Panacea

by F. Paul Wilson

  She leaned over and retched but nothing came up.

  “You okay?” he said as she straightened.

  “No, I’m not okay. Your bullets passed about three inches from my face.”

  “An inch is as good as a mile.”

  His too-casual attitude was pushing her shock and confusion to anger—a too familiar place for her.

  “What were you thinking? There were four of them and one of you. They weren’t even pointing their guns at us!”

  “Best time to make a move. And anyway, I didn’t like their plans for us. They were going to hold us for ransom.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The head man said ‘These two will be valuable.’”

  “You speak Arabic too?”

  “A little.”

  Who was this man?

  Oh, right. Ramiz Haddad. And not a reach to think a man born Ramiz Haddad would speak some Arabic. She still had trouble buying that Arab bit. If he was an Arab, she was Mongolian. But that was secondary now. Even tertiary …

  “Stahlman would have paid.”

  “These yokels wouldn’t be looking for money. They’d be looking to trade us for their terrorist buddies in Israeli prisons. That type of negotiation, if it gets done at all, can take months. And besides…”

  “What?”

  He stopped at the Jeep’s passenger door and turned to face her.

  “According to their chatter they had more than just a ‘hostage situation’ in mind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “They had plans for you.”

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “Well, first off, they were each going to take turns with you before they took you back across the border. The leader had firsties.”

  “Wait … what?”

  He sighed. “They were each going—”

  “Okay, okay. I got that.” She swallowed. “Really?”

  “And they were going to make me watch. They thought we were lovers.”

  So that was what the laughter had been about. In the back of her mind she’d detected a lascivious twist but had been too scared to fully grasp it.

  “And back in the West Bank,” Rick was saying, “they were going to set you up in a room for themselves and their friends to visit until the trade was worked out.”

  … that type of negotiation, if it gets done at all, can take months …

  Laura looked down at the corpse at her feet and delivered a kick to its torso.

  “Bastards!”

  Rick opened the door as she approached. When she’d settled into the seat she began to shake all over.

  “Hold on to those,” he said and dropped their passports and rental agreement onto her lap.

  She watched him step over the bodies as he hurried around the front through the light.

  “How did you manage to kill all four of them?” she said when he’d slipped behind the wheel.

  “I didn’t. I dropped only three. They took care of their fearless leader for us. I’m glad he had Kevlar under his sweater, otherwise those AK rounds would have gone through him and into me.”

  Their fearless leader … the one who had firsties. She shuddered.

  “The first two were easy. I’ve always been a good shot—no brag, just one of those things that comes easy for me. Before they even realized what was happening they were dead. Surprise is like a hidden weapon. It freezes them for a second or two as they try to adjust to the sudden change in their situation. In an eyeblink they went from having total control to having someone shooting at them.”

  “But so fast.”

  “Not so. I think I’m slowing down. I wasn’t fast enough to keep that last guy from reaching you. Whatever, I had to drop them as fast as I could while I still had the surprise. Grabbing their buddy’s sidearm was the last thing they expected from a wimpy tourist, but they weren’t going to stay surprised long.”

  She couldn’t help a tiny smile. “Speaking of wimpy … you’re a terrible actor.”

  “You didn’t buy it?”

  “Don’t quit your day job.”

  She flashed back to his quickness, the ruthless accuracy of his fire.

  If he wasn’t an ex-SEAL, what was he?

  He started the Jeep and headed down to the gate. But when he reached it, four sets of headlights flared and shadowy figures raced toward them, shouting in a foreign language.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “More of them?”

  “Raise your hands and relax,” Rick said. “That’s Hebrew they’re shouting.”

  4

  “Daddy, I’m cold.”

  Steven looked up from his laptop. Marissa stood in the doorway to the den with her arms wrapped across her chest. Natasha, her homebound instructor, stood behind her.

  “She feels warm to me, Mister Gaines.”

  He motioned Marissa forward. “Come here, honey. Let me feel.”

  He noticed her face was flushed and when she reached him he pressed his hand against her forehead. Hot and dry.

  “Definitely warm. Let’s go get the thermometer.”

  “I’ll get it,” Marissa said.

  Steven followed her to the linen closet—he’d expected the bathroom—questioning her along the way.

  “Sore throat? Cough? Congestion?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tummy hurt? Feel like you’re gonna throw up?” He hoped not. Just the smell of vomit made him want to hurl himself.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. Besides cold, what do you feel?”

  “I hurt all over.”

  That sounded viral.

  She pawed through the second shelf of the linen closet and pulled out something that looked like a small flashlight.

  “That’s not a thermometer,” he said. “That’s a nose-hair clipper.”

  Natasha had trailed along. “It’s one of those forehead thermometers,” she said.

  Steven let Marissa take the lead with the thing. He didn’t know what to do and she loved being in charge. She fiddled with it for a second, then pressed the tip against her forehead.

  “This is the way Mommy does it.” She held it there for what couldn’t have been more than a second, then looked at the little window on the handle. “One-oh-one-six.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “That wasn’t anywhere near long enough.”

