Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  He’d said this for a couple weeks now. What had gotten into him? She made a face. “Always. I love you.” She broke away, glared down at Eve. “Pick up your pack, young lady. Say goodbye to Daddy.”

  “Bye-bye, Daddy,” she grumped.

  The woman finally appeared at 7:09. Black hip-length winter coat, dark green scarf, black slacks. The little girl holding her hand was pink from the top of her cap to the hem of her parka, where blue jeans took over. Alayan remembered the photos; such a cute child. If Samirah had lived, what would their children have looked like? The thought stabbed deep, as it always did.

  Eldar would leave in about fifty minutes. Alayan decided to wait five minutes, then give Gabir the “go” signal. In the meantime, he watched the mother and child trundle west, away from him. He mourned what should have been.

  “The wife and daughter just left,” Kelila told Gur through the radio.

  Gur was within steps of the corner of Prospect Park West and 18th. He’d circled the block clockwise, looking for men loitering or watching Eldar’s building. So far, nothing. He hoped his worn and slightly snug track suit made him look like a lazy jogger and not a burglar-to-be.

  He stopped after turning the corner, placed both hands on a barren tree next to the tan-brick McFadden Brothers American Legion post, pretended to stretch his hamstrings as he scanned the parked cars on both sides of the street. They appeared empty. He couldn’t see into the two nearby tradesmen’s vans, both white; he’d have to check them as he passed.

  Gur decided to stretch for another minute or so. It actually felt good. He hadn’t had the will to work out since Doha. He should ask Kelila if he could join her on her morning run. Exercise was always easier with company.

  Jake shrugged on his coat, shouldered his black leather carry bag with his laptop, then left the apartment. When he turned to lock the door, he kicked something. Eve’s backpack.

  That little turkey. Sometime during her six years, she’d perfected passive-aggressive behavior. He sighed, bent to sweep the pint-sized bag off the floor. What would she be like when she was a teenager?

  He pulled out his phone to call Rinnah; with any luck, he could catch her before she turned around to come back. The screen stayed stubbornly dark. He’d forgotten to charge it last night. Damn. If he hurried, he might be able to catch up to them.

  Jake thumped down the stairs to find Mrs. Sahakian standing at the door of her apartment in her faded yellow housedress, leaning on her aluminum cane, her round face frowning at a thoroughly wrecked wooden chair. When she heard him, she swapped the frown for a look of relief. “Oh, Jake, good morning.”

  “Morning, Mrs. Sahakian.” Often he’d stop to chat with the old widow, but today he needed to get going.

  “Please can you help me? This chair, she must go to rubbish. They take rubbish today.”

  Jake stopped, hand on the front doorknob, and tried not to make any frustrated noises. “Um, sorry, really, I have to try to catch Rinnah. Eve forgot her school things.”

  “Is okay, you go out back door, by rubbish, yes?”

  She had a point, and she was using her basset-hound eyes on him. Jake owed her; sometimes she’d watch Eve for an hour or so, sing old Armenian folk songs to her. “Okay, no problem.” He grabbed the remains of the surprisingly heavy chair and charged down the hall to the back door, waving and smiling at the cloud of blessings and thanks she sent after him. He’d already planned his detour through the service alley to 17th.

  Rinnah set the quickest pace Eve’s short little legs could handle, enough to set her daughter complaining, “Mommy, you’re going too fast!”

  After the fifth or sixth repeat, Rinnah glared down at Eve. “This is what we have to do when you don’t get ready like a good…” She blinked, looked hard at her daughter’s back, then jerked to a halt. “Chava, where is your backpack?”

  Eve found a spot on the sidewalk to talk to. “At home.”

  “But…you had it when we left!” She muttered a few Hebrew curses—ones she hoped Eve didn’t understand—then tore her phone out of her purse to call Jake. Ringing. Answer!

  “Hi, this is Jake, leave your name and number, I’ll call you back.”

  She groaned and punched the “disconnect” button. He’d left his mobile off again, or didn’t recharge it. If only they had a traditional phone for times like this. Rinnah fixed her position: 8th Avenue, almost exactly halfway to school. Do without the backpack? No, it had Eve’s workbooks and her alphabet and arithmetic homework.

