The Mahdi, page 12
The pain worked in reverse too, shooting from Kufdani’s knuckle through his wrist and up his arm to his shoulder. Looking back over his right shoulder as his body continued to uncoil, he saw the eyes become wide, then glazed, then blank as Mustapha fell and his body completed its follow-through. Bone shards in Mustapha’s frontal lobe had ended his life quickly, Kufdani knew. He endured his own pain and allowed himself a brief moment to admire one of his favorite moves. It was funny: even after all these years, his knuckle still hurt—maybe even a little worse than the first time.
Kufdani snapped his attention to Boxley and the small, wiry man beside him. The man in the wheelchair was stunned, immobile, and posed no immediate risk, but Kufdani sensed movement to his left.
The small man had a shank driven halfway to his shoulder. The ragged blade, attached with black tape to a small wooden block, was dark with some substance. Kufdani flowed back and reached for the man’s forearm, pushing the motion of the blade over his shoulder, then spun the wrist and broke it. The shank fell to the cell floor as the man screamed in pain.
“I didn’t kill you—yet—because that was a nice move,” Kufdani said. “No warning, no bullshit. Just strike. I like that. I may have use for you.”
He turned back to the wheelchair.
“So, Boxley, let’s talk. I need to figure out who to kill next and who to keep alive to administer my orders. Plus, I’d like to get some clean clothes and—”
“Take him,” Boxley snarled to no one, and he reached below his wheelchair.
Kufdani snapped a kick into the seated man’s solar plexus, then grabbed his nose between two knuckles. The break was audible.
The room came into full focus again for Kufdani. The cell was still, except for the gases escaping from the dead. Faint groaning rose from the knife wielder holding his wrist. Boxley labored for breath as the blood flowed onto his orange shirt.
“I hate that kind of garbage,” Kufdani said. Turning to Baadi, he stuck his index knuckle in his mouth and made a sour face. “I hope I didn’t crack a knuckle again.”
He felt relieved. He was fine, and it was time to get on with things. He couldn’t kill them all, but he had gotten in front of things and taken control. Soon he would figure out where he was—and how to get out.
“The rest of you, move along,” Kufdani ordered. “Take the dead with you. And Boxley will need a new pusher.”
He told them to figure out what to tell the guards and let them know he was available anytime to meet with the head man.
“Oh, and one more thing: I am of the Yahia tribe and the appointed leader of all Bedouins. My name is Kufdani.”
BAT YAM, TEL AVIV
WEDNESDAY
ALWAYS RETALIATE FIRST, GUNS THOUGHT WHILE SITTING ON THE third-floor balcony at the apartment of Moishe Aman, overlooking the Mediterranean beach at Bat Yam. It wasn’t something he’d made up on his own. It was a Cooch special—something the former CIA man had once told him, a key lesson for survival learned from his father, Mick Cuchulain: in a tough operation, it was better to attack before your opponent did.
Cooch is certainly in the middle of a tough operation now, Guns thought.
Out on the balcony, he and Moishe sat three floors up, allowing their dinner to settle, as a stream of bathers and diners moved up from the beach, beginning their trek back into the city. Dishes rattled in the background: in the kitchen, Guns’s wife did the washing, and Moishe’s wife dried and stacked the plates, glasses, and utensils.
For many years, Moishe—the revered, retired head of Mossad—had been Guns’s sponsor within the agency, especially during the time Guns spent in New York. Moishe had protected Guns’s back against the Tel Aviv Tarantulas, who prowled around Mossad headquarters looking for trouble and promotion. Thanks to Guns’s many reports from New York, Moishe knew about Cuchulain, Masterson, Macmillan, and Elliot. He had read them all and often wanted to talk about them. It came in handy now.
Guns and Sheila Pelzer had already discussed Cooch’s predicament. The current head of Mossad had no new advice, but she recommended that Guns go back and talk to Moishe. “Maybe he’ll have a better handle on things,” Pelzer had said. “He often does.”
“My main man Cooch is in the Israeli jail,” Guns said now.
Moishe looked startled. “Ktzi’ot?”
