Daud slipped into the shadows and stood behind a palm tree so he could watch the main entrance to the resort. Two taxis arrived at the same time. The Kolisnyks exited the second vehicle. Daud took out his secure cell phone and sent a text message to Charlie.
Contact with A and B. Not yet agreed to cooperate. Staying at the Four Seasons Resort registered under the name of Bakaj. Provide room or suite number.
It was fifteen minutes before Daud’s phone vibrated.
Villa 4. Will you be able to deliver A on schedule? Any means authorized.
Trying to drag an uncooperative Artem Kolisnyk out of a fancy villa and across town to the marina would be difficult. Including the Ukrainian’s new wife, who seemed to somewhat trust Daud, might make it easier. He entered a brief reply.
Presence of B likely to increase cooperation by A. Advise.
This time he had a much shorter wait.
Proceed.
Adrenaline coursed through Daud’s body, and every sense heightened. He confidently entered the hotel lobby and asked the concierge for a map of the property. A cluster of detached villas was in a separate area from the general guest rooms. The Presidential Villa had its own private beach with villa 4 next door. Tucking the map inside his sport coat, Daud left the lobby and passed through a pool area on his way to the beach. Now that it was night, the desert air had quickly cooled. The calm, clear waters of the Red Sea lapped against the sand. Daud saw a young couple holding hands as they strolled along.
It was two hundred meters to the private beach reserved for guests staying at the Presidential Villa. A sign marked the boundary line. Daud ignored it. There were no lights shining in the villa. Turning away from the water, Daud slipped through a line of low shrubs that separated the Presidential Villa from villa 4. Lights were on in both villa 4 and the villa next to it. Daud took a step forward and then froze. A small moving light appeared at the front corner of villa 4. A figure dressed in black emerged holding a tiny flashlight.
* * *
Not long after Hana returned from having lunch with Jakob and his new client, the law firm receptionist buzzed her.
“Abdul Erakat is on the phone. He says it’s personal.”
“I’ll take it.”
Since getting married, Hana and Daud had been sharing her car. While he was out of the country, she’d secretly been trying to locate a vehicle for him to drive. When she first met Daud in Jerusalem, he drove a rugged green Land Rover that he loved but didn’t own and had to turn in when he stopped working for the Israeli government. Abdul Erakat was a car dealer Hana had encountered at a local deli frequented by Arabs in the city. She’d asked him to be on the lookout for a similar used vehicle.
“Give me some good luck and throw me in the sea,” the man said, quoting a familiar Middle Eastern proverb. “I’ve found a Land Rover for you, but you’ll need to act fast. It’s not going to last long on the market. It’s a true off-road version, not something a soccer mom would drive.”
Hana listened as Abdul described a five-year-old Land Rover with all the features Daud would want. There were only 40,000 miles on the odometer.
“That checks all his boxes,” Hana replied. “What about the price?”
Abdul mentioned a figure that was more than Hana wanted to pay but didn’t cause her to reject the deal.
“Would you want to finance it?”
“No. I’d pay cash.”
“That’s what I figured. I never have been able to understand the love affair Americans have with paying finance charges on loans. If you’re interested, I’ll arrange for a mechanic to check it out.”
Hana didn’t like to make snap decisions but realized she didn’t have the luxury of waiting.
“Go ahead. I’m not an expert and will need to trust you and your mechanic.” Hana paused. “One other important thing I forgot to ask. The Land Rover that Daud drove before was green.”
“This vehicle is white with black accents.”
Hana hesitated.
“Mrs. Hasan,” the car dealer said after a moment passed. “Color matters much more to women than to men. You can trust me on that too.”
Thirty minutes later an email from Abdul arrived in Hana’s in-box with photos of the vehicle. It was clearly in better shape than the one Daud drove in Israel, which made Hana more comfortable with the price. Her excitement began to build. Plotting to buy the car also gave her something positive to focus on as a way to relieve stress. The phone buzzed. It was Gladys Applewhite, Mr. Lowenstein’s administrative assistant.
