Shock Wave, page 8
“Colonel,” Bridget began her pitch, opting for formality over first names, “it is imperative that we insert our man into the terrorist network—imperative for your security and ours.” She moved to a visitor chair to be closer to him. “A major attack is coming, and unless you have a better way to find out what it is, we need to get our man in there. The president believes the best way—the most credible to the terrorists—would be through a prisoner exchange.”
“The president believes?”
“Yes.”
Ben-Yosef’s eye roll indicated to Bridget that she had gone from intriguing to tiresome in his eyes. Perhaps her rejections had gone too far. Or maybe he was just a macho man with a fragile ego, like so many she had encountered over the years.
“Well,” his tone was patronizing, “the prime minister believes it is not in Israel’s interests to negotiate with terrorists. He has told that to the president personally. At this time there is no other credible way to release your agent. Meanwhile, he is in solitary, and I’m told, starting to look like a prisoner. When this crisis is over, we will try to find a way.”
“Solitary?”
“Yes.”
“He needs to be in the general population so he can make contacts before the exchange.”
“There will be no exchange!” Ben-Yosef’s anger flared. “If a longer timeline is not acceptable, perhaps it’s better to take your agent out rather than expose him to danger in the general population. If they figure out what he is, the code word won’t help him. He’ll be dead before we can intervene.”
“Colonel . . . Ari, the question of the exchange is above our pay grade. But preparation for the mission is not. You need to get him out of solitary in case the prime minister changes his mind.”
“He won’t change his mind.” Ben-Yosef was exasperated now, but he settled himself. “All right. If you want to take the risk, we’ll have him moved. If anything happens to him, it’s on you.”
“Understood.”
“Anything else?” Ben-Yosef seemed to be as eager to get rid of her as he had been to get close to her.
“No. But please confirm to me when our man has been moved.”
“I will have someone take care of it. Now, I have a meeting. Good day, Ms. Davenport.” Ben-Yosef said her name like it was an insult. He picked up a file and left the office. The soldier appeared to escort Bridget out of the building.
* * *
Faraz’s hands were cuffed behind his back as he walked along the row of cells between two guards to the sound of assorted Arabic catcalls. It was a one-level cellblock, part of a cluster of prefabricated buildings forming an octagon around a central courtyard. The complex was surrounded by twelve-foot fences topped with razor wire. The last time Faraz had seen a fence like that, Guantanamo Bay had been on the other side. This time, there was nothing but desert.
The trio stopped in front of a cell and one of the guards shouted something in Hebrew. The bolt slid and the lone prisoner inside moved to a back corner.
A guard pushed Faraz and he stumbled into the cell. The guard unlocked the cuffs, then retreated, closed the gate and shouted again. The bolt slid and the guards departed.
The cell was ten feet wide and slightly longer. Bunk beds on the left took up a significant amount of the space, with a toilet and sink behind. There was a fresh bedroll on the top bunk and a towel. The cinder block walls were beige and pockmarked.
Faraz looked at his new cellmate. Every man Faraz had seen during his short walk through the prison looked the same—midtwenties-ish, thin, muscular, olive skinned, bearded, greasy haired, angry.
Not this guy.
His first contact among the Palestinians was a dough boy—Faraz’s height but chubby, fair, and younger than the others, maybe twenty-two. He was struggling to grow a few wisps of beard and was also, quite clearly, afraid.
“Ana Khayal,” Faraz said. I’m Khayal. “Min America.”
The guy relaxed a little. “Ayman,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?” Ayman took a tentative step forward from his corner.
“You speak English. Great.” Faraz held out his hand and Ayman shook it.
“So? Tell me.” Ayman had an accent somewhere between Midwestern and Middle Eastern.
“Arrested entering the country.” That was as much of the cover story as this guy needed to know, at least for now. “They say I’m a terrorist, but I say it was ‘Tourism While Being a Muslim.’”
Ayman laughed. “Serious crime. I see they worked you over for it.”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“And you’re from . . . ?”
