Shock Wave, page 9
Suleiman glared at him. He half-turned to walk away. Then, with Ayman’s guard down, Suleiman turned back and lunged at him.
Ayman went down with Suleiman’s hands on his throat. Two men grabbed Suleiman’s arms to pull him off but were stopped by his friends. Ayman twisted his big body, but Suleiman held on.
The scuffle triggered a melee involving a dozen men, with fists, dirt and a few primitive weapons. Faraz had to make a quick decision. He would rather have stayed out of the fight, but he saw it for the opportunity it was.
He ran into the center of the crowd. Suleiman was on top of Ayman, holding his throat with one hand and punching his face with the other. Faraz put a forearm around Suleiman’s neck and squeezed hard. When Suleiman’s hands came up, Faraz pulled him off of Ayman, threw him to the ground and fell on him with a knee in his groin.
Ayman struggled to his feet and landed a kick to the side of Suleiman’s head before the water hit him.
Sharp streams of high-powered spray came from six spigots around the compound, knocking men over and forcing everyone to focus on his own safety rather than fighting. Faraz went into fetal position next to Ayman. Suleiman rolled onto his stomach and covered his head.
The water stopped. A voice on the loudspeakers said, “Stand up. We have no more water to waste on you. Anyone who touches another man will be shot.”
Faraz looked up. Israelis with automatic rifles faced them from the cellblock rooftops. He was breathing hard. Ayman’s face and neck were bruised. “Can you get up?”
“Yes, I think so. Do not help me.” Ayman stood and wiped the water off his face. He winced when he touched the bruises.
The voice said, “If you are injured, move toward the door or raise your hand for assistance. Others stay where you are.”
Ayman turned to head for the door. “You saved me, Khayal. I will not forget it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The outcry from the death of Maya Gerson was intense. By noon, when the security cabinet met, her family had already been all over the TV broadcasts crying, and calling for revenge on the terrorists and consequences for the prime minister.
The preliminary report indicated she had not been injured beyond the gunshot, but she had not received medical care, either. Still, the chief pathologist believed the wound was not fatal and suspected another cause of death. He needed more time to be sure.
Foreign Minister Moshe Greenshpun needed no more time. “She died because you failed her,” he shouted at the prime minister.
“Calm down, Moshe.” Prime Minister Yardeni was working hard to hold his temper. “You will not bring her back to life by raising your voice.”
“You failed to provide sufficient security. You failed to make the terrorists’ costs so high that they stopped attacking us. And when she lay bleeding in a terrorist cell, you failed to rescue her.”
Yardeni slammed his hand on the cabinet room table. “Sit down! A few days ago, you opposed a plan that would have had her safely at Hadassah Hospital by now. But I do not say you failed her. Have you forgotten we are all defenders of the state? All of us. Even young mothers doing their shopping. Maya was a hero. When the terrorists started shooting, she could have run away. But she raised her gun to defend her fellow citizens.”
Greenshpun did not sit and was poised for another tirade.
The prime minister raised a hand to stop him. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will have a moment of silence for Maya Gerson, daughter of Israel, defender of the state. May her memory be a blessing. And then we will carry on the fight for which she gave her life. Will we not, Mr. Foreign Minister?”
Without responding, Greenshpun lowered his head as the other security cabinet members stood to pay their respects.
An aide rushed in, but stopped short when she saw what was going on. As soon as Yardeni said, “Thank you” and sat, she moved to his side and showed him a document.
The prime minister slumped in his chair, then leaned forward, elbows on the table, holding the piece of paper in both hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have been informed of another disturbing development. The medical examiner reports a gruesome discovery. Prepare yourselves.” He paused and took a breath. “Inside the throat of Maya Gerson, they found a finger.”
There were gasps around the table.
“Fingerprints are being analyzed, but they believe it belongs . . . belonged . . . to Corporal Yuval Alon.”
Hands went to faces. Jaws dropped.
“There was also a scrap of paper, on which is written in Arabic, ‘qiteat qitea.’ It means ‘piece by piece.’”
Cabinet ministers let loose a mix of curses, and there was a general murmuring of horrified responses.
Yardeni tapped the table with his right hand. “My friends. Corporal Alon is nineteen years old. His life is in our hands. Let us put away bravado and consider our options. I have spoken to President Martelli. He has an operation in motion. A compromise now might save Alon and give us a chance for a greater strike against our enemies in the future.”
* * *
That night, Bridget lay shaking with fear, bleeding and dying on cold ground in the middle of a jihadi gunfight, when the harsh ring of her hotel room phone shocked her back to reality. She sat up straight, sweating, and peered into the darkness.
She found the phone on the second ring.
“Sorry to wake you,” Colonel Ben-Yosef said. “You will be picked up in half an hour. There have been some developments.”
“What developments?”
“It took all day to negotiate it through a long line of intermediaries, but to my surprise, you may be getting your wish.”
The line went dead. Bridget got out of bed, her head still half in Syria. She opened the curtains, hoping for a flood of sunshine, but it was still dark. The lights of the city twinkled along the coastline. She checked her watch. 0450.
