Guardian (9 page)

Mike watched for a few more moments before turning to leave. As he did, he caught sight of a man on the other side of the ser­vice gathering. He stood next to a tree, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses like himself. Only this guy was darker in complexion, with black hair and a thin moustache. Mike looked away for a moment and then back, but the man was gone. He shrugged and continued to make his way out of the cemetery.

M
ayyat ducked out of sight behind the tree. He doubted Caldwell had spotted him but hid just in case. It seemed like Caldwell had looked right at him for a second, but the sunglasses hid his eyes and Mayyat could not be sure. Better to be safe and stay out of his line of sight from then on.

Normally, he would have stayed behind the target, but Mayyat needed to identify Caldwell. Which meant positioning himself to see the man's face clearly. The risk was being detected himself. In this case he might have been but doubted he was.

He counted to twenty and risked another glance. Caldwell hiked up a rolling hill of tombstones toward the exit. Mayyat moved away from the tree and followed.

M
ike's cell phone rang as he boarded the Metro. A quick look at the number: Kitra.

“Tell me you've got him,” Mike said.

“Almost,” Kitra said. “There were complications.”

Mike swore under his breath. “Like what?”

“Remember your friend Haddad?”

“Yeah?”

“Some of his friends showed up looking for Kharija before the police could close on him.”

“Haddad was one of Kharija's ­people.”

“Well, it appears they wanted Kharija and he refused to budge. There was a pretty intense gunfight.”

“Between them?”

“Dead tattooed men on both sides.”

What the hell?
Kharija was taking orders from something not related to the order? Had he betrayed the order and taken a few Brothers like Haddad with him?

“They succeeded in killing Kharija's team,” Kitra went on to say, “but Kharija managed to kill three of them and wounded the fourth with a shot to the stomach. Then he disappeared. Very skilled, that one. I almost admire his close-­quarter skills.”

“What's guy number four saying?”

“Not much. He had been unconscious for the better part of a day. When he woke up, he mumbled something about catching the traitor.”

“Okay. Let me know if the guy says anything else, will you?”

“Yes.”

M
ayyat remained a good distance behind Caldwell. When they arrived at an apartment building, Mayyat took up station across the street in an alley. Now he knew where Caldwell lived.

But he did not know the specific apartment number, and he could not risk going inside. He would have to do more investigative work later. For now, he would content himself with the knowledge that he had discovered the building.

Then Allah smiled on him. The curtains to a first floor apartment opened and Caldwell walked out on the deck. He looked up and down the street, stood for a moment, then walked back in and closed the sliding glass door. No more than a few seconds. And a few seconds was all Mayyat required. He could not believe this gift, yet was more than grateful for it.

A few minutes later Caldwell left the apartment and headed back to the Metro station. Mayyat debated whether to follow or to break into his residence. After a few moments of debate he decided to follow, curious to know what Caldwell was up to.

Mayyat tracked him to a Courtyard outside the Navy Yard. He remained on the street and waited twenty minutes to see if Caldwell left. When he did not, he assumed Caldwell was staying at the hotel as a safety precaution due to the deaths of Temms and Ellis.

Why had he gone home only to go to the hotel? Mayyat wondered.

To pick something up he had forgotten.
A toiletry? He smirked. Perhaps a toothbrush. It did not matter.

I can go in and take him down now,
he thought.

Yet he did not know the room Caldwell was staying in. It would not take long to discover, but it would take time. He questioned his gut, whether to go into the hotel or return to Caldwell's apartment. He would have the place to himself to ransack. To find the one personal item that would push Caldwell to hunt Kharija if he himself failed to capture him. He did not anticipate failure but planned for it nonetheless.

After a few minutes Mayyat made his decision. He needed that personal item, and so left and headed back to Caldwell's apartment. Once he was done there, he would return to the hotel, find the American, and do what Kharija had failed to do: capture and keep him.

M
ike sat in his hotel room in the overpadded chair. He checked his watch. He'd been back an hour without anyone knocking or barging in.

He went to the apartment,
Mike thought.
Either he knows you saw him and has decided to lay in wait or he thinks he has the freedom of time to explore your personal belongings. He knows the location of the apartment, not the specific hotel room, so he chose that option. And you know where he is at right now.

He pulled his Beretta out and ensured he had a round chambered. Then he patted his pants pocket, and felt his Spyderco Calypso knife. Lastly, he slid his left arm out of the sling. Then he pulled the sling over his head and dropped it on the chair. All set.

Mike stood then, walked to the door and began the trip to his apartment.

 

Chapter Fourteen

“L
eave us,” Kitra said to the nurse.

