Doha 12

by Lance Charnes

  “Baise!” Berton gasped.

  The van slammed into a man in a black suit, sent him flying into the now-screaming crowd, then plowed over a woman already on the ground. People scattered like gazelle from a cheetah. Those closest to the Palais stampeded toward the grand staircase.

  Berton clamped his arms around Celeste’s waist, then flung them both to the floor behind the column’s base.

  A flash. A thunderclap.

  Every pane in every window behind them turned to dust and daggers. Then a hail of tiny projectiles smashed against the columns and walls—the sound a “snick” times a thousand—spraying stone chips and steel throughout the portico. Berton covered a sobbing Celeste’s head and face as best he could, caught something sharp in his elbow, felt a slice across his cheek. The bloody, riddled body of an usher collapsed next to him. Shrieks drowned the crackle of fire.

  Berton glanced down at the marble floor beneath him. A silver ball bearing, chipped on one side, lay just beside Celeste’s trembling shoulder. He flicked it away.

  Just beyond the column, a battlefield stretched to the street.

  EIGHTY-FOUR: Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 23 December, 9:40 AM

  Gur checked the number on his mobile’s screen, then thumbed the “answer” button. “Kelila?”

  “Where are you?”

  He squinted through the windshield at the street signs across the road from his parking place. “Kent and Hooper in Brooklyn, by one of the ugliest temples I’ve ever seen. It’s like an aircraft hangar but with less style.” Still, according to the list of potential targets he’d received from headquarters, Kehilas Yetev Lev was one of the largest Haredi synagogues in the world, capable of seating up to 4,300 people.

  “When are you coming back?”

  Gur finally caught the anxiety in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  She joggled her phone, sucked in a breath. “About ten minutes ago, another bomb went off outside the Palais Brongniart in Paris. There—”

  “What’s that?”

  “It used to be the Paris Bourse. There was some kind of Christmas party there. The news is saying ‘dozens dead,’ but there’s nothing concrete so far.”

  “How does that fit the pattern?”

  “It doesn’t!” Kelila’s frustration blasted through the tinny connection. “It’s the old Exchange, Jews in finance, I don’t know, it just happened.”

  Gur sagged against the Taurus’ driver’s seat, stared at the beige-and-brown slab of a temple without seeing it. This, and the Anne Frank House? It made no sense at all. “All right, check it out. Have the police released Eldar and Schaffer yet?”

  “No. Sasha’s getting nervous, he’s afraid he’ll be spotted.” She sighed. “Raffi, they’ve probably told the police everything they know by now.”

  “Are you willing to risk having the locals botch another raid?” he snapped. “That they’d miss something we might see? We need to talk to them.”

  “We’re wasting time!” she spat back. “It’s going on ten. Sasha’s fighting to stay awake, and I’m useless here in the hotel. We need a plan, not whatever this mess is.”

  Gur knew he deserved the rebuke. They all were tired; he needed to be more focused. “Sorry. You’re right. Go keep Sasha awake. The minute Eldar and Schaffer leave the precinct, bring them in. Don’t let them say ‘no.’ I’ll be back soon.”

  Once Kelila cut the connection, Gur squeezed his gritty eyes closed. Kelila was right: they were wasting time, and they needed a plan. He considered the next temple on his list, Shaare Zion, a Syrian congregation; damned unlikely Hezbollah would dare touch that, given how deep they were into Syria’s pocket. He certainly wasn’t going to drive all the way out to that crazy shtetl in the exurbs to look at what supposedly was the largest—and most obscure—temple in America. Given Amsterdam and Paris, were synagogues even on the agenda anymore?

  They needed more information. A break. More time. Anything but this shitty hand Orgad dealt them.

  He checked his watch. Nine hours before sunset. Nine hours to stop a disaster.

  EIGHTY-FIVE: 23 December, 10:40 AM

  Four men stared up at the imposing building across the street.

  “The pictures don’t do it justice, do they?” al-Shami said. He’d looked at so many pictures of this place, being here seemed strange. His first face-to-face confrontation with the target always felt surreal.

  Mahir calmly looked around them, at the hurrying cars and tall buildings, the milky sky and the colorful banners hanging from the lamp posts. “That’s the entry?”

