by C. S. Graham
“You mean the one that didn’t work?”
“Yeah. That one.”
She pushed up from the chair. “It didn’t work because it was just too weird and distracting, having the Colonel task me over the phone. And because I knew too much about the target. When a viewer knows too much up front, their conscious, analytical mind can kick in and block out access to—”
Jax held a finger to his lips. She fell silent.
He heard it again. The scruff of footsteps on the stairs. The light treads of two men in the tiled hall.
The footsteps stopped outside their room. He saw her eyes widen.
“Mr. Alexander?” A light knock sounded on the door.
Jax moved to open it carefully.
Two young men pushed into the room. Lithe and clean shaven, they wore fatigue pants and T-shirts with black-and-white kafiyas draped rakishly around their necks. Both carried MAC-10 machine pistols.
“Kaif halak,” said the one in a white T-shirt decorated with a portrait of Che Guevara. He looked slightly older than his companion, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five. “This is Abu Elias,” he said, nodding to his companion. “You can call me Amin.” His gaze flicked to October, one eyebrow cocking in inquiry. “You’re Ensign Guinness?”
Jax didn’t like the way the Arab used her Naval rank. She nodded, her throat working visibly as she swallowed.
The one called Abu Elias couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. He said something in a low voice to Amin that Jax didn’t catch.
Amin nodded and said, “You will both take off your watches and empty your pockets, please. Very slowly and carefully.”
Jax piled up change, wallet, phone, and keys on the scarred dresser top. The only thing October had in the pockets of her chinos was a small yellow Burt’s Bees lip balm.
“Now hold your arms out at your sides and stand very still.”
Tucking his machine pistol under one arm, Abu Elias reached into his pocket and came out with a small black box with steady red and green LED lights. He carefully passed the box over each of them in turn, like an FTA employee checking suspicious-looking airplane passengers.
“What is that?” asked October.
“It’s a radio frequency detector,” said Amin. “It detects anything that emits an electronic impulse—hidden transmitters, tape recorders, tracking devices—whatever.”
“We’re not hiding anything.”
Amin flashed her a smile that showed his teeth. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it. You”—he nodded to Jax—“will sit. But I must ask you, Ensign, to take off your shoes.”
Aware of Abu Elias’s narrowed gaze upon him, Jax settled carefully onto the hard plastic chair. He now had a really, really bad feeling about all of this.
October said, “My shoes?”
“Min fadlik.” Amin turned to survey the two bags standing just inside the door. “Which is yours?”
“The green one.”
Hunkering down beside it, the Arab laid the bag on its side and unzipped it. “Excuse me,” he said as he rummaged through her things, “but it is necessary.”
“Why?” she asked, kicking off her tennis shoes.
“It’s too easy to hide things in the soles and heels of shoes.” He came up with a pair of navy-and-white-striped flip-flops. “Here. You will wear these.”
She slipped on the flip-flops without argument. “I’m not carrying a weapon.”
“Nevertheless, I’m afraid I must also check your hair.”
“My hair?”
“My apologies.” Reaching out, he systematically ran his fingers through her shoulder-length, honey-colored hair. “Women have been known to hide razor blades in their hair.”
She cast an uncertain glance to where Jax sat in the orange plastic chair, his hands resting carefully on his thighs. They were both painfully aware that no one was checking his hair or making him take off his shoes.
As if conscious of the train of Jax’s thoughts, Amin said to him, “You are to stay here, with Abu Elias. Only the girl can come.”
“But—” Jax started to push out of his chair, then froze when the younger man made a tssking sound and jerked his head back, his finger twitching on the machine pistol’s trigger.
“Laa. Khalleek hawn!”
Jax sank back very slowly.
“Don’t worry,” said Amin. “She will come to no harm.” He glanced at October. “Are you ready?”
52
They walked together down the narrow set of concrete stairs to the hotel’s small, spartan lobby. Tobie noticed that the older woman in the long dress and headscarf who had been behind the desk when they arrived was no longer there.
