False Flag

by John Altman

  Heart pounding, she left the bathroom. Made herself slow down as she approached the police blocking the exit. Veered away from the dogs—they might smell the plastique—which meant moving toward a thick knot of cops. Men and women, looking at her evenly. What would a nun say? Laying it on too thick would be counterproductive.

  She could see the street right behind them. Evening: cold wind seeping inside.

  Five, four, three, two, one.

  Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.

  A drunk voice rose not far to her left. The cops’ attention drifted toward it. Jana drifted right and stepped up to a bright-eyed young man in a crisp blue uniform. He raised a hand to stop her—unnecessarily, since she was already giving him a polite smile, making no effort to get through. Her eyelid twitched.

  He looked at the tablet in his hand. Back at her face. Back at the tablet. Back at her face.

  Back at the tablet. Uneasy now. No one wanted to offend a nun. But he had registered something.

  Back at her face.

  She let her smile turn uncertain.

  For a suspended instant, she thought he would take her aside. Then a dog exploded into a volley of barks, making everybody jump. Other dogs joined in. Someone was running. The cops were giving chase. The door was unguarded.

  Jana walked forward, to freedom. She turned, reached the end of the block, turned again, and vanished into the falling night.

  North of Andover, VT

  Dalia gestured for the other men to leave the room.

  Now she and the man calling himself Klein were alone. She lowered herself onto a chair. It creaked. As she regarded the prisoner expectantly, a long moment passed. Beyond the window, the wind played an eerie melody through the nighttime forest. At last, he jerked the restraints behind his back, as if to remind her.

  “Ah.” She spoke kindly, in Hebrew. “Could you use a hand?”

  He looked back at her balefully.

  “Nissim Dayan. Born into the College.” She had used the Israeli nickname for the fortified Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. “A legacy. Your father at Entebbe. Eh?”

  He said nothing.

  “But sometimes it skips a generation. You made a crucial misstep in Dubai. Missed some security cameras. And so your squad was documented: landing, using foreign passports, checking into hotels around the city. Renting the room opposite your target, even changing into a wig in full view of hotel surveillance …” She clucked in disapproval. “A piece even made the London Sunday Times.”

  He glared.

  “But thanks to your father’s reputation, you weren’t terminated. Just sent out to pasture, yes? Far away, to a remote safe house in America. Where you waited to offer assistance, when required, in a support capacity. Not much in the way of glory, to be sure. But a valuable and necessary function nonetheless.”

  He said nothing.

  “Seven years you waited, Nissim Dayan. Leaving your wife and children back in Israel. That must have hurt.”

  No reply.

  “Imagine how it feels for the children of the people Jana Dahan killed.” She leaned forward. “The wives and husbands left behind.”

  No reaction.

  “You went to Burlington to meet her.”

  He answered suddenly in English: “Who are you? What’s going on? I haven’t been read my rights. I haven’t been offered—”

  She continued in Hebrew: “You’ll spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary. Unless you tell me how to find the girl.”

  “—access to an attorney. I haven’t been given a phone call. I haven’t seen a badge or—”

  “And it won’t end there. We’ll make it hell for your family back home.” Shrugging, she leaned away. “Hardly fair, since Jana did all the dirty work. But then, life isn’t fair. So your children will suffer.”

  “Lech tis dayan ve tabe kabala,” he spat suddenly. Go fuck yourself and send me the bill.

  “Ah.”

  “I know you.” He straightened with shabby pride. “From the news. Some nerve you’ve got. Talking to me about family. With your Jüdische Selbsthass.” Jewish self-hatred. “I prefer Hamas to self-deluded Jews. At least they are honest.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “We’ve nothing more to talk about, Jüdische Selbsthass.”

  “So your type always says.” Her voice climbed a mocking octave: “There’s nothing more to talk about. And nobody to talk to even if we wanted. There’s no one to negotiate with. Oh, woe is we. Just let us sit in the dark, in the corner, alone.”