  She turned, grabbed Eve’s hand, started marching back toward 18th.

  “Where are we going, Mommy?”

  “Back home, to get your bag. No computer for you tonight, you’ve been a bad girl.”

  “Mommeee…”

  Alayan texted Gabir and Ziyad. Go.

  Two chirps replied.

  Gabir and Ziyad emerged from the dark walkway between the Jew’s building and the one next door, checked out the back of the property. A concrete pad, fence on one side, large wooden shed attached to the back of the building on the other, a tall tree screening the fire escape.

  Gabir managed to pull the ladder down without making much noise. As he mounted the first rung, Ziyad clapped his arm. “Allah be with you.”

  “Stay awake,” Gabir replied, more gruffly than he’d meant. Ziyad would watch to make sure nothing trapped them from behind.

  Even though he weighed over ninety kilos, his feet made only light rustling sounds on his way up. The metal slats on the second-floor platform were pocked with rust and peeling brown paint that crunched softly under him.

  Gabir knelt between the left two windows, back to the wall. The cheap vinyl duffel slung over his shoulder crackled against the brick. He checked his exposure. If the tree still had leaves, he’d be invisible to the building across from this one; as it was, the scrim of gray branches and twigs obscured but didn’t block the view. Gabir peeked through the metal slats underfoot, spied Ziyad standing guard next to the ladder, nervously scanning the area.

  A white curtain shrouded the outermost window. He examined the frame; a thumblatch on top, two securing pins near the bottom. Too hard to get through quietly. He risked a glance through the center window’s open curtain. The same locking hardware as before. Beyond, a bedroom, no one in view. Gabir checked his watch; thirty-five minutes before the Jew left the flat. Breathe. There’s time.

  He slipped past, stopped at the third window’s edge, peered in. An empty hallway, a strip of carpet down the center, stairs to the right, apartment door to the left, weak morning glow in the window at the other end. This one had a simple rotating latch. Gabir pulled from his coat pocket a thin sheet of tin the size and shape of a playing card and went to work.

  The white panel van slumbering in front of number 493 advertised a plumber’s shop, radio dispatched, results guaranteed. The frost on the windshield told Gur the vehicle had been there overnight. The front seats were cluttered with everything except people.

  The unmarked second white van, its recent film of road grime spotted by bygone rain, stood two doors down and across the street. Gur strolled past a couple cars, leaned out just far enough to check the front.

  A man sat hunched over the wheel, gazing out the windshield.

  Gur stepped back two paces to see the rear license plate. He fished his phone and wallet from his pocket, pulled a slip of paper from between his credit cards. It held a series of ten-digit numbers. He selected the second one that began with “545,” subtracted three from each digit, thumbed the result into his phone.

  Three rings. “Hey, Greg here.”

  “Hello,” Gur said in English. “This is Ephraim.”

  Pause. “Yeah?”

  “I need information on a vehicle. New York five one zero eight six Oscar Echo.”

  “Hold on.”

  Gur leaned against the building side of a tree, watching the van sit quietly in its space while Greg—the sayan who happened to be an NYPD patrol sergeant—ran its plate. Moss
ad leaned heavily on its sayanim, the civilians who helped it around the world. It was the only way an organization with a mere 1200 members could maintain a global reach.

  “Okay. A 2009 Chevy Express cargo van, registered to Hertz Commercial Rentals. Need an address?”

  “No, thank you. Who is the driver?”

  “That’ll take a while. You need it?”

  Did he? Gur didn’t want to compromise this sayan on a hunch, but he didn’t want to let a possible lead slip away. “A citizen rang you. There is a suspicious vehicle on 18th Street in Brooklyn, west of Prospect Park West, a white Chevrolet van. No sirens.” He disconnected.

  Jake didn’t see Rinnah on 17th Street. He figured she must have already dropped Eve at school, so he humped it all the way to P.S. 10’s 7th Avenue entrance. A young receptionist in the front office said she’d be glad to get Eve’s bag to her.

  Chore finished, Jake charged off to the Prospect Park subway station.