Outside, the evening was hot and dry, with a warm wind blowing out of the east that sifted dust over the stark, stone-faced facades of the neighborhood’s buildings. The sidewalk here was made of swirled tiles of alternating red and yellow clay, some cracked, some missing entirely. They dodged piles of builders’ sand, a battered wheelbarrow encrusted with dried concrete, a spindly olive tree struggling to survive. Tobie was aware of two women chatting beside a doorway who fell silent as she drew abreast, the women’s heads turning to watch her pass.
Amin touched her arm. “This way.”
They ducked down a narrow passage kept shaded and dank by tall apartment blocks hung with laundry drying limply in the fetid air. The passage emptied onto a street similar to the one they’d just left, although with more small shops, their front windows displaying their wares. They passed a bakery with stacks of fresh flatbread and a tray of croissants, and a tiny shoe store with boxes of children’s plaid slippers in a range of sizes. A man in a dark sweater stood at the corner, near a grocery selling Digestive biscuits and bananas, bottled water and yoghurt. As they passed, Tobie noticed he had a Bluetooth in his ear, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the street.
“Why just me?” said Tobie.
Amin shook his head and kept walking.
They made three or four such turns, winding back on themselves, passing more men—and one young woman—wearing Bluetooth earpieces and quietly watching the street behind them. As they drew abreast of the woman, she nodded to Amin and said quietly, “You’re clean. No one is following you.”
Halfway down the next block, Amin drew up in front of an ancient stone building with a bullet-scarred facade. Staring through the dusty windows, Tobie could see a small restaurant crowded with aluminum tables and chairs with seats covered in dark green plastic. More tables and chairs spilled outside onto the narrow sidewalk.
This was the time of day when such places were typically filled with old men smoking hubble-bubbles, drinking coffee, and playing backgammon. But Tobie could see only one man, sipping tea by himself at a table near the kitchen door.
Amin nodded toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You go in. He’s waiting for you.”
She hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door. Her escort stayed outside.
Inside, the air was heavy with the scents of cinnamon and allspice and coffee. From his table at the rear of the restaurant, the man watched her approach. His features were sharply formed, his nose aquiline, his eyes large and deeply set, his brows heavy and straight. At first she supposed he must be somewhere in his forties, with a heavy dark mustache and dark hair he wore clipped short. But as she drew closer, she realized he was older than she first took him to be, his hair touched by gray at the temples, the skin beside his eyes creased by years of staring into a hot Mediterranean sun. He wore gray chinos and a well-cut black polo shirt, and he might have been mistaken for a French businessman if it weren’t for the MP5 that rested casually across his lap.
“Please,” he said in heavily accented English. “Sit.”
Tobie pulled out the chair opposite him and sat.
A thickset middle-aged woman appeared with fresh tea and another cup from the kitchen. After she had left, the man said, “Do you know who I am?”
Tobie took a quick swallow of the tea
and burned her tongue. “No.”
One eyebrow rose in polite incredulity. “You’re not with the CIA?”
“No. I’m in the Navy.”
“Why have they sent you?”
“I’m a linguist.”
He switched to Arabic. “You speak Arabic?”
She answered him easily. “I lived in Dubai as a child.”
A wry smile curled his lips, lifting the edges of his mustache. “You speak Arabic like a Beduin.”
“And you speak Arabic like a Palestinian.”
He tipped his head to one side, acknowledging the point. “My family is originally from Gaza.”
“You’re with Hamas?”
He blinked and took a slow swallow of his tea before answering. “My apologies for not introducing myself. My name is Farrah. George Farrah.”
“Ah. So you’re a Christian,” she said. Arab men named George were always Christians.