  His mouth within the salt-and-pepper beard pursed tight.

  “Dead children? No problem. So long as they’re not dead Jewish children.”

  “Says the woman all too eager to sacrifice her own son to the Arabush.”

  “Dead Egyptian children. Dead Jordanian children. Dead American children.”

  He shook his head. “Self-loathing sow.”

  “Where is Jana?”

  “Fuck yourself.”

  “Cooperate, and it will be taken into account. Withhold, and you go to Fort Leavenworth—and your children suffer. Where is she?”

  He lifted his chin. “Rot in hell.”

  She almost reached forward, seized his cheap T-shirt, and dragged him to his feet. But what would be the point? The operation would have been compartmentalized. Nissim Dayan could tell them nothing even if he wanted to. So had she insisted to Horowitz, who nevertheless begged her to try.

  Instead, she stood. Without another word, she turned, opened the door, and stepped out past the waiting guards. “While you’re there,” he called behind her, “say hello to your son.”

  In the hallway, Horowitz was on the phone. “But that’s exactly why—”

  Dalia joined him.

  “Alana,” he said with exasperation. “Obviously, we can’t put the genie back into … No. But that’s exactly why … god damn it. Don’t. No. Alana, no. I’m coming down.”

  He hung up. His face seemed more deeply lined than usual. He shook his head. “I’m going to DC.”

  “They promised us a week.”

  “That was before we had news copters and a dead cop.”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “But they can.”

  “But—”

  “Dalia, we tried. It’s over.”

  “‘If you are planting a tree and you hear that the Messiah has come, you finish planting the tree before going to greet the Messiah.’”

  His mouth quirked sideways.

  “We’re going down anyway, yes? Obstruction of justice for you. Probably espionage for me. But let’s take that bitch with us.”

  “I’d like nothing better. But—”

  “Where’s she heading? DC, yes? So. Secret’s out? Get it farther out. Make it public. Release a photo to the media. Start knocking on doors. All in … until we’re all out.”

  Horowitz paused.

  Ellicott Street NW,

  Washington, DC

  When headlights sprayed around the corner, Jana stepped back into shadows.

  The blue Hyundai decelerated with a soft hum, and she watched it turn into the driveway across the street. A few seconds passed before the garage door trundled up. Then the Hyundai rolled forward, out of a cold night just starting to sleet.

  The garage door closed. Moments passed. A light came on inside the house. Michael Fletcher appeared in the living room window, burying his face in the cat’s ruff. Curtains open, apparently nothing to hide. No sign of the soon-to-be ex or the kid. And no pause to disable an alarm system.

  She kept watching. Err on the side of caution. He had not been compromised. But she would take no chances.

  Fletcher disappeared. More moments passed. A light went on upstairs. He appeared again, in a second-story window. Closed the shade and stood in silhouette, t
aking off his shirt. Undid his belt, let his pants fall. Sank down, as if sitting on the side of a bed. Reappeared, hopping now, and vanished into another room.

  Jana shivered behind a Japanese maple. A bedroom light in a window up the block went out. At long last, Fletcher’s silhouette reappeared. Toweling off his hair.

  It was as safe as it ever would be.

  Even so, she avoided the front door, creeping around back, past the garage, to a rear stoop. The back door was locked. Setting down the case, she reached into her coat. Straightened two paper clips. Gingerly inserted one. Applied torque, held it. She slipped the second clip below the first. Pressing up, she felt the individual pins, one after another. Raised the stubborn one until it set. Still applying pressure, she repeated the procedure on the remaining pins, twisted the knob, leaned the door open, and stepped into the kitchen.

  Warm and dry. She reached back for the case, closed the door softly, and stood listening to the slap-dribble-drip of sleet against walls and roof, and the quiet hiss from heating grates. A faded, curling paper turkey was stuck by magnet to the refrigerator. In the gloom, she deciphered the words:

  I AM THANKFUL FOR TOYS, DADDY, MOMMY,

  SCHOOL, HOUSE, LICORICE, NINJA TURTLES, TV

  A cat came padding across the linoleum floor, twining good-naturedly around her ankles. Kneeling, she scratched one ear. Then straightened, picking up the case.

