by By Jon Land
Ben caught a glimpse of his own reflection flickering in the glass the moment before it exploded inward, raining shards upon him as he threw himself to the floor.
* * * *
Chapter 25
A
nother spray of automatic fire rocketed toward Sayeed, who went down hard, as if his legs had been yanked out from beneath him.
“Sayeed!”
“I’m all right! I’m all right!”
“The door!” Ben rasped at him from across the floor. “Move for the door! And stay down!”
Crawling, Sayeed reached the corridor just ahead of Ben, rising to his feet and banging into the bicycle Mohammed Latif had rested against the wall. The bike clattered to the floor of the bare hall, and Ben pushed it aside when he climbed back to his feet.
He grabbed Sayeed by the arm and drew him toward the stairwell, keeping his gun poised toward the door above as they descended. Heard the crunch of bullet-shattered window glass under heavy shoes and knew the third gunman had entered the apartment through the fire escape seconds before a fresh barrage of gunfire whizzed at them down the stairs.
He and Sayeed ran into the bakery kitchen, losing their bearings briefly in the darkness. The scents, paradoxically, were sweet and fragrant. Supplies for tomorrow’s wares mixing with today’s leftovers stacked neatly on trays and long aluminum sheets.
Ben limped toward the double doors leading out of the kitchen, his injured leg board-stiff and hot with pain. Around him commercial vats and mixing machines cast giant shadows on the walls, watched over by jars and containers holding the ingredients that would eventually produce breads and pastries.
When Ben and Sayeed were halfway to the doors, the jars and containers closest to them exploded, spewing their contents in all directions and spraying the walls with baker’s chocolate and white flour that left a cloudlike residue in the air. Ben hunched low, steadied his gun hand on the doorway they had burst through, and fired it blindly.
A supply door snapped open and boxes tumbled out, right into the path of a man charging into the kitchen as Ben and Sayeed darted from it. Ben saw the front door was locked even before his brother’s grasp failed to budge it. He turned abruptly and lunged back through the double doors straight into the path of the third gunman.
He emptied the rest of his clip into the gunman before the man could squeeze his own trigger and watched him plummet to the floor, sending a fresh wave of flour wafting into the air.
Ben pushed back through the double doors in time to see Sayeed tossing a chair through the window, then accepted his brother’s help in easing past the wedding cakes on display through the shattered glass. He still had only a single good leg to balance his weight, so Sayeed half carried him around to the alley, where Ben’s rental car was parked.
“You drive,” he told Sayeed when they reached the driver’s door. “The keys are in the ignition.”
His brother helped Ben inside and waited for him to ease himself across the seat before climbing in behind the wheel. Ben cursed himself for not backing the car into the alleyway to assure a faster getaway, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He thought of Lewanthall from the State Department, started to reach in his pocket for his cell phone as Sayeed jammed the car into reverse.
A screech sounded behind them and Ben turned to see the dark sedan jerk to a halt at the head of the alley, blocking their way. A burst of gunfire blew out the rear window and Ben angled his pistol as best he could through the blasted glass.
A fourth man! There had been a fourth man in the car!
“Keep going!” he ordered Sayeed and opened fire.
The rental scraped against the passenger side of the alley, jostling Ben and throwing his aim off. His hip exploded anew in fiery pain, but he chewed it down and kept shooting.
“Shit!” Sayeed gasped, and twisted the wheel too much to the left, throwing the car into a fishtail that crumpled its rear quarter panel against the driver’s side of the alley.
Fresh fire boomed from inside the dark sedan, and Ben reached over, clamped a hand atop his brother’s head, and forced it downward. Their car spun wildly and now the windshield exploded too, glass raining out atop the hood as the car’s rear end slammed broadside into the sedan and shoved it all the way across the street.
Ben rose over the seat and fired the remainder of his bullets into the darkness, watching them dig holes in the sedan’s already shattered windshield.
“Go! Go! Go!” he screamed to his brother, remembering he carried only one spare clip, which was now exhausted.
Sayeed grasped the wheel and jammed the rental into drive. Ben felt it buck in protest, its tires squealing before it lurched forward. He kept his eyes locked on the sedan shrinking behind them, expecting any moment for it to burst to life and give chase.
But the sedan remained motionless, angled across the edge of the side street atop a bed of its own shattered glass.
