by Pete Barber
Quinn ran back into the room. He tore open all the drawers, ripped off the sheets, checked under the bed and the mattress, looking for something, anything, to give him an idea where the little shit had gone.
Out of ideas, he drifted over to the window and gazed at the street below. Vehicles jammed the road. An impatient driver mounted the sidewalk and passed two cars before blasting his horn and slamming back down the curb into a ten-foot gap. Quinn stared at the Hebrew lettering on the street sign opposite.
How would he ever find Abdul in this crazy place?
Someone hammered on the door. “Security. Open up!”
Quinn pocketed the notes and photo before three men barged into the room, guns drawn. Two were uniformed hotel security, the third wore gray flannels and an open-necked white shirt, a Mossad agent, Quinn assumed. Gun snugged in its shoulder holster, and hands raised to show no evil intent, Quinn nodded to the agent. “Abdul’s gone.”
The guy kept his gun on Quinn, keyed a radio with his free hand, and barked a few words in Hebrew. The radio squawked back.
The agent relayed the question. “Who fired the gun?”
“I did, to get into the room.” Quinn eased his hand down, backed toward the connecting door and pointed at the splintered wood. The agent nodded and spoke again into the handset, listened to his instructions, then said, “You wait here for the captain.”
Chapter 16
The sedan tore away from the side door of the hotel and slammed Abdul back in his seat.
The Arab said, “Give me your phone and passport.” He switched off Abdul’s iPhone and slipped it and the passport inside his robe. When they reached the first intersection, a black SUV blocked traffic from the right, and the driver waved them through. As they turned left, an identical vehicle pulled out in front, forming a convoy. Abdul’s heart raced. The man who’d led him from the hotel bathroom hadn’t spoken except to demand the phone. His face was a blank, forward-facing mask, and he reeked of stale sweat.
“Where are we going?” Abdul got no reply.
After tracking the lead SUV for twenty minutes, at a service entrance in the rear of a medical facilty the driver pulled into a driveway marked Ambulance Only. The tail car pulled up close behind.
“Wait.” The smelly man left the vehicle and pulled out a bunch of keys. He unlocked a door labeled Employees Only and signaled Abdul to follow.
As he climbed from the car, Abdul’s first instinct was to run. He’d come voluntarily. There was no logic to running, but still he wanted to. He went through the door, and the man locked it. Tires squealed outside as the SUVs pulled away.
They were in the receiving area for emergencies. The partition behind which a receptionist had once sat was shattered. Shards of glass lay heaped to one side of the hallway. Abdul wondered whether the place had been bombed. Seeking instructions, his gaze moved back to his escort, and his heart skipped because the man now held a pistol. A cruel prod in the back with the gun barrel sent Abdul walking along the corridor.
With more lights blown than lit and no windows, it proved difficult to see. Abdul stumbled over loose plaster and broken ceiling tiles until the man stopped him in front of a door marked Office.
While he waited, his captor shouted something Abdul didn’t catch, and an overweight man in baggy sweatpants and a grubby shirt opened the door. He also held a gun. The man from the hotel took up a guard position in the hallway, and Abdul stepped into the room.
The office was large and mostly empty, one wall lined with gray filing cabinets, the others bare except for a crooked calendar hanging by a piece of string from a nail. The room had no windows. Two neon tubes buzzed and flickered in the only working light fixture, and below them Ghazi sat behind an old metal desk. Strangely, Abdul felt relieved to see him.
“Abdul-Haqq, again you have proved yourself an honorable man. Thank you for coming.”
“Where’s Adiba?”
“Soon I will take you to her. Did you tell anyone of our meeting?”
“You said not to, so I didn’t.” Abdul thought of the note he’d left for Quinn. “What happened to the decoy the Israelis sent in my place?” Abdul asked.
“This is not your concern. Abdul-Haqq, I apologize, but I must ask you to stay with us for a few days. Provided you follow instructions neither you nor the girl will be harmed. Do we understand each other?”
