Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  Rafiq couldn’t sit anymore. He lurched out of the chair, peeked out the tan curtains at the dark carpet of flat-roofed warehouses below him.

  That damned deadline. Rafiq had rented the garage space and the rooms Alayan had asked for. He’d almost refused. He should have refused; who else would Alayan send, Gabir? Sohrab, who could barely speak English? So if the truck bomb exploded, Rafiq would be just as much to blame as whoever pushed the button.

  He’d never been part of a martyrdom operation. He’d never wanted to. What had lured him from the Party’s intelligence group into direct action was the style of operation Alayan advocated—focused, accurate, efficient, with a minimum of collateral damage. The very opposite of what was about to happen. The Party was abandoning its proud adulthood and regressing into its wild-eyed adolescence.

  Rafiq shook his head for the hundredth time today. Could he go down this road?

  True, he had reasons to be grateful to the Party. They’d chased those traitorous South Lebanon Army bastards off his family’s land and thrown the Zionists out of southern Lebanon. Of course, they destroyed his childhood home and wrecked the orchards in the process, but for that he blamed the SLA. The Party built bunkers and a storage depot on the farm’s edges, inviting periodic Zionist shelling that made recovery impossible. The Party considered his uncle politically unreliable for some reason, hobbling his trading business already crippled by the endless war in the south. Rafiq’s once-wealthy family now scraped by in a pair of flats in Sour.

  Was loyalty to the Party worth his soul?

  It would be easy to call the police, tell them about suspicious people in the motel and the nearby garage on that industrial strip in North Bergen. He’d almost done it three times since last night. Each time he’d pulled back, afraid they’d somehow trace the call and he’d end up wearing an orange jumpsuit in that dungeon in Guantanamo for helping kill four Americans.

  Two light raps on the door broke him out of his thoughts. He glanced toward Eve; still asleep. Rafiq hurried to the door, cupped his hand around the spyhole, peeled back the tape. Alayan stood outside, his head swiveling nervously left and right.

  Rafiq undid the chain, eased open the door. “What is it? It’s after two.”

  “And you’re still awake.”

  Rafiq let him slip inside. Alayan stopped at the end of the little entry hall, peeked at the lump in the far bed’s coverlet, then turned to face Rafiq. “Ziyad’s missing,” he whispered. “His car’s gone, too.”

  More paranoia? “What do you mean ‘missing’? Did you call him?”

  “Of course I did,” he snapped. “He doesn’t answer. Gabir swept the area around the hotel but didn’t see anything. I’m going out with Sohrab now to search.”

  Rafiq stopped to think. Did Ziyad just run off? No; he’d never choose to stay here. Did the police arrest him? Maybe; if so, they were all in immediate danger. Or did Eldar and Schaffer get him? A couple of weeks ago, he wouldn’t have considered that possible, but they’d proved themselves far more capable than anyone could’ve foreseen.

  “Are we still going into the hotel at four?” Rafiq asked.

  Alayan’s eyes filled with frustration. “No. We can’t risk walking into a room full of policemen. We need to find out what happened to Ziyad first.”

  Rafiq felt more relief than he’d expected. “When do we leave this place?”

  “We’re not. Ziyad might try to come back here. You stay with the girl, I’ll call with any news.”

  “But if the police have him—”

  “It doesn’t matter, we’re not leaving. There’s no need.”

  No need? Rafiq held up his hands in surrender; fighting with Alayan would just make the man erupt. Staying would give Rafiq more time to think.

  Alayan took one more look at the far bed, then abruptly turned his back on it. “I won’t make you kill her, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll do it myself if it comes to that.”

  Rafiq stared at the floor, trying to hide his shock. The Alayan he’d known would never threaten such a thing. The man was falling apart. The operation was falling apart.

  Rafiq had to decide where to be when it imploded.

  SEVENTY-FOUR: Sunset Park, Brooklyn, 22 December

  Alayan yawned, rubbed his eyes, turned his attention back to the parked cars around them. Lots of Toyotas, some white, none the right one. Where was that donkey? He was too tired to be angry anymore. At this point, he just wanted to know what happened to Ziyad.