  She moved through the dining room, drawn to the thin yellow light spilling from beyond. At the foot of the stairs, she discovered framed photographs lining one wall. The photos portrayed a happy family, at least superficially. Young Michael Fletcher cavorted with an older boy, the family resemblance unmistakable. Building snowmen, eating ice cream, swimming in a neighborhood pool. As an awkward adolescent, Michael was bar mitzvahed. Then a graduation: mom and both boys smiling bright and clear as chrome, dad serious and macho. Some moody black-and-white studies of landscapes and windowpanes. Then the wife. Jana lingered on these, frowning. Was this his type? The woman looked like a sorority girl. One had to admit, they made an attractive couple. Ken and Barbie posed for wedding shots, honeymoon shots. A final shot of Michael, in uniform now, looking proud but deeply unsure. Then the narrative was hijacked by a swaddled baby. And the circle of life began anew: a growing boy cavorting at playgrounds, devouring cake at birthday parties.

  A shadow at the top of the stairs.

  He was watching her.

  He was wearing sleep pants but no shirt. His skin clean and still damp. She climbed the stairs slowly.

  Into the bedroom. The room he had shared with the sorority girl. But now the sorority girl was gone and Jana was here. He lowered her onto the bed. She dropped the black case. His lips were softer than she remembered. Something stirred inside her, straining to meet him.

  Afterward, they lay tangled together. She murmured into his collarbone, “I need to stay here from now on.”

  Toying with her close-cropped hair, he said nothing. The freezing rain slapped and dribbled. The cat jumped onto the bed, purring. At last, Michael mumbled a reply. She had been halfway to sleep, pulled back now. “Hm?” she said.

  “I said, I wish we could stay this way.”

  She thought about it. “Nothing lasts forever.”

  “Did you grow up speaking English? It’s perfect.”

  “Don’t worry about my English.” Immediately, she regretted her tone. He was fragile, unstable. “We’ve still got some time,” she said more gently. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She kissed him.

  Rittenhouse Street NW,

  Washington, DC

  Three miles away, Jackie Brady stood outside her niece’s room, listening to make sure Alyssa was going down comfortably—they had stopped using the baby monitor only last week.

  Beneath the whispering sleet, the three-year-old was singing softly to herself, a song she had learned in preschool. “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me. Let there be peace on earth, the peace that was meant to be …”

  Jackie decided it was all right. She moved away down the hall, into the bedroom that had been her home for the past four months. The sleet outside made the soft circle of light from the desk lamp seem even cozier. Sis and Brad were out to dinner and wouldn’t be back for two hours at least. Quiet, privacy, warmth. Heaven.

  Propped up on the bed, burrowing her feet beneath the quilt, Jackie fired up her laptop. She was about to check Facebook when a headline caught her eye. Authorities had released a detailed sketch of a suspect they were seeking for questioning. The picture grabbed her attention because its subject looked—really, quite remarkably—like Jackie herself. Early to mid-twenties; short, spiky dark hair; lean pretty face. And, in fact, they were seeking the woman, who had used the aliases Tiffany Watson, Erika Mallo, and, most recently, Eve Berg, in this very same metropolitan area.

  The doorbell rang. A brusque knock quickly followed. Frowning, she set the computer on the nightstand.

  “Auntie,” Alyssa called as Jackie stepped into the hall, “someone’s outside my window.”

  “Go back to sleep, Lyssa. Just a bad dream.”

  “’S not. He’s outside my window. He’s on the roof.”

  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Jackie proceeded toward the front door. Moving past the living room, she noticed that her phone was glowing, awake, on the coffee table. Weird. Could have sworn she had turned it off.

