded and moved into the other room, which was another office with three cots and a small refrigerator. She presumed the door on the far side was a bathroom, which in Bangladesh could mean anything from a hole in the floor to a nightmare.
She sat on one of the cots, listening to Uri’s muffled voice droning on the other side of the door. Then she walked to the window and surveyed the street. She was still standing there fifteen minutes later when Uri opened the connecting door and peered in.
“See anything interesting?”
“Just the usual. No jihadis trying to creep up on us or anything.”
“Raj should be here any minute. You want anything to drink? I have water and orange juice in the fridge.”
“Some water would be good.”
He removed two bottles of water and handed her one, holding her stare as he did so. “Are you all right?”
“Other than some bruises and some questionable bones, I’m fine.”
He sighed. “It’s never easy losing one of your own.”
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