Fuse of Armageddon (35 page)

“Five minutes. The hostages will be split into two groups, half in each helicopter. That guarantees we won’t be shot down by Israeli jets. Once we’re safely in Jordan and I confirm that $60 million has been deposited into a bank account in the United Arab Emirates, half the hostages will be released. Then another $60 million, and the other half will be released.”

“You asked for over a half billion dollars earlier.”

“That was just to get world attention. Silver’s organization can find sixty million. I didn’t choose that number by accident. It’s enough to punish the organization, but not enough to collapse it. They’ll get the money.”

“Even if it’s true, the money is a big complication,” Quinn said. But he was doing the math. Maybe it was possible. “Both the Israeli and U.S. governments have a policy not to pay ransom demands. You know that.”

“Four million per person. I’m told every person in the group has a kidnapping policy that covers them for the amount. This is what you do, isn’t it? Act as go-between for insurance companies? That covers the first payment. The insurance companies will agree. It saves them a lot more than they’d pay out in life insurance.”

“But five minutes isn’t enough time. If you demand something that’s impossible, I can’t do anything about it.”

“Five minutes is enough time to get the decision about the transport into Jordan. While the hostages are in transport, you can come up with $60 million. You’ll have another five hours after we arrive in Jordan to come up with the remainder.”

“Listen—”

“You arrogant American, thinking you’d established control with all your little games. Now it is time for you to listen to me. Five minutes, or the first body is on the street.”

Safady hung up.

16:25 GMT


“Hamer, you heard his request.” Hamer had been tapped into Quinn’s cell conversations. “I think we’re down to the endgame.”

“We’re not going to supply them with two Black Hawks. For all you know, that’s his ultimate goal. I could see him dropping hostages from ten thousand feet until the choppers are empty, then heading into Syria.”

“So rig the choppers with explosive devices. We’ll let him know that if anything goes wrong with the hostages, he’s vaporized.”

“I can’t see it happening. And if we do get permission, it won’t be within five minutes.”

Quinn slammed the steering wheel of the van. Kate, who couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation from the passenger seat, raised a questioning eyebrow at Quinn’s burst of frustration.

“What’s the hourly rate for two Israeli military choppers?” Quinn asked. He glanced at his watch. Less than three minutes before Safady expected a call back.

“The military doesn’t hire out choppers.”

“It does if you want to save face,” Quinn said. “You hire them out to CCTI. That makes our company responsible for all of this. The insurance companies will pay for it and it won’t be an Israeli military operation.”

“Maybe,” Hamer said after some hesitation.

“Maybe isn’t good enough. I think he’s finished with posturing.”

“You going to be able to raise $120 million to cover the ransom demand?”

Quinn wasn’t entirely sure. But Safady had been shrewd in choosing his number. The kidnapping policies would pay out; the card he’d play with Lloyd’s and other insurance brokers was that the publicity would drive a lot of extra business their way. The remainder would depend on Silver’s organization, and Quinn couldn’t see them refusing.

“Getting the money is no problem,” Quinn lied. The important thing here was to beat the five-minute deadline. He’d worry about the next deadline after that.

“I don’t know if I can get a decision back to you in time,” Hamer said.

Down to a shade over two minutes.

“Do it,” Quinn snapped. “Call me back in ninety seconds.”

16:26 GMT


Sixty-five seconds and counting. Hamer’s caller ID showed up as Quinn’s phone rang.

Quinn snapped his phone open halfway through the first ring. “Yes or no?”

“Still waiting,” Hamer said.

Quinn snapped the phone shut. He wasn’t going to waste a second expressing his anger or frustration. He punched in the numbers to reach Safady. He too answered in one ring.

“Do I kill the first one or not?” Safady said. “I’ve got a machine gun trained on her heart right now. The video camera is running.”

“You don’t kill hostages,” Quinn said.

“I’m getting my choppers?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Nightfall.” That was about an hour away.

“Not soon enough.”

“It has to be,” Quinn said. “The Israeli military won’t bring them down in daylight. I don’t have to explain why.”

Because every kid with a rifle would be taking potshots.

Safady was silent. Quinn held his breath. He’d just lied outrageously, but if Safady bought it, that left until nightfall to find a way to pressure Hamer into getting the choppers.

“What about the money?”

Quinn tried not to let his release of breath become audible. “Done.”

“All of it?”

“All of it,” Quinn answered.

“Then we have nothing left to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.” Quinn couldn’t leave this bluff incomplete. “The choppers aren’t going to arrive unless you do some work on your end.”

“I told you—no more negotiations.”

“You’re going to have to put the word out that these two choppers need safe passage. That any ground-to-air missiles will be killing you and your men too.”

