Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  The plan was unraveling in front of him.

  Kassim bolted from his seat and charged toward the open door. Time to finish this.

  “Move in!” Gur shouted into the radio. “Move in!”

  “That’s Eldar!” Amzi’s voice bellowed from Gur’s radio. “He’s got a gun!”

  Gur tumbled from the Suburban, raised his binoculars. He couldn’t see past the van.

  Amzi couldn’t be right. There was no reason Eldar should be here. But what if he was? And with a gun?

  What will he do when he sees us?

  It hadn’t been hard for Jake to find Miriam’s car. He’d lurked in the nearby alley, running down his phone’s charge talking to a still-silent Eve, until the van pulled into position.

  The few seconds it took to reach Miriam lasted for hours.

  Miriam yelled, “Jake! In the van!”

  He looked up in time to see a man in a heavy coat just inside the van’s rear doors, raising a pistol.

  Jake’s training came back all at once. He snapped up the gun he’d taken from Miriam’s attacker, fired twice into the center of mass. The man inside the van collapsed backward.

  Miriam’s attacker bellowed in Arabic as he crashed his shoulder into Jake’s side. Jake staggered back two steps into the open van door, blasted out a lungful of air.

  A bullet thunked through the van’s wide-open door, just inches from Jake’s head.

  “Jake! Another one! He followed me!”

  Harah, Amzi thought, great place for a firefight.

  Eldar had a gun, fired twice, the shots echoing sharp and hard off the brick walls. Shooting at who? Is he in on it? Put ‘em both down, get it sorted later.

  Amzi jinked to his right, took cover behind a car. The van’s open back door shuddered. He aimed, fired, scrambled to the next car, fired again.

  The Arab’s attack took Jake off-guard. But the man fumbled a follow-up punch, his fist glancing off Jake’s ribs. Jake was too revved to feel it. He smashed the pistol butt down on the Arab’s head, once, twice, three times, shoved him away, then whipped the barrel across the man’s face. Jake staggered back a step to get his footing. Miriam appeared up next to him, aimed a small metal canister and shot of stream of pepper spray into the man’s eyes and mouth. The Arab screamed and tumbled into the back of the van.

  Another bullet winged off the door latch. Jake pushed Miriam behind an SUV for cover, dropped flat, peered beyond the rear tire. A big guy in a green coat a few yards away, pistol aimed across the hood of a car. Jake saw a flash.

  How many are there?

  Green Coat circled the car’s nose and scrambled for the next. Too slow.

  He made a big target.

  “Amzi’s down!” Kelila’s voice on the radio, high and fast. Gur watched her burst out from between the parked cars, weapon ready, head snapping back and forth.

  “Who got him?” Gur demanded.

  “Couldn’t see.”

  Gur crouched behind a car at the lot’s eastern end, tried to figure out what was happening. Where was Schaffer? What the hell was Eldar doing here?

  Jake watched Green Coat go down, checked for the next threat. Nothing obvious. He lunged upright, pistol sweeping the lot.

  “Come on!” he shouted, holding out his hand. “Let’s get out of here!”

  She didn’t hesitate.

  By the time they reached the driveway ten yards away, they were running at full speed.

  Gur saw them pelt around a corner as if all the bulls in Pamplona were after them. The man was definitely Eldar, and definitely armed.

  The drizzle roared into rain. Someone in a black bomber jacket popped up from behind a car near the van, dashed through the murk to the driver’s door, leaped in, screeched away.

  Kelila stepped forward, pumped shot after shot into the windshield. The driver swerved the van’s punctured nose at her. An unfamiliar panic shot through Gur. He sprung to his feet, screamed “No!” and ran toward her.

  The van was right on top of her. She stood her ground, fired a round low, into the grille.

  “Move!” Gur roared. “Get out!”

  At the last moment, Kelila threw herself onto the hood of the silver sedan behind her, then rolled off out of sight. The van jerked away, picking up speed.

  Gur put three shots through the driver’s side of the windshield in a tight group. Blood spattered the side window. He dived into a pickup truck’s bed just as the van whooshed past, a sliver away. It jolted out the driveway and blasted down Ludlow, disappearing into the now-pouring rain.