The nurse, middle-­aged with silver hair, squinted at her hard a moment, as if warning her that there was to be no funny business, before she nodded, picked up a food tray and left the hospital room.

Kitra leaned over and patted the injured stranger from Kharija's hotel room on the side of the face until his eyes fluttered.

“Wake up,” she said in Arabic.

The man's eyes opened and focused on her. “You again? How many times are you going to come here and ask questions?”

“Until I get answers. What is your name?”

He did not answer.

“I have not pushed these buttons yet out of a habit my mother instilled in me long ago. That being the necessity of politeness to guests. But time is short and so now I must push these buttons. We are giving you medical attention right now. But that can quickly go away. Maybe then you end up in the back of a truck. Maybe that truck ends up in the desert. Maybe you end up strapped to a rock in the sun for a while. Right now I am being polite. Easy answers are all I ask. Do not force me to disappoint my mother and resort to being rude.”

The man licked his lips. “Water?”

Kitra picked up a cup with a straw and extended it toward the man. He sucked on the straw until the cup was empty.

“My name is Abu Umar.”

Kitra wrote the name down on a memo pad. “Why are you in Israel, Abu?”

“My colleagues and I were looking for someone.”

“Kharija?”

Abu's eyes bore into her own as if it had hurt to hear the name. “Yes.”

“He kidnapped an American recently.”

“And Israeli commandos rescued him.”

Joseph shrugged. “Seems you know much.”

“You left Haddad for me to find.”

“Well, I did not know you would find him per se. And I did not leave him. The American did. But he was not a gift. What has Kharija done?”

“Betrayed his ­people.”

“The tattooed ­people. There were a lot of dead in that hotel. Seems you are having a bit of an internal struggle. What group do you work for?”

“None of your concern.”

“Ah, but you conducted an illegal operation on Israeli soil, so it is my concern. Wars are declared over such actions.”

Abu shook his head. “I serve no country.”

“We can find a country to blame. Maybe one with family you care about living in it.” Kitra crossed her arms. “Who do you serve?”

Abu gritted his teeth. “An organization that exists only to protect. We are not terrorists and we have no agenda outside our mandate. We do not seek to make war. Kharija does, though, and we came to stop him. We are trying to clean up our own mess.”

“Stop him from what?”

“We do not know yet. But it is dangerous, whatever it is.”

Kitra read Abu's eyes and facial expressions. The man was not lying. “What were you going to do with him?”

“Kill him.”

“Because whatever he is going to do is dangerous.”

“He is a traitor who has vowed harm to others. He told me himself that he will not stop. Kharija must be killed.”

Kitra nodded. “Very well.”

“So, am I to be taken to the desert now and strapped to a rock?”

“Not yet.” Kitra smiled. “Relax, Abu. You may have entered Israel illegally and attempted a botched assassination, but you are after the same man I am. Besides, the only ­people dead are your own. So, for now, you will be my guest.”

“I thank you.”

As Kitra opened the door, Abu said, “Has anyone ever told you you look like a meaner version of that British actress?”

Kitra closed her eyes and groaned. “If you say Helen Mirren we'll reconsider the rock.”

“I forget her name.”

“Good call.”

A
bu waited until Kitra left, then he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He did not fully trust the Mossad agent but he no longer feared her. Maybe they would not free him anytime soon, but the longer he lived, the better chance he would have to kill Kharija.

He thought about that for a while. He wondered if he could convince Kitra to let him kill Kharija when they found him. It would permit the Israelis to keep their hands clean, and allow the order to exact its justice. Hmmm. He would have to think more about how to approach Joseph with the proposal. First he would get to know him more. Earn his trust.

In the meantime, he would rest and heal. And dream about his bare hands choking the life out of Kharija. Abu smiled.

I
t had taken Kharija a full day to make it out of Haifa and down to Tel Aviv. Before leaving he managed to pick up new clothes from an Arab vendor without any questions asked. Even though Kharija had no shirt and smelled of the dirty laundry he had spent several hours buried underneath, the promise of three times the amount the clothes were worth had secured the transaction without any questions.

Recalling it now, lying underneath all those soiled sheets and towels, almost made him laugh. Not because of the position he had found himself in, but because the Haifa police never searched. They had found the custodian's body and assumed he had fled out the delivery entrance, which remained unsecured. The police shouted at one another for overlooking it. An hour later a laundry truck arrived and took the bins away, with Kharija safely inside. When the driver later opened the door, he screeched as Kharija burst past him and hit the ground at a full sprint.

He was lucky. Yes, he was. But he would take luck for now.

