“Whose idea was this?”
“It…well…we all agreed on it.”
Alayan wrenched away from the now-trembling Persian and kicked the other armchair out of his way. Until that point, Sohrab had said the decisions were his. How convenient the greatest failure was decided by committee. “These police who were waiting for you. Who are they? How did they find you?”
“I don’t know, sidi. The woman was in the car park yesterday, she was the one who shot at me in the van. They must have followed us.”
“And you didn’t notice them on your way?” Alayan growled. He wanted to put his fist through the window. All the plans, all their work… “I’d expect this of Gabir, I don’t expect it of you. You realize what you’ve done, I hope?”
Sohrab shifted his feet nervously, re-squared his shoulders. “Sidi?”
Alayan advanced on Sohrab, fists balled at his side. “All our effort to avoid suspicion—wasted! In the rubbish!” He stomped to a halt directly in front of the Persian, his nose less than a hand’s thickness from Sohrab’s. “It’s already on television! That means the police, the FBI, their spy agencies know who you are. This’ll be headline news around the world! Do you understand what that means?” He paused to drag in a breath. “What happened to them? The Jews?”
Sohrab grimaced. “They escaped, sidi.”
The slap echoed off the room’s walls like a gunshot. Sohrab collapsed on the bed, stunned, holding his cheek. Alayan watched him try to shake off the shock, then commanded, “On your feet!” He waited for Sohrab to scramble back into parade rest. “You ruin this operation and you couldn’t even kill these two miserable Jews?”
“They were warned, sidi. They knew we were there. The woman had a gun. And they’re not civilians, not like the others. They moved like soldiers.”
“Of course they did! The Zionists are all trained soldiers, you idiot! That didn’t stop us from killing the other nine. Why are these two special?”
“They were ready for us.” Sohrab’s left cheek was tomato red, his left eye watering, but the pain in his voice seemed to come from this thought, not the slap.
Alayan turned away, stalked back to the window, watched the mottled overcast flow across the sky. His head was too crowded to allow room for constructive thought. “Tend to the others,” he snapped. “I have to figure out how to salvage this operation. You and I aren’t finished.”
But the team might be, Alayan brooded. So might the mission.
FIFTY: Cherry Hill, 6 December
Gur trawled the half-full parking lot on the north side of the Macy’s at Cherry Hill Mall until flashing headlights drew his attention to a blue Toyota with fogged windows sitting nose-out in a stall. He parked the Suburban two rows away, stepped into the chilly mid-morning air, and plodded to the Camry.
On the drive from Atlantic City, he’d listened with growing alarm to the radio news reports of the shootout at Philadelphia’s train station. His gut had told him his team was in the middle of it. Kelila’s phone call hadn’t helped; all she’d told him was, “It’s bad.”
He slid into the center of the back seat. The doors locked behind him. Inside was close and humid from bodies and tension. “Where’s David?” he asked.
Sasha—slouched in the front passenger’s seat—grumbled, “She left him.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Kelila snapped back. She’d burrowed into the driver’s seat, her arms crossed so tight the veins popped on the back of her visible hand. “Pick him up and carry him?”
“I would have,” Sasha said.
She twisted and bared her fangs at him. “Right. And then what? Let the covers get killed? Let the hostiles get away?”
Sasha swiveled his head and sneered at her. “They got away anyway.”
“At least I shot mine. How’d yours do?”
“Enough, both of you.” Gur leaned between the front seats and loomed over them. They broke off and drooped back into their seats, arms crossed, perfect mirror images. Gur realized he wouldn’t manage a real debriefing here, not with these two sniping at each other. Best for now to go for the bottom line. “What became of David?”
Kelila pressed her palms against the steering wheel, stared at the backs of her hands. “He didn’t make it out. One of the Arabs shot him—that’s what got the whole mess started. The last thing he said, the police were coming for him and he couldn’t get away. I’ve already warned headquarters.”
Truly mixed feelings: relief David was still alive, dread that the police had him. With any luck, they hadn’t questioned him yet. Orgad would be furious. “Eldar and Schaffer?”
