Dark Waters (16 page)

Jordan was surprised he had backed her. Maybe he wasn’t such a dick after all. Or maybe he hoped she would fall flat on her face. If she screwed this up, she knew he would send her home.

Ganani reached for her phone. “The colonel will not like this change in plans.”

“You let me deal with Brodsky.”

The agent’s internal struggle flickered across her face before she nodded at Daugherty. “The ball is with you.”

He nodded and turned to Jordan. “I do have a suggestion for you.”

“Sir?”

He indicated her body from head to toe. “You better do something about your appearance. Maybe hide the hair.”

Jordan glanced down at her outfit. The dark blue pants and light blue shirt screamed “federal agent.” Unfortunately, her go-bag was in the trunk of her sedan at home.

“I’ll have to send someone to my apartment.”

“There’s no time,” Ganani said. Digging in her pocket, she produced a set of keys. “I have clothes in my car that should fit you. I’ll be right back.”

With the agent gone, Daugherty went to check on the com. Jordan checked on Lucy. She was out of the tub and standing on the bathmat, wrapped in an oversized towel.

“How are you doing?” Jordan asked, bending down to kid level. Lucy’s skin had a grayish-white pallor.

“Her temperature broke,” Taylor said. “I need to get her back to her room.”

Jordan stepped aside as Taylor hefted Lucy into his arms and headed for the bedroom. After Lucy had put on a dry nightgown and climbed into bed, Jordan went in and sat down beside her.

“Jordan?” The girl’s whisper barely rose above the rustling of the covers.

“Yes, honey?” The endearment popped out, surprising Jordan.

“Do you want to play chess?”

Jordan smiled. “Absolutely. Maybe later?”

“After I take a nap.”

“Consider it a date.”

Walker stuck his head in the door. “Ganani’s back.”

Jordan brushed a damp curl off Lucy’s forehead. She was already asleep.

Ganani stood by the kitchen table talking with two of her team when Jordan walked up. Seeing her, the agent held out a small, black satchel. “I don’t have a lot of choices, but you can make do.”

Jordan went to the bathroom to change. Setting the small go-bag on the counter, she checked out the contents—a black pencil skirt; a long-sleeved, black, V-neck T-shirt; a black scarf; dark stockings; and a pair of three-inch heels.

The V-neck tee worked. The skirt and shoes both posed a problem, especially if she needed to run—or, for that matter, blend in. She thought of the stoning in Bnei Brak.

Stripping down to her panties and bra, she slipped on the tee. It fit well, curving over the swell of her breasts and clinging tight to her ribs. She pulled on the stockings and then the pencil skirt. As feared, it fit loose in the waist, tight across the knees, restricting her movement.

Fortunately, she was slightly shorter and thinner than Ganani. Hooking her fingers inside the waistband, Jordan rolled it once, twice, three times, until the hem was high enough to facilitate movement. Unfortunately, that caused the skirt’s slit to ride up high on her thighs and point dramatically toward her butt. She untucked the T-shirt. It was the best she could do.

Gathering her hair, she bundled it into a low ponytail at the back of her neck and then draped her head with the dark scarf. Scarf on, she could pass for a Palestinian. Scarf off and around her waist, she could pass for a tourist.

Protocol required she keep her weapon in sight and securely holstered at all times, but screw that. Today, she and her gun were undercover. Using her belt, she fashioned a thigh holster and then
practiced drawing her weapon. She fumbled her first two attempts, but in the words of either John Adams or Vince Lombardi, practice makes perfect. Trying again, she worked it until she could double-hand the stock, click off the safety, and faux-fire. She was good to go.

Walker whistled when she reentered the living room, and all heads turned. Jordan flipped him off.

Daugherty flagged her over to the kitchen counter.

“Have they called?”

She already knew the answer to her question. If they had called, someone would have knocked on the bathroom door.

“How the hell are you planning to run in that getup?” he asked, putting a voice to her fear.

“You’d be surprised how fast a girl can run in a dress,” Jordan said.

“Nobody will be running anywhere,” said Taylor from the living room couch. “I’m going in alone. The kidnappers made it clear. Any hint of a tail and the deal is off.”

“All kidnappers say that,” Jordan said. “They know the drill. We can’t let you go in by yourself.”

“Without Alena, Lucy dies. I can’t afford to take any risks.”

“And what if something happens to you? What would Lucy do?” Jordan asked. “I lost my father when I was six. No kid should have to go through that.”

Daugherty stepped forward.

“It’s nonnegotiable, Judge.” It was the second time he had backed her that day.

Jordan walked over to where Taylor was sitting and sat down on the chair so they were at eye level. “Taylor, I promise. No one is going to do anything to jeopardize the exchange.”

Taylor didn’t look convinced. “If this goes south,” he said, pointing at Jordan, “I’m holding you responsible.”