  Sohrab braked for the light at 8th Avenue next to a forlorn Chinese grocery. The approaching sunrise faded the streetlight-yellow night sky to lavender and outlined the flat roofs of the frowsy two- and three-story brick buildings surrounding them.

  Alayan’s phone trilled twice before he realized it was ringing. He checked his screen and jolted wide awake. “Ziyad, you stupid son of a whore, where in hell are you? You idiot, you know that—”

  “I’m not Ziyad.”

  An American voice. Police? FBI? Now he was wide awake with ice trickling down his neck. In English he said, “Who then? Who are you?”

  “Jake Eldar.”

  Eldar? Alayan punched the mute button, snapped “Pull over” at Sohrab, tried to think what this meant. After a few moments of flailing, he turned off the mute. “Mr. Eldar, a good morning to you. Where is Ziyad, please?”

  “I’ve got him. You Alayan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have my daughter.”

  How much did Ziyad tell Eldar? “I can talk to Ziyad, please?”

  “Not until I get Eve back. Has your boy Rafiq done anything to her?”

  How many of their names did the Jew know? What else did he know? Their hotel? Their plans? “No, he is making her okay, good.” He hated trying to speak English for long stretches of time; it got all tangled up in his other languages. “S’il vous plait, parlez-vous français?”

  “Atah medaber Ivrit?”

  Actually, Alayan did speak a smattering of Hebrew, but damned if he’d use it here. He signaled wildly to Sohrab for a pen and paper. “English, yes? You want what?”

  “A trade. Your boy Ziyad for my daughter.”

  So obvious it was almost disappointing, but not a bad move anyway. Sohrab handed him a fast-food napkin and a pencil; Alayan scribbled “Call Gabir—Jews still in hotel?” and handed back the napkin. “If we come there, we just take him, yes?”

  “You really think we’d hang around? We’re not in the hotel anymore.”

  Not if Ziyad told them about the plan. Damn that dog! “If no deal, you are killing him?”

  “Tempting, but no. He broke pretty easy, Alayan. I’ll give him to NYPD, let them take him apart. I’ll bet pretty soon he won’t shut up. Bad news for you, huh?”

  “Wait, please.” Alayan stabbed the mute button and let fly a string of curses. He needed a few seconds to make sense of the situation, to try to grab some control.

  Sohrab looked on, wide-eyed, hand over his cellphone’s mouthpiece. “Sidi? What is it?”

  “Not now. What did Gabir say?”

  “He hasn’t seen anyone leave except two whores, but there’s no way to tell what happened after Ziyad left.”

  Alayan last spoke to Ziyad just before midnight. The Jews must have got him sometime in the following two hours, enough time to take his car and go almost anywhere.

  How bad would it be to lose Ziyad to the police? If they could eliminate the two Jews, the rest of the team could leave the country immediately, and Ziyad would be of no use to the Americans except as a trophy. The child was worth a great deal more than Ziyad. A cold calculation, but that was his job. He un-muted. “Mr. Eldar? You can be keeping Ziyad, I think. I trade the child for another thing, yes?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, and the woman.” Silence. Didn’t expect that, did you? “The child, I do not want. Meet me, I make her go, we finish, you and the woman. Yes?”

  Eldar breathed into the phone for a few moments. “Can’t spe
ak for Miriam. She’s not here, we split up. We didn’t want to make it easy for you.”

  True? Hard to tell. “We see her with you there. She is with you, yes?”

  “No. It’s just me. You want her, you find her.”

  This was a complication Alayan didn’t need. He became aware of Sohrab frowning at him. Did he disapprove of giving up Ziyad? Too bad. “You not come? You both not come? No reason for the child, yes?”

  He could hear Eldar thinking on the other end of their phone connection. Would he trade his life for his daughter’s? What sort of man was he really?

  “I’ll come,” Eldar said. “That’s all I can give you.”

  So the Jew was willing to sacrifice himself. That was good to know; it meant he was more dangerous than they’d imagined. “You and the woman, or nothing.”