  David dashed into the lot, pistol at ready, as Gur stood up. “Sir! What happened?”

  “Get the car!” Gur jumped to the asphalt. “Pick up Natan and Amzi! Now! Go!” He splashed toward the last place he’d seen Kelila, mashing down the radio button as he ran. “Sasha, do you see them?”

  “Yes, they turned left at 20th. I’m on them.”

  Let Sasha go? Bring him back? “Stay with them. Don’t go back to the hotel until you hear from me, understand?”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Distant, whining sirens closed in. Good God, what a disaster. A firefight in downtown Philadelphia, two men down, the Arabs escaped. Schaffer and Eldar on the run.

  Kelila leaned back against the sedan that had saved her life, breathing hard, wet hair plastered to her face. “Are you okay?” he asked, out of breath.

  She nodded. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Yes, we do.” The Suburban heaved to a halt next to Amzi’s still form. Gur’s reactions collided: relief that Kelila was unhurt, anger that Amzi was flat and bleeding. “Pick up your casings. We’ve got to clean up this mess.”

  FORTY-TWO: Philadelphia, 5 December

  They sprinted down Van Pelt—an oversized alley hemmed in by red brick—until Miriam yelled, “Hold on! Stop!”

  Jake twisted to look behind him. “What? Are you hurt?”

  “I can’t run in these heels!”

  He buttoned his raincoat against the enthusiastic rain while he waited for her to catch up.

  Miriam palmed the streams of melting mascara and blush from her face, craned to look over her shoulder. “I don’t see anyone behind us.”

  “Come on, let’s get out of this.”

  They squelched down Sansom Street until they found a broad overhang in front of the tan-brick-and-gray-marble Weinstein Geriatric Center. There they huddled against the locked front door, catching their breath, dripping on their shoes. The rain pounded the street in front of them. The gun in Jake’s pocket weighed down the right side of his coat. He zeroed in on every passing car, searching for anyone too interested in them, hoping to see them first.

  “You okay?” Jake finally asked. He couldn’t push the shake from his voice.

  “Yes. My neck hurts.” She frowned at him. “I thought you were going home.”

  He studied the iron railing in front of them. “I was worried about you, so I waited. Then the van showed up.”

  If he’d gone home, Miriam would be dead. He’d shot two men for a woman he didn’t know. Jake took stock of her face. Blinking too fast, jaw working, eyes focused a mile away.

  More silence. Then she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Yeah.” The adrenaline was nearly gone from Jake’s system, replaced by rising fear and the awful realization he was a killer—again. The more he thought about it, the sicker he felt. He hadn’t planned any of this. He could’ve died back there, left Eve alone. Was Miriam worth it?

  Was it just about her? The asshole who attacked Miriam—did he shoot Rinnah? Did the big bruiser by the car? Had he struck back? Did it matter?

  “Are you okay?”

  He nodded, too quickly. “Fine. They didn’t touch me.”

  “Jake.” She grabbed his coat sleeve, turned him to face her. “You just shot two men. Are you okay?”

  She had to remind him? He tried to think of something brave to say, but eventually went with “No.”

  “At least you’re honest.” M
iriam let go of his sleeve, smoothed out the creases with a shaking hand. She shouldered deeper into her coat. “So what’s the next part of your plan?”

  “What plan?”

  “Don’t say that!” she snapped. “I need to know there’s a plan, it’s the way I am.”

  A shadow of something flitted through her eyes before she could hide it—fear. For an instant, she looked vulnerable. Then her eyes hardened again. She looked away, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. Back on parade.

  Jake sighed. “Sorry.” Long pause. “I’m a little out of practice with this kind of thing.”

  “So am I.”

  He waited for her to explain. “What did you do for your national service?”

  “Magav.”

  “Border Police?”

  She turned her head fractionally. “Is that a problem?”

  “Noooo. Explains how you kicked the shit out of that guy.”

  “Not well enough.” She heaved out a sigh. “I should’ve taken him down.”

  They watched the rain settle from a deluge into a steady shower. Jake’s mind kept running the action over and over. Rifle fire at long range was a lot different from a pistol up close and personal. Bile sloshed in the back of his throat, but he didn’t dare throw up in front of Miriam. “The cops are probably there by now.”