“We Palestinians were the first Christians, you know,” he said softly. In Arabic, the word for Christian was Masihi, from the Aramaic word for Messiah. He leaned forward, his hazel eyes watching her face. “A hundred years ago, Arab Christians made up 40 percent of the population of Palestine. We are the descendents of the Jews who followed Jesus, of the Canaanites and Philistines who were here before the Jews but followed Christ, too, and of the Romans and Crusaders who came to the Holy Land and stayed. Now…” He spread his hands wide. “Now we are scattered all over the world in our own diaspora.”
He had unexpectedly graceful hands, with fingers that were long and lean and finely tapered, like a musician’s or an artist’s. As she watched his hands, he took another sip of his tea and said, “Why are you interested in Jasha Baklanov?”
“I’m interested in what Baklanov tried to sell you.”
“I didn’t buy it.”
“I know. I’m trying to find out who has it now.”
“That, I can’t help you with.”
Tobie leaned forward, her palms pressing flat against the aluminum tabletop. “The people who originally contacted Baklanov found out he was planning to double-cross them, and they killed him.”
George Farrah nodded. “I had heard he was dead.”
“Do you know who hired the Yalena to raise the U-boat?”
“Jasha never said.”
Tobie wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or not. She said, “You can’t tell me anything about them?”
Farrah rolled one shoulder in a typically Mediterranean shrug. “He said something about a Chechen, but he didn’t mention any names.”
“Chechens?” Tobie drew in a quick breath. “Could Baklanov have been dealing with al-Qa’ida?”
Farrah’s heavy brows drew together. “What would al-Qa’ida want with this?”
“Everyone says they’ve been trying to get their hands on a nuke for years.”
He sat back with a bark of laughter that ended abruptly. “Is that what you think Baklanov was selling? A nuclear weapon?”
Tobie shook her head, not understanding. “If it’s not a bomb, then what is it?”
Farrah sat very still. When he spoke, his voice was a harsh whisper. “Something worse. Something far worse.”
Tobie stared at him. “What could be worse than an atom bomb?”
“What could be worse?” He leaned forward, one hand coming up to punctuate the air between them, his lean musician’s fingers delicately curled. “I’ll tell you what would be worse: a biological weapon with the potential to kill two hundred million people or more.”
53
In the sudden silence, Tobie became aware of the fans slowly circling overhead, moving the hot air, ruffling the edges of the napkins on the tabletop before her. She tried to think back to that conversation in the Deutsches U-Boot Museum-Archiv, in Altenbruch. What had Marie Oldenburg said? “He claimed that amongst its other cargo, U-114 carried a secret veapon—what you Americans like to call a veapon of mass destruction.”
Had anyone actually used the word “atomic”? She didn’t think so. They’d heard those dreaded words—weapon of mass destruction—and simply assumed they were dealing with an atom bomb.
George Farrah said, “It’s the ultimate threat Hollywood loves, isn’t it—terrorists armed with a nuclear bomb? Do you know why?” He leaned forward, answering his own question. “Because we all grew up with Cold War tales of an all-out war between the Soviets and the Americans that would obliterate life on earth as we know it. The thought of terrorists with such a weapon taps in to those fears.”
“I don’t know about you, but I find the idea of terrorists setting off an atom bomb in New York or San Francisco pretty scary.”
Farrah sat back in his chair. “Of course it’s scary. The sudden death of thousands is always scary—not to mention the radiation sickness, the contamination. But is it really the worst that could happen?”
When Tobie kept silent, he said, “You Americans killed—what? Two hundred thousand people when you dropped your bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A sixty-year-old bomb would be even less deadly. It might kill a few thousand—maybe ten thousand. Horrible, yes. But it would be one event. Over. Finished. Whereas, this…” He paused, his arms spreading wide, only to drop listlessly to his sides.
Tobie forced herself to keep her voice calm and even. “What kind of biological weapon are we talking about?”
Farrah shrugged. “According to Baklanov, it was something the Nazis discovered at Dachau—a disease that strikes only those of Semitic origin.”
“What? But that’s impossible.” She hesitated. “Isn’t it?”