T
he apartment phone lines were tapped and every one wired by the time the kidnapper’s second call came in. Jordan held the wireless receiver to her ear and looked over at the agent on com. On the third ring, he gave the go-ahead to answer.

“Keep him talking,” Jordan told Taylor. “But don’t freak if he hangs up. Most people think three minutes is the magic number for nailing a trace. In truth, unless you run into problems, it should only take seconds.”

Taylor nodded and picked up. “Hello?”

“Do you have the USB drive we want?” The voice was deep, with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Yes.”

Jordan looked for the signal that they’d nailed the trace.

“Where is Dr. Petrenko?” Taylor asked. “Is she okay?”

“You shut up. I am the one asking the questions.”

Jordan honed in on the thick accent. Based on subtleties in pronunciation, she pegged the caller as Palestinian.

Ganani spoke softly into Jordan’s ear. “He’s from a village in the West Bank.”

“Let me talk to her,” Taylor said.

“She is fine, for now. You do what I tell you, and she will stay fine.”

Jordan looked at the agent on the com tracker. They should have a location by now. The agent shook his head.

That meant the caller had to be using some type of GPS jammer, forcing the techs to triangulate the trace off of cell phone towers. Triangulation extended the trace time anywhere from two to five minutes to never. As the tech scrambled to pinpoint the caller’s location, Jordan signaled Taylor to keep talking.

“I want to talk to her.”

“I told you—”

“Listen, you let me talk to her or the deal’s off.”

Silence followed.

Taylor looked at Jordan, the anger in his eyes keeping concern at bay. Suddenly, Dr. Petrenko’s voice came over the line—weak, but it was definitely her.

“Pazhalsta, pomogitse.”
Please, help me. Then Alena cried out and the Arab was back.

“Now you will do what I say?”

“I’m listening,” Taylor said.

“Do you know the Mosque of Omar?”

“In Jerusalem?”

Ganani flipped over the map on the table.

“No, in Bethlehem.”

Ganani pointed to a spot maybe five kilometers south and to the west of the Old City.

Jordan ticked through her memory banks, accessing what little she knew about Bethlehem. It was the site of the Church of the Nativity, the birthplace of Jesus, and administered jointly by the Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, and Armenian Apostolic authorities.

“Take a bus or taxi and go to Manger Square. Stand near the entrance to the Mosque of Omar. It’s across the square from the church. Be there by two o’clock.”

Jordan checked her watch. It was noon.

“How will I know you?” Taylor asked.

“You won’t. I will know you.”

Jordan glanced at the com tech. They still didn’t have the trace. She signaled Taylor to keep talking.

“Let me speak to Alena again.”

Silence.

“I need to ask her about my daughter.”

The caller clicked off.

The judge slammed down the receiver. “Tell me you got that.”

Jordan looked at the tech. He shook his head.

“We narrowed the location to somewhere in Jabel Mukaber,” he said, pulling off his earphones. “Somewhere in Sheikh Sa’ad. That’s as close as I could get.”

Jordan looked for the town on the map. “Where is Sheikh Sa’ad? I don’t see it marked.”

“Here.” Ganani pointed to a spot south of Jerusalem and east of Bethlehem. “It is in this section of Jabel Mukaber, now part of the West Bank. The security fence divides it from the rest of the city.”

Jordan had heard of communities broken by the fence—family members separated, populations severed from the basic necessities of school, jobs, and medical care. Palestinians often referred to it as the “Annexation Fence,” because it wandered off the Green Line, sectioning away large pieces of their agricultural land.

“Is the village accessible to Bethlehem?” she asked, picking up a pencil and circling the area on the map. “The checkpoint into Israel is marked ‘foot traffic only.’”

“That’s correct,” Ganani said. “No cars can pass the Jabel Mukaber checkpoint. Cars pass here, at Al Sawahra Al Sharqia.” She moved her finger on the map and pointed to an area within spitting distance of Jordan. “It’s a terrible road, and the bridge is just fixed.”

Jordan traced a finger along a small white line connecting Sheikh Sa’ad and Bethlehem. “What about this road?”

“It’s nothing more than a deer path, mostly used for walking.”

“But is it drivable?” Jordan asked.

“Maybe in a Jeep or a Humvee.”

“The Forester is a four-wheel-drive vehicle.” The room fell silent. Jordan looked at Ganani. “How far would it be from Bethlehem by car?”

“A few kilometers as the crow flies, but it could take hours based on the road conditions.”

“Then why choose Bethlehem as the meeting place?”

“What difference does it make?” Taylor asked. “Let’s roll. We’re wasting time.”

“The more we know about these guys the better,” Jordan said. “We need to figure out how they’re moving the doctor.”

“Not through the checkpoint,” Ganani said. “First, there’s the matter of ID. Everyone must carry a card. Even if they forged a card that worked, all the doctor would have to do is call attention to herself in front of the guards.”