* * *
Two hours later, Faraz was halfway through his meager punishment cell breakfast—thanks to his participation in the fight—when he heard a commotion in the hallway. Prisoners were calling to each other and there were shouts of “Allah hu akbar” and other phrases Faraz did not recognize. Men were banging metal water cups against their cell doors.
A couple of minutes later, the bolt slid and his door opened to show two grim-faced Israeli guards. “Come,” one of them said. “Move, move, move.”
Faraz went to the doorway. They grabbed him by both arms and marched him to the exit, then pushed him into the morning chill of the yard, where he found a celebration in progress.
“What’s going on?” Faraz asked the nearest man.
“Freedom,” the man said. “We are going home.”
* * *
Bridget watched the celebration sitting next to Colonel Ben-Yosef in an Israeli military command bunker just inside the Green Line—Israel’s pre-1967 border that marked the division between its original territory and the former Jordanian land west of the Jordan River that Israel had seized in the Six Day War.
The West Bank, which Jews called Judea and Samaria, was home to large Palestinian cities like Hebron, Nablus and Bethlehem, and countless villages. Now, decades after Israel occupied the area, there were dozens of Jewish settlements, too.
Much of the command center was underground, with the entry floor on the surface made of steel-reinforced concrete that, Bridget reasoned, was built to survive a direct hit from any type of missile the Palestinians, Arab states or Iran was likely to have.
A plaque on the door indicated the first facility on this site was built in 1946 by the Jewish paramilitary group called the Haganah, during its fight for independence from Britain. The updated command post reminded her of the many American ops centers she had been in. It had the same basic design and much of the same equipment and software.
The room was wide and held four rows of desks packed with computers and comms gear. Bridget and the colonel sat in the back row, raised a foot above the others to provide a clear view. They faced a wall of giant screens that displayed the key locations for what was about to happen.
On the left, a live feed from a drone showed Prison Number Seven, where the gray exhaust of two buses wafted over dozens of men jumping up and down and embracing each other. Half a dozen prison guards were stationed on two rooftops, weapons at the ready. Outside the fence, two armored vehicles waited.
The middle screen showed a remote intersection in the southern West Bank. By agreement, there was nothing on the roads for five kilometers around.
The third screen showed the courtyard of another prison, where men were lined up to board buses.
The controlled frenzy of the bunker was familiar, even though Bridget couldn’t understand the words. What sounded like orders and confirmations flew across the room. Technicians keyed in computer commands. Soldiers delivered documents, maps and coffee.
Bridget noticed a commotion on the screen on the left.
* * *
Faraz lifted himself on tiptoes to see what the cheering was about. He saw Ayman coming out of the clinic with his forehead bandaged and a broad smile. Ayman pumped his fist into the air, setting off chants of “Allah hu akbar” and “Hak-Is,” the Arabic shorthand for A-HAI.
Ayman waded into the crowd, accepting hugs and kisses. Halfway across the compound, he spotted Faraz and moved directly toward him. Ayman hugged Faraz and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he turned and presented Faraz to the crowd.
“Allah sent this man, Khayal Durrani, all the way from America to save me from the arrogant garbageman yesterday.” Ayman’s voice was hoarse. He put his right hand on his neck. “I cannot talk much now.”
“Good,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. The men laughed and cheered.
Ayman smiled. “Yes, okay.” He raised a hand to quiet the men. “I just want to say, he is one of us now!”
The men cheered and moved in to congratulate Faraz.
* * *
They had no sound on the video feed in the bunker, but it was clear the men were celebrating. Bridget put on a headset that connected her to Sergeant Esti Peretz, Ari’s aide, who sat against the wall behind her.
“Can you hear me?” Peretz said.
Bridget gave a thumbs-up.
Ben-Yosef was not flirting. He was focused on the task at hand. For the first time since she’d met him, he was wearing glasses, which gave him a more intellectual look. He leaned forward to read his computer screen. When the blue phone on his desk rang, he picked it up instantly and spoke in Hebrew.
The translation came into Bridget’s headset. “Yes, sir. Got it.” Ari hung up and raised his voice to issue an order. Peretz repeated the words in English, “The operation is authorized. Load the buses.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
An alarm went off in the prison courtyard, and a voice came through the loudspeaker with instructions in three languages. “Prisoners, line up at the buses.”
That quieted the celebration. This was really happening.
“We prefer to defy Zionist orders,” Ayman said. “But I think we should follow this one.”
That set off another round of cheering as the men made way for Ayman to get to the front of the crowd. He brought Faraz with him.
The voice came on the loudspeakers again. “You will board the buses. Anyone making trouble will be left behind.”
The men settled down and formed two lines. Someone started one more chant in a whisper, “Hak-Is, Hak-Is.”
Ayman took the first window seat on the bus labeled shamal, north, and pulled Faraz in next to him. Faraz had to squeeze in. Ayman’s girth took up more than half the bench. The other men shook their hands and slapped Faraz on the back as they boarded. The noise built again as the bus filled up.
In the rear, there was a section separated by a double chain-link fence. An Israeli guard came on board through the back door, brandishing a rifle. “Quiet! No trouble on the ride or we turn back.” Another guard joined him.