Ben pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit redial, eyes peeled back toward the sedan until Sayeed swung round the corner and it was gone from view.
Lewanthall’s number rang and rang.
Went unanswered.
* * * *
Chapter 26
D
anielle turned to the owner of the old apartment building in Umm al Fahm before fitting the key he had provided into Zanah Fahury’s lock.
“Please wait for us downstairs,” she instructed, and the man gratefully retreated to the stairs. An Israeli-Arab as well, he was clearly unsettled by the presence of someone from National Police. He lived off the small rents he was able to charge and spent his life doing his best to avoid trouble with the authorities.
Located fifteen miles north of Jerusalem, the village of Umm al Fahm was home to a small number of the 1.4 million Palestinians living inside Israel as citizens. In theory they were due the same rights and services as all Israeli citizens but in practice, Danielle knew, that was far from the case.
The violence of the past few years had created an atmosphere of mistrust in which Israeli government behavior vacillated between isolation and harassment. Social services had been cut back drastically. A long-planned project to replace Umm al Fahm’s septic systems with sewers had been postponed indefinitely. Although this village had been spared the terrible toll taken by tanks and bulldozers in the West Bank, the streets were badly in need of repaving and huge pools of water had formed near drainage ditches the public works department had not cleared. The police and army maintained no real presence, other than an occasional patrol meant to identify any agitators. Almost everyone in Umm al Fahm, after all, had relatives in the besieged West Bank or Gaza. The resulting guilt by association adopted by the government had led to feelings of hate and mutual distrust on both sides, much to the dismay of officials like Danielle, who were powerless to do anything about it.
The door to Zanah Fahury’s apartment gave after a slight thrust from Danielle, and she entered just ahead of Sergeant Ehud Cohen. Barely over the threshold, she froze. She had expected the apartment to be poorly furnished with what little a poor old woman could afford or keep patched together.
It was anything but.
The furniture was strikingly elegant, a couch and overstuffed chair covered with matching suede. The wooden end and coffee tables were big and boxy, terribly out of style and from another era, but Western in design as was everything else. The room had the look and feel of a museum and, although Danielle was no expert, she guessed much of the furniture would fit nicely in one of the more lavish of Jerusalem’s antique stores. There was an old grandfather clock no longer in operation, and shelves of old books preserved in perfect condition.
The furniture had been squeezed in, too much of it for this small room, leaving barely any space between the pieces. Danielle took a few steps forward and found herself atop a plush Oriental carpet that showed not a speck of dust.
“So, Sergeant Cohen,” Danielle began, putting her own thoughts together. “Our poor murder vic
tim was apparently not so poor. Do you have any explanation for this?”
“No, Commander.”
“That’s right. You never spoke with the old woman’s friends or neighbors?”
“By all accounts, she had no friends.”
“And you never bothered to speak with the neighbors.”
“Why should I? Arabs are never forthcoming in our interviews with them.”
“Zanah Fahury was an Israeli citizen. She deserved better, and we’re going to make sure she gets it,” Danielle said, the conviction clear in her voice.
Cohen followed sheepishly as Danielle entered the dead woman’s bedroom. A queen-sized bed had been jammed into the small room, leaving just enough floor space for a single large bureau. To one side was a small closet with a curtain drawn before it. Danielle eased it open and stepped back so Cohen could see.
“What do you make of these, Sergeant?”
“An extensive collection.”
Danielle ran a hand gently across the fabrics. “Old, long out of style ...” She leaned in closer and sniffed. “... and, judging by the slight scent of mothballs, many of them not worn for some years.”
“I . . . don’t know what to make of this.”
“Neither do I, Sergeant. That’s why we investigate murders. That’s what detectives are for.”
“So it could have been a robbery gone bad. The crime may not have been random at all.”
“That’s right. But where was Zanah Fahury going? What draws a recluse out of her apartment?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe the building owner can tell us.”
“You’ll notice that I have not brought a pad with me to take notes,” Danielle told the building owner downstairs in his apartment. “I will not write your name down and I have already forgotten it, because I’m not interested in your identity, only your answers. Is that clear?”
The man nodded, looking somewhat reassured.
“Good,” she continued, as Ehud Cohen looked on. “How well did you know Zanah Fahury?”
“Not well at all.”
“How long has she lived here?”