  “Oh, no,” Natasha said. “That’s all it takes. It’s the greatest thing. Accurate too.”

  “Really? Let me see.”

  Sure enough: 101.6°F.

  “Well, that’s not good.” He still couldn’t buy that it could work that fast. “Let’s try again. Show me how to do it.”

  He followed Marissa’s instructions, but held it against her forehead for a good five seconds. No matter. He got the same reading.

  Okay. He had to make some decisions.

  “You,” he said, pointing to Marissa, “are to get under the covers where it’s warm. I’ll get you some Tylenol.” He turned to Natasha. “And I guess you’ve got the rest of the day off. Figure on tomorrow too, maybe longer. I’ll call you when she’s over this.”

  She nodded, looking disappointed. He imagined the state DOE paid her on a per diem basis for homebound instruction. Couldn’t be helped, though. Marissa’s immune system was fragile on her best days. Now that she was sick, he needed to keep traffic through the house at a minimum.

  The good news was that the visiting nurse was due at two … ten minutes from now. She’d check Marissa over, maybe draw some blood … do all the things nurses do.

  Almost nine P.M. in Israel now. If he didn’t hear from Laura soon, he’d call her.

  5

  Laura couldn’t sit still. She paced the small interrogation room while Rick sat behind the scarred wooden table, leaning back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. He sat so still he could have been asleep with his eyes open.

  She tried not to look in the mirror as she paced. First off, she’d had a peek at her
reflection and she looked old and haggard in this harsh light. Hell, she felt old and haggard as well. Second, she was ninety-nine percent sure it was one-way glass—like in every TV interrogation room she’d ever seen.

  “Why are they keeping us? We’re Americans. We’re allies with Israel, probably its best friend in the world.”

  Rick stirred and said, “Haven’t mistreated us.”

  “No, but if they’re going to hold us they could put us in something other than this smelly little room. We were the victims out there.”

  “We were picked up by Yamas and they’ve got four dead Palestinians to explain. They’re thorough about these things.”

  She stopped pacing.

  “Hamas?”

  “Whoa! Whoa! That’s Yamas with a Y. Hamas is on the other side—the suicide bombers.”

  “All right, who’s Yamas and how do you know this stuff?”

  “Don’t know for certain about Yamas, but the signage on the way in indicated that this is a Shin Bet station—that’s Israel’s FBI—and Yamas is their border division. So it’s a pretty good guess. And to answer your question, I’ve had some business over here from time to time.”

  “With the Israeli FBI?”

  “You do know they’re listening to every word, don’t you?”

  “I guessed that.”

  “Well, they probably wouldn’t like me talking about it.”

  All right, she’d had enough.

  “Who are you, damn it! Because I know—”

  He held up a hand. “Whatever you know or think you know is wrong. Which is all the more reason to keep it to yourself. Please.”

  The please got to her. She’d never heard him say it. Not once. And it took her by surprise.

  Okay. She’d say nothing. Now. But later …

  The door opened behind her. She saw Rick stiffen as he looked past her. She turned and saw a short, fiftyish man with bushy salt-and-pepper hair enter the room. He wore a gray suit, a white shirt, and no tie. He nodded to Laura and indicated the chair next to Rick.

  “I am Noam Chayat,” he said in English that carried a faint British accent. “Please be seated.”

  Laura complied, but had to ask, “Why are we being held here? We were the victims.”

  He smiled as he lowered himself into one of the facing chairs on the far side of the table. “You are very amusing.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  She felt Rick’s hand rest on her thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. What was he telling her? Back off?

  “No,” Chayat said, “but you must understand, we find four armed men, quite efficiently shot to death, and the killers claim to be victims.”

  “But—”

  Another gentle squeeze from Rick. “He knows.”

  Chayat nodded. “Yes, I do. The four who attacked you were members of a raiding party from one of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam brigades.”

  “Hamas,” Rick said.

  Chayat nodded again. “We had been tracking them. We found explosives behind one of the buildings. I am sure they must have been as surprised to encounter you as you were to encounter them.”

  “Not nearly,” Laura said.

  “We had been hoping to capture them alive. We have questions, they had answers. Those answers died with them.”

  “Sorry,” Rick said. “Doctor Fanning had nothing to do with the shooting. You can check her hands for GSR. They’re clean.”

  “Yes. I gathered that.” He pulled a U.S. passport from his pocket and opened it. “Richard Hayden. Who are you, Mister Hayden?”

  Exactly what I want to know, Laura thought. She did not need the thigh squeeze to know not to voice that thought.

  “I do private investigations and security back in the States.”

  “A private detective who dispatches four seasoned brigade members with one of their own weapons. I must say I am impressed.”

  “I got lucky.”

  What? Laura thought. Not going to mention you’re an ex-SEAL?

  And then she almost jumped out of her seat.

  Good God, if Phil is right and Rick’s real name is Ramiz Haddad—what if Chayat finds out he’s an Arab?

  What if he already knows?

  “Yes. Very lucky. Why are you in Israel?”

