JET - Ops Files Page 2

  “Who is conveniently no longer with us. So it’s just your word we have to go on, versus the word of one of your peers who claims to have seen you emerge from the barracks, not the latrine, when the attack was over.”

  Maya took a deep breath. “With all due respect, sir, that person is mistaken. For starters, the attack was still very much underway. If anyone bothered to check my magazine, they would find that I emptied most of it at the ambulance as it was firing at us.”

  “That proves nothing.”

  “Sir, it proves that I fired while everyone else was firing – unless your ‘witness’ also claims I was shooting in the air after the ambulance disappeared. Which would be easy to verify, because I would have been the only one doing so, and there are dozens of Palestinian witnesses in addition to our men. That leaves only one possibility: that I participated in the defense of the checkpoint, which is underscored by the fact that I was the first person to reach Sarah on the access road.”

  Kevod narrowed his brows and eyed Maya with an insinuating leer. He spoke softly, his voice a purr. “You know, things don’t have to be so tense between us. This can all go away. There’s no reason that we have to be so…adversarial.”

  “Sir, you’re accusing me of deserting my post. Is that not the case?”

  “I’m investigating troubling reports of a dereliction of duty. It’s my job. I can understand you wouldn’t want your actions analyzed if you’d actually abandoned your post, which probably accounts for your attitude. But I’m not your enemy. If anything, I’d be a good ally to have.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.” Maya would not say another word or allow him to bait her. She knew full well that he could claim she’d said anything he wanted, making her life even more difficult, but that in the end he didn’t have enough evidence to take action, or he already would have. So it was a standoff.

  Kevod sat back, and all Maya could think was that he was the human embodiment of a toad. “You’re going to be here for another nine months, whether you like it or not. I’m suggesting that you could thaw the arrogant attitude and try to be friendly. It doesn’t have to be the most unpleasant nine months of your life. That’s up to you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her eyes focused a thousand miles just left of his shoulder.

  Kevod sighed, clearly exasperated. “You think you’re a tough one, don’t you? I know your history. The incident with your foster father. The years in Ofek Juvenile Detention.” He gave her an ugly grin. “I have my sources, you see. I know it all.”

  Kevod had made the last months misery following his overture, which had been wholly inappropriate as well as forbidden by the regulations. But that hadn’t deterred him, and he’d switched from an initial aloof deference to an overtly hostile approach when she’d made it clear that she was uninterested in anything he had to offer.

  Maya continued to stand silently, wondering how long this pointless muscle flexing would continue. Kevod didn’t scare her in the least, so he was wasting his breath.

  “You don’t have anything to say to that?” he asked.

  “No, sir.” As uninterested and detached as she’d ever sounded.

  Kevod set the file down on his desk and glared daggers at her. “Fine. Then we’ll do this the hard way. This investigation will be ongoing. You may think you’ve weaseled out of it, but you haven’t. I’ll keep digging until all facts are known, and if you’re guilty, I’ll be at the head of the line to see you roasted for it.”

  An image of Sarah lying in the road, her spirit ebbing from her ruined body, threatened Maya’s rigid composure. She swallowed hard, which Kevod obviously misinterpreted as a sign of fear.

  He grunted. “That’s right. You should be worried. You should be very worried.”

  Maya had known bullies like Kevod when she’d been a ward of the state. Bullies with chips on their shoulders, their animosity driven by self-loathing and cowardice. Years of that had toughened her to the point where she was bulletproof, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing in his face. She maintained her rigid stance, having retreated into the recesses of her mind where malignancies like Kevod could never reach her.

  “Get out of my sight. I’m done with you for now.” He dismissed her with a sneer.

  “Yes, sir,” Maya said, her tone neutral, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. She spun and marched to the door, feeling Kevod’s eyes burning holes through the seat of her pants. Let him have that, she thought. It was as close as he’d ever get, at least while she was alive.

