Direct Action (36 page)

12:22
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. Tom stacked the last of the barrels in the foyer. He nodded at the plastic where Reuven had removed the tape. Reuven nodded and shone the red LED around the seam, then, tucking the big black satchel under his arm like a football, led the way into the room with the tables of detonators and knapsack bomb components.

12:27:16. Obviously, they were in what had been the salon. To the right was a small kitchen. Straight ahead was the window adjacent to the drainpipe Tom had climbed. Reuven pointed the light at the far wall next to the windows. Flanking each windowsill, hidden from outside view and undisturbed by the plastic sheet that covered the window, were more infrared sensors and receptor units. Taped six inches below the bottom edge of the sill apron were small explosive charges hardwired to the receptors.

Reuven pulled a small monocular from his trouser pocket, examined the right-hand-window booby trap, quickly established that it, too, was inert, and pulled the detonator out. Then he repeated his action on the leftwindow unit.

Before Tom had time to think about the nasty possibilities had he broken into the safe house the other night, Reuven tapped his shoulder. The Israeli pointed at the sidewall.

Tom shrugged, asking, “What the hell do you want now?” Reuven demonstrated by pulling up one of the strips of tape that held the plastic sheeting to the wall. He motioned for Tom to do the same on the opposite side.
Tom complied. They removed the roughly eight-by-twelve-foot section of plastic from the wall. Then, under Reuven’s direction, they laid it on the floor and retaped it securely. They repeated the sequence with a second piece of plastic sheeting, covering most of the salon and about half the foyer flooring.
12:40
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. They examined the detonators on the kitchen towel. “Merde.” Reuven frowned. He didn’t like what he saw. There were five detonators and components of eight knapsacks—perhaps even nine. The numbers didn’t add up. Well, there was no way to deal with the problem now.
Reuven scooped up the detonators, produced a handkerchief, and carefully folded them into it. He pulled Tom close, stuffed the package into the American’s pocket, and whispered into his ear, “Handle carefully. We’ll want to dissect one of these and see how he designed them.”
12:42. Reuven went to the long table that held the sewing machine and the pasta maker. He removed all of Ben Said’s carefully rolled-out explosives, wadded them up, wrapped them in the plastic sheeting he’d removed from the window, and handed them to Tom, who took one of the empty olive barrels from under the picnic table and dropped the package into it.
The Israeli pulled a pocket secretary and a pen from his breast pocket and wrote a short note, which he showed to Tom. Tom’s expression told Reuven that he’d received the message loud and clear.
The Israeli reached into the waistband of his trousers, retrieved the Glock with its stubby suppressor. He demonstrated to Tom that the weapon was loaded by easing the slide back about half an inch and displaying the 9mm round in the pistol’s chamber. Then he closed the slide and handed the pistol to Tom, who somewhat self-consciously stuck the gun inside his waistband, positioning it in the small of his back, just as Reuven had done.
12:44. Tom played with the weapon’s position until he found the most comfortable one. Then he tightened his belt one notch and jiggled his body. The gun was secure. He pulled Hamzi’s keys out of his trouser pocket and showed them to Reuven.
In Arabic, Reuven said, “You take the car, Mahmoud. Leave it in the usual spot. I’ll find my own way home.”
“Yes, Yahia.” Tom turned to go. Reuven pointed at the barrel that held Ben Said’s explosives. Tom picked it up and tucked it under his arm. Then Reuven handed him the plastic box with its security keypad. Tom squeezed through the flap of plastic sheeting, resecured the tape in position, placed the box on its table, then headed for the door.
“Lock the door securely closed behind you, boy,” Reuven’s voice commanded.

12:47:15
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. Tom was just below the first-floor landing when he heard someone turn the front door lock noisily. He’d been making his way foot by foot in the darkness, picking his way over the construction detritus, counting the steps to monitor his progress. It was easier than he’d thought: his night vision was sharp enough that he could make out more or less where he was going.

Now all of a sudden the minuterie below came on and for an instant he was blinded. He heard voices stage-whispering in Arabic and French. There was a bump—as if a suitcase had been dropped—and then he thought he heard a voice mutter, “Khara alaay—well, shit on me.” The words were indistinct. But they told him there was more than one person down there.

My God. Ben Said. And he’s not alone. Holding tight to the barrel under his arm, Tom raced up eight steps to the first-floor landing, trying to remember where the obstacles were. At the top he adjusted his load, then dashed tippy-toe thirteen paces to the stairwell leading to the second floor, praying that he wouldn’t trip. As he went, he worked Hamzi’s keys out of his trouser pocket, trying desperately to keep them from jingling, fighting to make no sound whatsoever—not even daring to breathe.

