Shock Wave, page 28
“He was a lowly captain when I met him, but yes.”
Faraz looked up at Johnny, tried to see the fresh-faced eighteen-year-old he’d idolized, the cousin who let him stay up late when his parents were out, who taught him how to fix a motorcycle, who volunteered to fight for his country after 9/11 and never came home. Faraz cried at his funeral. That was more than ten years ago.
“What you did to us.”
“Yeah. I think about that every day.”
“We cried for weeks. It took me years to get over it.”
“I am sorry about that. Really, I am. But you did get over it. And then you joined the army and said yes when the major came calling.”
Faraz was silent. The lie he let the army tell his parents—that he had died in a training accident—still haunted him. They were both gone, now, barely two years later.
“We did a terrible thing, didn’t we,” Faraz said.
“Yeah. I won’t deny it.” Johnny stood and moved the bowl to a side table.
“The major convinced us it was for a greater good,” Faraz said. “The major and Davenport. Or maybe you knew her as Walinsky.”
“Davenport? The one who was kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Anyway, no, I don’t know her. I used up my quota of fake identities and close calls a few years ago and went inactive. That is, until I got a call that they had an agent in distress in my neighborhood.”
“You didn’t know it was me?”
“Not until I saw you. They gave me a rough location. I was heading toward the sound of the gunfire, looking for a carpet shop, when I came up on you and that guy fighting.”
“Another second, he’d have slit my throat. You killed him?”
“Yeah, then dragged your ass through the alley. Luckily it wasn’t far. You put on some weight in the last dozen years or so.”
Faraz stood, unsteady. He reached for support and caught Johnny’s hand. “This is so surreal.”
The cousins embraced.
“When I was a kid,” Faraz said, “I dreamed about a moment like this.”
“I had the same dream.” They hugged again. When they separated, Johnny said, “I heard about it when you . . . uh . . . died. At that time, I thought, ‘maybe.’ But I knew better than to ask. I wanted to call your parents, and mine, but . . . you know.”
“At least, they could have told us about each other.”
“No way. Nobody knows anybody. All those years in the program and you’re the second guy I’ve met. Both were emergency protocol breaks.”
Faraz tensed at a noise coming from another part of the apartment.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Bridget fidgeted on the sidewalk outside the consulate.
“Where the hell is our transport?”
“It’ll be here. It’s only been a few minutes.” Will tilted his head toward the source of the sirens that continued to wail. “They have a few other things going on.”
An Israeli army jeep pulled up. Will showed his ID to the driver and they got in. “I will take you to the command post,” he said.
* * *
Ayman was squeezed into Nabil’s old compact hatchback—excellent for transporting watches, clocks and supplies, not so good for an overweight passenger burdened by an explosive vest. Ayman cringed at every bump in the road, fearing the bomb would go off. He coughed from the fumes that came through the floorboards every time Nabil shifted gears.
But the watchmaker knew all the back alleys of the Old City and which footpaths were wide enough for the car, avoiding the Israelis’ usual patrol routes.
“Finish your food,” Nabil said.
Ayman took a bite of the energy bar the old man had given him and sipped from a plastic bottle of energy drink. He hadn’t eaten since the leftovers of Munir’s care package that morning. And though Ayman seldom missed a meal, he wasn’t hungry.
“Nerves will make you forget to eat,” Nabil said. “But you must.”
He drove across the Christian Quarter and exited the Old City through the New Gate—so named because it was little more than a hundred years old, in a city with a history of thousands of years. The gate opened directly into Israeli West Jerusalem, not far from the beginning of Jaffa Street.
Nabil turned right on the Street of the Paratroopers, then left at the first opportunity and found parking on a side road.
* * *
Rivka was thinking of putting her sweater back on. Jerusalem was indeed cooler than the coast, particularly in the shade of the buildings that lined the staging area. Tali and the other children were in rough formation behind a marching band. They teased and pushed each other as they waited for the parade to start.