  She made her way to the barracks and saw one of Sarah’s friends, his shift over, sitting outside on the steps. His face was drawn; he was reading the Arabic language newspaper’s account of the attack. Ari was slight and thoughtful, twenty years old and quieter than most of his peers. He glanced up and set the paper down when her shadow fell across him.

  “Hey. How did the ass-chewing go?” he asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “He was doing everything he could to get me to say you hadn’t been in the firefight. I told him I remembered seeing you running and shooting at the ambulance. He lost interest at that point, but it was pretty obvious what he was after.”

  “He’s a prick.”

  “That he is, but a dangerous one.”

  Maya glanced at the newspaper. “What does the paper say?”

  “My Arabic isn’t so hot. From what I can gather, they’re going to throw the terrorists a parade.”

  Maya bent over and scooped up the paper, taking only a few moments to read the short article. “Apparently they’re freedom fighters striking a blow for Allah.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What else is new?” He spat in the dust and glanced back at her. “I didn’t realize you read Arabic that well.”

  She nodded. “I’m pretty much fluent.”

  “Sarah said you also speak English.”

  She shrugged. “That and a few other languages.”

  He studied the toe of his boot. “It’s terrible about Sarah. She never did anything to anyone. She was kind to the kids here, always trying to help however she could…” His voice tightened and he stopped talking.

  She handed him back the paper.

  “She didn’t die in vain. Parasites like the men in the ambulance always leave a trail. It’s just a matter of finding and following it.”

  “We haven’t exactly done a stellar job at infiltrating the locals and earning their sympathy. The killers might as well be in China by now.” He spat again and watched the moisture dry into the baking dirt, the sun erasing the stain in a matter of seconds.

  “Maybe. Or maybe not. There’s more than one way to catch a rat.”

  He regarded her with new caution. “You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?”

  She waved his concern away. “Of course not. Do I look suicidal?”

  Ari studied her and then glanced away. “Kevod’s already gunning for you. Don’t give him more ammo.”

  “I know. I’d have to be crazy to do anything but sit here like a good little girl waiting for the next car filled with explosives to blow us into the Dead Sea.”

  He frowned. “I’m not listening to any more of this. Things are already bad enough.”

  Her expression softened as she bit back the anger that was broiling just below the surface. Ari wasn’t the enemy. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Ari. I know Sarah really liked you. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know that I’m…I’m hurting too. And I want whoever is behind the attack to pay.”

  He nodded. “I’d drag them behind a jeep all the way to Tel Aviv.”

  “Don’t let me infect you. I was just spouting off. I’m sure the powers that be have some retribution planned.” Maya glanced around the area and shrugged. “I’m not on shift until graveyard tonight. I’m going to try to get some sleep. It’s been a long thirty-six hours.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ari watched as Maya strode to the women’s barracks, empty now
that Sarah was gone, and wondered what was going on behind her placid expression, as unreadable as a statue except for the flash of fury in her jade eyes when she’d let her guard down talking about Sarah. Whatever it was, he was glad he wasn’t in her crosshairs. There was something about her that scared the living crap out of him, even after almost two years of mandatory duty in a hostile land where anyone and everyone could be an enemy willing to give their life to see his extinguished.

  Chapter 3

  The minaret of the Jamal Abdel Nasser Mosque cast a long shadow over the surrounding Ramallah neighborhood as the afternoon sun faded into the distant hills. Automobiles pulled to the curb in front of the mosque as the call to prayer sounded over the city, signaling to the faithful that the time of worship was upon them. A crowd of locals milled on the sidewalk, waiting to enter. A man in his thirties with a head of curly black hair and a bushy mustache watched the procession with hawklike eyes from the street corner, his presence unremarkable except for the attention he paid to the worshipers’ faces.

  Half an hour later he was still there, one foot propped against the wall as he read the newspaper. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a coil of smoke rising from it like gray string. Once the prayer finished, the mosque doors opened and the assembly dispersed. The observer’s gaze roamed across the sea of humanity as he pretended to read. When the crowd dissipated and the last man had left the building, he murmured into his cell phone, shaking his head.