12:47:21. There were twenty-two steps between the first and second floors. His heart pounding so loudly he felt they must have heard it below, Tom found the safe-house key on step nineteen—just as the minuterie light went out. He kept climbing, his arm around the barrel, his fingers resting lightly in the banister. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. He reached for the newel cap that signified the landing. Turned left in the darkness toward the safe-house door.

12:47:40. The lights came on. Oh God, oh, damn, oh Christ. They were coming up the stairs. He wondered how many of them there were. They sounded like a herd of goddamn rogue elephants, a frigging buffalo stampede.

12:47:42. Tom stood in front of the safe-house door, telling himself it was going to be all right. Don’t drop the barrel. Don’t drop the key. Take the key in your hand. Hold the damn thing securely. Put it into the lock. Turn once. Turn again. Turn once more. Open the damn door.

12:47:45. Tom yanked the key out of the lock and pressed the door handle downward. From inside he could hear the muted sound of the alarm as the door broke the plane of the infrared beam.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “It’s me,” he whispered. “Ben Said and others. They’re right behind me.”
Without waiting for a response, Tom ran for the table. Oh Christ oh God what’s the number? It had suddenly evaporated from his consciousness. He found the box, squinted in the dim light, and desperately punched 3-0-6-7-9 into the keypad.
The wailing stopped. He ran back to the door and, careful not to disrupt the infrared beam, inserted the key into the lock and turned the bolt oncetwice-thrice. Only then did he dare suck air into his lungs.
“Bedroom.” Reuven hissed at him from the darkness beyond the plastic curtain. “Keep low—don’t let them see a silhouette. Use the pistol. Stay until I call you.”
Tom started to set the olive barrel down then realized it was a bad idea. He shifted his weight to balance the load, reached into his waistband, pulled out the Glock, and started to tighten his finger around the trigger. He jerked his finger out of the trigger guard as if he’d touched a live wire. I’d probably shoot myself in the foot.
He indexed his trigger finger along the frame and pointed the Glock’s muzzle downward. Behind the stubby suppressor he could make out three greenish spots. The gun had night sights. As Tom moved, he held the weapon up so the front dot was even with the two rear dots. That would be his whatchamacallit sight picture. That’s how the instructors at the Farm had referred to it.
Desperately, he tried to remember what they’d taught him about pistol shooting. He couldn’t recall much. In fact, Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d fired a gun.
12:48:08. He’d just reached the bedroom door when the alarm went off. Instinctively, his finger dropped onto the trigger. He backed just inside the door, dropped to one knee, eased the barrel onto the floor, concealed himself behind the jamb, put the weapon up, held it securely in a two-handed grip, and trained it down the eight-foot corridor. Christ, this was close quarters.

12:48:11
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. Tom heard the sound of a key in the front door lock. The bolt turned. He jumped at the sound and then cursed himself. The bolt turned twice more. Tom heard the door handle move. Then the alarm squealed and he started again.