“New Jersey. Previously Afghanistan.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Where did you learn your English?”
“We had a teacher from Chicago for a couple of years. He was a cool guy, taught us to speak like real Americans. That’s what he said, anyway.”
“Well, he did a pretty good job.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what are you doing in here?”
“Well, it’s complicated, you know. I guess you could say it’s ‘Political Activism While Being Palestinian’ and also ‘Being a Member of the Wrong Family.’”
Faraz forced a chuckle. “What family is that?”
“Al-Hamdani.” Ayman straightened up when he said it.
“Sorry, I guess I should know the name, but I don’t.”
Ayman showed irritation for the first time. “Well, you’re not very well informed, then. We have been freedom fighters for four generations. Two of my uncles and several cousins are in jail. My father was murdered seven years ago by the Israelis. He and his brother were at a meeting in Gaza when they dropped a bomb. Many of my relatives have given their lives for the jihad.”
“Allah yarhamom,” Faraz said. “May Allah bless them. “Again, sorry, I guess I should have known.”
“Yes. And you should have heard of my cousin Iyad. He is the leader of the movement my father created, Al-Hakam Al-Islamiyah. In English, they call it A-HAI.”
Now, alarm bells went off in Faraz’s head. He had read about A-HAI for the first time a week ago in his briefing papers. Someone did a good job putting him in a cell with an A-HAI operative.
“Wow, yeah. Obviously, I’ve heard of A-HAI. You’re part of it?”
Ayman lowered his voice. “I am Iyad’s right hand. I handle the political side—run our internet presence, write statements, plan strategy.”
“Impressive.” The guy could be exaggerating or lying outright to impress Faraz, but the fact that they’d put him in this cell provided some credibility. “You know about the kidnapping? They say it was A-HAI.”
“Of course, I know. We have no news in the prison, but we hear things. I’m sure my cousin planned it, probably did it himself. The Zionists will never admit it, but I bet he has demanded a prisoner release, including me.”
“Your cousin sounds like an important man. I hope to meet him someday.”
“He is one of the most important men in Palestine. Our fathers were murdered sitting side by side. Now, we stand side by side to lead the movement.”
“I also had a cousin who was a mentor for me. But he died when I was a boy.”
“In jihad?”
“No.” Faraz stifled a laugh. “We don’t do much jihad in America.”
“How, then?”
Faraz had talked himself into a corner. How might Johnny have died if he hadn’t joined the army right out of high school and been killed in Afghanistan not long after 9/11?
“Motorcycle accident. He used to ride like a wild man.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“It was a long time ago.” Faraz went quiet.
His mind traveled back more than a dozen years. He was playing catch with Johnny, going to the movies with him, riding on the back of a borrowed Harley. Johnny was wearing his dress uniform, saying goodbye to young Faraz and his parents before he left for Afghanistan, letting Faraz try on his beret, thrilling the boy by saying, “Keep it up, little man.” Faraz was crying on the sofa with his mother when the men came a few weeks later to say Johnny was dead.
His mother. Faraz took a breath. He could not allow himself to go down that rabbit hole. She died thinking he was dead—the lie he let the army tell his parents so he could go under cover. It still haunted him.
“Stand back,” came the order on the loudspeakers in Arabic, Hebrew and English.
“We need to stand against the wall,” Ayman explained. “They will bring our dinner.”
Faraz was grateful for the interruption. He stole a look at his cellmate. The Israelis had chosen well—Ayman was connected and not intimidating. Good start.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Iyad had never hesitated in carrying out an order before. But this time, he thought the job might, in a way, do itself.
Now, as midnight approached, it still hadn’t. He would have to do as instructed.
He sat on an upholstered chair salvaged from a trash heap in an abandoned and crumbling storage building in the middle of an olive grove outside Halhul, a militant town near Hebron on the West Bank. The roof was corrugated metal. The walls, what was left of them, were wood.