Guns nodded. “It’s not quite clear how he landed there, but Shin Bet police seem to be involved. Someone calling in a favor, I suppose. It took me all day to find him.” He explained the kidnapping—how Cooch had been taken soon after Pelzer had helped set up the meeting with the Israeli prime minister.
“Have you tried to get him out?”
Guns nodded again. “Mossad has no influence, no authority within Israel’s borders. It’s out of our purview—or so I’m told by a Shin Bet official.”
“Did you tell him this particular inmate was carrying a diplomatic passport and operating on a diplomatic mission?” Moishe asked.
“I didn’t have a chance,” Guns replied. “He turned his back on me, wouldn’t meet or take my calls. He reports directly to Dayan. I noted his name and position.” And we’ll speak again.
“How are you going to get Cooch out?” asked Moishe. “Ktzi’ot Prison is one of the roughest places on earth.”
“I told Jerome Masterson where he is. Jerome didn’t seem surprised, nor did he ask a lot of questions. We’ll let the Americans get him out somehow. I want to see some outrage from the prime minister, not dilute the insult by begging for a favor.”
“You think he’s okay, our Cooch?”
“If he’s not, no one would be. Cooch is one lethal human being.”
“Well, I certainly hope he survives it,” Moishe said. “I find myself quite cross at our prime minister for allowing a diplomat to be summarily kidnapped into prison. We simply can’t have that kind of thing. Imagine if our populace heard of it!”
Guns chuckled. “Oh, I think they’ll hear about it. Cooch will make sure of that.”
Moishe shook his head. “You certainly have faith in this man. After all, he is a humble prisoner in one of Israel’s most notorious prisons. That bunch knows violence.”
“They just think they do,” Guns quipped. “I’ve known Cooch for a long time. He’s the quintessence of violence. He feeds on it.”
Though he didn’t say as much, Alex Cuchulain was also a friend. Guns knew Cooch couldn’t have expected this attack, or he would have been prepared. He told Moishe about the Russian Orthodox Jews—including Yakov Bernstein, the new defense minister—who were present at the airport hangar when Cooch met with them at the prime minister’s request.
“In that case, talk it over again with Pelzer,” Moishe advised. “She’ll have to be the one to deal with the prime minister.”
“Not you?” Guns asked.
“I don’t like him. I don’t trust him, and he knows it,” Moishe replied. “I could only do harm.”
Looks like there’s not much left to do but wait, Guns thought. The idea was unsettling. He was curious—and a bit nervous—about what might happen to daily life in Jerusalem while Cooch was in prison but the rest of his cabal was free to roam. But even before that, he would be interested in hearing how the prison officials were faring with Cooch in their custody.
KTZI’OT PRISON, SOUTHERN ISRAEL
WEDNESDAY
WORD OF THE KILLINGS ECHOED RAPIDLY AROUND THE PRISON. THE guards were still trying to figure out where all the dead bodies came from—and who killed them. The usual snitches were surprisingly silent.
Whether or not the prime minister had prior knowledge, Bernstein had undoubtedly set Kufdani up, drugging and kidnapping him before dumping him into the notorious Ktzi’ot Prison in the Negev Desert—all in response to the valid political offer of great import to hundreds of thousands of Israeli citizens, an offer presented by a protected diplomat. And yet Kufdani had risen to the challenge so far by staying alive.
In fact, he had decided to take this opportunity to broaden his mission.
Kufdani had a late-afternoon visitor requesting entrance to his cell—a large man with broken teeth and burn scars along both forearms. “Yousef Salama would like to speak with you, Kufdani, at your convenience,” the man said, bowing his head.
So, Kufdani thought, my presence has become known among the next level of prisoner leadership.
Surely they had heard of his status among the Bedouin. He quickly realized that the issue was poised to spread past the recovery of Bedouin land to become something far more complex: an insult to Islam itself. He had to figure out how to bring this broader denigration to the table.
I think it starts now.
Kufdani stood and pretended to brush detritus from his orange jumpsuit. “It is convenient right now,” he replied. “I shall rearrange my schedule to accommodate Yousef Salama, whoever he is.” He looked down at Baadi.