A man’s voice from behind startled her. “ID please.”
Rivka turned. “Ach! Ari, you scared me.”
“You didn’t mind last night.”
Rivka blushed. “You are impossible.”
Ari smiled and shrugged. “So, no kiss, then?”
She gave him a kiss. Even with his arm in a cast and his leg bandage bulging under his trousers, Ari looked good in his uniform—the one she had ironed for him a few days earlier so he would look sharp in case the TV cameras came by.
“I like this costume,” Ari said. He admired the snug bodice and cleavage.
“If you can get home before two a.m., we’ll have more time than we did last night.”
“Count on it.”
He moved in for another kiss but she put a hand on his chest. “Please . . . the children.”
“Temptress.”
She touched his bad arm. “Really, Ari, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
Rivka studied his face. “You are usually a much better liar.” She turned away and he embraced her from behind with his good arm. “Tali is over there.” She pointed. “In the middle of the center row.”
“I will deal with you later.”
“I hope so.”
Ari moved off toward the children.
Tali saw him when he was halfway there. “Ab-baaaaah!” Daddy. All heads turned toward her shriek. She ran out of the formation and, ignoring his injury, jumped into his arms for a kiss and a neck hug. Then she wriggled away, stood back and twirled around to model her costume. “Do you like it?”
“It is beautiful. But for some reason I want to go swimming.”
Tali put her hands on her hips and gave him a faux pout. “Abba, you are so silly.”
Rivka caught up with them. “Okay, Tali. Go now. Get back in line. The parade will start soon.”
“Yes,” Ari said, “and I have to get back to work.”
Tali blew him a kiss. “Watch me in the parade, Abba.” And she ran back to her friends.
Ari lowered his voice. “You heard about the attack in the Old City?”
“What? No.”
“We stopped them. We think it’s finished now. But keep your eyes open.”
“Should we leave?”
“I recommended canceling the parade, and finally your father agreed. But the government said no. Anyway, we have a big force here and the quick response team is on standby.”
* * *
“It’s all right,” Johnny said. He put a hand on Faraz’s arm and turned toward the noise in the hallway that led to the back of the apartment. He raised his voice. “You can come out. He’s a friend.”
A bedroom door opened and a boy of two or three ran into the living room. “Ba!” he shrieked. He grabbed Johnny’s leg, then hid his face from the stranger.
Johnny picked the boy up. “This is Umair, my son.”
Faraz looked at the boy. “This is a lot for one day.”
“For one hour, even less.”
There were footsteps in the hallway. A tall, thin woman in a tan sweater and long gray skirt emerged from the bedroom and took tentative steps toward them. Her hair was barely hidden under an abaya. Her dark eyes showed concern at first. But when she saw that all was well, she smiled, and it was as if someone had flooded the room with light.
Johnny smiled back. “This is . . .” he paused. “This is Khalil, an old friend. Khalil, meet Leila, my wife.”
Leila nodded a greeting and put her right hand over her heart. “You are welcome here, Khalil. I will make tea.”
Faraz made a half bow, unable to think of anything to say.
Leila picked up the boy. “Come, Umair, help umi in the kitchen.”
Faraz watched her go, still trying to process what was happening.
“Now you know why I settled here,” Johnny said.
“Yes. And you named the boy after our grandfather.”
“Right.” Johnny smiled. “No one knew it but me, and now you.”
“And you called me ‘Kahlil.’ Friend. Dear friend, actually. They say Abraham was the khalil of Allah.”
“I know. Seems right. Best to keep our secret, at least for now. Best to get that costume off, too.”
Faraz looked down. He still wore the printed polyester outfit that some designer imagined would look like a president’s suit. Faraz tore at the plastic fasteners and tossed the costume onto a chair.
“Might as well tell me why you’re here,” Johnny said.
Faraz gave him the basics.