“Once I’ve seen Adiba unharmed, I’ll trust your word.” Abdul tried to sound braver than he felt.
Ghazi turned to the man in sweats who stood to the side with his pistol trained on Abdul’s chest. “Show Abdul-Haqq to his room.”
With a twitch of his gun, the man indicated a door on the far side of the office, which opened onto a flight of stairs. Abdul climbed to the top and stopped at a small landing with two doors. The man pointed to the right, and Abdul stepped into a room with bare plaster walls and no windows. Paint hung in flakes from water-stained areas on the ceiling. A canvas cot stretched out against one wall, one bulb provided meager light. An open door in the far wall led to a bathroom with commode and washbasin. Two white plastic lawn chairs and a card table, similar to the ones from his first meeting with Ghazi, sat at the center of the room.
The door clicked shut. A key turned in the lock.
Abdul took off the robes from the hotel and dumped them on the bathroom floor. The room was hot and airless so he splashed his face and neck with cold water. Why hadn’t he brought a laptop or something to write on so he could record what was happening? He smiled to himself at the stupidity of the thought. He didn’t know what was happening.
When he stretched out on the cot, canvas seams dug into his back. A low rumble of voices came from the office below.
Maybe he should have been stronger, insisted on seeing Adiba.
Ha. Exactly what leverage did he think he had?
If Quinn had gotten the note translated, what would the policeman do? He wouldn’t go to the Israelis; he didn’t trust them, but he’d have to report in to Special Branch. London would probably recall him in disgrace.
Abdul swallowed a few times. His throat tightened. Tears were close as the consequences of his actions struck home. If Quinn returned to London, no one in Israel could help him. He circled on those thoughts for a long time.
Abdul heard someone on the stairs. He sat up on the cot. The door opened. Ghazi entered, without a weapon. Abdul’s gaze locked on Gahzi’s scar. Such a vicious gash: the stitch marks formed a ladder climbing from the man’s neck to the corner of his eye. Ghazi’s chest was huge, and his hands even larger than Abdul remembered. This man could snap him like a twig. He didn’t need a weapon.
“Abdul-Haqq, are you comfortable?”
“I have everything I need except—”
“Come. I’ll take you to her.”
Ghazi unlocked the door across the landing, knocked, and stepped back to allow Abdul through. The room was identical to his, but this one contained Adiba.
She sprang from the cot and slammed into him so hard he staggered back a step.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She had him in a death grip, her head buried in his chest, sobbing, unable to answer.
Abdul knew then.
He’d made the right decision.
“Later, I’ll bring food,” Ghazi said. He left and locked the door behind him.
They held each other until her tears subsided and her grip slackened. When, finally, she pulled back and looked him full in the face, her cheeks were wet and her eyes rimmed with red. “How did you find me?”
Abdul remembered the picture of Adiba strapped to the chair with a knife at her throat. “They threatened to hurt you if I didn’t come.”
A shudder passed through her. “I was so frightened . . . but how will we get away from these people?”
“Have they harmed you?”
“No. But when they tied me up I thought they would slit my throat.” Her fingers trembled as she wiped at her face. He wrapped her in his arms again, moved her
to the cot, and sat beside her, stroking her hair. For a long time, they stayed like that, without speaking.
Adiba broke the silence. “Now we’re both captives.”
“I don’t think they mean to harm us. Ghazi—”
“The big one with the scar?”
“Yes. He’s their leader. He wants me to publicize Allah’s Revenge.”
“The group who murdered those people in London?” She pulled back from Abdul and stared at him, a shocked look on her face.
“I came to Israel to meet Ghazi.”
“What does he want?”
“Well, he wants the Israelis to leave Palestine. But, meanwhile, he’s trying to get some buddies released from Israeli prison.” Abdul talked her through the decoy and the note on his pillow.
She kissed him on the cheek. “It was very brave of you to come.” He put his arms around her, and Adiba’s body sagged against him.