  “I can’t speak for Miriam. Only she can do that.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Eldar.” Alayan killed the call before either of them could say another word. It was the right place to stop, with the threat hanging over the child’s head. Could Eldar convince the woman to give up her life too for the sake of the little girl?

  “Go to the Jews’ hotel,” he ordered Sohrab. “Let’s see if the man’s a liar.”

  “What was that last part about?” Miriam asked.

  Jake stopped pacing the asphalt Sunset Park footpath and watched the lights of Manhattan wink out as night became dawn. He and Rinnah had come here in the summer to swim and sit on the lawn and look at the view. Now the trees hunched gray and dormant, the shaggy grass limp and pale, as if someone had turned down the color gain on the picture. Winter? Or did this place miss Rinnah as much as he did? “He wants us both, or he’ll kill Eve.”

  “He said he’d kill her?”

  “Not in so many words. His English isn’t great, but I got his meaning. He doesn’t care if we give Ziyad to the PD. He must be getting desperate.” His mind refused to connect “desperate killer” and “Eve” in the same sentence. He had to stomp down the fear so the anger could come, carry him through what was ahead.

  Miriam’s shoulders sagged. She looked toward a tanker lumbering across upper New York Bay but focused on something much farther away. “I guess he gets us both, then.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “I can’t let you do that.” Jake took Miriam’s arm and turned her to face him. “She’s my daughter. If I decide to do something stupid to save her, it’s my business. I won’t drag you—”

  “You’re not dragging me. I’m worried about her too. I can—”

  “No. I may not come back, understand? I can’t let you do this.”

  “Let me?” A flash of the pre-Ziyad Miriam of a few hours before returned. She drew herself up to her full height and squared her jaw. “It’s not your decision, Jake. You’re not my father, you’re not my husband, you’re—”

  “Look, I—”

  “Just shut up and let me talk. I make my own decisions, okay? First, this idea that you’re going to walk in there and let them kill you is just…” she fished for words with her right hand “…macho army bullshit. Really, I thought you had more sense. Eve’s already lost her mother, she can’t lose her father, too. If you go there alone, they’ll kill you, and then they’ll kill Eve, and then they’ll come after me. Besides, we’re a team, or at least I thought we were.”

  This wasn’t an argument he’d wanted to have, but knowing her the way he did now, he wasn’t surprised it was happening. He sighed, looked into her eyes. They’d have been brown marble a couple weeks ago, but now they flashed with a mix of determination and concern.

  “Yeah, we’re a team.” He squeezed her other arm just below her shoulder. “They’re not going to let us get away this time. They know what we can do.”

  “They didn’t ‘let us’ get away before, but we did.” She cupped his elbow with her left hand. “And even if we don’t, at least Eve will be safe. I will not leave her with those animals, and I won’t stand by and let her get killed. I just won’t.”

  “Miriam…if anything happens to you, all this has been a waste. All of it.”

  She shook her head. “None of this has been a waste.”

  They stood face-to-face, less than a foot of air between them, for the better part of a minute before Jake said, “Any way I can change your mind?”

  “I’m a sabra. We’re born stubborn. Didn’t Rinnah teach you anything?”

  This was so wrong. Miriam was volunteering to die for him and Eve. If she was hurt or killed, he’d never be able to face himself again. But if anything happened to Eve, he’d walk in front of a bus. What a choice. The more he thought, the fewer options he could see. He released her arms, brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Call him.”

  She gave him a brave smile. “Give me the number.”

  Jake read it off Ziyad’s directory, then wandered a few yards away while Miriam placed the call. He couldn’t listen to her volunteer to sacrifice herself. He considered Ziyad’s phone for a moment, then pushed in the main number for JTTF and asked for the man who’d been his supervisor for the fourteen days in the safe house.

  “Menotti.”

  “Hi, boss. Jake Eldar.”

  Pause. “Jake, where the hell are you? We’re all over the place, trying to find you.”

