by By Jon Land
“I can barely hear you, Colonel.”
“Hold on a second.”
The noise vanished.
“Is that better, Inspector?” al-Asi asked, his voice crystal clear.
“Yes. What’d you do?”
“Switched off my new riding lawn mower, a John Deere from the United States. I’m really starting to enjoy involving myself in the domestic side of things. Plenty of time on my hands to master such skills now that my duties have been curtailed. Although I’m having trouble getting the blades to work ...”
“How’s the swing set?”
“Works perfectly, thanks to you. I only called to see how you were making out.”
“Very well, thanks to you.”
“I was concerned because I wasn’t expecting to find you in East Jerusalem. My guess is you’re probably seated in the same café where Pakad Barnea was when the shooting started. Am I correct?”
Ben leaned forward, then shifted his legs to make room for the boy’s broom. “How did you know I was here, Colonel?”
“The Americans have this remarkable technology that enables them to latch onto the location of any cell phone user when his phone is in use. Supposedly developed to pin down the whereabouts of someone dialing 9-1-1.”
“Supposedly.”
“In fact, it’s an offshoot of a more complicated system using global position satellites meant to aid in the pursuit of terrorist cells. They’re all using wireless phones these days, you know.”
“You got this system from the Americans?”
“From the Israelis, actually, before the start of our current conflict. Theyobtained it from the Americans. Amazingly useful for keeping track of friends, I must say. Unfortunately, I will not be nearly as useful to you, if the Israeli friends I’ve been able to maintain desert me.”
“I understand.”
“So let us hope it doesn’t come to that. You’ll stay in contact with me.”
“Of course.”
“Good.” And Ben heard the riding mower switch on again before the colonel broke the connection.
Moments later, the waiter reappeared holding Ben’s coffee in one hand and plate of kunafeh pastries in the other. He set them down and then added a napkin and silverware from his apron. Ben could smell the warm honey topping and felt suddenly hungry, realizing he hadn’t eaten anything since Colonel al-Asi had phoned him the night before.
“I’m afraid no eyeglasses have been found, sidi.”
“Thanks for looking,” Ben said, stirring his coffee. He knew it had been a long shot. Worth following up, but still a long shot. Leaving without at least sampling the coffee and pastry would draw attention to him, which gave Ben an excuse to gobble up the kunafeh. It was freshly-baked, the crisp pastry and sweet cheese warm out of the oven.
Suddenly the boy who’d been needlessly sweeping the outdoor portion of the café appeared by Ben’s side smiling. Ben smiled back, wondering why the boy was still standing there when he saw the boy was holding something in his left hand:
An eyeglass case!
* * * *
Chapter 16
Dubna, Russia
M
ayor Anton Krilev was presiding over his morning senior staff meeting when one of his assistants burst into the conference room.
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but. . .”
“Catch your breath, Constantine, and tell me what’s wrong.”
The young man tried to catch his breath but failed. “Sir, I have just heard from the hospital.”
Krilev nodded. “Which one?”
“All of them, sir. One after the other.”
Anton Krilev felt the prick of panic, like ice sliding down his spine. Around the conference table at Dubna city headquarters, his senior staff exchanged nervous glances.
The young assistant finally managed to continue. “The hospitals are being flooded with patients, sir. They are asking that you declare a state of emergency.”
“An epidemic?” wondered Krilev, already considering his options.
“People are dying, sir, dozens of them.”
Dr. Ashar Levin, chief of staff of Dubna City Hospital, was leader of the city’s small but thriving Jewish community. Mayor Krilev found him waiting outside the emergency room entrance where an adjunct triage unit was being constructed on the street with the help of hastily placed cones and rope strung between trash cans.
“We can’t keep up with this,” Levin said brusquely, checking his clipboard to make sure the proper procedures were being adhered to.
“Keep up with what, Doctor?”
“It started three hours ago. Old people and children mostly, but now all ages in increasing numbers as the morning has gone on.”
As Krilev listened, a convoy of ambulances screeched to a halt behind a makeshift barricade where harried hospital workers struggled to unload patients who had been packed three-deep into the vehicles’ interiors. The mayor felt queasy as the stretchers rolled by, each carrying a victim soaked in their own blood and vomit.
“What caused this?” was all he could ask Dr. Levin.
“You can see the symptoms for yourself. Vomiting, bleeding through all body orifices, secretions, seizures, and ultimately nervous system failure. The ones I’ve spoken with all claimed they began to feel sick around dawn or shortly before. None of them exhibited any symptoms whatsoever prior to that. Whatever this is, it came on fast.” Dr. Levin looked from the endless line of stretchers back at Krilev. “You can see why we need that state of emergency.”