  “Doctor Fanning and I are here to pay our respects at the birthplace of a mutual friend, Chaim Brody. We paid our respects to his Maya girlfriend in Mexico and then came here to visit his birthplace in the old Gan Yosaif kibbutz.”

  Laura nodded in agreement. She realized Rick’s scenario would fit the itinerary in their passports and was as good a story as any.

  Chayat opened another passport—hers. She stared at it, resisting the urge to lunge across the table and snatch it from his fingers. She could go nowhere without it—couldn’t get on a plane, couldn’t even rent a hotel room. She was no one without it—especially in Israel. She wanted it back.

  “You are a medical doctor, Ms. Fanning?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is a very odd excursion you two are on, but it is not for me to judge. However, I am having difficulty with the way your arrival in an abandoned kibbutz coincided so perfectly with the raiding party’s. Almost as if it had been planned.”

  “I can assure you,” Laura said, “it was anything but.”

  “Neither of us have any connection to any Arab groups,” Rick said. “Or Israeli groups, for that matter. At least I don’t.” He looked at her. “Laura?”

  She shook her head. “Not a one. Just an awful case of being in the wrong place at the worst possible time.”

  “I guess I will have to accept that,” Chayat said with obvious reluctance. “I back checked on your movements since your arrival—including your stop at the ILA—and they’ve been nothing but direct and straightforward. It’s just…”

  Laura waited for him to continue but he left the word hanging. Something about Rick’s change of name?

  “Just what?” she finally said.

  “It’s just that these four brigade members had strange scars on their arms.”

  Rick’s grip on her thigh tightened. Laura kept an equally tight grip on her composure. And on her words. Casually now …

  “Oh? Strange how?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “You’ve got me curious now,” she said. She started to improvise. “Certain teenagers in the U.S. make slices in the skin of their arms. It started with some disturbed kids and became a sick fad for a while. They line them up, like stripes. Something like that?”

  He shook his head. “No, these appeared to be a Roman numeral, of all things.” He fished a slip of paper from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Have you ever seen the like?”

  Rick’s hand closed like a vise on her thigh as she stared at the sheet.

  DXXXVI

  “No,” she managed. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “On all four of them?” Rick said, finally relaxing his grip.

  Chayat nodded. “All four.”

  “Wait,” Rick said. “If I remember my Roman numerals, that means five hundred thirty-six. Wasn’t Mohammed born in the sixth century? Could that be his birthday?”

  “The accepted date of his birth is five-seventy.”

  Rick leaned back. “Well, that kills that theory.”

  Laura wanted to applaud. A brilliant bit of misdirection.

  “Even if it were Mohammed’s birth year,” she added, getting on board, “why would Islamic terrorists write it in Roman numerals? I mean, didn’t the hated crusaders use Roman numerals? How would they even know them?”

  Chayat shrugged. “The very same question I am asking myself. Most incongruous and perplexing. But of no concern to you.” He retrieved the slip and handed Laura her passport. “You are free to go, Doctor Fanning.”

  She snatched it from him and clutched it between her breasts. Got it! Now she knew how Gollum felt. She noticed with concern that Chayat kept a grip on Rick’s passport. She stood and waited.


  “You can go, Doctor Fanning,” he repeated.

  “What about Mister Hayden?”

  “I would have a few words alone with Mister Hayden.”

  “Why?”

  The Arab thing again?

  He glanced up at her. “You may wait in the arrival area.”

  They locked gazes for a few heartbeats. He wasn’t going to budge, and arguing would only delay their departure—if indeed they would be allowed to depart. Besides, he held all the cards. She broke off and turned toward the door.

  “Don’t be long,” she said with a bravado she didn’t feel. “I want to be on a plane out of here as soon as possible.”

  She closed the door behind her, walked down the short hallway, and wound up in a small room with an armed man in a green uniform seated behind a desk. Saying nothing, she took a seat and waited. The shock of learning that their attackers carried the DXXXVI tattoo vied with a nightmare vision of seeing Rick being led out of that room in handcuffs a few minutes from now. The world seemed upside down.

  What would she do if they arrested Rick? Call the American embassy? Hell, she didn’t even know what city it was in. Tel Aviv? Jerusalem?

  She decided to worry about that if and when she had to.

  She watched the border policeman out of the corner of her eye. Did he have DXXXVI branded on his arm as well?

  6

  After Laura was gone, Chayat stared at him a long time. Rick stared back.

  “Who are you, Mister Hayden? Really.”

  Rick didn’t know where this was going, but he saw no other course than to play it like everything was on the up and up. Which it was. The details, however, were not up for discussion.

  “Just what it says there,” he said, pointing to his passport. “I don’t know what I can add to that.”

  Chayat offered him a tolerant smile. “No, you are something else. When I called in the situation at Gan Yosaif, word quickly came back to go through the motions and let you go. I don’t know who you know or what you know, but that is most unusual.”

  Yeah, unusual as all hell.

  But he kept his expression bland. “I assure you, Mister Chayat, neither the doc or I are involved in anything sinister.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure that’s true about ‘the doc.’ But you … you are a different story. Word did not come down to go easy on the American couple. It came down to go easy on you … on Richard Hayden.”