  Al-Shami noticed the dullness in the man’s drooping eyes. He was on his pain medication again. “Yes. Once you’re inside, pick the right time to detonate. Remember, your goal isn’t to kill as much as it is to frighten. We need the people to panic and leave the building quickly. Haroun will take care of them once they’re outside.”

  Mahir nodded slowly. If the plan caused him difficulty, he didn’t show it. Then again, he’d had plenty of time to become used to the reality of dying.

  “What do you want me to do, sidi?”

  Al-Shami took another measure of Sohrab. Young, slight, his black leather bomber jacket vaguely too rugged for the rest of him, his patchy beard somehow making him look younger rather than older. But he had a zealous glint in his eyes that reminded al-Shami of men he’d met in prison and in the bomb factories, men who embraced killing as a calling, not a job. “You protect Mahir from outside the blast range. Make sure no one interferes with him. Eliminate anyone who gets in his way. He needs only a second to trigger his weapon, and you may need to buy him that second. Understand?”

  Sohrab nodded, a little smile creeping onto his lips. “Perfectly, sidi.”

  EIGHTY-SIX: Brooklyn, 23 December, 10:45 AM

  Miriam had tweaked her bad knee at the cemetery; now gravel scraped between the bones as she limped through the squad-room chaos until she reached the precinct’s break room. Her stomach throbbed from Gabir’s bullet hit. Her internal clock had gone haywire from stress and lack of sleep. What she’d seen in the ladies’ room mirror had been scarier than being shot.

  But she was alive and free. Thanks to Jake.

  He sprawled on the break room’s worn gold-beige sofa, tilted slightly to his left, his head thrown back against the wall, mouth half-open. Tape and gauze shrouded his right ear. Eve curled sound asleep in his lap, her face buried in his chest, her feet twitching. Jake’s arms wrapped around her like a cocoon.

  Miriam drifted to the table, fumbled into a well-used chrome-rod-and-plastic chair, and watched them sleep. She tried to convince herself she’d known them less than three weeks, not forever, but her overloaded brain would accept only so much.

  Eve whimpered, shifted, tucked a little fist under her chin. You’ll have dreams, sweetie, Miriam wanted to warn her. Some you won’t want to end, some you’ll be afraid will never end.

  What would these two be like after all this? There was no way a child and parent could ever be the same after living through all this fear and violence and death. It helped that Jake and Eve seemed to love each other intensely, something Miriam would never be able to say about her mother and herself. What little relationship they’d had died when Hezbollah killed her father. Maybe he was all they’d ever had in common.

  Starting over was so hard. Perhaps having each other would help them through the bad days. Eve would give Jake—what was his phrase?—a reason to wake up. Jake would give Eve someone to hold when the shadows got too dark. She envied them both. When Bill died, all she’d had were a few well-meaning friends who didn’t get it and a Navy chaplain (Pentecostal! Not even a rabbi!) who was more concerned about her soul than her heart.

  On the subway, she’d jolted out of a catnap to hear him quietly weeping; she’d pretended to be asleep until he was done. Jake was a nice man, a good man. He didn’t deserve to hurt so much. She’d been where he was going, and it could be a hard, lonely place.

  But it didn’t need to be. If only she coul
d help them through this…

  What’s got into you? she chided herself. He probably wouldn’t want to see her again after this. She’d only remind him and Eve of this nightmare.

  Maybe he’d have the same effect on her.

  Maybe not.

  People talked and phones rang a long way away. Cops wandered in, got their coffee, glanced at the three of them and left quietly.

  She didn’t want to wake him, but she wished they could talk now they were safe. Jake eventually solved her problem. He rolled his head forward, pinched the sleep from his bloodshot, unfocused eyes, then shook his head hard and squinted at her. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  He yawned, grimaced, rubbed his neck. “Time’s it?”

  She checked her watch. “Just past eleven.”

  Jake kissed the top of Eve’s head, stroked her hair, then readjusted his focus on Miriam. “How you doing?”

  “I don’t know. I’m numb.”

  “Yeah.” He yawned again. “How long have I been out?”

  “Not too long.” Enough to thoroughly confuse herself. “How’s Eve?”