“So, you think there’s another attack coming?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, I don’t know what it is. Shit. I need to phone in.”
“I tossed my cell after I got the call and I won’t put Leila at risk by using hers.” Johnny went to a locked cabinet against the far wall and came back with a steel box. Inside was a satellite phone and a charging cable. “Let’s see if we can fire this old thing up.”
* * *
Bridget and Will were delayed by the crowds streaming to the parade route and by three checkpoints. At the last one, there were four police cars parked across the road, with a portable fence in front of them hung with detour signs. They left the vehicle and a soldier led them on foot around the right edge of the roadblock to two trailers sitting in an L-shape that formed the command post. Ari was smoking outside.
“Colonel, are you all right?” Bridget asked.
“I’m fine. I wish people would stop asking me that.”
“Sorry. What’s happening?”
“Nothing, for now.”
“Our man’s report said there’s a second wave.”
“There was a second wave in the Old City, a second team came into the square. That seems to be it.”
“You sure?”
Ari took a long drag on his cigarette, then looked at Bridget with impatience bordering on anger. “Maybe the DIA in Washington knows more than I do in Jerusalem. And I’m sure your man knows everything, except how to stop the attack, which killed four of our policemen, by the way.”
“I’m sorry. That’s terrible. Our man is missing, you know.”
Ari exploded now. “Of course, I know! Do you think we wait for you to tell us things? We have people looking for him, but honestly, it’s not our top priority. I have twenty-five thousand people at a parade.”
“It’s still on?”
“They won’t cancel it. It’s too late now, anyway. They congratulate us for stopping the Old City attack. But they want to show that the terrorists don’t create terror. Israel is unafraid. Exposed, but unafraid.”
Sergeant Peretz opened the command trailer door and poked her head out. “Sir, we have a call for Ms. Davenport.”
They all scrambled up the three steps into the trailer.
“It’s the DIA operations center,” Peretz said.
“On speaker,” Bridget ordered. “This is Davenport.”
“Ma’am, we have a Shock Wave call on a nonsecured line.”
“Put it through.”
“Ma’am, procedure dictates—”
“On my authority. Do it now.”
The line beeped. “Faraz, this is Bridget Davenport. Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m safe in the Old City. And thank God you’re apparently okay, too.”
“Yes.”
“Has the second wave hit?”
“The Israelis think the second wave was with you in that square.”
“Negative. There’s another part to the attack, but I don’t know what it is.”
Ari took a radio off his belt and started barking orders in Hebrew.
“What’s going on?” Faraz asked.
“There’s a parade here in West Jerusalem. Could that be the next target?”
“Sounds right, but like I said, they didn’t tell me. Also, one man is on some sort of special mission. I don’t know details on that either, but I’d know him if I saw him. Actually, I heard you were held in his house.”
“Al-Hamdani,” Ari said.
“Yes, Ayman, the one I was put with in the prison.”
Ari spewed some Arabic curses, then switched to Hebrew to issue more orders.
“How can we get you over here?” Bridget asked. “We can send transport.”
There was muffled conversation on Faraz’s end.
“New Gate, five minutes. I’ll have one guy with me.”
“Defector?”
“American. I’ll explain when I see you.”
“We’ll send a vehicle,” Ari said. He gestured at Peretz and she turned to leave.
“One more thing,” Faraz said. “Al-Hamdani may be wearing a Superman costume.”
* * *
Ayman sweated in the oversized jacket he’d chosen from Nabil’s stash to cover the explosive bricks that bulged his costume. The front of the jacket was unzipped halfway, exposing the blue shirt and large “S” so he could blend in with the Israeli crowd. Ayman held the hard plastic mask in his right hand and played with the rubber band.
Nabil reached over from the driver’s seat to make a final check of the bomb. “You saw the bus stop?”
“Yes.”
“You will get on there. The bus will turn right to climb Jaffa Street. After two stops, it will be diverted for the parade. That is your opportunity.”