“They got out,” Sasha said into the side window. “They took care of themselves pretty good for civilians.”
“Good.” And inconvenient. If Hezbollah couldn’t find the covers, they might decide to cut their losses and escape back into whatever Lebanese sewer they crawled out of. Not a good exchange for losing half his team. “The Arabs?”
Kelila said, “Two wounded. I shot one, and I think Schaffer got the other.”
“Schaffer? Where did she get a weapon?”
“I don’t know, but she had one.” Kelila paused, smirked at Sasha. “I recognized the third one from yesterday. Sasha lost that one in the tunnels.”
“It was dark. The police were coming in. The same reason you let yours go.”
Gur held up a warning hand to halt the imminent bickering. “Only three? You’re sure?”
“Three was enough,” Sasha said.
Where were the rest of them? What else were they up to? Was there another target? Gur would think about that in a while. “Are we blown? Is that why we’re meeting here? Or are you going shopping?”
Kelila wrenched around to glare at Gur, face flushed, her mouth tight enough to snap a shekel coin in half. He’d seen machine-gun fire less intense than her eyes.
Gur held up his hands. “Sorry. A poor try at a joke.”
Kelila thumped back into her seat, banged her head against the headrest, sighed. “We might be blown.” The anger that had overwhelmed her voice just moments before was slipping away, revealing a frustration Gur recognized well from his own past. “We didn’t want to go straight back to the hotel, just in case.”
Sasha glanced at Kelila, then grumped, “I dumped the Pathfinder with a sayan and got this.” His eyes gave Kelila a full dose of contempt. “Just in case.”
“Good thinking.” There would’ve been dozens of cameras in the station, hundreds of witnesses. The police had David and his false ID. The amateur videos were likely already on YouTube. Good God, what a disaster.
Gur fought to keep his face calm. He didn’t need to tell these two how grim the situation was; they’d clearly had too much time to brood about it, never a good idea following a failed action. The “what ifs” and “could have beens” had piled up and turned septic. He’d seen teams wreck themselves this way. That was the biggest danger now, not the police or Hezbollah.
“Stop flogging yourself and each other,” he said. He wanted to sound brisk but not harsh. They didn’t need a scolding. “There’s no point, it’s done, we have bigger problems. Give me your room keys.” Sasha and Kelila dug out their plastic cards and reluctantly handed them over. “I’ll go back to the hotel and look for police, see if anyone’s been in your rooms. If it’s clear, I’ll ring you. Come back, check out, change your looks, then check in at the Crowne Plaza. Use your backup IDs. I’ll follow in an hour or two. I’ll want a full debrief from each of you, then we’ll figure out how to go forward. Any questions?”
Kelila shook her head once, stared down at her hands in her lap. Sasha snorted, huddled tighter against the door, then mumbled “Nyet.”
“Good.” Gur pushed open the left rear door. Before he climbed out, he turned to watch the remains of his team simmer. Their body language screamed “angry” and “frustrated” and “ashamed.” He understood; he’d been where they were now. But they were also professionals, and they’d get past this. He hoped.
/> Gur lurched into the damp cold, then strode off to take his beating from Tel Aviv.
FIFTY-ONE: Crown Heights, Brooklyn, 6 December
Miriam peeked out through the hunter-green curtains of her new bedroom. Below her window lay hibernating flowerbeds flanking the concrete pad that passed for a back yard. A wooden fence with a swinging gate—both needing paint—then the alley, then the backs of the homes on the other side of the block. She knew she was somewhere in Brooklyn, but didn’t know what the front of the place looked like, or even the street name.
A small, hard head knocked into her calf. She scooped Bastet into her arms without looking down. Bastet stared at her with resentful golden eyes, despite the cat’s instant purring. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Miriam cooed as she scratched Bastet between the ears. “Today’s been a bad day for all of us. I asked the nice policeman to get you some tuna.”
Miriam plopped Bastet on the bed and made her way downstairs. In the kitchen, Jake looked up from the Times spread over the pickled-wood table to watch her cross to the cabinets flanking the stove. She couldn’t read his expression. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sorry. Haven’t seen you not wearing a suit or with your hair down, that’s all.”