“I’m not sure. I took over this building after my uncle was arrested by the Je—” The landlord cut himself off. “Er, by the Israeli authorities.
“And when was that?”
“A year ago. Zanah Fahury had already been a tenant for many, many years before that.”
“Did you ever see the inside of her apartment?”
“No.”
“Not even after she was murdered?”
“Her rent is paid through the year. Her apartment is not mine to enter.”
Paid through the year, Danielle noted. Another anomaly for a woman who was by all indications a poor recluse.
“How often did you see her?”
“Almost never. She hardly ever went out. She had no phone. I don’t know if she had a television.”
“But you did see her leave the building.”
“Not very often. Once in a while. Every few months, I think.”
“Shopping?”
The landlord shook his head. “I saw her return a few times, never carrying anything.”
“What did she do about food?”
“She paid extra to have it delivered.”
“She ever have visitors?”
“Never.”
“And you have no idea where she might have gone on her rare excursions?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be,” Danielle said and started for the door. “We won’t be bothering you again.”
“I told you it was a waste of time, Commander,” Sergeant Cohen said when they were back outside.
“You must not have been listening to the interview I conducted, Sergeant.”
“Commander?”
“The old woman goes out and comes back with nothing in hand. What does that tell you, Sergeant?”
Cohen stood there dumbly.
“It should tell you that if she wasn’t bringing something back,” Danielle continued, “perhaps she was taking something out with her.”
Before she could continue, Danielle’s cell phone rang—a staple for every Israeli, even more common, she had heard remarked once, than guns.
“Barnea.”
“It’s David Vordi, Commander.” Danielle recognized his slightly nasal voice. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all, Minister.”
“We need to meet.”
“I can come right over.”
“No, not at the ministry. Somewhere more private. Shall we say the Bistro on Mahane Yehuda?”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll see you there in an hour.”
* * * *
Chapter 27
T
he café wasn’t crowded, and Danielle saw David Vordi rise from a corner booth when she entered. He beckoned her to join him, smiling as if she were an old friend.
“Would you like to order something?” he asked after she had sat down. “The pastries are the best in the city.”
“I’d like to know why you wanted to see me.”
“At least some coffee,” he tried.
“Please, Minister,” Danielle said stiffly.
Vordi frowned. “How was your dinner last night?”
Danielle felt a flutter in her stomach. Did Vordi know she had dined with Colonel al-Asi? “Is that what you wanted to see me about?” she asked, pushing the tentativeness from her voice.
“Should it be? I like to think I can trust my people, that it isn’t necessary to keep tabs on them.”
“Where is this going?”
Vordi looked at Danielle’s hands crossed atop the table. “I’m the one who brought you back here, Danielle. I’m the one who fought on your behalf. There’s a lot on the line here for both of us, a line you seem determined to keep crossing.”
“I’m doing the job you called me back here to do.”
Vordi’s eyes narrowed. “I was hoping we could enjoy a more honest.. . relationship.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”
“I went out on a limb. I’d like to feel that’s appreciated.”
“If you mean—”
“There has been a complaint lodged against you by the chief of the Jerusalem police. He was quite adamant about his displeasure over your interference in one of his cases.”
Danielle breathed slightly easier. “Which case was he referring to?”
“The murder of an old woman named Zanah Fahury. Could you explain your involvement?”
“Zanah Fahury’s murder was not being actively investigated.”
“She was an Israeli-Arab, correct?”
“That’s right.
“Our resources are stretched precariously thin already, Commander. You and I both know it’s a question of priorities.”
“No murder investigation in Jerusalem should be allowed to be lost in bureaucratic cracks.”
“Others in the Ministry of Justice might not see things that way.” Vordi stiffened, his expression sliding from harsh to almost sad. “I can only go so far on your behalf, Danielle, without receiving consideration in kind. Don’t push me.”
“I wasn’t aware I had.”
Vordi frowned slightly in displeasure. “No? What about those pages you recovered from Akram Khalil’s hideout yesterday?”
“Have you received the translation?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “Last night a fax message nearly three minutes in duration was logged from your line to a number in Boston, Massachusetts, registered to the private security firm you were briefly employed by.”
Danielle swallowed hard.
“I am going to assume that the message was sent to your former Palestinian associate, Ben Kamal. Yes or no?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Plenty, because right now I’m the only one in the Ministry of Justice who knows
about this.”