  Gabir eased the flat’s front door closed. Picking the locks while wearing gloves took a few seconds more than usual, but doing it quietly took even longer. Still, no alarms, human or electronic. He drew his pistol, a .32 caliber semiautomatic that almost disappeared in his hand. It felt like a cheap toy, but Alayan said it could be the sort of thing a criminal might carry.

  He searched the flat in less than 90 seconds. The Jew was gone. But it was too early for that. Where was he? Maybe he’d gone out for a minute.

  Gabir wouldn’t ruin this job by rushing. He’d show Alayan he could be trusted to handle the sophisticated work, that he wasn’t just some thug who broke necks. He was a warrior, and he was going to prove it.

  He’d wait.

  Alayan kept a death grip on his phone and didn’t take his eyes off the front door of number 475. Gabir had checked in just before he entered the building almost ten minutes before, then nothing. What was he doing in there?

  This had to go as planned. Last night’s action against Brown may yet become a disaster; a simple operation had turned into double-murder, and now they’d have to be careful where Sohrab appeared in public. He could be on a security camera. They might need to make him grow a beard, dye his hair, shave his head. Complications they didn’t need.

  Bright blue spiked through his concentration. He glanced at the side-view mirror.

  Flashing blue lights. Police.

  The African policeman watched Alayan sit on the curb while his white partner searched the van. Other than their skin color, the two men were nearly identical: big, broad shoulders, black turtlenecks, dark blue uniforms and parkas, peaked caps.

  Alayan did what he could to ignore the building three doors down. He didn’t dare look its way. His phone lodged in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, turned off. What’s happening down there? Is it done? Where’s Gabir?

  “You’re not here working, now, are you, Mr. Alvarez?” The African cop loomed over him, black-gloved hands wrapped around the buckle of his gun belt.

  He’d given them the passport and Spanish identity papers. Any other police force on Earth outside Spain, he wouldn’t have worried, but the NYPD was legendary. His heart had seized when they radioed his name to their station, asking about warrants. What if they got him mixed up with someone else?

  What if the white cop found the gun under the driver’s seat?

  “No, señor,” Alayan answered, remembering to lisp. “I help my cousin today. We move the furniture today. I visit, on holiday.”

  What if the cops hear the gunshot? He’d planned for Gabir and Ziyad to have at least five minutes to get away. But the police were right here, in walking distance. Gabir could never get out of the apartment, and Ziyad was too dedicated to flee. It could all come apart in a minute.

  He peeked at his watch. Ten minutes since he’d turned off his phone.

  Kelila pressed the transmit button on her radio. “The wife and child are back.”

  The wife looked frazzled. The little girl’s face twisted like a wrung-out washcloth. Kelila recognized her expression: meltdown. She knew this scene so well.

  “Back? Why?”

  “I don’t know. No sign of Eldar yet.” She checked the rear-view mirror, saw the flashing blue lights behind the white van. “What’s happening back there?”

  “Just checking a hunch.”

  Rinnah felt the steam spouting out her ears by the time she tromped up the stairs to the apartment. Her daughter had whined nonstop all the way back, dragging her feet like a cat on a leash. Rinnah finally gave the girl a swat on the behind, which sparked off dry crying on Eve’s part and a spiraling sense of guilt and failure on her own. I’m turning into my parents, she brooded. Chava is just like I was, and now I’m just like them.

  “I don’t see your backpack, Chava,” she said when the apartment door came into view. “Where is it really?”

  “I left it there, Mommy!” Each of Eve’s words came out as a sob. “Really I did.”

  Damn it! She’d be so late for work. Jake must have taken it inside when he left. “We’ll have to look for it, then.”

  Gabir was ready. He’d filled the small duffel with things a burglar might take—some of the woman’s jewelry, an iPod, CDs, a nice man’s watch. For Jews, these people didn’t have much that was valuable. He left the bag on the bed in the rear bedroom, unlatched and cracked open the window leading to the fire escape.

  Keys scraped in the front door lock. Eldar must have returned. Gabir moved to the bedroom door and flipped off the pistol’s safety.

  The white policeman finished with the van, joined his partner, shrugged. The African pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and said, “Give me your cousin’s number.”