  “Probably.”

  “I need to turn myself in.”

  Miriam looked his way. “Are you sure you want to do that?” Her voice was gentler than he’d expected from someone as tough as she seemed to be.

  “There were witnesses. Someone’ll put my picture on TV. I’d better go in under my own power.” He tried to give her a brave smile. “You can walk away if you want.”

  She shook her head. Her eyes were softer than at any time since he’d met her, leather instead of wood. Her lips weren’t pressed flat anymore, either. “I’ll go with you. It’s the least I can do. I can tell them what happened, that you only did what you had to.”

  “Thanks.” The condors circled Jake’s gut again. He took a deep breath, swallowed the rock in his throat, and fought to smother the mental picture of Eve visiting him in jail. “Walk you to your car?”

  FORTY-THREE: South Philadelphia East, 5 December

  Alayan’s bowels clutched when the van’s shattered, nearly opaque windscreen glinted in the headlights, framed by the dark bulk of the Whitman Bridge looming over the ragged dirt lot on Philadelphia’s seaport. Rafiq guided their van through a careful arc, stopped when their lights picked out two figures huddled in the front seats. Alayan was out of the vehicle before it stopped.

  Ziyad tumbled out the van’s passenger-side door, limped toward Alayan. The harsh bluish lights turned the blood on his face gray. “Sidi, I—”

  “Where is he?”

  Ziyad bowed his head, turned and pushed open the cargo door. Alayan drifted to the opening, looked down. A primeval sound escaped his throat.

  Kassim lay on his back in a pool of congealed blood, arms at his side, head lolled to his left. Thankfully, someone had closed his eyes. Blood caked the chest of his heavy sweater. Alayan could smell it—sharp, metallic, slightly sweet.

  He crouched in the doorway, reached out, hesitated, then brushed the matted hair off Kassim’s face. He ignored Sohrab’s grunt as he lurched out of the driver’s seat. He ignored Ziyad’s babbling next to him. He ignored the press of eyes staring at his back.

  You’re not supposed to die, he silently told Kassim. I need your help. I need your friendship. I need you to tell me when I’m wrong. What do I do now?

  Someone appeared to his left, put his hand on Alayan’s shoulder—Rafiq, looking graver than ever before. “I’m sorry, sidi,” he whispered. “He was a good man.”

  Alayan nodded, turned back to Kassim, bowed his head. I’ll cry for you, my friend, he thought as his tears splashed at the blood pool’s edge. There’s no one else left to cry for.

  “Get him out of there,” Rafiq told the others. “Break out the windshield. Bullet holes make the police curious. Unlock all the doors and leave the keys in it. Throw the license plates in the water.” Quiet. Then, “Get moving. We can’t stay here.”

  Rafiq returned to the van, gripped Alayan’s arm, tugged gently. “Come on, sidi. Let the men work.”

  Alayan let himself be led away from Kassim’s body. He recalled the years they’d known each other, the good times. All gone. Alayan’s past was finally gone, too; Kassim was the last person who’d known him the way he was before he took up this new calling.

  “What…what do we do with him?” Rafiq asked.

  “We have to bury him,” Alayan croaked. “Properly. Say prayers.”

  “We’ll have to find a mosque.”

  “Yes.” A sudden swell of anger surged through him. “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know, sidi.” Rafiq stopped, turned toward the crowd surrounding the van. “Ziyad? Who shot him?”

  “The Jew Eldar. He did it.”

  Alayan wrenched his arm from Rafiq’s grasp, swung on Ziyad. “Eldar? What are you talking about?”

  “It was Eldar, sidi, truly, he was there…”

  Sorrow and rage collided in Alayan’s brain, threw off sparks. He charged Ziyad, caught him by the throat, slammed him against the van’s side. “That’s impossible! Don’t lie, you worm! Who did this really? Why didn’t you protect him? Why’d you let him die?”

  “It’s true, sidi! It’s true! It was Eldar, he was there, I swear before Allah…”

  Two pairs of arms dragged Alayan off Ziyad, hauled him out of reach, held him fast when he tried to break away. He wanted to hurt something, someone, he didn’t care who or what. Someone was going to pay. “Why was he there?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, but he was, he was.” Ziyad slid down the door into a crouch, hugged himself, began to cry. “The woman put chemicals in my eyes, and he did this to my face and shot Kassim. We barely got away from the police—”

  “The police? You saw the police there?”