Jordan knew that all Israelis and Palestinians over the age of sixteen carried identification. She had seen examples in the embassy. The Israeli ID card denoted Israeli citizenship categorized by religion—Israeli Jew, Israeli Arab, Israeli Christian. Blue cards denoted Palestinians of Jerusalem citizenship. Orange cards documented permanent residents of the occupied territories. By military law, Palestinians were not allowed to enter Israel without correct ID or an individual permit, and Israeli citizens were not allowed in certain Palestinian cities at all. So how had they gotten the doctor into Sheikh Sa’ad?

“The best chance for Alena is to do what we’re told,” Taylor said.

“The best chance for Alena is if we’re prepared,” Jordan said. “The fact they’re holed up in Sheikh Sa’ad with difficult access to
the exchange point suggests a personal connection to the town. They’re planning to either bring her with them to Bethlehem or leave her in Sheikh Sa’ad for safekeeping. What happens if we have to follow them?”

“No one follows but me,” Ganani said.

“I’m done here,” Taylor said. “I’m going to check on Lucy before we leave.” He pushed past Jordan and headed for Lucy’s bedroom. Jordan moved over behind the com tech.

“Are you one-hundred percent sure of the location?”

“These are the cell towers that the call routed through.” He tapped several points, causing ripples on the computer screen. “Based on the triangulation pattern, the man on the phone was here.” He tapped the same spot on the map that Ganani had.

“What if we try an ownership check on the houses in the area?” Jordan said. “Check for known associates of Najm Tibi. Maybe we can narrow the search.”

“Check for an Umar Haddid,” said Ganani.

“The man from al-Ajami?” Jordan asked.

Ganani nodded.

Weizman had been right. She
had
come up with a name—one she had chosen not to share until now. “You might also check for the dead man, Mansoor Rahman,” Jordan said, scribbling the names on a pad. “Any more names?”

Daugherty, who had been standing quietly in the kitchen, now spoke up. “That’s in Area B, so there will be some Israeli settlers. I can check for Steven’s associates.”

Then Jordan thought of something else.

“Are there any checkpoints into Bethlehem crossable without documentation?” She figured it was doubtful, but they needed to consider everything.

“No,” Ganani said.

The com tech disagreed. “There’s one.”

“Where?” Jordan moved back behind him.

He touched the screen at a spot near Bethlehem. “Beit Jala. It’s a one-way entrance. Anyone can pass into Bethlehem there. Cars, taxis, and buses are waved through. There is no Palestinian check. But without proper ID, no one comes back.”

“Which means your boys found themselves a route from Bethlehem to Sheikh Sa’ad.” Daugherty nodded at Jordan, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

Ganani turned to Jordan, resting a hip on the edge of the table. “There is something you must know. Bethlehem is designated Area A, which means the city is controlled by the Palestinian Authority. Only the IDF can operate there, and even then, rarely.”

“What about Shin Bet?”

“Our motto is ‘Defends and Shall Not Be Seen.’ Technically, we are allowed, but with this, we’re dark.”

“Meaning totally unsupported?”

“If something goes wrong and any of us are caught, we will not admit to being Shin Bet.”

“What she’s telling you, Jordan, is that you’re on your own if this goes bad. Neither the Israelis nor the Americans can afford a political shitstorm right now.”

“Hamas would love to make an example of us,” Ganani said.

“Now is the time to rethink,” Daugherty said. “Lines have been drawn in the sand, but you can still back out.”

“I’m good,” Jordan said.

Twenty minutes later, the team had come up with a plan. With no way of knowing who might be watching, Taylor would catch the 12:50 p.m. bus to Jerusalem and debark in front of the Yaffa Gate. He would then catch a number twenty-one bus to Bethlehem. Two team members would follow, ensuring that Taylor reached his destination and wasn’t diverted along the route. Jordan and Ganani would go directly to Manger Square.

When Taylor was ready to go, Ganani handed him the USB drive. Daugherty cupped a hand on his shoulder. “Remember, Judge, you’re there to deliver the drive. It’s not your job to be heroic. Leave that to the agents.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save Alena.”

“Just do what you’re told,” Jordan said. “Go to the mosque and give them the information. But no matter what they say, do not leave or go anywhere with them. We don’t want to end up with two captives instead of one.”

“What if they don’t have Alena?”

“Then I’ll find her,” Ganani said. “Let’s go.”

Taylor adjusted his earpiece. “You don’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

Ganani glared at him. “That’s because this is dangerous for everyone.”

“I won’t leave there without Alena.”

Jordan stepped in between them.

“Getting her back is what it’s all about, Taylor.” She felt guilty as soon as the words left her mouth. She knew as well as anyone that this wasn’t about bringing Alena Petrenko home. This was about identifying and destroying a terrorist cell. At best, Alena was a bonus. At worst, she was expendable.