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  She’d made her way back to the barracks just in time to begin her shift, which was thankfully uneventful. In spite of being exhausted, when she had gotten off that morning she’d had a difficult time getting to sleep, and had tossed and turned restlessly in the heat, waiting for Samuel to begin his watch so she could return to the house and resume her surveillance.

  Maya wished there were a way to be more certain about the tentative identification, but short of kidnapping the man and shaving him, she couldn’t think of any other way than to watch and see what he did next. A part of her was afraid she might have made a mistake, but her gut said otherwise, and now, as she drifted down the streets toward the house, she felt her pulse quicken with the anticipation of revenge.

  Three small boys were playing soccer in the empty street in front of the house when she turned the corner, and music drifted from the windows as she strolled by, looking completely uninterested. She lingered at the end of the long block, noting that every other lot had an abandoned or half-built structure on it, a sign of the decline that Ramallah had experienced since the Second Intifada had driven most of the middle class from the city in search of safety and steady work.

  When dusk arrived, the children tore down the street toward their homes, laughing and shouting with the innocent abandon of the young. She waited until dark to return to where the house lights were glimmering through the barred windows. Overhead a tapestry of stars shimmered in the desert night, the crescent moon providing just enough light for Maya to make her way into the ruin next door and take up her watch. The music in the house was now off, and she could make out men’s voices, but not well enough to hear what they were saying.

  A dark furry form exploded from one of the doorways and scampered across the concrete floor. Maya shuddered. Rats weren’t unexpected in this neighborhood, but that didn’t mean she liked them. The gloomy surroundings smelled of rot and urine and garbage, and she steeled herself to a long wait with only nocturnal predators and her gun for company.

  At nine the dwelling’s front door opened, and her target emerged with another, older man. They stood on the cracked sidewalk and embraced after quickly scanning the deserted street.

  “As I said, ball bearings would be best, but if you can’t get your hands on sufficient quantities, we could make do with nails and screws,” the older man explained. “But for maximum destruction and range, bearings are necessary.”

  “We’re working on it, Abreeq. I’m hopeful we’ll have something by tomorrow. How long will you need from the time they arrive?”

  “Maybe two days. We want it to evade detection, so the job must be done with care.”

  “Very well. I’ll inform Ammar.”

  “You know how to reach me. Praise Allah.”

  “Yes, praise him indeed. Those cockroaches won’t know what hit them.”

  The older man grunted. “I must go. Call me when you have the material.”

  “It will be tomorrow, around this time.”

  Maya held her breath lest she alert the men to her presence. She listened as footsteps echoed down the sidewalk and smelled the pungent smoke of a cigarette wafting from the dusty front yard. The scrape of a shoe on cement from the front of the abandoned house caused her to stiffen, and she eased her pistol from her robe and thumbed the safety off. She could sense a man’s presence near the darkened entrance and prepared to shoot, aiming her weapon at the doorway as the sweet cigarette smoke drifted across it.

  After an eternity, a woman’s voice called from the house, urging the smoker to come inside. Maya waited as the man’s footsteps faded, and then the door of the quarry’s house slammed shut and the street was still. She crouched in the dark, adrenaline from the near miss coursing through her system, and considered the snatch of conversation she’d heard: the men wanted ball bearings, but nails would do. Because when making an anti-personnel device, any shrapnel was good, but steel bearings would do the most damage.

  They were working on a bomb to use against the cockroaches.

  And it sounded like it would happen soon.

  She didn’t have to think very hard to determine who the cockroaches were.

  Fifteen minutes later the lights went off inside the house. Maya waited another half hour, but the windows remained dark. She carefully picked her way through the refuse to the front entrance and slipped into the night, moving from shadow to shadow, her black robe and hijab nearly invisible in the gloom.

  Maya checked the time – she had forty-five minutes to make it back to the checkpoint, and it would take a good twenty from where she was. Her mind raced over how best to proceed as she hurried down the empty street. She knew she should report what she’d overheard, but if she did, she’d be subject to harsh disciplinary proceedings. She was AWOL each day she left the checkpoint, even though she later returned. Kevod would use it to ruin her, and she had no doubt he would press to see her imprisoned for a long time. The list of rules she was breaking was too long to consider – not only was she leaving the base grounds without permission, but she was doing so armed and in disguise, subjecting herself to unconscionable danger, and risking an inflammatory incident in an already charged environment.

  And if she knew Kevod, any information she reported would be ridiculed and dismissed. It wouldn’t matter that she’d warned her superior once the bomb went off and there were bodies everywhere. The damage would have been done, the carnage complete, and even if it bought her leniency after the fact, her efforts would have been in vain. Perhaps worst of all, Sarah’s killers would have gotten away with their murder, only to kill again.

  Preoccupied, she didn’t notice the three young men loitering at a far corner until she was right on top of them. Usually she would have taken a detour if she spotted anything that looked dangerous, but tonight her senses had failed her, and she knew she was in trouble when one of them detached himself from the graffiti-covered wall he was leaning against and barred her way with crossed arms and an oily gloat.