“I understand.”
Nabil picked up the detonator from the car’s central console. He ran its wires through a pocket slit on the left side of Ayman’s costume pants, raised the blue shirt and connected the wires to the battery pack. He flipped the main power switch to the ON position and lowered the shirt.
He gave the detonator to Ayman. “The device is armed now. Be careful. When the time comes, remember, pull the trigger and then push the button.”
Ayman nodded and swallowed hard.
Nabil checked his watch, a fine one from Switzerland. “It is time.” He reached into his pocket and passed Ayman a bus ticket. “Scan this when you board. Do not get into any trouble along the way.”
Ayman put the ticket in his pants pocket.
“I wish I had more time with you.”
“Do not worry, sayyid.”
Nabil twisted in his seat and put his hands on Ayman’s shoulders. Ayman stopped playing with the rubber band. Nabil repeated the martyr’s blessings, then led Ayman in the Shahada.
“La ilaha illa-lah, Mohammed rasulu-lah.” There is no God but God. Mohammed is the messenger of God.
Nabil leaned over and kissed Ayman on both cheeks. “You must go now.”
“Thank you, sayyid. I will not fail.” Ayman opened the car door, got out and straightened his outfit. He put the detonator into his pocket, next to the bus ticket, then closed the door and looked at Nabil through the window one last time.
“Allah ma’aak,” the old man said. God be with you.
“Wa ma’aak.” And with you. Ayman put the mask on, turned toward the main road and started walking.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
It was a small apartment, so with Faraz in the living room and the boy, Umair, back in the bedroom, Johnny and Leila had nowhere to talk in private. They stood at the end of the hall and whispered in a mix of Arabic and English. Faraz heard most of it.
“But you said it was over,” Leila said, the fear and sadness evident on her face. She leaned in toward her husband. “When you went out today, you said it was an emergency. You called it a ‘one-time deal.’”
“I know but . . . I cannot explain. There’s no time. I have to go with this man, make sure he is safe. Then I will come home.”
Leila seemed to know she was going to lose the argument. She stared at Johnny, looked like she might cry. Then, she embraced him, squeezed him tight, and said something into his ear that Faraz couldn’t hear.
Johnny kissed her, lingered for a moment, then returned to Faraz. “Yalla.” He led the way down two flights on a back stairway. Chained to the railing at the bottom, they found Johnny’s motorcycle.
Faraz had to smile. “Of course, you have a bike.”
“Damn straight.”
“It’s the one you always wanted, isn’t it?”
“1990 Harley Fatboy. Belches smoke but moves like crazy. Only one in Jerusalem, as far as I know.”
“I remember when you were fixing one of those and you taught me how to ride. We got in a lot of trouble over that. But the knowledge came in handy a couple of years ago.”
“I’d like to hear that story when we have time.”
“Absolutely.”
Johnny unlocked the chain, slid his helmet off it and checked the fuel level. “Sorry, no helmet for you. Leila won’t go near this thing.”
Johnny put the chain in the cargo box. Faraz climbed onto the elevated rear seat. Johnny stepped on, kicked the starter, put the bike in gear and accelerated down the alley.
* * *
Ayman stood apart from the other people waiting for the bus. He closed his eyes, thought of Maysoon, of his mother. He thought about how proud his father would be, how impressed Iyad had been when he’d outlined his plan. Even the old watchmaker respected him now. Tonight, they would celebrate his bravery, his commitment to Allah’s cause. His martyrdom.
In his fantasy, he was there, too.
For the first time, Ayman faced the fact of his own plan—that he would not be able to celebrate with them, to see his picture in the newspapers, to watch the Zionists crying on television. His death was so close and yet as unimaginable as it had ever been.
The fumes of a passing truck engulfed Ayman and he coughed into the mask. He raised the bottom to breath some fresh air. When he put it back in place and aligned the eyeholes, he saw the bus in the distance.
