by J. G. Sandom
El Aqrab did not respond. Decker peeked around a box. The terrorist was walking away. No, toward some other crate. He stopped. He bent over suddenly and picked up an object from the floor. Decker couldn’t see what it was; El Aqrab’s back was to him. Then the terrorist turned. He reached out and opened what appeared to be the top of a silver attaché case.
El Aqrab looked over at where Decker had been moments earlier, and reached into the case. “I’m starting the sequence, Agent Decker. Just in case. Just to let you know.” Then he shouted suddenly, “Where are you, anyway?” He swiveled his body about, like some heron hunting. “I can’t hear you anymore,” he said. He looked directly at Decker. “You’re not trying to outflank us, are you?”
The words reverberated in the air. Then he shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter. In a few minutes, it will all be over. The bomb will explode, the volcano will erupt, and the mega-tsunami will stream across the ocean to the West. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing you or anyone else can do about it. The game is over, Agent Decker, and I’m afraid you’ve lost.”
Decker continued forward on his hands and knees. He had almost reached the end of the line of crates. If there were some scrap of cover beyond, he could outflank them. He could sneak around and take his shot.
“This is so tiresome,” sighed El Aqrab.
Keep him talking. “What happened the day of your graduation?” Decker asked. “You’d finally earned your doctorate, as a young man too. Your family must have come to celebrate your triumph. Didn’t they? A week later, you betrayed them.”
El Aqrab strode back toward Emily. He towered over her. He ran a hand along her face. “I remember,” El Aqrab said. “Yes. My graduation.” He stroked Emily’s cheek. “You’re right. I had been looking forward to it for the longest time. My father had promised to attend, and I wanted him to see me as they gave me my diploma. I thought it would make him proud.” He laughed. He began to play with a lock of Swenson’s hair and, slowly but surely, the story tumbled out.
His father had come, late, he said, as always, and the old man had made that speech that no one listened to, and spent the entire evening talking with his brother, Ibrahim. Decker was right. He had set them up, all of them, and he was glad he had.
“I was Ishmael to Ibrahim’s Isaac,” he added bitterly. “I was the elder son. I should have been my father’s heir, his pride. But he killed my mother, Rabi’a, because she was too strong for him, and because she was Palestinian. He hadn’t minded earlier, when he was younger. No, he had loved her then. And he had used her family’s money to begin his business empire. But, as he grew more and more successful, she no longer fit into the plan. She became an embarrassment to him and to his Sunni and Maronite business partners. And so he fed her full of sleeping pills and drowned her, before my very eyes, and then married that ten-dinar whore. He drove me from his heart. He deserved to die. They all did. So with the help of the Israelis, I betrayed them to Amal, only to have the Israelis betray me.”
“Who betrayed you?” Decker asked. Keep him talking. He crawled and crawled and came upon the final crate in the long line. He peeked around it. He could see tents. He saw ben Saad and then the other man, and Swenson tied up to that chair. “Who was he, El Aqrab?”
Decker looked desperately around. But there was nowhere left to hide. The nearest cover was a good ten yards away, or more. He’d be dead before he even crossed the halfway mark. He was trapped. El Aqrab had known it all along. There was no way to outflank them. The terrorist had just been playing with him.
“Who do you think it was? Who else would the Knesset choose but the Minister of Defense.”
Decker leaned his back against the crate. He looked at the gun in his hand. And then he suddenly remembered. “Garron,” he whispered. “It was Garron who authorized the deal. He must have.”