  “Well, what do we have here? A streetwalker?” the tough sneered.

  Maya struggled to maintain her composure as she clutched her pistol under her robe.

  “I’m on my way home. Please. I don’t want trouble,” she said.

  “Walking alone at night in this area says something different,” he countered, studying her face. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you? Are you lonely? Is that why you’re out and about?”

  One of his companions joined him. “She’s young, too. Probably sneaking out to see her lover. Isn’t that right?”

  “Please. I just want to go.”

  The two moved like junkyard dogs, coming in hard and fast, hoping to knock the wind out of her before she could scream for help. She automatically swung a roundhouse kick at the first punk’s head, as she’d learned in her basic training Krav Maga instruction, and felt the toe of her combat boot connect with his jaw with a satisfying thud. Startled, his partner tried to tackle her, only to have the butt of her pistol slam against his temple, dropping him like a sack of rocks. The first thug tried to recover and continued his charge, and then froze when he found himself staring down the barrel of her gun, her hand steady. The third youth was still by the wall, and she called out to him when she saw him reaching beneath his shirt.

  “Don’t. Put your hands up, or I’ll blow your buddy’s head off and use you for target practice. I mean it. There won’t be any second warning. Hands up, or you’ll be wearing his brains all over your face,” she warned, her voice sounding more confident than she felt.

  The youth did as instructed, and Maya took a step forward. With her free hand, she chopped the punk’s neck where she knew a pressure point lay. She must have missed, because he grabbed her arm with nearly enough force to fracture it just as she drove her pistol barrel into his nose, breaking it with a sickening crack. His grip on her relaxed as the youth by the wall went for his weapon again. She kneed the injured attacker in the crotch with all her might, dropping him hard as she brought her gun back to bear
on the one by the wall, hesitant to shoot him for fear of the attention a gunshot would bring.

  “I thought I told you to keep your hands up.” She eyed the two youths on the ground, the one with the head wound out cold, the other in a fetal position, mewling like a kitten. “Do you want to be a hero? Hands up. Now.”

  The boy did as she ordered, and she approached him, her gun held in front of her in a two-handed grip.

  She pointed at his midsection with her pistol. “All right. Using your left hand, reach down, slowly, and let’s see what you’ve got there.”

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving her gun, and raised his shirt. A small revolver was wedged in his belt.

  “Remove it with your left hand, using your thumb and index finger. You make one wrong move and I’ll send you to hell.”

  He did as instructed.

  “Toss it on the ground and kick it over here,” she ordered.

  When the weapon was at her feet, she crouched down and scooped it up, eyes on him the entire time, and then studied the fallen forms of his friends.

  The youth puffed out his chest and sputtered with rage and anger. “I–”

  “Don’t talk. Listen. Your pals are going to need to see a doctor. I’d concentrate on that, not on me, because if I hear you come after me, I’ll shoot you like a dog. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, his face twisted with fury over being humiliated by a woman. She thumbed back the hammer on her pistol as a reminder that she was serious, and his anger turned to fear. That was more like it.

  “Good. Stay there until I’m out of sight.”

  He nodded again, and she moved past him, giving him a wide berth, and picked up her pace as she crossed the road. The gloom appeared to thicken as she hurried down the street. Once she had turned the corner a block up, she broke into a run, putting two more between herself and the fight before slowing. Confident she’d left the danger behind her, she relaxed her pace and inspected the revolver as she walked: a cheap .32 caliber with only four rounds in it.

  She covered the remaining ground to the barracks in six minutes. Samuel was waiting, obviously nervous, glancing at his watch as she brushed by him.

  “Cutting it close, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  She shook her head, her voice even.

  “Nah. Piece of cake.”

  Chapter 8

  Republic of Singapore

  A small crowd of well-wishers stood in front of the Maghain Aboth Synagogue. The salmon walls of the stone building sparkled cleanly, and the white Star of David relief on its façade shone in the sunlight. The black wrought-iron gates stood open to admit a line of SUVs, which hulked on the driveway like attack dogs as prominent members of the local Jewish community shook hands with arriving dignitaries from Israel.

  Waterloo Street was quiet on a Monday morning at ten, the rush-hour traffic over in the busy metropolis. Towering skyscrapers crowded the horizon, all polished glass and chrome, gleaming like dragon teeth in the tropical glare. A black-clad rabbi emerged from the edifice with a smile on his cherubic face, his step sprightly in spite of his years.

  Three children ran between the adults’ legs, dressed in their special occasion finery, the little boy in a white linen suit, the two girls he was pursuing wearing modest dresses and colored stockings that would soon be dirty and torn if history was any guide. A heavy woman in a demure outfit frowned at them as they squealed by her with delight. The boy’s mother shushed him and called his name, her tone sharp enough to etch glass. Her husband stood by, oblivious, watching the proceedings with rapt attention.

  Security guards clad in dark suits patrolled the perimeter of the property. No trouble was expected; Singapore was a civilized oasis in the turbulent region, a hub of money and power that exuded prosperity and tolerance, and the city-state enjoyed a low crime rate that was the envy of its neighbors. The dignitaries were there to commemorate the groundbreaking of a cultural center planned for a nearby patch of precious real estate, which would be the pride of the community once completed.