“I forgot about him,” said his cellmate. “Palestinian political royalty, sort of the bosses’ boss. He’s a big deal. I’ve never met or even seen him.”
“All the better,” Kufdani said. “Save my messages, Baadi, and tell any visitors that I’ll see them later. Shall we go, my good man?”
The broken-toothed man escorted Kufdani to a double cell: the first space contained the usual bed and steel toilet, while the adjoining cell had a small table in the center of four steel chairs with padded seat cushions. A man who looked to be in his sixties sat on one of them, studying Kufdani as he entered.
Flanked by a prisoner on each side, the older man wore the same faded orange prison suit as all the prisoners, but his was ironed. He pointed to a chair. Kufdani sat on the edge of it, feet under him, weight on the balls of the feet, alert.
“From the stories I heard about what remains of the prisoner leadership,” the older man began, speaking classic Arabic with no regional accent, “you could kill me right here if you chose. Of course, then we would kill you.”
Kufdani replied in scholarly Arabic. “But you requested our meeting knowing this. And in such a case, we would both be dead, along with perhaps a dozen others. Why would you attempt such a thing? Why would I? I have no reason to harm you. Rather, I wish to serve Allah, with your blessing.”
“You may call me Salama,” the man said. “You killed four men in the service of Allah?”
“It was actually five or six, I think, but yes. They were in my way.” Kufdani paused. “The prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was a violent man in pursuit of his service to Allah. I suffer the same affliction.”
“I should say,” Salama agreed. “Do you enjoy it, or is it some form of duty to Allah?”
Kufdani smiled. “A little of both, I imagine. I was badly used when I was abruptly admitted to this lovely institution, which piqued my anger.”
Salama eyed him for a long moment. “Yes, I do apologize for the unsatisfactory welcome you received,” he said. “The guards circulated gossip about you being a Jew who had raped a Bedouin girl.”
That perhaps explains the prisoners’ lack of social skills. “Well, I thought I should disabuse the other residents of the notion that a second attempt would be easy or painless. I will admit that I enjoyed giving this lesson.”
“And the service to Allah?”
“I would organize this prison and these prisoners in his name. There will be Muslim prayers five times a day, and many lessons.”
Salama laughed out loud. “You know you are in Ktzi’ot? This is the most notorious prison in all of Israel, full of killers and thieves.” The old man nodded to his right, and a teapot appeared. Cups of tin were brought out, and Salama himself poured from a battered copper teapot. “Please,” he said, nodding to the tea.
“I mean no offense, sir,” Kufdani said, “but may I kill the man on your left? Or if you prefer, would he put away that tiny revolver in his left pocket? I’m sure you are aware of the aphorism: Trust Allah, but tie your camel.” He smiled. “My trust instincts are suffering.”
Salama nodded at the man on his left and jerked his head.
The man glared at Kufdani and left the cell.
“Let’s get to the point,” Salama said. “More order in the prison and more thoughts of Allah could only be beneficial to us all. To that end, what do you want? And what do you expect of me?”
Kufdani relaxed, leaned back in his steel chair, and fixed the old man with his gaze. “Your people—these killers and thieves, as you describe them—suffer from the lack of organization and religious guidance. I would like to organize, teach, and preach. I’d like to know which of your Palestinian brothers have the potential for leadership and the ability and willingness to learn. And I want your blessing and support.”
Salama’s jaw dropped. “Who in blazes are you? Where did you come from? And why are you here, of all places?”
Gotcha, Kufdani thought. Now let’s see if I can sell this outrageous idea. When in doubt, tell the truth, I guess. Omissions are fine.
“I am Kufdani, a Bedouin imam elected by all the tribes to represent the Bedouin nation. I am ready to do that. Yet I am here because I was drugged and abducted by Orthodox Jews, from a meeting sanctioned by my peers in service of Allah.” Kufdani paused. “But it is clear to me now that Allah has willed this turn of events.”
The old man sipped his tea and returned Kufdani’s gaze.