The location had two advantages. It was remote and it had a cellar.
They had been safe there with the hostages for almost a week, much longer than planned. The Zionists led them on with covert messages and promises of secret negotiations, but nothing came of them. And the failed raid proved they were only playing for time until they found the real hideout.
A few hours earlier, Assali had told him they must act to force the Israelis’ hand. For Iyad, it would not be the first time. But it would be the first time with a woman.
He stood. Two of his men were lounging on random pieces of furniture. Another was sleeping on the floor. “Yalla,” he said.
“What?” the previously sleeping man asked.
“You stay here and keep watch. You two, with me.”
Iyad opened the trap door and picked up a flashlight from the floor as he went down the ladder. The cellar was lined with gray cinder blocks and divided into two rooms, with a small vestibule in between. Iyad used a key to open the lock on the wooden door to his right and shined the light into Corporal Alon’s eyes.
“Take him out,” he ordered. The men grabbed Alon by the arms. He was weak and dehydrated. He had washed no more than his hands and face since they’d taken him. His wrists and legs were shackled.
“Where are you taking me?” Alon demanded.
“Put him in there,” Iyad said, indicating the other room.
“No! I must stay with her.” The corporal refused to walk, so the men dragged him across the vestibule and threw him into the room. One of them slammed the door and slid a bolt lock. Alon kept shouting, but they ignored him.
Iyad went into the room on the right and knelt down next to Maya. The blood on her shirt was dry. The mat she lay on stank of sweat, urine and feces. She was unconscious. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale.
“I cannot wait for you any longer,” he said. Iyad closed her nose with his left hand and put his right over her mouth. He extended his long arms and leaned into the task.
Her body jerked, but had little strength to fight him. Her eyes remained closed.
Iyad’s wounded arm hurt, but he pushed harder. He rallied himself to the task. You Zionist bitch. You fired at me. You deserve to die. He put a knee on her hips to keep her still.
It didn’t take long.
* * *
A few minutes after six a.m., Baruch Kaplan walked his Labrador through the main gate of the remote West Bank settlement carved out of a rocky Judean hillside, where he lived with his wife and two daughters. He waved a greeting to the security guard on duty and turned right on the main road.
The town was surrounded by Palestinian villages, and Baruch’s wife had warned him many times about walking beyond the fence. But he was a former wrestler and had the muscles to prove it. He had also been a commando in his day and always kept his gun under his belt in the small of his back. In Baruch’s view, this was his land and no one was going to keep him off of it. Not the terrorists. Not even his wife.
Baruch pulled his jacket close against the morning chill and turned right onto the two-track path that led toward a neighboring village. He played out the dog’s leash to let it explore the rocks and wildflowers. The village’s farm fields were ahead of him, and the construction site for another new settlement was to his left.
The dog pulled hard on the leash. Baruch stumbled. “Ha’aht, ha’aht,” he urged. Slowly, slowly. But the dog kept pulling.
Twenty meters farther along, the dog stopped and crouched down, as if unsure whether to proceed, staring at some tall weeds by the side of the path.
“What is it, boy?” Baruch approached, shortening the leash as he went. When he caught up with the dog, he saw what was in the weeds.
Baruch had been through two wars, but he gasped at what he saw. The woman was lying faceup, wearing a bloodstained white shirt and jeans. Her arms were over her head. Light brown hair covered half of her face. But he could see one eye, open, staring at the sky.
He recognized her from the news reports.
* * *
The men held at Prison Number Seven were on their morning exercise break in the courtyard. Ayman introduced Faraz to some of his friends, all of them more in the mold of fighters. Still, they showed deference to Ayman that Faraz would not have expected. Perhaps his boasts were legitimate.
“We will be out before long, I promise you, my brothers,” Ayman said, to nods of approval. “Insha’Allah, of course.” If it is God’s will. “My cousin is arranging it as we speak,” he bragged. “Perhaps we will even take you, Khayal, so you can get back to ‘tourism.’” He said the last word like it was a big joke, and the others laughed on cue.