  Before answering, she checked the peephole. These days a woman alone with a child could not be too careful. Two policemen stood on the porch. Behind them lurked a third. And she just caught a glimpse of a fourth, moving through sleety darkness. Parked by the curb, cloaked by waves of precipitation, were two squad cars, an unmarked shit-shaded sedan, and a suspicious-looking gray van with windows tinted almost black.

  Her frown deepened. She worked the chain, turned the bolt. When the door opened, the nearest cop pushed past her without asking permission. Before she could protest, the other was in her face. “You’re not under arrest,” he said in a way that suggested this might change at any moment.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Are you carrying any weapons?”

  She shook her head. He turned her around anyway, frisking her. Unfuckingbelievable. The other cop watched, hand near his belt—the side with the pepper spray and Taser. And now others were coming in. More than the two lurkers she had seen—three, then four. Moving down the hall, trailing wet. One peeked into Alyssa’s room, and the little girl shrieked.

  The frisk turned up nothing except Jackie’s lip balm. The cop’s tone softened slightly. “Who else is on the premises?”

  “My niece. What the holy hell is—”

  “Your name?”

  “Am I being charged with something?”

  “Why so evasive?”

  “I live here.” Thinking of an article she had seen just last week. Some cops had gunned down a kid. Turned out the kid had only been holding a BB gun. Unmotherfuckingbelievable. “I live here, and you can’t just come barging in—”

  “You just showed up here in September?”

  “Right. I’m helping my sister with her kid. Since when is that a crime? What the hell is going on?”

  A glance passed between the cops. “We’ll take a look around,” said one, and disappeared without asking permission.

  Something clicked for Jackie. “It’s that suspect. I was just reading the article. Isn’t it?”

  “We’re just making sure, ma’am.”

  * * *

  The media had received only a police sketch. But investigators tracking down seventy-seven leads around the Washington metropolitan area that night had been given supplementary images—from the Mossad dossier, the tollbooth camera on I-80, the manhunts in Vermont and New York.

  Targets had been gleaned from security cams, t
raffic cams, satellite and drone imagery, bartenders, clergy, meter readers, hotel clerks, homeless shelters, waitresses, hostesses, managers, superintendents, letter carriers. Investigators included patrolmen, detectives, FBI, INS, and members of the Washington Regional Threat and Analysis Center.

  By 9:40 p.m., the initial pool of seventy-seven suspects had been exhausted. Nine had been brought in for further questioning and then released. Two had been arrested on unrelated charges.

  The net was cast again.

  Emerald Street NW,

  Washington, DC

  On Emerald Street NW, a black van cruised slowly past the row houses.

  In the rear of the van, a tech looked up from a GPS map and pointed out, through the tinted window, a house near the end of the block. Another used a joystick to aim a parabolic microphone mounted beneath a Plexiglas dome on the van’s roof. Voices broken by the rhythm of sheeting ice pellets came through two sets of headphones.

  Two miles northwest, a phone rang; StingRay kicked on, and inside another van, another pair of techs listened intently.

  On H Street, another black van aimed an antenna at another house. Inside, IMSI Catcher located three phones. On a laptop screen, a sliver of a bedroom mirror appeared: a petite woman with cold cream on her face, wearing a thin blue nightgown.

  In Columbia Heights, a pair of agents located an address, climbed crumbling stairs between a check-cashing emporium and a liquor store. Inside the foyer, shucking off their plastic hoods, they buzzed the superintendent. After repeated buzzings, the super finally banged irritably out of his ground-floor apartment. Upon seeing the agents’ identification, he held his irascibility carefully in check.

  The postman, said the taller of the agents, had reported a new tenant in the building within the past few months: a young woman. The super shrugged. The apartment in question, he answered, spent most of the time empty. Occasionally, someone—friends or family, he assumed, of the young couple who had rented the place years before—appeared for a few days, a week here and there. The rent was always paid on time, from an automated account at a bank downtown. There had been no complaints from neighbors, and so he had seen no reason to rock the boat.