Jamal laughed. “I think even Yuri was a little shocked when I approached him with the proposition. It was so simple really. Together we made it appear my father and brother had collaborated with the Zionists. In exchange for information about Syrian and Amal positions, which I was more than happy to provide, Garron promised to protect my father’s properties and businesses after the invasion. Allowances would be made, he said. My father’s fortune would pass on to me. A few days after we leaked the news, Amal guerrillas killed my father, my brother and my father’s wife. Burned them alive in that car. That was an added bonus. But I was arrested and sent to Ansar II in Gaza. I had gone to my father’s house, you see, to collect the cash he always kept there in case of a forced departure. I was making my way south through ‘Ayn ar Rummanah. I planned to cross the Green Line near Ash Shiyyah where I knew the guards. And I had almost made it to the airport. Almost! I could see the airplanes on the runway just beyond Tahwitat al Ghadir when I was stopped by the IDF. The Zionists had agreed to let me go, but they betrayed me. Yuri wanted the money, you see, from my father’s safe – almost two and a half million dollars. He gave it to his son to fund his next campaign for Housing Minister. Even then, he had ambitions to become Prime Minister. And then, to make things worse, I was released by Ariel Miller. After three days. Three days! I became a marked man. It appeared as if I too had collaborated with the Zionists, just like my father and brother. So I slipped back into Lebanon, where I arranged to meet Mohammed in the neighborhood of Bi’r Hasan.”
Ben Saad recounted the story of how he had set up his childhood idol, Mohammed Hussein, how he had seduced the legendary El Aqrab into that bombed-out building near the sports arena.
“Mohammed had come to kill me,” he continued. “And he almost did. But I told him that I hadn’t known about my family’s betrayal, and that the Zionists had leaked it to Amal so that my father and brother would be killed by their own people. I told him Garron had authorized my release so that I’d be killed as well. And he believed me. He believed me! He didn’t want to be a puppet of the Zionists. So he put his gun down and came up to me. He hugged me in his arms and kissed me on both cheeks, and – as he looked at me and smiled – I stabbed him in the stomach. I wanted it to last, you see, because you can tell a lot about a man when you watch him die. I needed his identity.”
“But how did you manage to keep it secret?” Decker asked. “All these years?”
Ben Saad described how he had gone back and killed the remainder of El Aqrab’s family and friends, either directly or with the help of the Maronite militia. Then he had gone north to Kazakhstan . . . where he had almost been discovered. A man named Ali showed up one day at the camp, and he recognized Jamal. He confronted him, threatened to expose him to Gulzhan Baqrah unless he paid him off. Jamal ben Saad refused. So Ali had told the guerrilla leader, and Baqrah had tortured Jamal personally.
“They strung me up by my elbows. Then Gulzhan whipped me. He whipped me to within an inch of my life, and I confessed to everything. I wanted him to know. I had to share it with him after that, you see. And Gulzhan, to my complete surprise, to my everlasting shame, Gulzhan thought fit to let me go.”
Gulzhan had sensed Jamal ben Saad’s black hatred for the Zionists. And he had recognized his talent for destruction, his passion and his ruthlessness.
After his release, Jamal went up into the mountains. He told Gulzhan that he wanted to be left alone to pray. But, in reality, he planned to throw himself off a cliff. He wanted to die. Then, something happened that he hadn’t counted on. Alone, in the freezing wind and snow, looking down upon the training camp, he’d had a vision.
“I saw the Archangel Gabriel,” he said. “He came to me, to me, and held me in his arms, and rocked me until I cried no more. He told me what I should do, the man I should become. I was . . . reborn. I became a true mujahadeen. I no longer needed to play the part of El Aqrab. I was El Aqrab.”
Ben Saad stretched and straightened up. It was strange, almost uncanny. He actually seemed to metamorphosize into another person as he reached into his robes, as he waved his arms about like a magician, and suddenly lit a match. He brought it to
his face. He stared into the flame. “Your weapon, Agent Decker. This is the last time I shall ask you. Soon the entire mountain will become a mosque,” he said, “with me within the mihrab of the Cumbre Vieja, a moveable mosque of water to purify the world. A mosque of my design to house the fourth prayer of the Hajj for the great Ummah, with a qibla running back to Mecca.” He lowered the match toward Emily’s face. He held it by her eye, immediately beneath a strand of the magnesium that stuck out like a fuse. “Everybody will die, including you and your woman. But, if you surrender now, at least she will not feel the agony of fire. It will be quick, I promise.”
Decker stood up from behind the crate.
“Ah, there you are,” said El Aqrab with a grin. “You are resourceful, aren’t you, Agent Decker?” He waved his hand and the match went out. “Come closer, let me see you. That’s better. Now, throw your gun down.”