“Mr. Lowenstein would like to see you,” Gladys said in her silky southern accent.
Hana closed her computer screen. “On my way,” she replied.
The executive offices for the three named partners were in a row on the south side of the building and featured panoramic views of the north side of Atlanta. Mr. Lowenstein was sitting behind a large desk with his necktie loosened and a file folder in hand. Stocky and gray-haired, the Jewish lawyer was an admiralty law expert who collected miniature antique sailing ships that he displayed under glass covers. Some of the rigging for the ships seemed so fragile that it looked in danger of dissolving if exposed to the atmosphere.
“How is Jim Collins treating you?” Mr. Lowenstein asked.
Because Hana worked on international transactions, she spent the majority of her time under Mr. Collins’s supervision. Collaborating with Leon Lowenstein in the Neumann case had given her the opportunity to interact with one of the other senior partners.
“He’s keeping me busy.”
“Good. Jim tells me your skill in the nuances of American transactional law has really increased. You’re catching problems that other young attorneys, even those who graduated from US law schools, might miss.”
“Translating documents forces me to consider what the words really mean.”
“I can see that,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “Are you ready to work with me again?”
Hana was puzzled. Mr. Lowenstein was also her boss, and assignment of work at the law firm wasn’t usually on a volunteer basis.
“What kind of work?” she asked.
“I’m part of a civic group that is organizing community events to bring together people from different ethnic and religious backgrounds for dialogue and education about controversial topics. I think it would be wonderful if you, as a Christian Arab and Israeli citizen, participated in an interfaith forum about Israel.”
Hana’s perspective about life in Israel was shared by more Arabs than many people in America realized, but she nevertheless spoke for a minority.
“Who else would be speaking?”
“The planning committee is still lining up the participants, but there will likely be a couple of Jews with divergent views, an Arab Muslim professor, another Christian who believes differently than you do. We’ll see how it shapes up.”
Hana instantly imagined chaos on a stage.
“It won’t be a free-for-all,” Mr. Lowenstein continued as if reading her thoughts. “There will be ground rules with a format similar to a political debate.”
“Political debates in Israel can be very contentious,” Hana replied. “Candidates interrupt and yell insults at each other.”
“That’s happening more and more here too. But we’ll figure out a way to make it civil without being too formal. The event is still in the planning stage, but I wanted to mention it to you now. We’ll hold it at a neutral site able to accommodate the number of people expected to attend.”
“Would you expect a couple hundred people?”
Mr. Lowenstein shook his head. “No, more like two to three thousand. This will be heavily promoted, and I anticipate a huge response from the Jewish community. It will be a nonprofit fund-raiser for some humanitarian organizations, which will increase participation.”
“Three thousand people,” Hana repeated.
Hana had been a skilled debater in high school, but she’d never spoken before such a large crowd.
“If you think
I’m qualified,” she continued slowly.
“I think you’ll be fabulous,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “So, you’ll do it?”
Hana couldn’t come up with a legitimate reason to turn him down. It would be an opportunity to share her views about not only geopolitics but also her Christian faith.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Great!” Mr. Lowenstein clapped his hands together. “I can’t wait to hear what you have to say myself.”
Chapter 5
Creeping forward, Daud moved in a semicircle until he was slightly behind the dark-clothed figure at the rear corner of the Kolisnyks’ villa. He dashed across the open space and leaned against a privacy wall where he paused to calm his breathing. He inched along and quickly glanced around a corner before pulling back. There was no one in sight. The other person had either entered the villa or moved on.
At the rear of the villa were French doors in the middle of a long glass wall. Two pairs of sandals were neatly positioned in front of the doors. A multicolored beach towel was draped over a lounge chair. The French doors were unlocked and slightly open.