  Jake glanced down again at his daughter, gave her a little squeeze. “Tired. Confused. Getting over being scared. Told her the man who hurt Rinnah won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  Miriam’s mind flashed a replay of Jake executing the big Arab. Would she have done anything different? She might have started with the bastard’s knees and worked her way up. At least, the her from two days ago might have. “Did she believe you?”

  “She’s six. You always believe daddy when you’re six.” He watched Eve for a moment, chewed on his upper lip. “What scares me? She hits sixteen and asks me how I know he’s gone.”

  Miriam reached out to caress Eve’s skinny thigh through her jeans. Eve squirmed deeper into her father’s arms. “Maybe she’ll be ready then.”

  “Sure.” Jake’s face was more awake now. “Anyway, you’re off the hook.”

  “Your Captain Menotti told me. Thank you. It sounds like you’re going to be a hero.”

  “Yeah, or get fired.” He brushed the back of her hand. “I won’t let you go to jail.”

  His tone made those words a vow. After all he’d sacrificed, she truly hoped he wouldn’t lose his job—or freedom—for keeping her safe. “What happens now? They said I can go.”

  “Yeah, me too. Guess they’re done with us for now. I’m on administrative leave until the hearing, three-four weeks or so. Don’t know what they’ve got planned for you.”

  She’d asked, but all Menotti said was, “Don’t leave the country.” Her life was on hold again, and she had no idea when it would re-start. “What are you going to do?”

  Jake’s eyes went distant, then he finally shook his head. “Don’t know. I really don’t. Can’t go back to the apartment yet.” He glanced down at Eve. “I can’t take her back to that, not so soon. There’s Gene and Monica, I guess. We can put all the casualties in one place.”

  When he looked up at her, Miriam read the hopelessness in his eyes. Perhaps he’d just noticed the horizon in front of him was blank. She remembered that from right after her father’s funeral, and Bill’s. “Maybe they’ll want your help.”

  “Maybe.” Again they exchanged bedraggled gazes. “You going home?”

  What did he see in her? A friend? A fighter? A woman? Damaged goods? “I…I don’t know. There’s nothing there. I need to get Bastet back before she forgets me. But…”

  “Well, Menotti sent our bags over from the safe house,” Jake said through a tired smile. “Wherever you go, you’ll have clean underwear.”

  “And you’ll have a change of clothes. Which you really need.” And we’ll be on our own again. She’d forgotten what it was like to have someone share life’s little moments. The past two weeks had reminded her. She wasn’t ready yet to go back to living alone, inside her own head.

  “I could ask Monica if…” Jake searched the room for the right words. “They’ve got the room. If you’d like that. Until you’re, you know…ready to go home.”

  Now she had to look away. She’d like that, more than she cared to admit to herself. Wanting it—wanting anything—both buoyed her heart and dropped a brick in her gut. Having something meant having something to lose. She’d lost too much in her life.

  But not having anything wasn’t living—it was hiding.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked after a pause.

  “Starving. Let’s get lunch.”

  EIGHTY-SEVEN: Brooklyn, 23 December, 11:10 AM

  The gloomy sky ladled an extra helping of drab on the run-down neighborhood’s low-rise clutter. Miriam clutched her coat collar against the cold. “You take me to all the best places.”

  Jake frowned. “Sorry there’s no IHOP around here.”

  “We’re not going home, are we?” Eve—puffy-faced, slit-eyed, hair gone mad—yanked at Jake’s hand. Even Miriam could tell the whine in her voice promised more and louder to come.

  “Not yet. We’re going to White Castle. It’s just down on the corner. See? Hamburgers and fries. Yum, huh?”

  “Mommy says hamburgers clog up your insides.”

  He fixed his eyes straight ahead. “Yeah, she said that.”

  Jake steered them past the cars—police and civilian—half-blocking the sidewalk behind the precinct’s long driveway cutout. Miriam tried her best not to limp; Jake would try to help her, and she didn’t want to be babied.

  Eve whimpered, “I don’t like this place. I want Mommy. I wanna go home.”

  “I know, Bunny. So do I. In a little while.”

  “You always say that, always, and it takes forever!”