He had managed to find a run-­down motel in the slum neighborhood of Kfar Shalem. He paid in cash. Again, no questions were asked. It was a neighborhood of Sephardic Jews, mainly from North Africa. At that moment Kharija thanked God for poverty and slums.

Now he sat on the edge of a worn bed and stared at cigarette burns in the brown carpeting. Outside, a police siren wailed. For a moment his pulse jumped, but then the siren faded and he relaxed.

This is what my life has come to,
he thought.

His phone rang.

He hoped it was Mayyat. When he saw the number, though, he cringed. He took a deep breath and thought about Malika and Rasha, smiling and returning his embrace as he held them once more.

“Yes, Nassir.”

“You have failed me yet again.”

Kharija pressed the phone harder against his ear as his hands started to shake. “It is a mild setback. Nothing more.”

“Your entire team has been eliminated. How is that not a failure?”

“I did not anticipate the order finding me before Caldwell.”

“You underestimate how much they want to kill you. You have once again allowed your family to cloud your judgment. This plan of yours is horrible.”

Kharija's veins froze at the mention of his family. “It is sound. Caldwell needs bait. What better than the man responsible for the deaths of those he knows?”

“And at the same time you alert Mossad and the order and everyone else in the world to your whereabouts. That does not sound like a very good plan to me. Instead, it sounds like a weak plan. A desperate plan, Kharija.”

“Whatever it is does not matter now. I am the best option you have for catching Caldwell. If you want him, you need me to play this out to the end.”

“I have other ways of finding ­people.”

“Yet you continue to use me.”

Nassir was silent a moment. “You are lucky I am patient. And I want your plan to succeed. Perhaps you are correct. You as bait may be the best option.”

The sudden shift in Nassir's attitude caused Kharija's stomach to contract. “I will need more men. All of mine from the order—­”

“Are quite dead. I will send you some of mine. Where are you?”

“Tel Aviv. At a motel in the Kfar Shalem neighborhood.”

“The slum. You have hit an all-­time low, Kharija. Give me the name.”

Kharija gave him the motel's name. “How long before they can be here?”

“Within twenty-­four to forty-­eight hours. Sit tight and do not broadcast yourself to the world again until they are with you. This is you and your family's last chance.”

Nassir hung up.

Kharija set the phone down on the bed, buried his face in his hands and started to weep.

 

Chapter Fifteen

M
ayyat dug through the dresser and found nothing. Like the kitchen, he discovered only spare or empty drawers. Caldwell lived a minimal existence. He knew the CIA agent probably spent most of his time traveling instead of staying here, watching television, but still, Mayyat was surprised to find so little.

He finished with the dresser and moved to the nightstand. One drawer. He slid it open and found what he expected: nothing.

Now what? He had delayed hitting the next target for days in the hopes of finding something to use that would force Caldwell to come out of the shadows. What it could be, he had no idea. But he knew it was not a pair of socks or a bottle of whiskey.

Mayyat pushed his hand into the drawer and felt near the back in case he'd missed anything. He had not. As he pulled his hand out, however, his knuckles scraped against something smooth.

A hideaway,
he thought.

He reached back in, grasped the object and pulled. The sound of Velcro separating echoed through the apartment.

As his hand came out, he discovered he was holding a leather pouch. Interesting. He opened it and found passports and money. Then he flipped through them, hoping beyond hope this was not just a go-­stash.

Tucked between the passports, Mayyat found a laminated index card. He pulled it out and stared at it. A heart drawn in crayon.

Oh, this means something to you, Caldwell,
he thought. Stashed away among the documents and money he would need if he had to run, Caldwell had placed a child's drawing.

Who is it?
A son? A daughter?
If it was either, Caldwell had gone to great pains not to have a picture or any other ties left for someone to find. Only this one allowance; a crude scribble.

Mayyat slipped the childish art into his pocket, closed the pouch and placed it back in the drawer. He turned, ready to leave. He had found what he needed and would put it to use immediately. As he reached the door, he noticed the knob turning.

M
ike held the Beretta at chest level, gripped the doorknob with his left and turned it slowly. It was unlocked. His shadow at Arlington and on the Metro was either gone or had made a fatal mistake in not securing the door. Probably in a rush. Looking for something. But what?

Something of yours. Something to draw you out of the shadows.
Maybe he was scoping the apartment out for an attempt later, when he had more ­people. But that was doubtful. He'd use a team at the hotel, not here. No, the man wanted something to attract him if an attempt at the hotel to capture him failed. A backup plan.