The door eased open. Tom held his breath as the ambient light from the minuterie outside washed into the tiny foyer.
As if in slow motion, a wraithlike figure in a long, flowing overcoat moved through the doorway, heading for the table. Tom counted the seconds off: a thousand one, a thousand two, a thousand three.
The alarm shut off. Now a second, then a third shadow came through the door. The third shadow was carrying a big case—like a three-suiter or a wheeled garment bag. For an instant, Tom thought he saw weapons in their hands. Then the door closed behind them and it went dark again. He held the Glock up high, his eyes completely focused on the three green dots that told him where he was aiming.
The third man—the one with the suitcase—turned to face the corridor. Did he have something in his free hand?
Tom followed suitcase man with the sights on the pistol. His lungs were bursting for oxygen, but he couldn’t bring himself to breathe.
The shadow moved slightly. Now he was partially obscured. But Tom could almost smell him, he was so close.
Tom could hear his heart pounding. He froze, trying to become invisible.
From the part of the foyer Tom couldn’t see came a voice, speaking accent-free Arabic. “Yahia? Yahia? C’mon out, old friend. We have to talk.” The voice was smooth, coaxing, almost feminine in tone. Suddenly Tom’s nostrils flared and he caught the sweet citrus scent of aftershave or cologne. He refocused his eyes and realized that Suitcase Man had moved closer—he was less than two yards away.
And then came six rapid shots—no louder than a hammer striking nails. Thruup-ruup-ruup, thruup-ruup-ruup.
The shadow in the corridor jumped—turned toward the sound of the shots.
Panicked, Tom jerked the Glock’s trigger twice. The pistol surprised him. There was no boom-boom, only a pair of thwoks.
Suddenly the doorjamb next to his head splintered. Tom froze, blinded by the bright orange muzzle blast of the weapon that was oh-my-God pointed right at him. He tried to disappear—to become a puddle on the floor. But he found himself completely unable to move. He was helpless. Incapable of motion. It was like being in the middle of a nightmare.
The doorknob just behind Tom’s head shattered. He felt something slice into his scalp. And still there was no discernible gunshot sound—only muffled bursts. Thruup-ruup-ruup.
Tom tried to control the pistol in his hands. But the gun took on a life of its own, firing one-two-three-four-five-six-seven shots before he could bring the trigger under control.
He tried to focus on his sights. But all he could see was the muzzle flash as his adversary came closer-closer-closer moving in stop-time slow motion, now just over an arm’s length away.
Tom forced himself to lower the Glock’s muzzle until he could see over the top of it.
He saw the green dot—that was the front sight. Beyond it was the looming outline of the man trying to kill him.
Frantically, he pulled the trigger.
The pistol fired once and then the slide locked back. Tom tried to force it forward, but the goddamn thing was stuck—it wouldn’t move.
He was a dead man. Heart pumping, he closed his eyes, anticipating the bullet that would kill him.
And then there was only silence.
Tom opened his eyes. He could feel the pulse racing in his wrists. He dropped the Glock onto the floor. Scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled past the corpse. His hand landed in a puddle and he stifled a gasp. “Reuven?”
Suddenly the lights in the foyer came on. Tom was blinded. When he looked up, Reuven was staring down at him.
“C’mon,” the Israeli said hoarsely. “No time to waste, boychik.”
Tom tried to focus. “What?”
“No time. Get up, Tom. On your feet.”
Dumbly, Tom did as he was told. He stepped over the man he’d just killed. There was blood—a lot of it—and brain matter splattered on the floor.
Reuven rolled the corpse with his foot. “You hit him more than once,” he said. “Good shooting.”
“It was luck,” Tom protested. “Dumb stupid luck.”
“Remember what Shamir said: never deny too loudly.”
Tom stared at what he’d done and his knees buckled.
Reuven caught him. “Easy, boy.”
Tom felt really queasy. He began to see spots and the room started to turn.
“Breathe, Tom,” Reuven instructed him. “Take in oxygen.”
Tom sucked air into his nose and mouth and thought he could smell blood. He opened his mouth wide in a silent, panicked yawn. Maybe that would help stifle the sickness he was feeling.
It didn’t. He took a deep breath and felt a little better. Took a second and third and the spots disappeared. Tom shook the Israeli’s hand off. “I’m okay. Okay.”
“Sure you are.”
Tom reached for the handkerchief in his pocket and blew his nose. Sucked oxygen into his lungs. Wiped at his eyes. He returned his gaze to the corpse at his feet and a new wave of nausea almost swept him off his feet.
Reuven took him by the arm and led him into the foyer.
As he approached the other corpses, a second wave of panic amplified by doubt washed over Tom—they’d killed the wrong people. And then he bent down and forced himself to examine the corpse of the man who’d silenced the alarm. It was the same individual who was in Shahram’s surveillance photo and MJ’s picture from Gaza. It was Tariq Ben Said—or whatever his name really was. Tom heaved a huge sigh of relief.
Ben Said and a second man lay atop the plastic sheeting, arms and legs splayed out. Reuven had head-shot them—a neat triangle of bullet holes between the bridge of their noses and their upper lips. The realization that the Israeli had sucker-punched them caused another emotional tsunami to wash over Tom. They’d actually murdered these men. Killed them in cold blood.
Reuven must have read his thoughts. “What? You thought I’d tell them, ‘Go for your guns,’ like this was some old Western movie?” He bent down and started to rifle through Ben Said’s pockets. “This isn’t the Marquis of Queensbury, Tom. This is real life.”
The Israeli pulled a German passport from Ben Said’s jacket. “Let’s see who he is this week.” Reuven opened the document and squinted. “Lothar Abdat, born twenty-seven March 1956 in Hamburg.”
He flipped through the pages. There was a credit-card receipt and Reuven peered at it. “Air France—the main office on Champs-Élysées.” He patted Ben Said down. “But no ticket.” He reached into the bomb maker’s trouser pockets and turned them inside out, spilling coins and keys onto the plastic, and pawed through them. Reuven gave Tom an encouraging look. “Take the other one. See what he’s carrying.”