“I hope you’re right, Ayman,” Faraz said. “And as for tourism . . .” He lowered his voice. “I’m sure there is much you and your cousin could show me.”
Now Ayman laughed. He slapped Faraz on the back. “Yes. Aqsa Mosque . . . Western Wall . . . Israeli prisons.” Ayman led the others in a renewed burst of laughter and Faraz joined them.
Ayman’s friends switched to Arabic. Faraz made his way to the edge of the crowd and leaned against a wall to catch a narrow strip of shade. Although it was early spring, the desert sun was harsh, even at ten a.m.
He watched a soccer game on a too-small field with not enough players and lines in the sand for goal markers. He assessed the various cliques. Most looked the same as Ayman’s friends, but some were older and more intimidating—hard men with jihadi beards and the scars to prove their commitment to the cause.
As Faraz was looking to his left, three men came from his right. One of them, tall and thin, bumped him hard. When Faraz righted himself, the man was bending forward, nose-to-nose with him. “Min inta?” Who are you?
Faraz stepped back against the wall. “Khayal Durrani, min America. English please.”
“Ach,” the man spat. “American.” He reminded Faraz of the jihadis he’d met in Syria—untempered aggression and bravado beyond their capabilities, relying on superior numbers to back up their intimidation.
Faraz stared him down. “I came to join the jihad.”
The man burst into exaggerated laughter, then translated for his colleagues, and they did the same. He held out his hands as if trying to reconcile two opposites. “America. Jihad. America. Jihad.” The men laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
When they calmed themselves, their leader said, “I am Suleiman. This is my place. What I say, you do.”
“Your place?”
Suleiman moved half a step closer, nearly touching Faraz now. His men stood behind him, blocking Faraz’s view of the rest of the yard and anyone else’s view of him. All Faraz could see was Suleiman’s face, his scraggly beard, the large scar on his left cheek.
“Do you doubt me?”
Faraz kept his eyes on Suleiman’s. “No, I do not.”
“Good. You stay with al-Hamdani?”
“Yes.”
“He is a dog and his father was a dog and all his family are dogs.”
Now, this was interesting. Faraz wished he’d had more time to study the intricacies of the Palestinian terror network. He was sure his surprise showed, but maybe that was appropriate for his cover.
“He thinks he is the president of Palestine and his cousin is the general and all his family are the ministers. But they work only for themselves. They reject the leadership of the movement and they worship the king of Saudi Arabia. For them, jihad is politics and money. You should choose your friends wisely, American.” Suleiman jabbed a finger into Faraz’s chest to emphasize his point.
Faraz found himself sweating. He blamed the heat. He had faced down tougher men than Suleiman. But here, he felt alone, vulnerable.
Suleiman spat again, then stared at Faraz. “I know jihad. Al-Hamdani has nothing like this.” He pointed to his scar. “He is a soft boy. You should not be fooled by his sweet words.”
“If you say so, I believe it,” Faraz said.
“Ha.” Suleiman grunted. His breath hit Faraz’s face. “I will show you.” Suleiman cocked his head and his friends followed him to Ayman’s group.
They barged through the crowd until Suleiman came face-to-face with Ayman. “Are you spreading more lies, Mr. President?”
Ayman stepped back. He managed a nervous laugh. “That is a title you will never have, Garbageman.”
Suleiman pushed Ayman hard and he staggered into another man. Two of Ayman’s friends moved to confront Suleiman.
“Easy brothers,” Ayman said. “Soon we will all be free men, thanks to the true leadership of the movement. We have no need to fight the tafah.” The riffraff.
Suleiman lunged, but Ayman’s two men held him back.
“Careful,” Ayman teased. “If you get hurt, you won’t be able to help your mother haul shit when you get out.”
“How many men do you need to protect you from me?”
“None!” Ayman shouted. He put his hands on his friends’ shoulders and pushed them apart.