  Alayan recited Rafiq’s phone number. He hoped Rafiq remembered the plan.

  Rafiq. Kassim. Had they found Kaminsky yet?

  Forget Kaminsky, he scolded himself. Worry about Eldar. Where’s Gabir?

  “Hello, Mr. Hernandez? This is Officer Jardine of the NYPD. I have someone here who claims to be your cousin…yes, that’s right, Federico Alvarez…nothing, sir, we’re responding to a citizen’s complaint about a suspicious vehicle…18th and Prospect Park West…I see. Thank you for your time, sir.” The policemen stabbed his phone with his thumb and gave Alayan a you-dumb-bastard look. “Your cousin says you’re on the wrong street and you’re an hour early. You’re supposed to be at 505 16th.”

  Alayan hung his head in mock shame, and also to hide the scraps of relief he felt break out on his face. Rafiq had remembered the cover story. “Lo siento, señor.”

  The white policeman handed Alayan his Spanish driver’s license. “Best get moving.”

  “Si, si, I will.” Once Eldar was dead.

  Gabir expected anything but a woman’s voice. “Look in your room, Chava, quickly.”

  Or a child’s. “Yes, Mommy.”

  A sharp dose of something like panic drilled his heart. Now what? Leave? No time; she was walking his way. Hide? Where? There wasn’t that much to the flat—even the closets were tiny. Face her down? He didn’t wear a mask; the whole idea was to let people see a black face run away from the scene, and with the dark makeup his face was certainly black.

  Where was Eldar? Gabir swore to himself. Why did this have to happen now?

  The woman stopped in the doorway, stared at him. Her mouth gapped, a silent “oh.”

  When Eldar returned, she’d warn him. She might call the police. She was in the way and had to go. He raised the gun, aimed at her forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  The police were less than thirty seconds gone when Alayan’s phone bleeped. He flinched, then mashed down the button. “Yes?”

  “The woman came back,” Gabir’s voice reported. “I eliminated her. I’m waiting—”

  “You what?” No no no no, you idiot…

  “I eliminated her. The man isn’t here. How long should I wait for him, sidi?”

  “Get out! Get out now! Someone will report the gunshot, the police are right here! Go, now!” Eldar wasn�
��t there, so Gabir killed the woman instead? Why?

  “Um, yes, sidi.” Gabir’s voice had a tiny shake in it. “What do I do with the child?”

  “The what?”

  “The child, sidi. She’s here, too. She hasn’t seen me yet.”

  Damn damn damn… Her picture flashed in his mind. Adorable. We have to draw the line somewhere. “Leave her, get out! I’ll get you on 17th Street. Get out, damn you, now!”

  TWENTY-NINE: Brooklyn, 1 December

  Jake tried to picture her face. The image wouldn’t focus, as if dirty fingers had smudged his mind’s eye. Rinnah…

  The strip lights in the Kings County Hospital pediatric ER waiting area ought to have been bright, but instead seemed on half-power. Sounds were muffled, far away, despite the crowd of new victims and their companions, doctors and nurses, cleaners, clerks, and cops.

  He stared at the NYPD officer who’d driven him here. The uniform leaned a shoulder against the cream corridor wall, vending-machine coffee cup in hand, chatting with a hospital cop. How could he be so calm? Why wasn’t he looking for the bastard who did this? NYPD glanced back at Jake, gave him a pitying shake of his head, turned away.

  A hard, gray emptiness packed Jake’s brain, blotting out all feeling except the biting cold and the whirlpool in his stomach that splashed bile into his throat. He closed his eyes, dropped his head between his knees. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t. He wanted to get mad, but couldn’t.

  The fat woman next to him left; another big presence replaced her, rocking his plastic chair. The newcomer was quiet for a few moments. “How you doing, kid?”

  Jake willed himself upright, pried open his eyes. Gene’s black wool overcoat spread open, revealing his dark blue double-breasted suit. An NYPD shield in a leather holder hung from the coat’s breast pocket. The sparkle was gone from his uncle’s eyes.

  “I…” Jake couldn’t make his mouth connect with his brain. He worked his jaw a few times before he forced out, “I should feel something. Why can’t I feel anything?”