The mayor of Dubna struggled for words. “What do I tell Moscow? A disease, a plague, some sort of outbreak . . .”
Levin shook his head in frustration. “Tell them we don’t know yet. Just tell them to get here.”
* * * *
Chapter 17
J
im Black entered the closed wing of the Jerusalem jail building which housed Danielle Barnea’s cell. He chose a circuitous approach that would keep him as far as possible from the guard room, even though he was wearing the proper uniform. The entry door to the block was locked from inside, but locks proved only a minor impediment to Black.
Killing, of course, was impossible without access. The true key to his profession was familiarizing oneself with the proper uniforms and identifications. People seldom asked questions when those checked out. Access codes had complicated matters somewhat, but there were ways around those as well, and such sophisticated systems, he knew, had not been installed in this ancient building.
Black approached the head of the corridor containing Danielle Barnea’s cell. He’d studied her file and found himself surprisingly impressed. Danielle Barnea was an extremely skilled operative who had killed many in her own right. Shit, she was almost as good as he was. Practically grew up in the Israeli version of the American Special Forces that had spawned him.
Black began to wonder if he could equalize things. Give her a gun and let her draw it out with him. She might even make for decent competition for a change.
The logistics, of course, ruled that out. But considering the possibility made him feel less bored. Black hadn’t come up against anyone he considered a worthy opponent for a long time now, and was beginning to wonder if there was anybody good left out there. Barnea had possibilities. He’d like to compare notes with her, swap stories of their exploits.
Since this was a jail, though, he’d have to get in and out fast. Go right up to the bars of her cell, stick a silenced gun through, and start shooting.
Almost too easy to bother with.
Jim Black much preferred the tougher jobs that came his way occasionally. Hostage rescues or political assassinations where he’d have to elude a hundred guards. Those were challenging. Black was no idealist. He’d never done a single thing in his life simply because he believed in it. If the money was right, he got the job done. Simple as that.
Black wasn’t expecting additional security on the wing and didn’t care much if there was. Nor did surveillance equipme
nt particularly bother him. He was good at avoiding cameras and would be out of the building before any forces could be marshaled to pursue him.
Black continued walking, Danielle Barnea’s cell directly ahead now. No guards in sight, besides him.
Black slid one of his Sig Sauer pistols from its holster and screwed in the suppressor. Held the gun low by his hip as he neared the jail cell, bringing it up an instant before he reached the bars.
The cell was empty.
* * * *
Chapter 18
S
he’ll be up shortly, gentlemen,” the watch commander told Ben Kamal and Shlomo Davies, after ushering them into the interview room they would be using.
The two men sat side by side behind a single, bare table. Ben zipped open his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad. The briefcase had been Davies’ idea. Otherwise, the old lawyer warned, Ben ran the risk of not fitting in. All lawyers carried briefcases, after all. Davies had sent an assistant out to fetch one when they returned to his office from East Jerusalem, and then packed it with the kind of standard materials that would raise no eyebrows when it was searched by the guards.
The only thing Ben had added was the case of eyeglasses he’d recovered that morning at Café Europe, which he now took out and placed on the table.
A lump rose in his throat when the door opened, and a guard led Danielle Barnea into the interview room. Her hair was a bit mussed, yet the natural auburn waves still tumbled naturally past her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw him, flashing with the deep richness forever locked in his mind. She looked worn, though, and her face was pale and drawn beneath the bright fluorescent lighting.
For her part, Danielle tried not to appear surprised when she saw Ben seated in the interview room next to Shlomo Davies. He rose stiffly, pressing his palms against the tabletop. She realized she had never seen him dressed in a suit before. Standing there, he looked more American than Palestinian and that, she guessed, must be the point.
“Pakad Barnea,” Davies began, and Danielle reluctantly turned her eyes to him, “I want you to meet Mr. Benjamin Kaplan, an American criminal attorney we use in these matters from time to time. Mr. Kaplan—Pakad Barnea.”
Danielle’s escort backed out through the door and closed it behind him, freeing Danielle to approach the steel table. She shook hands with Ben but pulled away quickly, long before Ben would have let go on his own.
“Please, sit down. We have much to discuss. First off, I have brought the eyeglasses you requested.” With that, Davies accepted the case from Ben and slid it across the table. “The authorities have no problem with this.”
Danielle’s eyes widened when she saw the case she remembered from the café table in East Jerusalem. She popped it open and removed the glasses, inspecting them briefly as if looking for something before returning them to the case.
“If you don’t mind, Pakad,” Shlomo Davies continued, “I will now turn the interview over to my associate. Mr. Kaplan.”