With no windows, he couldn’t estimate how much time had passed. He’d left the hotel at seven. He guessed it must be nearly midnight. Adiba lay on the cot and closed her eyes, clearly exhausted. Seated beside her, Abdul studied her face: makeup-free, smooth olive skin, high cheeks, and long dark lashes. Her breathing turned soft and shallow and she drifted to sleep.
When the room door opened, Abdul gave a start. The sudden movement woke Adiba and a scream stifled in her throat. Ghazi brought a tray with bread, cheese, and bottled water, which he placed on the floor.
“Eat. Then Abdul will return to his room.” Adiba started to protest, but Abdul held up his hand, and she fell silent. Ghazi left them alone with the food.
“Adiba, these people are Islamic fanatics.”
“I understand.” She took his fingers in hers and gazed into his face. “It’s just . . . I feel safer with you here.”
“My room is across the landing. It looks the same as this one. I’ll be thinking of you.”
She smiled, knelt by his feet, and began to prepare a plate for him.
Chapter 17
A pissed-off Mossad captain briefed Quinn on the loss of their decoy and left him in his hotel room with instructions to get the hell out of his territory, yesterday if possible.
Quinn hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t considered that he needed to be “on” once the Israelis took over. He was furious at himself, such a rookie mistake, never drop your guard. He dreaded relating the story of his incompetence to Frank Browning, but he had no choice, so Quinn called Frank’s home number. It was midnight, UK time.
Frank said, “Let me get this straight. The Israelis lost their operative?”
“They were following by helicopter. The car rounded a corner; somehow the bad guys slipped the decoy out of the back seat. They followed the vehicle for fifteen minutes and when it was finally dumped: no decoy.”
“And you lost Abdul.”
Quinn’s guts churned. “He gave me the slip.”
“Humph.”
Quinn couldn’t blame Frank for the sarcasm. “Frank, I need someone who speaks the language. The longer we wait, the less chance we have of finding him.”
“Perhaps I can get help from the British Embassy. Stay put until I call you back. I don’t want to lose you next.” Quinn slammed the phone down and started pacing. British Embassy, what a joke; I haven’t lost my fuckin’ passport!
At 9:00 p.m., two hours after Abdul’s disappearance, Quinn made the second call he’d been dreading.
Scott Shearer picked up.
“It’s Quinn.” The line went quiet. “Scott, I need your help. Abdul’s gone AWOL.”
Scott chewed him out, and Quinn took it. In a strange way, it felt better having someone else shout at him rather than beating himself up. Finally, Scott calmed enough to let Quinn explain what had happened.
“If I tell the Israelis about Adiba, they’ll lock me up, or worse, for getting their decoy taken.”
“So what are you going to do?” Scott said
“Translate the note. Find Adiba, and I’ll find Abdul. In his dossier I’ve got her full Arab name, her street address and all the e-mails she sent. Perhaps her family can tell me how long she’s been missing or where they saw her last.”
“Write out her contact information. I’ll call you back with a fax number. And we’ll need the note, too.”
“I don’t like faxing this stuff, Scott.”
Scott shouted so loud that Quinn had to hold the phone away from his ear. “And exactly how can you make this worse? Take off your stupid policeman’s helmet, Quinn. You’re in Israel, looking for an Arab girl you’ve never met. You don’t know the language. You don’t know where she lives. You don’t know jack-shit. Damn it, Quinn! Send the information. I’ll call right back.”
Quinn was still copying Adiba’s address when Scott called him with Rafiq’s fax number. “Go to the hotel’s business office, send the fax, then get back to your room. I’ll call you and conference Rafiq in.”
Ten minutes later, Rafiq translated the note for them over the phone.
“Doesn’t tell us more than the photo,” Quinn said.
“Tells me that Abdul is a brave young man,” Scott said with venom in his voice.
“Brave or foolish, either way, how do we get him home?” Rafiq said.
“What about the street address?” Quinn asked.
“I’ve pulled up a map. I can fax it to the hotel.”
“If you’d carry a laptop we could e-mail this stuff to you, damned Neanderthal!” Scott said.