Daud entered the villa. There was a large kitchen and a dining room area with a glass-topped table. Two half-empty glasses of wine remained on the table. One of the chairs was turned over onto the floor. Daud listened for the sound of voices but heard nothing. A faint light came from a hallway to the left. Carefully making his way down the hallway, he checked three bedrooms, all empty. Retracing his steps, he moved to the front of the house and entered the foyer that was brightly lit by a large chandelier. A staircase directly across from the front door led to the second floor. Suspecting the master bedroom was upstairs, Daud quietly climbed the steps and moved silently down the hall. Reaching a pair of double doors, he listened again. He heard a man’s voice but couldn’t understand the words, which were followed by a muffled moan.
Bursting through the door, Daud saw a medium-size dark figure standing over Artem Kolisnyk and his wife, both of whom were lying facedown on the floor. There was a gun in the intruder’s left hand. A ski mask concealed his face. The man spun around to confront Daud, who struck the intruder’s left hand so that the gun skidded across the floor. Like most skilled military or law enforcement professionals, Daud had a favorite move for taking an opponent to the ground and immobilizing him. However, the intruder effectively countered Daud, and both of them fell to the hard floor where they rolled over and over several times until coming into contact with a large bed. The intruder pulled a small knife from a sheath on his leg and tried to slash Daud’s throat. Daud parried the blow but suffered a cut to his right forearm. As the intruder’s left arm moved forward, Daud grabbed it and twisted the man’s hand, and the knife fell to the floor. Daud knocked it away and with his larger body weight and strength flipped the intruder so that he ended up face-first against the stone floor with Daud on top of him.
“Kill him!” Artem shouted to Daud in Russian. “He was going to stab Esma and then shoot me!”
Kolisnyk had managed to stand. His wife remained on the floor sobbing.
The intruder squirmed and Daud tightened his grip, causing the man to grunt in pain and curse in Arabic.
“Did he speak to you in Russian?” Daud asked Kolisnyk in Russian.
“No,” Artem answered. “Only Arabic.”
The man suddenly twisted his body and swung one of his feet toward Daud’s head. It was an expert martial arts maneuver. The man’s shoe hit Daud’s left cheek, causing his grip to weaken on the man’s left arm. The intruder wiggled free and punched Daud in the chin. The man scrambled away and lunged for the gun, but Artem Kolisnyk kicked it farther away. Daud jumped up and tackled the man, striking him in the back of the neck with the full force of his left forearm. The man collapsed onto the floor. Daud delivered a second blow to the man’s temple, and the attacker slumped to the floor, unconscious. Artem picked up the gun and with a shaking hand pointed it at the immobile form. Before he could pull the trigger, Daud snatched the gun from the Ukrainian’s hand.
“You don’t want to do that,” he said in Russian. “Explaining a dead body is much harder than reporting a burglar on your way out of the city.”
“What do you mean?” Artem asked.
“Do you want the publicity that will come if you’re interviewed by the police after you kill someone?”
Artem looked at his wife, who was staring at Daud.
“You should have listened to me at the restaurant!” she shouted at her husband in Arabic.
“I couldn’t reach anyone in Cairo to find out if they sent him, and Uri didn’t answer his phone,” Artem replied in the same language. “I don’t know who he is or why he’s here.”
“He kept that man from killing us!” his wife yelled as she pointed at the motionless figure on the floor.
Artem turned to Daud. “Who do you work for?”
“All I can tell you is that my job is to safely take you to a boat slip at the marina. Uri and the Americans are there waiting for you.”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Esma said to her husband in a desperate voice. “For a genius, you’re acting like a fool.”
Artem Kolisnyk hesitated. The man on the floor groaned.
“Quick, give me two of your belts,” Daud said to Artem.