  “No sign of them,” he said.

  The gruff voice on the phone grunted. “Stick around the area. We may get lucky.”

  Yitzhak Eban was one of several Israeli intelligence operatives assigned to Ramallah after the checkpoint attack as the Mossad sought to bring the perpetrators to justice. It had deployed infiltrators and spotters, hoping to get a lead on whoever was behind the attack – a long shot, everyone involved knew, but the only course of action open other than the symbolic retaliation planned.

  Nearby, in a dilapidated cinderblock house adjacent to the bustling Ramallah market, six men sat at a rustic wooden table. Spread out before them were a tray of electrical components and a plastic container of acetone peroxide for loading into the modified plastic pouches that would be attached to the vests piled on the floor. Four old AK-47 assault rifles, wooden stocks scarred from decades of use, rested against the peeling wall where they could be accessed easily. The men’s expressions were drawn, the tension in the room thick. Acetone peroxide was as unstable as it was explosive, and unexpected detonations in similar suicide vest factories throughout the West Bank were not uncommon.

  A knock at the entrance sounded through the dwelling, echoing like gunfire off the concrete floor. An elderly robed man rose from the head of the table and shuffled to the entryway and, after peering through a grimy barred window, opened the door. Two men waited outside, their eyes scanning the filthy street. The ambulance driver bore little resemblance to his appearance at the checkpoint. He was now wearing a soiled baseball cap, his face freshly shaved, but his companion was unmistakably the passenger who’d started the firefight, in spite of the two days of stubble that dusted his chin.

  “Ahlan wa Sahlan – welcome to my humble abode, Ammar. It is an honor,” the host said to the driver as he moved aside, motioning for them to enter.

  “Thank you, Abreeq. Your hospitality is always appreciated,” Ammar said as he stepped inside. “This is Bazir. He is my right hand.”

  Abreeq bowed slightly. “I’m humbled that you’ve chosen to grace me with your presence.”

  He pushed the door closed and locked it and then moved past the newcomers into the room next to the manufacturing area. After declining an offer of tea, Ammar smiled humorlessly and gestured next door.

  “I see you are doing good work, even at great risk to yourself.”

  Abreeq shrugged. “I do what I can. Alas, our martyrs’ glorious acts of sacrifice have yet to turn the tide. But I am proud to be part of the effort, regardless of how small a part I play.”

  “Nonsense. It is men like you who are the backbone of our movement. Without you we would have no soul,” Bazir countered, an obligatory bit of flattery.

  Abreeq’s expression was impassive. “I only wish I could do more.”

  Silence settled over the room, and Ammar cleared his throat. “Providence has smiled upon us all, then. I’m here to tell you that your wish has been granted.”

  Abreeq nodded, having suspected that his visitors hadn’t come to pay their respects. “I am your servant, in this as in all things. Tell me what you need me to do.”

  Ammar leaned forward, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We just took possession of four kilos of C-4, and we need a seasoned hand to help us design a device that can inflict maximum damage in a populated area.”

  “Four kilos! You must be a magician. I haven’t seen any for several years. Fortune has indeed blessed us.”

  “I figured you would know how to work with it.”

  “Of course. Depending upon the target, it could be devastating. What did you have in mind?”

  Ammar told him. Abreeq grinned – a sight reminiscent of a bird of prey eying a field mouse.

  “I see. So you will want the equivalent of a large version of the American claymore mine – an explosive charge with the largest amount of shrapnel possible to maximize the casualty count. What size blast area would you like, and what do you envision the delivery system will be?”

  They discussed the details for ten minutes in hushed tones and agreed that Bazir would coordinate with Abreeq to get him whatever he needed. When the pair left, slipping onto the street like ghosts in the waning dusk, Abreeq was pensive. What had been proposed was a considerable undertaking – one that would require careful planning but was well within his capabilities.