Quinn slapped the dresser hard enough to make his hand sting. He shouted into the phone. “Okay . . . okay. Enough! Look, Scott. I get that you’re pissed off. But this isn’t helping.”
Rafiq spoke in a calm voice, “What are you going to do when you arrive at Adiba’s home?”
Quinn stared out of the window at the street below, still crammed with cars. “I’ll have to hope someone speaks English. I have a picture of her from Abdul’s dossier I can use. Scott, did Abdul fly straight home after meeting Ghazi?”
“No, I sent him to a press conference in Eilat.”
“That’s something. What then?” Quinn asked. The line went quiet. “Come on, Scott. This is like pulling teeth.”
“He had a private meeting with Nazar Eudon. He’s—”
“I know who he is. Was he in Eilat?” Quinn paced the room, stretching the phone cord to its limit.
“Yes, but Abdul went to his home in Aqaba, Jordan.”
“Great. That makes it easier.” Quinn’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“What about Adiba?”
“He didn’t mention her.”
“According to their emails, she was with him in Eilat,” Quinn said. “Okay, get me a contact number for Eudon while I visit Adiba’s folks.”
Quinn slipped a spare magazine for his Glock into his side pocket, put on his leather jacket, and headed for the lobby.
From the business center, he picked up Rafiq’s fax and showed the address to the doorman. He slipped the man a bill. “I need a driver who speaks English and Arabic.”
The doorman walked along the line of taxis outside the hotel until he found the one he wanted. He signaled, and Quinn got in.
When they pulled into traffic, Quinn said,
“You speak English?”
“A little.”
“What’s your name?”
“Caleb.”
“Pleased to meet you Caleb, I’m Quinn. I might need you to translate.” Quinn passed a fifty to the driver, who tucked it into his shirt pocket and grinned. Quinn, speaking slowly, explained he was looking for a girl. He couldn’t tell how much the driver understood—probably thought he was after a hooker.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a row of single-story white block buildings. The driver pointed to a paint-chipped door beside a small window with sun-bleached, wooden shutters secured behind iron bars. A lit bulb hung from bare wires next to the doorframe. The street was empty and quiet except for an overloud TV playing in one of the houses.
/> “This one,” Caleb said.
Quinn got out. “Wait here.”
With the photo of Adiba held high, like an ID, he knocked, then took a step back so his face and Adiba’s picture were in the light. The window shutters cracked open an inch and then slammed shut. As he went to knock again, a short, barrel-chested man with a three-day beard, wearing a white undershirt and baggy cotton pants opened the door. He looked from Quinn to the picture.
“My name is Steven Quinnborne. I’m with the British police. I need to speak with Adiba-bint-Tariq-bin-Khalid-Al-Qasim.”
The man yelled at him in Arabic. Quinn raised his other hand to indicate he wanted him to stop, but the man was screaming, red-faced, and waving fists as if to throw a punch.
Quinn signaled to the cabbie. “Hey. Caleb, a little help!”
The driver leaned across and shouted something from the open passenger window. Whatever he said caused the man to turn and bark an instruction to those inside, and the front door slammed shut. The man pushed past Quinn and started talking to the driver. Quinn tapped him on the shoulder.
“What’s he saying?” Quinn asked the driver.
“His two daughters have been taken. He wants me to tell him whether you are a kidnapper. He says his family has no money, but they want their girls back. Why did you take them, Mr. Quinn?”
Quinn pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the sweat beading on his face. “I’m no kidnapper. I’m looking for this girl.” Quinn pointed to the picture. The driver translated and again Adiba’s father began shouting at Quinn and shaking his fist.
“Ask him when he last saw his girls.”
The driver spoke.
This time, when the father answered, anger had faded from his voice.
“The youngest disappeared week; she never came home from school. The one pictured, Adiba, two days ago.”
“What’s his youngest daughter’s name?”
When the man heard the question from the cabbie, he turned back to Quinn. Tears streamed down his face. He dropped to his knees and grabbed Quinn’s trouser legs. Quinn didn’t need a translator to understand the man was begging for his children’s lives.