Mike had spotted the tail at the cemetery but dismissed him as a grieving mourner like the rest there. Not smart. The guy had stuck out, but the lightbulb in his head failed to click on. Then he caught the mystery man trailing him from the Metro station to the apartment. He figured the guy was working for Kharija and would try to apprehend him outside his apartment building. No such luck.

He wanted to know where he lived, Mike had thought at the time. That's when he decided to walk out on the balcony and show which apartment was his. If the mystery man was interested in his home more than in him, Mike figured he could corner him in the apartment.

The bolt broke free from the striker plate. Mike flattened his back against the wall and swung the door open. He counted to two and took a quick peek before ducking back behind the wall. No one in view.

He pushed off the wall and turned into the doorway, Beretta extended. He moved in, one foot over the other. Cleared the space behind the door. Then he shifted his gaze from side to side, sweeping the studio as he entered, the gun pointing in whatever direction he looked.

It was quiet. Everything seemed as he'd left it. Mystery man had done a fine job searching and not disturbing anything. Then again, he didn't have much to disturb. Mike wondered if he'd missed him and by how much.

Movement. Out of the corner of his right eye, Mike picked up a blur. He shifted, ready to shoot, but something sliced across his hand in a swift arc.

Before he could get a good view, his body was being pushed and he hit the wall across from him hard with his shot-­up shoulder. He saw stars for a moment as immense pain exploded down his shoulder blade into his back. Hands grabbed his own, squeezing, forcing the Beretta to drop from his grasp. Then a sharp stabbing pain radiated up his thigh into his groin.

Desperate, Mike lashed out with his right elbow and connected with something hard and thick. A grunt followed. He threw the elbow again and something cracked. The grunt turned to a squeal. His attacker stopped pushing.

Mike twisted free, turned and kicked out with his right foot. He hit the mystery man in the knee but not hard enough to drop him. Shuffling forward, he grabbed the guy by the back of the neck and brought his knee up into his face. The force of the blow rocketed the man's head up. Mike jumped forward and head-­butted his already busted nose.

The man fell back and landed on his ass. Mike was about to jump on him when he caught sight of the knife in the man's hand. Then it was flying at him, end over end. He ducked, but the tip grazed the top of his skull. Wincing, he turned his attention back to—­

Shit, he was gone. Mike grabbed the Beretta from the floor with his right hand, and cradled his throbbing left arm against his ribs, raced out the door. Droplets of blood created a trail leading down the hallway toward the front door.

He sprinted toward the door, banged it open with his good shoulder and ran out onto the sidewalk. He glanced around then, searching.

Where'd he go?

Mike spotted him then, descending into the Metro station, and took off at full speed, arms pumping. He ducked around a parked car, hit the Metro steps and took them two at a time halfway down before jumping the rest of the way. When he landed, pain from the stab wound in his thigh jumped up his spine. He blocked it and kept moving.

He found the mystery man hobbling down the station, pushing through ­people. Mike held the gun at his side, not wanting to panic the lunchtime crowd, and followed.

The train for the Yellow Line rumbled into the station, stopped, and its doors hissed open. Passengers loaded and unloaded. Mystery man acted like he was going to keep walking but then dove onto the train three cars ahead.

“Shit.” Mike launched himself forward as the doors started to shut and managed to wedge his left arm between them. For a moment he thought he was going to pass out from the pain as the door sandwiched his fucked-­up shoulder. Before he did, they opened back up and he fell into the car. It took him a moment to get back to his feet. As he rose, his head spun a little. Too many endorphins and too much blood loss.

“Dude, you okay?” someone said.

Mike turned. A tourist sat near him, staring. “Yeah.”

“You're bleeding, by the way.”

“No shit.” Mike lifted the Beretta and several ­people gasped. “It's okay. I'm a cop. Stay put.”

He moved forward, passing through the door into the next car. More ­people gasped and again he told them to relax, he was a cop. Stay put.

As he entered mystery man's car, he extended the Beretta into a police grip. His guy was standing at the far end, grinning. Mike leveled the gun at him.

Another gun cocked behind him. “Freeze, dickwad.”

Fuck.

“Lower the gun to the deck nice and slow.”

Mike did as ordered.

“Now put your hands behind your back.”

Mike complied, swearing to himself the whole time. The cuffs snapped on tight, he was turned to face a fat DC Metro cop. He wasn't gentle, either, smacking his left shoulder and patting down the stab wound to his thigh.

“Got some ID?”

“No.” Mike gritted his teeth. “Left my wallet at home.”

“Sucks to be you, doesn't it?”

The train stopped at the next station; King Street. Mike watched his man step off and hobble toward the exit. The cop pulled Mike by the elbow and escorted him toward the exit on the other side.

“End of the line for you, buddy,” the cop said.