“My ultimate mission is to recover the Bedouin lands on the West Bank that were stolen by the Israelis. I understand violence well, as you may have come to recognize, and will follow that path now that the diplomatic doors have been slammed in my face.”
Salama nodded almost imperceptibly.
“On the way to accomplishing that end, I shall soon be forced to forgo further incarceration.”
Salama spat out a mouthful of tea. “You want out? I’ve been here eleven years. If you can find a way out for us both, I will support you.”
“And what do you want from me in return?” Kufdani asked. “What service may I provide in recognition of your devotion to Allah?”
“I am a Hamas elder. I want my leadership position in the Palestinian community recognized.” The old man’s eyes hardened, followed by his voice. “And I want you to give me hope of revenge on the Israelis for my hardships.”
“I think I can give you more than hope, if your support is more than lip service.”
“If you want lip service, talk to Baadi. You may keep him, by the way.” The old man snorted. “I’ll give you as much support as you can handle, though you might have to kill a few more to make it work.”
“Inshallah,” Kufdani said. “I won’t let a few more dead get in the way of Allah’s favor. The honor of Islam is at stake, not just for the Bedouins and Palestinians, but for all of Islam.”
Well, there’s the broadening of the mission.
Salama was still for a moment, then picked up his tea and sipped again. “I’ve been trying to get Islam behind our Palestinian effort for twenty years. Nowhere is where I got. Do you really think you have a chance?”
“I do,” Kufdani confirmed. “I am a planner, and I have a plan.” He described the events of the past weeks: how a million Bedouins across Arabia and the Levant had designated him as the one to fix the West Bank problem and restore their honor, and how he’d met with the Israeli prime minister and then with his designated West Bank operatives to discuss solutions. “Rather than begin to discuss remedies, the Israelis decided to toss me in here.”
“Congratulations on the honor,” Salama said. “But your Bedouin honor and your prison discomfort are hardly enough to strip the Israelis of their Jewish bigotry. Does your plan bring anything else to the table?”
“It does,” Kufdani said, “but the details are rather confidential.”
“I smell bullshit.”
Time to impress, thought Kufdani. He would need Salama’s support if this was going to work.
THE EXERCISE YARD WAS FULL the following afternoon during the designated free time at Ktzi’ot Prison. Groups of men awaited their turn on the exercise machines, watching Kufdani out of the corner of their eye. He stood in the classroom space not far from the yard as twenty-one prisoners shuffled in. None had asked for the meeting, but they were there as directed all the same.
At the front of the room, Kufdani held up his hand for silence. “At the request of Yousef Salama, I am taking the leadership place of Boxley, who was injured recently. Yousef Salama has given me his full support and authorized me to act for him in the enforcement of this support.”
The previous day in Salama’s double cell, Kufdani had mulled over how to disabuse Salama of his lack of trust, although he did not blame the Palestinian man. I suppose I should tell him as much as possible now and worry about leaks later. He would need Salama first and foremost to oversee the return of his Kphone, so he could contact Edgie and Jerome. Caitlin is going to be pissed.
Taking a sip of tea, he had sought to buy some time as he framed his answer: “I am rich. I own a big Moroccan trading company, and I’m already spending money on this effort to restore the Bedouin lands.” He had revealed his military and diplomatic chops, bragged that his best friend spoke to the United States president nearly every day, and emphasized his Islamic education. “Most important of all,” he had insisted, “I have a workable plan. I will get the Israelis to fight the Muslims one-on-one, unsupported by all their tech bullshit.”
Salama was hooked. “We would slaughter them,” he’d exclaimed, his eyes shining. “But before I champion your cause, how can I be certain that your claims are true?”
Kufdani shrugged. “If you could get my phone back to me, along with my Moroccan passport, I could prove my claims to you immediately. Then we could talk about my plan. I have constructed the salient pieces already.”
The metal chair had creaked as Salama sat back, smiling and shaking his head. “The salient pieces of a workable plan to take Muslim land back from the Israelis? I’m closer to having an erection than I’ve been in years.”