  He tried to imagine the headlines following the explosion. If he did his job skillfully, the cursed invaders would feel the blast all the way in Jerusalem, and the cost to occupy land that rightfully belonged to his people would have increased dramatically.

  Abreeq’s name translated to ‘glittering sword’ in Arabic – a scimitar used to smite the enemies of his ancestors. A vision of a white horse mounted by a Saracen charging into battle galloped in his imagination, and for the second time that day, he smiled. He would soon live up to the lofty promise of his birthright.

  A glittering sword indeed. Exceedingly deadly and forged of holy steel, the blade razor sharp, the arm that wielded it bathed in the blood of his foes.

  Chapter 4

  Bali, Indonesia

  The jumbo jet dropped from the pale blue sky and floated over the tarmac before its wheels scorched the runway of Ngurah Rai International Airport, a metal and glass interloper in paradise. Humid gusts of warm wind buffeted the aircraft on its slow taxi to the terminal, and the heady perfume of tropical flowers and the sea blended with jet exhaust as the sun glinted off the plane’s windows with blinding intensity.

  Once through customs, a tour group of eighteen young men and women from New York followed their guide to a waiting bus, a Mercedes coach that had seen better days, its red paint peeling as it sat vibrating in the muggy heat. Its big diesel engine idled roughly as porters loaded the group’s luggage into the baggage hold. Arriving passengers chattered like a flock of agitated birds outside the terminal, waving at taxis or their rides. The tour guide welcomed the group aboard in colloquial English, smiling and bowing as they filed onto the bus, the air-conditioning seeping from the open door all the invitation most of them needed.

  When everyone was loaded, the driver closed the door with a hiss before swinging from the curb, leaving the busy airport behind as the coach embarked on the hour-long journey to an exclusive ecotourism resort on the eastern coast of Bali, roughly ten miles northeast of the sprawling beach community of Sanur. Motorcycles buzzed through traffic like angry hornets, darting between cars with daredevil precision, racing along at suicidal speed in controlled chaos as the bus lumbered through the metropolitan lunchtime ru
sh.

  The guide stood at the front with a clipboard and microphone in hand, pointing out landmarks and areas of interest, giving a canned recitation of the region’s history with bored resignation: a description of the Dutch invasion in the early 20th century, followed by the Japanese occupation in World War II, and finally Indonesia’s turbulent challenges to Dutch rule that ended with independence in 1949.

  The hodgepodge of shacks and buildings thinned once they progressed north of Sanur, and traffic dried to a trickle on the coast road. As they picked up speed, the guide shared tidbits of advice about local customs and mores, including dire warnings about the effects of tropical sun on unsuspecting skin. The passengers listened with scant attention, preferring to take in the blue water and breathtaking beaches interspersed with undulating fields of tall grass and lush jungle.

  The driver muttered a curse and slowed after rolling around a long curve. An overloaded pickup truck was stalled, the hood up, effectively blocking the two-lane road. Another car was parked at its side, straddling the oncoming lane. Its owner stood by the truck, commiserating with the unfortunate driver.

  The bus eased to a stop. The door swung open, and the guide stepped out, hoping to convince the men to clear a route. An old Toyota Land Cruiser behind the coach leaned on its horn impatiently, and the bus driver shrugged and held a hand out the window as the guide moved to the truck.

  Four men with bandannas covering their faces darted from the surrounding jungle, brandishing assault rifles. The driver’s eyes widened in horror, and after a moment paralyzed with disbelief, he reached down to pull the lever that controlled the door. He’d almost reached it when three rounds slammed into his side, knocking him against the window in a bloody heap.

  Screaming erupted from the passengers as two of the attackers mounted the steps and rolled grenades down the cabin aisle, and then opened fire on the helpless passengers. The rifles emptied in seconds on full automatic, and dying moans followed the killers as they spilled out the door and ran for cover. The guide watched the slaughter in shock from his position by the truck, held at pistol point by the driver of the car.