  The mayor of Singapore walked to the podium near the front entrance and tapped on the microphone, signaling to the assembly that the first of innumerable longwinded speeches was to begin, his to welcome the group from Israel and offer it the symbolic keys to the city. Three members of parliament waited nearby for their chance at the news cameras, their clothes obviously hand-tailored and expensive, hands manicured, hair perfectly groomed, and countenances radiating good-natured prosperity.

  Two box vans turned the corner off of Middle Road and neared the synagogue at a moderate pace, their presence attracting no attention. Both rolled to a stop in front of the open gates, and the back doors swung open. The mayor looked up from his notes just as a dozen armed gunmen wearing balaclavas spilled onto the pavement, toting Kalashnikov assault rifles.

  The bodyguards reacted instantly, drawing pistols and opening fire as the dignitaries took shelter in the safety of the building. Three of the guards near the SUVs swung MTAR-21 bullpup automatic rifles from beneath their jackets and blasted volleys at the running attackers, cutting them down with high-velocity rounds as the terrorists mounted a confused offensive.

  One of the SUV drivers reversed down the drive, wedging the armor-plated vehicle squarely between the dignitaries and the shooters and providing cover for the defending guards, all battle-hardened veterans with combat experience. Their organized, methodical defense stopped the attackers cold, and within a minute, seven of the terrorists lay dying on the pavement and the rest were beating a retreat to the vans, already riddled with bullets, several of their tires flattened from defending fire.

  A masked gunman hurled a grenade in a last-ditch effort to cause some real damage, but it fell short and rolled beneath the armored SUV. When it exploded, the force of the blast rocked the vehicle and shattered the windows. More shooting pummeled the vans as the surviving attackers leapt into the backs. The vehicles tore off, trailing oil and sparks, strips of tire flying as they ran on their rims.

  The perspiring driver of the lead van cursed and placed a call on his cell phone as he aimed for the alley that was their escape route. Wira answered on the second ring.

  “Yes?”

  “It failed. They were heavily armed. Professional. The intelligence was wrong.”

  “How bad?”

  “We lost most of the men. We’ll be lucky if we make it out of here. I hear sirens.”

  “Damn.” Wira paused. “Do what you must. Go with Allah.”

  The driver disconnected, understanding that he had just been sentenced to death if he couldn’t get to the rendezvous point safely. It didn’t bother him. He’d long been prepared for the eventuality, although he hadn’t expected it to happen that morning. Still, everyone had to die sometime, and today was as good a day as any to go to his reward.

  A police cruiser swerved out of a side street and accelerated behind the vans. Its lights blinked and siren blared as it fishtailed and then regained control. An amplified voice boomed over the car’s public address system and ordered the vans to stop. The driver glanced at the pistol on the seat beside him and nodded. He would need to remember to count his shots so he could save the final bullet for himself.

  Another cruiser joined the pursuit, and the driver floored the accelerator as the men in the cargo area fired at the police through the open rear doors. He knew it was hopeless, but he would lead them on a merry chase and cause as much damage as possible if today was to be his final one. An officer leaned out of the passenger side of the police car and fired a 12-gauge riot gun with double-aught buckshot as a series of white starbursts dotted the squad car’s windshield. The policeman’s second shot blew out the remaining rear tire, and the van lost control as it tried to make the turn onto a larger boulevard, flipping over three times before coming to rest in a pool of fuel.

  The lead van driver accelerated now that he was on a larger street, and felt a brief glimmer of hope before another cruiser darted from a side street in front of hi
m and blocked his way. He uttered a silent prayer and pointed the wheel squarely at the side of the car, and then he flew through the air as the hood crumpled on impact, ejected headfirst through the vaporized windshield.

  The van exploded in a ball of flame, its fuel ignited by an errant spark from the collision. The last thing the driver saw before he hit the pavement was the fire reaching for the heavens, a thing of pure majesty, the embodiment of destruction brought to Singapore by men of vision and determination in an ongoing holy war that would know no end.

  Chapter 9

  Ramallah, West Bank

  The graveyard shift was a kind of penance for Maya under normal circumstances, the tedious hours ticking by in slow motion, but not this night – her mind raced out of control as she tried to engineer an escape from the box she found herself in. As the hours wore on, any confidence she’d been able to muster waned as she played through scenarios in her head where she was able to warn her superiors, bypassing Kevod, and averting disaster.

  But even as she imagined ways to do so, she understood that she really didn’t have any evidence other than hearsay – a conversation overheard that she may or may not have interpreted accurately. And even if she was taken at face value and given full benefit of the doubt, what was the crime committed? Discussing ball bearings?

  Maya believed that the man in the house was the passenger from the ambulance attack, but what proof did she have? True, his features were similar to those in a grainy photo taken through a dirty windshield, but the reality was that it was a face not unlike that of a substantial number of adult males in the West Bank. With the beard, the resemblance was even fainter, although she was still convinced it was him.