Decker stepped forward, his arms raised, and his pistol dangling from his fingertips. He took a few more steps. Then he stopped and slowly lowered the weapon to the floor. He kicked it over to El Aqrab. His large companion bent down and picked it up. Then he approached Decker.
“Just let her go, Jamal.”
“My name isn’t Jamal. Not anymore. It’s El Aqrab.”
“You said you’d release her.”
“And you said you wouldn’t give up your gun.”
The other man stepped forward without warning and smacked Decker across the face. Decker buckled at the knees. His head began to ring. He was actually seeing stars. The man had hit him with his gun. Decker tried to stand but his legs were made of water.
The man grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to the nearest crate. He handcuffed Decker’s right hand around some kind of heavy machinery. Then he pulled Swenson over by the hair and attached her to the other side.
“You said you’d let her go,” said Decker. His face had started to swell and it was difficult to talk.
El Aqrab approached him carrying the attaché case in his hands. He placed it on the crate, immediately beside them, only a hand’s length out of reach. He turned it around so that Decker could see the bright red LED. It was counting off the sequence. There were twenty-eight minutes left. No, twenty-seven now. He stared at El Aqrab, trying to find some semblance of humanity, some touch of grace, some particle of pity in him – but there was nothing there. “You said you’d let her go,” he repeated almost to himself.
El Aqrab drew near. He padded over like a cat. “I promised you she wouldn’t feel the pain of fire. And she won’t. Neither of you will. A nuclear explosion is probably the quickest way to die. And, therefore, the least painful.” He laughed. He hovered over Decker.
“Oh, and, by the way – Salim Moussa sends his love. He told me to tell you that he still gets chills remembering your partner falling. He knew you would give up your gun. You have no heart for killing, Agent Decker. You couldn’t even shoot to save your partner.”
“Fuck you, you little prick. Fuck you! What a disappointment,” Decker said. “The great El Aqrab.” He laughed. “To destroy the world over your shattered dreams, your inconsequential ego. How fucking pathetic. This isn’t about Allah or Islam, the Ummah or the Palestinians. It’s all about Jamal. About your murdered mother. Your hunger for revenge. About Ishmael’s jealousy of Isaac.”
The gun came down on Decker’s head. He saw a light as bright as any nuclear explosion.
Then it burnt out.
Chapter 40
Thursday, February 3 – 2:08 PM
La Palma, The Canary Islands
When Swenson came to, she was handcuffed to Decker around some piece of machinery, still half-lodged in its crate. She sat up. It felt as though someone had cleaved her forehead down the middle like a chicken breast. Then she realized she was naked, except for strand after strand of light gray metal ribbon, and the bulbous contours of what appeared to be balloons of sand, like seaweed pods. She covered herself with her hand. “Decker,” she said. She tugged on the handcuffs but he still didn’t stir. “Decker,” she repeated more emphatically.
He was out cold. His face was puffy and red. But he was still breathing; she could see that. At least he was alive.
Swenson struggled slowly to her feet. She looked about. She tugged on the handcuffs, then tried to push the machinery with all of her might, but it wouldn’t budge. That’s when she noticed the aluminum attaché case, just out of reach on the crate. And then the bright red LED, the numbers counting: 25.29; 25.28; 25.27.
And it dawned on her – the bomb! The atom bomb, no bigger than a briefcase. It was an elegant device, scientifically speaking. A beautiful angel of death.
She sat down on the ground by the crate. Simply not seeing the numbers reassured her. “Decker,” she said, “Please wake up. John? John, can you hear me? Please!”
Decker did not stir. Swenson looked about, trying to spy something that might prove useful. Nothing! They were trapped. She ran her free hand through her hair, trying to think, when she felt the hairpin. She plucked it out. She held it up against the light. It was a little bent but it would have to do. Swenson slipped it into the tiny keyhole in the cuffs, just as she had seen done a thousand times on television, and in the movies. She started to twist. The hairpin slithered out. She tried again. She worked it around in every possible direction, using different combinations and various rates of pressure. She examined it like an experiment.