  “Never mind. I got time to say this once. First, there’s a Hezbollah agent named Ziyad al-Amin in the trunk of a white Camry at 676 46th Street at 7th Av in Brooklyn. It’s the only one with two windows busted out. He’s yours if you get there right now. Can’t guarantee how long he’ll be there. He’ll need a doctor.”

  “Hezbollah? Seriously?” Fingers rubbed the mouthpiece on the other end of the line, but didn’t entirely block Menotti’s urgent, muffled command to someone near him. “What’s this—”

  “Second. This number belongs to al-Amin’s cell phone. Wherever he got it, there should be at least five others bought at the same time. Track it down.”

  “Damn good work.” A couple blocks away, three police sirens exploded the quiet. “Where can we pick you up? You—”

  “Not yet. Miriam and I have to stay out of sight for a while. I’ll call later with more.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry about all this, sir. I’ll explain later, I’ll make up the time.”

  Menotti coughed out a laugh. “Jesus, you keep handing us terrorists, you’re on the clock, don’t worry. But Jake—you gotta come in sometime, you know?”

  “I know. I’ll be in touch.”

  Miriam stood nearby, just out of earshot, her hands clasped in front of her hips. So calm, after what she’d just done. No matter what happened to them, he’d never forget this moment.

  Jake slowly closed the distance, trying to read her face. It revealed nothing. “Well?”

  “He’ll call you with the arrangements.” She flinched when another police siren cooked off nearby. “He’s a smug bastard, isn’t he?”

  “He can afford to be. He’s getting what he wants.”

  “Hm.” Miriam continued to watch the Manhattan skyscrapers change color in the delicate, shifting light. “So what happens now?”

  “Now we figure out how to save Eve. Then we finish these assholes.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE: Park Slope, Brooklyn, 22 December

  “Mr. Kaminsky?”

  “Mr. Eldar, is it?” Kaminsky switched to Hebrew. “Please, call me Stuart. Are you well? Were you involved in that police shooting in Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah, that was us.” Jake took a deep breath, checked the subway platform to see if anyone other than Miriam was close enough to hear. “Hezbollah’s got my daughter.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. How can I help?”

  “We need a sniper.”

  Gur unloaded three tall coffees on the black laminate table overlooking the street and slumped into his chair. Kelila half-heartedly dragged away a cup; Sasha stared at his through eyes crimson with fatigue. “How many places so far?” Gur asked Kelila.

  “Sixty-seven.” />
  “A prime number,” Sasha volunteered.

  Gur glanced at him—sleep-deficit dementia?—then back to Kelila. The rings around her eyes could stand in for eyeshadow. “Where does that leave us?”

  She took a long draw on her coffee, then wrestled with her folded-up street map of Brooklyn and the list of hotels. For a few moments, it looked as if the map would win. Little wonder; none of them had slept since the shootout at the NYPD safe house, and they’d covered most of the northern half of Brooklyn on foot or by taxi. “North and east are dead ends unless we go farther out on Long Island,” she said. “West is done. So that leaves us with south. There’s three on 39th—Day’s Inn, Kings and Hamilton—the Avenue Plaza on 47th and 13th Avenue, the Park House on 48th, the Sleep Inn on 49th. And a few others.”

  “Maybe they’re gone,” Sasha said. “Left the city.”

  “They’re here somewhere,” Gur said. He hoped volume would sound like confidence. “As long as Hezbollah has the child, the covers will stay close. Kelila, would you leave if someone took Hasia?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Neither would I. They’re here.”

  But where? Eldar and Schaffer weren’t stupid enough to go to the obvious places—Eldar’s flat, his uncle’s hospital. Friends? A synagogue?

  Gur nipped at his coffee and stared into the depths of the Park Slope Starbucks. Well-kept mothers with babies or toddlers surrounded them, chattering to each other, maneuvering tank-like prams past the busy tables. Oblivious to what was happening beyond the coffeehouse’s walls. Not knowing—or caring—about the terrible things that happened to people just like them.

  “Why are we always chasing these people?” Sasha grumped. “Why can’t we get in front of them for a change?”

  Kelila gave him a disgusted look. “If you have a plan, let’s hear it.”

  “You like this shit? Looking like idiots?”