The Ukrainian stepped into a large walk-in closet. While he was gone, his wife looked at Daud and silently pleaded for help. Daud secured the assailant’s hands and feet before checking the unconscious attacker for identifying information. The man’s pockets were empty. Removing the would-be assassin’s mask, Daud took a photo of the man’s face. He was in his mid- to late twenties with a dark complexion, military-style haircut, and thin mustache. Daud slipped the man’s weapon into his coat pocket.
“I need another belt,” Daud said.
Artem stood to remove the belt from his trousers.
“I’ll get one,” his wife said.
Esma returned with a slender pink belt embedded with sequins. Daud used it to cinch together the other belts binding the intruder’s hands and feet so that he was lying in a curved position.
“We should leave now,” Daud said.
“What can we bring?” Esma asked.
“Only what you can easily carry. We’re going to walk out the back of the villa toward the beach and circle around to the street and take a taxi to the marina. As soon as we’re there, you can call the resort and report the break-in.”
Without saying anything to her husband, Esma Kolisnyk grabbed a carry-on bag with a fake leopard-skin cover and began to throw things into it. Moving much slower, Artem opened a small dark suitcase. Daud breathed a sigh of relief. The man sent to kill the Kolisnyks had done a better job of convincing the Ukrainian and his wife to trust Daud than any reasons he could have come up with.
* * *
Hana reopened the email from Abdul Erakat several times during the afternoon. Looking at the photos of the Land Rover took her to a happy place, and she hoped the mechanic didn’t uncover a problem that would nix the deal. She closed the email and quickly checked one of the news outlets she followed in Israel. It was a mistake. Every mention of terrorist activity in the Middle East caused her heart to leap into her throat as she wondered if the events might impact Daud. There was a knock on her door, and Janet entered. She paused when she saw Hana’s face.
“Is everything okay?” Janet asked. “You look glum.”
Hana managed a slight smile. “I’m worried about Daud,” she replied. “The longer he’s gone, the harder it is to remain calm.”
Even though Hana and Janet had a close relationship, the assistant didn’t know the full extent of Daud’s prior activities and the ongoing threats hanging over him and Hana.
“That’s lesson number twenty-eight in marriage,” Janet continued in a light tone of voice. “I’m glad to have the house to myself and the kids during the first day Donnie’s out of town because I don’t have to pick up his dirty socks. After that, I begin missing both Donnie and hi
s socks.”
“Daud washes and folds his own clothes.”
“Don’t make me jealous.” Janet put her hands over her ears. “I came in to remind you about the conference call you have with Mr. Collins and the new client from Israel in forty-five minutes. Mr. Collins is logging in remotely from his house at the beach. For some reason it’s not on your calendar.”
“I thought it was for later this afternoon and didn’t know it changed.” Hana tapped her forehead in frustration. “I thought the client was in California.”
“That’s one reason you have me in your life. I’m sending you the information you need to look over before the call.”
There was a lot more to review than Hana anticipated, and she was able to push her concern for Daud to the edge of her mind as she concentrated on reading the Hebrew and English memos and emails already exchanged between the parties.
* * *
The bound man moaned and strained against the belts.
“Ready to go?” Daud asked the Kolisnyks in Russian.
“Almost,” Esma replied. “Should I take my jewelry?”
“Valuables only,” her husband replied. “And we can buy new clothes wherever we’re going.”
Daud led the way down the stairs and to the kitchen area at the rear of the villa.
“We were drinking a glass of wine when he surprised us,” Esma said. “The wine wasn’t as good as the bottle you ordered for us at the restaurant.”
“Quiet,” her husband said.
“Yes, it’s better not to talk,” Daud said. “I’m going to call a taxi before we go outside.”
Daud phoned the young driver. “I’m leaving the Four Seasons with two friends, but don’t come to the front of the resort. Meet us in ten minutes at the corner of El-Shaikh Zayed Street and the access road for the resort. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be early, sir,” the driver replied.
Daud slipped the phone into the pocket of his jacket next to the gun. “Stay here while I check outside. I want to make sure it’s safe.”
Promised Land Page 4