After a painful three minutes, she was about to give up when – with a great sigh – she tried to rip the hairpin from the hole. Great! Now, it’s stuck, she thought. She cursed and yanked it free. Decker rolled over. Swenson tried to catch him but he banged his face against the crate, exactly where he’d been struck with the gun.
“Oops,” she said. “Sorry!” She pulled him upright once again, and slipped the hairpin back into the lock. “Decker,” she said as she worked. “Decker, wake up. We’ve got to get out of here. John, wake up!”
He moaned. He started to move.
She let him gradually recline into her lap. She stroked his face and said, “John, if you don’t wake up, we’re both going to die. And I really don’t want to do that.”
Decker’s eyes fluttered open. He stared up at Swenson and smiled. “Where am I?” he said.
“Don’t you remember? We’re in a cavern, at the heart of an active volcano, in the middle of the Atlantic, handcuffed to a nuclear bomb.”
“Oh, right. I thought for a minute there that we were in trouble.” He laughed and sat up. “That’s an interesting ensemble you’re wearing.”
“Are you insane? You think this is funny? How hard did that guy hit you?”
Decker looked over the lip of the crate at the attaché case. They had twenty-three minutes to live. “Not hard enough,” he said.
Swenson continued to fiddle with the lock.
Decker noticed her desperate prodding. “What is that?” he said. “A hairpin? That’ll never work.”
“Got a better idea?”
“You’re right. Here, let me try.”
She handed him the hairpin. He turned it first one way, and then the other. Then he tried again. And again. And again, when – out of nowhere – the patter of desperate footsteps echoed through the cave. Someone was running toward them. Decker tried to stand but the handcuffs kept him huddled over, and the sudden jerking of the chain caused Swenson to cry out. He peered over the crate. “It’s him,” he said.
“Who?” Swenson strained to get a better view.
“One of the men who chased us back at the hotel. I recognize him.” Then Decker paused, and listened, and added in a tone of quiet desperation, “He’s coming this way.”
They squatted down behind the crate, both absolutely still. Swenson’s thighs began to shake. She watched as a thin rivulet of blood ran past Decker’s temple, down his neck, and into his shirt. The footsteps grew louder and louder as the man drew near. He was almost upon them. And then he was there, right there, beside them, towering overhead, casting a shadow
over Decker, who still held the hairpin in his hand.
He was Middle Eastern. He had chocolate-brown hair and penetrating nut-brown eyes. He took in the scene at a glance, reached into his windbreaker, removed a double-action Jericho 941, and aimed it a Decker’s head.
Decker and Swenson both winced and closed their eyes. They heard the shot and looked in panic at each other. The bullet had severed the chain. The cufflinks separated. They were free.
“You must be Agent Decker,” said the stranger. “And Emily Swenson, of Woods Hole.” He held a hand out and helped them to their feet. “Acting Chief Seiden, Mossad. Warhaftig told me you were somewhere on La Palma. I tried to link up with you at the Parador in Santa Cruz but you left in quite a hurry.”
Decker pointed at the silver attaché case on the crate behind them. “Unless you also happen to be a nuclear technician,” he added, “I think we should get the hell out of here.”
They started running at a furious pace back toward the entrance to the cave. They made it through the tunnel, into the lava tube and stumbled across the golf cart Decker had abandoned earlier, on the way in. It was just sitting there next to that boulder in the path. The key was still in the ignition. Obviously, El Aqrab had not anticipated their release.
They jumped in, Decker floored the accelerator, and the small battery-powered engine whined. The golf cart began to move. After about twenty yards, they picked up steam, and – even with the headlights – it became difficult to see. The lave tube seemed to curl this way and that, to turn at the oddest angles, to rise and drop at will. But as fast as they were driving, the journey still seemed to take forever. At one point they passed another tunnel to the left and Decker had to stop, and try and orient himself. He hadn’t noticed it before, on the way in. It joined the lava tube at a sharp angle. Without hesitating, Decker turned right and kept on driving. After another ten minutes, just as he was about to turn around and try the other tunnel, he saw a faint light up ahead, pale as a lost firefly. He hugged the steering wheel. The light seemed to be growing brighter by the second. “Do you see that?” he asked Swenson, just to be sure.