  Jake sighed, squatted next to Eve. “Please, Bunny, not now. First we’ll eat and go see Uncle Gene and Aunt Monica. We’ll go home later, okay?”

  Eve stomped her foot. Miriam didn’t know kids actually did that. “No more later! You always say later! I don’t want hamburgers, I wanna go home. Now!”

  A soft throat-clearing drew Miriam’s attention away from Eve’s impending meltdown. A middle-aged man wearing a black wool overcoat stood a couple paces away, his collar turned up to frame his rugged face and windblown amber hair. The strap of a black computer bag cut across his chest. His gaze shifted from Eve to Jake to Miriam and back. “Good morning, Mr. Eldar.”

  Jake slowly rose, unwound his body, squared his shoulders. He pushed Eve behind him. “Who are you?”

  “Are you a policeman?” Eve demanded. She peeked around Jake’s side, her face twisted with anger and frustration. “I don’t wanna talk to no more policemen.”

  “No, Eve, a policeman I am not.” The man scanned Miriam top to toe. A small smile crossed his face. “Your photo does you no justice, Mrs. Schaffer.” He had an accent, but Miriam hadn’t heard enough to place it.

  She exchanged a wary glance with Jake. “How do you know us? Who are you?”

  He shrugged deeper into his coat, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “My name is Stuart Kaminsky.”

  Jake choked out, “You’re Kaminsky?”

  Miriam rocked back a step. The third survivor from the Doha Twelve, the man who’d lent them the sniper at the cemetery. What was he doing here? How had he found them?

  Kaminsky shifted into Hebrew. “I assume your daughter doesn’t speak Hebrew, Mr. Eldar. Correct?”

  “Right.”

  Kaminsky nodded. “Good. There are things children shouldn’t hear. Across the street, at the corner of 29th Street, there’s a black Impala with two people inside, a man and a woman. They were here when I arrived, some while ago. Do you see it?”

  Miriam dragged her compact from her purse and used the mirror to sight along the row of parked cars. “I see it.”

  Jake said, “So?”

  “I believe they’re here for you. As long as you’re with me, they won’t approach you, I think.”

  “Who are they?” Jake demanded. “What do they want? Why are you here?”

  Kaminsky opened his mouth to reply, b
ut a noise behind them caused his eyes to turn hawk-like. Miriam glanced back; two civilians taking a smoke break at the precinct’s front door.

  “As things are now, Mr. Eldar, I’d prefer to not talk to you in front of a police station. You were on your way to White Castle, yes? To eat? Perhaps I can come with you. You can eat and we can talk.”

  Eve yanked Jake’s hand. “Daddy, let’s go! This is boring!”

  “Shhh. Hold on.”

  Miriam watched Jake think this through. He gazed down at Eve, stroked her hair.

  “I’d prefer to not mention that you owe this to me, Mr. Eldar, but I will if I must.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Jake looked over his shoulder to check the black car again. “Let’s go.”

  EIGHTY-EIGHT: Brooklyn, 23 December, 11:20 AM

  They crowded into a tiny booth overlooking the parking lot, the blue laminate table covered by blue plastic trays scattered with wrapped miniature hamburgers. The place smelled of hot oil, seared meat, and disinfectant. Jake sat next to Eve; across the table, Miriam perched on the aisle end of the bench next to Kaminsky. The lunch rush swirled around them, but Jake figured none of the mostly black and Latino customers would understand Hebrew.

  Jake asked, “Who’s in the car?”

  Kaminsky leaned back, smiled a little. “You may have seen the woman. Now she has short black hair, a proud nose, quite a nice suntan—”

  “Elena?”

  “Yes, that’s one of her names. I prefer ‘Sandrine,’ the name she used in Paris. A very special girl. She had such lovely hair back then.” He laid his fingertips on the back of Miriam’s wrist. Hands off, Jake thought. “Though not as attractive as you, Mrs. Schaffer. I may call you Miriam?”

  Miriam swept her hand away to unwrap her second chicken-breast sandwich. “‘Ms. Schaffer’ is fine. Who’s the man with Elena?”

  “I don’t know him. Perhaps his name but not his face. Blond, cut very short.”

  “The Russian from the train station,” Miriam reminded Jake.