She’d changed into her nicer black jeans and a tucked-in, long-sleeved cobalt t-shirt. Why was he so surprised to see her in jeans? He’d shed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, but otherwise still wore what he’d had on yesterday. All at once Miriam felt fortunate to have had a few minutes to pack. “Would you like some tea?”
“That’d be great.”
She rummaged through the cabinets, found a brass kettle, checked the inside for dust, then filled it at the sink.
After a moment, he said, “Can you believe this place? It’s like an ‘80s time capsule. My friend Danny Teischman in second grade, his folks did their house like this. Remember this?”
Miriam surveyed the kitchen—tan ceramic tile floor with brown grout, tile counters, white laminate cabinets with oak pull strips, fluorescent lights in a wood-and-plastic enclosure on the ceiling. “Not really. Decorating wasn’t a priority at the kibbutz or in the barracks.”
A gruff voice approached in the back yard, clomped up the steps along with its owner’s feet. Miriam tensed, then eased out of flight mode immediately. The guard was outside smoking, no shots had been fired; it must be okay.
The back door burst open. A large man with a square head atop a square body rolled in, black wool overcoat open over a blue pinstriped suit. A badge flashed from his breast pocket. “Jake!” he called out.
“Gene!” Jake bounced from his chair and embraced his uncle in the middle of the kitchen with a lot of back pounding. They were physically so different, Miriam never would’ve guessed they were related. She lingered by the stove to let them have their reunion undisturbed. She couldn’t help her flash of envy. How long since someone had hugged her when she came home?
Gene held Jake at arm’s length. “Christ, kid, you need a shower or something.”
“What I need is something else to wear. Thanks for putting this together.”
“Thank JTTF, it’s their show. I got your bag in the car.” He broke free and turned to the back door. “Got something for you.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the door. Nothing happened. Gene leaned toward the door and urged, “C’mon, Princess, you’ll be safe here.”
A little girl of about six in jeans and a pink fleece top edged into the opening. Her eyes filled her face, then she dashed across the room.
Jake fell to his knees, let her crash into his waiting arms. “Eve! Bunny! God, I missed you, I’m sorry I was gone so long, I didn’t mean to…” They hugged each other so hard Miriam feared they might suffocate. Her throat knotted up when a tear rolled down Jake’s face as he poured kisses over the girl’s face. “I’m so sorry, Bunny, so sorry, I love you so much…”
Miriam turned away; this was too private. Gene stopped a couple feet from her, leaned back against the counter, hands in his coat pockets, smiling at Jake and Eve. After a moment, he gave Miriam a once-over. “You Schaffer?”
“I am.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “You’re Gene Eldar.”
“Guilty. You’ve had a busy couple days.”
“Yes, I have. We both have.” She glanced toward the pair in the room’s center. Jake stroked Eve’s mop of black hair between hugs. The love on his face almost broke her heart. She felt a pull inside her, a sense of kinship in shared tragedy. “She still isn’t talking?”
Gene folded his arms and shook his head. “You know, kid, you almost didn’t get her back. Monica was redecorating the guest room. Lots of pink and Disney princesses.”
Jake managed a half-smile and pushed a wisp of hair from Eve’s forehead. “Were you a good girl for Aunt Monica?” Eve nodded. Jake kissed her forehead, stood, and led her by the hand toward the stove. “Eve, this is Miriam. She’ll be staying here with us.”
God, she was adorable. Even though her knee protested, Miriam knelt so she could look at Eve face-to-face. The girl’s eyes were Jake’s, but her heart-shaped face, her nose and mouth were straight out of that news photo of her mother. How did Jake feel when he looked at her? Miriam wondered how she’d have held up if she had a son who resembled Bill, reminding her day after day what she’d lost.