  “Yes! Yes. They shot at us.” Ziyad rocked back and forth, sobbing, his shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry, sidi, I’m sorry, Eldar and the woman escaped—”

  “Kassim died and the woman’s still alive?” Alayan roared. “He died for nothing?”

  Rafiq grabbed both of Alayan’s arms and shook him once, hard. “Stop it!” he hissed. “This isn’t helping!” He pointed to the second van. “Go sit down. We’ll leave in a couple minutes.”

  Alayan looked up into Rafiq’s eyes. There was nothing lazy about them now. Where did this new attitude come from? No matter; Alayan was too gutted to fight it.

  He stumbled to the second van, crawled into the passenger seat and let sorrow’s deadness wash over him. Tonight he’d let Rafiq take the burden. Alayan had to remember the dead, everyone who’d left him behind. Especially Kassim.

  And tomorrow, he’d plan his revenge.

  FORTY-FOUR: East Parkside, Philadelphia, 5 December

  “No, I need this now!” Gur yelled into his secure cell phone. “I have two men down! I need a sayan who’s a doctor in the Philadelphia area.”

  He could hear the duty officer in Tel Aviv do a double-take. “In America?”

  “Yes, in America. Now, damn it!”

  They’d shuttled from one major highway to another, not going anywhere, just moving. He had no idea where they were. Philadelphia’s suburbs had turned into a blanket of lights, the traffic around them only shapes marked by headlights and tail lights.

  The Suburban reeked of blood, wet wool, and anger. Gur checked Kelila: intent on her driving, grim-faced, jaw set. Behind him, Natan lay flat on the bench seat, wheezing, eyes closed, a dressing pressed to his bloody forehead. Behind him, David bent over a hidden Amzi. David looked up at Gur, shook his head. Kusemek!

  “Raffi?”

  Of all the voices he’d expected to hear on the phone, Orgad’s wasn’t among them. “Chaim? What are you doing in the office? It’s past one there.”

  “We’
re all working late. What happened? Why do you need a doctor?”

  “Just give me a name. We’re driving in circles on the highway so we’re not a static target.”

  “Fine. Philip Strassberger, 215-383-1095. Use the name Solomon.” Gur copied the number and code name on a fast-food napkin, thrust it toward David. “What happened?”

  The last thing Gur wanted right now was to spit out a status report. “First, there really is a hit team. We engaged them in downtown Philadelphia while they were trying to snatch one of the covers. We think two of them are down, but Natan is injured and Amzi’s dead.”

  “Damn!” The scrambled signal turned Orgad’s huffing into the wheeze of a hospital ventilator. “Police?”

  David called out, “University of Pennsylvania Medical Center, on Spruce Street.” Kelila punched the destination into the GPS unit they’d Velcroed to the dashboard.

  “No police. We cleaned up and got out before they arrived.”

  “Are you still in contact?”

  “Sasha’s following them. I need an airplane to take Natan and Amzi home and at least two replacements, more if possible. Anatoly and—”

  “No, Raffi, no more people. You’re a sideshow now.”

  Gur considered that for a moment as they plunged down a long, dark offramp. “What? We’re in contact with a Hezbollah hit team, in America, and we’re a…” He glanced at the team; two pairs of eyes stared back. He wouldn’t repeat the word. “What’s happened?”

  “The German Federal Police shut down a Hezbollah cell this morning. In Hamburg, of course. They were preparing two car bombs, and by ‘preparing,’ I mean they had everything they needed, just not assembled.”

  Gur closed his eyes. “Erika Grusst.” The German cover for Sara Tuchman on the Doha surveillance team.

  “Exactly. This is the start of the real revenge campaign, Raffi. We’re sending people out the door every hour. And you think we can send you replacements?”

  “But—”

  “Get by with what you have. We’re good at that, we’ve done it for thousands of years. I’ll arrange an airplane for Natan and Amzi. Damned shame. Now, I have work. Good night.”