“You think so? Look at what European diseases did to the American Indians half a millennium ago.”
“But that was because they had no built-up immunity.”
“True. But there are some diseases, such as sickle cell anemia or alcoholism, that still strike those with certain genetic backgrounds. You are familiar with the story of the Passover?”
Tobie said softly, “On the night of the Tenth Plague, the Angel of Death passed over the houses of the Israelites and spared their firstborn.”
Farrah nodded. “If this disease is let loose upon the world, it will be like the original Passover, only in reverse. And it won’t simply kill each family’s firstborn. It will kill everyone of Semitic origin. Millions of people. Tens of millions.”
She sat very still, torn between disbelief and the hideous realization that he might—just might—be telling the truth.
He said, “There have been many attempts in the last eighty years to develop such things, you know—bioweapons that will target only specific ethnic groups. The Israelis and South Africans have tried it. So have you Americans.”
“I don’t—” She broke off.
A ghost of a smile crinkled the edges of his green eyes. “You don’t believe your government would do such a thing? Look into it. I think you’ll be surprised by what you find.”
She wrapped her hands around her now cold teacup. “When Baklanov offered you this weapon, what did you tell him?”
“What do you think? I want my homeland back, yes. And I want revenge. For the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have been killed in the last sixty years. For the millions more who are dispossessed and homeless. But this weapon?” The man’s eyes were so wide with fear, she could see the milky whites surrounding the irises. “That stupid Russian. He didn’t know Arabs are Semites, too. If this disease gets loose, it won’t just kill the Jews. It will kill the Arabs as well. All of us.”
Farrah’s voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer. “Think about it. All across the Middle East, across Europe, across the United States and Latin America, anyone with Middle Eastern ancestors—Jew, Christian or Muslim…All will die.”
“Latin America?”
“But of course. The Arabs ruled Spain for over seven hundred years, remember? After the Reconquista, many Arabs—Muslim and Jew alike—converted to Christianity and stayed. From Spain, their descendents spread out across the New W
orld. If this pestilence is set loose, it won’t just devastate the Middle East. It will decimate half the world.”
She didn’t want to believe him. But his fear was too real, too palpable. Her voice was now a dry, cracked whisper. “So who has it now? Who hired the Yalena?”
“You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?”
“But you must know something!”
He pushed back his chair and stood. The interview was at an end. “I know what I have told you. That is all.”
She followed Amin through the same mean, narrow streets down which they’d walked earlier, only, somehow, everything now seemed changed. She saw a dark-haired little girl in a red skirt jumping rope beside a bullet-chipped doorway, and thought, If we don’t stop what these men have planned, that little girl will die. And so will that boy spinning a soccer ball on his finger, and that young mother laughing at—
Amin said, “Mind your step,” and put out a hand to keep Tobie from stumbling into a muddy puddle in the hollow left by a missing tile.
She jerked her attention back to him. “Thank you.”
With the approach of evening, the streets had filled with long blue shadows. Women carrying plastic shopping bags thronged the sidewalks; boys dodged honking rows of cars. Tobie said, “Did you know him? Jasha Baklanov, I mean.”
“The Russian?” Amin shrugged. “I’ve dealt with him. He’s—”
The Palestinian broke off, his head turning as the whine of a motorcycle coming up fast cut through the noise of the crowded street. Looking just beyond the hotel, Tobie spotted a dark blue Kawasaki with two black-jacketed, visored riders weaving toward them through the stalled line of dusty cars.
“Shit,” she whispered.
As the Kawasaki pulled abreast of them, the rear passenger drew an MP4 from beneath his jacket. Amin shouted, “Look out!” and pushed her down as a spray of bullets ricocheted off the wall beside them.
54
Jax was in their room at the Hotel Offredi, pacing back and forth beneath the watchful eye of Abu Elias when the sudden, staccato burst of machine-gun fire jerked both men to the window.