When the men settled, the driver boarded through his own door and took his seat inside a steel cage.
Faraz saw Suleiman and his friends move toward the other bus labelled janub, south. He pointed them out to Ayman, who grunted his disdain.
“What is this hatred between you two?” Faraz asked.
“Suleiman’s father fought beside my father, was with him in Gaza. He was a good man. But when they were martyred, Suleiman thought he should be the leader of Hak-Is. The other families chose to follow my father’s wishes, with a council of elders and Iyad as our captain. Suleiman was angry. He took his family out of the movement. It created a sort of north-south divide, but we are the bigger group.”
“That was seven years ago?”
“Yes. But that is nothing in these feuds. We will hate each other for generations, unless we kill them all first. It would have been better to leave Suleiman and his friends behind, but these things are always a matter of negotiations.”
Outside, Suleiman was last in line to board the other bus. He paused and took one final look around before stepping in. His eyes locked on Faraz and Ayman. A guard gave him a shove through the door.
“And what was that about his mother hauling shit?” Faraz asked.
Ayman chuckled. “Their family business is garbage collection. When his father died, Suleiman had no interest, so his mother took it over—not a proper thing for a woman to do. She should have sold it or let one of Suleiman’s uncles run it. But she took it on herself. We call her ‘the garbagewoman’ and ‘the mother of all shit.’” Ayman laughed again. “All shit, including Suleiman.”
Faraz forced a chuckle.
* * *
An officer two rows ahead of Bridget stood and turned to say something to Ari. “Prison Seven ready,” was the translation that came into her headset.
Ari responded. “Send the first buses.”
The officer nodded, sat down and typed something into his computer. On the video screen, Bridget saw one of the guards at Faraz’s prison take a phone out of his pocket. He checked the message against a piece of paper and showed it to a colleague for confirmation. Bridget could sense some reluctance as the man stepped forward and paused before gesturing to the drivers.
The prison’s gate opened and the buses moved out. The first turned north, led by one of the armored vehicles. The other bus and escort went south.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Faraz’s bus and its police vehicle pulled to the side of the road, one kilometer outside a Palestinian village. The driver said something into his radio handset. The speaker crackled and the reply came.
The driver keyed the radio again and said a few more words. Then he put the handset back on its hook and pushed a button to open the main door. “Min huna, tamshun,” he said. From here, you walk.
At first, no one moved. Then, from the back came a voice, “Yalla shabaab. Huriya.” Let’s go, boys. Freedom.
Nervous laughter rolled through the bus, then shouts of “huriya” and “Allah hu akbar.” Faraz stood and stepped aside to let Ayman lead the way. Ayman turned to the men, pumped his fist in the air in rhythm with the chanting, and went down the steps.
Outside, the men formed a crowd around Ayman and jumped for joy. They cheered and chanted and shouted insults at the Israeli guards. Some knelt down and kissed the ground. There was much hugging and kissing on both cheeks.
“Come,” Ayman shouted. His voice cracked as his bruised throat refused to cooperate. He switched to a whisper. “I am sure there is a party waiting for us.”
Ayman put his right arm around Faraz and waved with his left for the others to follow them to the village.
The Israelis watched them for a few seconds, then turned the vehicles around and drove away.
* * *
The command post’s left screen was split on the diagonal now. The upper part showed Faraz’s bus. The lower one had the other bus, outside a village in the southern West Bank.
Bridget, Ari and everyone at the command center saw the two groups of prisoners released simultaneously, as planned. The blue phone rang. Ari hit the speaker button, and they heard the senior security officer’s terse report.
Sergeant Peretz delivered the translation, “Prisoners delivered. Mission complete.”
“Kibalti,” Ben-Yosef responded. Got it. He raised his voice. “Send the second signal.”
All eyes moved to the middle screen—the remote intersection—where nothing happened for several agonizing minutes.
Then two vehicles approached from the west. One was a black Toyota Crown sedan, the type favored by third world diplomats whose budgets would not pay for a Mercedes. It had Egyptian flags flying from small poles above its headlights. The other was an Israeli ambulance. They stopped short of the junction.
“What’s going on?” Bridget asked.
“We must wait until the prisoners walk to the villages and the terrorists get confirmation,” Peretz said.
“They do not have drone video,” Ari added with clear irritation. He sounded like he had lost patience with Bridget, along with all interest. “They will have ten minutes to deliver our soldier to the Egyptian ambassador. Only when our soldier is released, alive and well, will the buses move from the other prison.” He gestured toward the third screen.
“And if he is not released?”
Ben-Yosef lowered his chin, rolled his eyes to the top of their sockets and looked at her above the rim of his glasses. “We are ready for that, too.”
They both turned back to look at the screens. It took a long time for the prisoners to cover the short distances to their families and friends waiting in the villages. Or maybe it just seemed that way.
The silence in the room, and especially between Bridget and Ari, got heavier as the wait dragged on. She wanted to cut through the awkwardness. “I’m sure a prisoner release is not your favorite type of operation.”
Ben-Yosef shot her a look and didn’t respond.
On the left screen, the prisoners were about halfway to the villages. On the other screens, the Egyptian ambassador and the additional busloads of prisoners waited.