“Hi, Eve.” Miriam held out her hand. After a moment of eyeing Miriam with undisguised suspicion, Eve slowly wrapped her delicate little hand around Miriam’s fingers. “Your father’s told me a lot about you. He’s very proud of you.” Eve took her hand back, but her bottomless brown eyes never shifted from Miriam’s face. “Do you like cats?” Eve nodded. “I have a kitty here. Her name’s Bastet. I’ll bet she’ll come see you when she gets done looking around. Would you like that?” Another nod. The girl’s silence spooked Miriam; little kids were never this quiet. She wanted to tell Eve I know you’re hurting, I know how you feel, I’ve been there, too, but didn’t dare, not this soon. Not in front of Jake and his uncle. Instead, she gave the girl a smile and tapped her nose with a fingertip. Standing hurt every bit as much as Miriam expected.
Eve retreated to her father’s side, grabbed a handful of the shirt spilling over his belt, and leaned against his leg.
“Well.” Gene pushed away from the counter. “The Bureau’ll come by in a couple hours, get started with you two. CSU’s cleared the scene at your apartment. I’ll give you the name of some people who clean up, they do good work. Oh, and here.” He pulled a white card from his inside coat pocket, handed it to Jake. “Your ID. Came in yesterday.”
“Thanks.” Jake stared down at the card. “I guess I need to come back to work—”
“You already are. We detailed you to JTTF for this investigation. You’re on the clock, kid.” He bent over to look into Eve’s eyes. “Chava, you take care of your daddy, okay? Keep him out of trouble.” He straightened, looked back over his shoulder. “Ms. Schaffer.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Eldar.”
“Call me Gene. If my crazy nephew here thinks you’re worth getting almost killed for, you must be all right.” He scrubbed the top of Eve’s head with one of his big hands. “Help Chava here keep track of this nut, will you?”
Jake made a face. “Gene…”
“I will.” Miriam stifled a smile. She was still trying to figure out Jake, but she liked his uncle the way she would a large, friendly neighborhood dog. “Thank you for everything.”
Gene waved a hand in either “farewell” or “don’t mention it” and lumbered out of the house.
FIFTY-TWO: Philadelphia, 7 December
Rafiq sat in the Gia Pronto coffehouse at Market and 20th, staring at but not necessarily seeing the great twin gray slabs of Commerce Square on the opposite corner. Only two other people shared the place with him. He nipped at his still-too-hot cappuccino. Being in this place brought back all the good memories from his student days in Washington, memories he wished he had more time to savor.
He’d called Schaf
fer’s law firm, Canby Matheson & Phelps, pretending to be a florist with a delivery for her. She wasn’t there; no surprise. No car at the train station or at her apartment last night, either. She was hiding, probably with Eldar, exactly what Rafiq would do if he’d survived the couple of days they’d been through.
He should report to Alayan, but didn’t feel like it. Car bombs filled his brain.
Last night, Alayan had told him about the deadline. “We have to be finished by midnight of the 22nd,” he’d said on the drive back to the motel from Schaffer’s apartment. “If we’re not, the Council has a backup plan. Car bombs in all five of the countries involved, starting the 23rd.”
Rafiq felt the flare of anger again. How could they be so stupid? They’d all seen the Zionists cause random death in their home towns; it was the brand of insanity they’d hoped the Party had left behind. How could they do this?
The Party would declare war on America. It had done that in 1983, of course, but it was one thing to kill Marines in Lebanon and quite another to attack New York or Washington. If the Americans reacted even half as badly as they had in 2001, the result would make the last war with the Zionists look like a lovers’ quarrel.
A pretty young woman bustled in, all in black except for a bright yellow scarf. Rafiq took no pleasure in watching her as she gave her order to the barista. Would she die in the bombing? How many others like her would be touched by this stupidity?
This lunatic plan wasn’t the only thing that had soured his stomach since hearing the news. Alayan had kept the deadline from them. They had a right to know something this important. He’d always been open with them in the past, told them everything.
Or had he?
What else hadn’t he told them? Was the Party already preparing its usual punishment for failure? If the team didn’t kill Eldar and Schaffer, could they ever go home? Would they ever be safe again? What about their families?
Alayan had made Rafiq promise not to tell the others. If he kept that promise, he’d be just as guilty as Alayan. If he didn’t, the secret could blast the team apart. They deserved to know. But could they handle it?
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