“I’m not going to lie to you about the severity of the charges lodged against you,” Ben said, maneuvering the legal pad just enough for Danielle to see what he was writing. The measure was a pretext due to the fact that both of them were certain they were under surveillance, even in this supposedly private interview room. Israel had no constitution to provide for such matters being disputed in court. “That said, I believe the case against you is arguable.”
Danielle nodded and leaned forward so she could read what Ben had written:
COLONEL AL-ASI MADE THE ARRANGEMENTS. I HAD TO SEE YOU.
Danielle showed no response. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”
“Mr. Davies and I have found certain irregularities in the investigative reports,” Ben replied. He went back to jotting, as he spoke. “Mr. Davies has briefed me on the particulars and shared the notes of your interview with him.” He stopped writing, so Danielle could read his latest entry.
WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU? JUST TELL ME WHAT I CAN DO.
“There is nothing you can do. I’m in good hands with Mr. Davies’ firm. You should go home.”
“I specialize in these kind of cases, Pakad Barnea. The difficult is nothing new for me. I won’t let you down.”
Danielle ran the eyeglass case through her hands. “Thanks for bringing my glasses. They’ll make everything clearer.”
Ben wrote, HOW?
Danielle looked away from him.
There was a knock on the interrogation room door.
“I’ll get that,” Davies offered, his joints cracking as he rose from his chair and moved across the ugly gray room.
Ben stared at Danielle’s hands resting on the table, resisting the temptation to take them into his.
“Just a second,” Shlomo Davies said when the knock came again. “What’s the matter?” he asked, opening the door. “Don’t you have a key to your own jail?”
“Musta left it at home,” said a tall man with stringy hair. He stuck a gun in the old man’s stomach and fired twice, the muffled shots enough to make both Ben and Danielle swing round from the table.
The tall man had already leveled his gun on Danielle when Ben grasped the only thing he could use for a weapon: the briefcase the now dead lawyer had provided him. He picked the case up and flung it wildly across the room, leaping over the table in the same instant.
The tall man tried to twist from its path, but the case grazed his wrist and knocked the gun aside long enough for Ben to pounce on him. The tall man knocked Ben effortlessly aside, stunning him with a blow to the head. By then, though, Danielle had sprung from her chair as well, bounding forward and lunging toward the intruder.
Recognition flashed in her eyes. Her mouth dropped.
The tall man’s face was one she could never forget, even though the only time she had seen him before was over a grainy television monitor.
This was the gunman who had wiped out her Sayaret team at Sheik Hussein al-Akbar’s fortress in Beirut a dozen years ago!
All that was missing was his cowboy hat.
The jail alarm sounded.
Danielle slammed into the man and locked a hand over the wrist controlling his pistol. In the hallway she glimpsed the fallen body of the guard who had escorted her down here, heard the pounding of footsteps rushing down the hall for the interrogation room.
A trio of guards charged into the room, weapons drawn and trained on Ben and Danielle.
“Back off!” one of them, a captain, yelled. “Back off now!”
Danielle refused to let go of the tall man’s gun hand. “No! He’s not one of yours! He killed the guard in the hall and the old man!”
The captain looked down at Shlomo Davies’ body. “Get away from the weapon and back off, or we’ll shoot you!”
Danielle saw the harshness in the man’s eyes, the way he was holding the gun. Knew she had no choice but to pull her hand off the tall man’s wrist.
The tall man fired the gun from his hip, hitting all three guards in a non-stop fusillade that left them no time to get off any shots of their own.
“Come on!” Danielle shouted, taking hold of Ben and dragging him from the room.
She slammed the door shut on the way out, in time to absorb the tall man’s next barrage. Another pair of police guards swung round the corner and came face-to-face with them, taken totally by surprise. Their guns were drawn, but they hesitated long enough for Ben and Danielle to pounce on them. A flurry of blows dazed the officers and enabled the pair to wrench their matching Uzi submachine guns free.
“This way!” Danielle signaled, steadying the machine pistol now in her possession.
She had just started to turn toward the rear of the jail building when the tall man rushed down the hall with gun blazing.
* * * *
Chapter 19
B
en opened fire with his submachine gun. Its power and kick surprised him, sending his shots wildly off mark, but still threatening enough to force the tall man to dive to the floor for
cover.
Danielle kept firing back at the cowboy she remembered from Beirut, as she and Ben rushed toward the front part of the jail section of the Jerusalem police station. The alarm continued to wail. Somewhere, not too far up ahead, voices screamed and shouted at each other.
“Put the gun over your head in both hands!” she ordered Ben. “What?”