Nothing could prevent kids with rifles from shooting at a low-flying Israeli helicopter, even with the relative safety of a night landing. The only Palestinians with more sophisticated weaponry, however, were men in organized cells. Safady should be able to reach them with the warning.

Safady answered with more silence.

“You don’t have the power and connections to make this possible?” Quinn asked.

“Of course I do,” Safady snapped.

“Then arrange it. Also, you and I are going to arrange a time, down to the second, for the arrival of the helicopters. They are going to be coming in fast and with no lights. Thirty seconds before arrival, you’re going to need to set out a circle of lights in the compound to guide them in. Got it?” Quinn knew these instructions would add credibility to his bluff.

“I don’t like the tone in your voice. I’m the one in control here.”

“No more games,” Quinn said. “Your demands have been met. That should be enough control.”

“The lights will be on,” Safady said after a pause.

“One more thing,” Quinn said. “Put the hostages out in the compound right now and leave them there. You don’t get the choppers unless we know they are all alive and unharmed.”

“You will have to take my word for it.”

“No. We’ll trust satellite images instead. Tell them to look upward frequently so we can make positive identification of each of them.”

It didn’t hurt to remind Safady that the Israeli military had the orphanage under constant surveillance, even if tanks were not surrounding the building.

“Anything else?” Safady asked sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Quinn said. “In about twenty minutes, I’m going to be walking up to the outside gates with a couple of cases of Cokes. I want you to make sure the kids inside get them.”

Just outside Gaza • 16:28 GMT


“Hamer.” It was Zvi Cohen, reaching Hamer via cell phone.

Hamer sat in an air-conditioned Mercedes on the Israeli side of the border with a transmitter that gave him all of Quinn’s cell phone conversations. The three soldiers with him were outside in the heat. They would not be hearing any of Quinn’s conversations. Or Hamer’s.

“It’s going as planned,” Hamer told Cohen. “We don’t have much time here. I have to call him back on the demand for choppers.”

“He didn’t suspect anything when you suggested we send him in alone?”

“Got lucky. He brought it up first. I fought him on it.”

“Excellent. Keep playing his request for choppers the same way. Keep making him work for the demands.”

Cohen could be irritating. They’d gone through this a dozen times. Not only that; Cohen was getting a feed from anything on Quinn’s cell. So he knew from the conversation barely over a minute earlier how Hamer had resisted agreeing to choppers. Cohen just liked giving orders.

“Of course,” Hamer said. “Confirm for me that Brad Silver is now in Gaza.”

“Confirmed.”

“Hang on,” Hamer said as voices came over the transmitter. Quinn and Safady. What was going on? Quinn was supposed to talk to Hamer before getting back to Safady. “Got to hang up. Quinn is talking to Safady again.”

Hamer knew Cohen would hear the voices too from his office in Tel Aviv.

Hamer listened as Quinn promised helicopters. And the soft drinks. A few seconds after the call ended, he dialed the number to Quinn’s cell and began acting.

“Are you insane?” Hamer shouted into the cell phone. “You can’t promise him choppers! All of this is still going through channels.”

“You’re wrong,” Quinn said. “I can promise him choppers. That was the easy part. Getting them there is what’s out of my control.”

“And if the choppers don’t show up?”

“Hostages die. Better the chance that he starts killing them in two hours than the certainty he starts now.”

“There’s no way anyone’s going to authorize choppers,” Hamer said. “I’ve got to tell you that.”

“Don’t you guys have any imagination?” Quinn answered. “Once they’re up in the air, gas them all. Have the pilots throw on gas masks. You’ll have two choppers with unconscious terrorists and Americans. When Safady wakes up, he’ll be in handcuffs in Tel Aviv.”

Hamer didn’t say anything.

“You still there?”

“I’m thinking about that suggestion,” Hamer said. “It could work.”

“It justifies getting the choppers cleared,” Quinn said. “If it doesn’t work, at least it won’t look like Israel has given in to the demands but instead was attempting a military op that had a good chance of success. Or failing that, lease the choppers to CCTI. I’ll take responsibility.”

“Let me get back to you,” Hamer said.

“Not good enough.”

“You’re not easy to like.”

“Promise me the choppers,” Quinn said. “Right now. Otherwise I start calling media outlets and telling them the Israelis have refused to end this.”

After a long silence, Hamer spoke. “You’ll have your choppers.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch with the details.”

“Let me repeat,” Hamer said. “You’re not easy to like.”

“I wasn’t interested in dating you at any time,” Quinn said.

“Mutual,” Hamer said. He liked this guy. He hoped Quinn would understand the need for deception when he found out about it. If he survived that long.

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 16:48 GMT


The outer gate to the orphanage opened. Quinn had put on clothing that would help him blend in with crowds and found a couple of cases of Coke. This was a personal delivery.

The man who opened the gate was slightly shorter than Quinn, maybe a decade younger, clean shaven, poised and confident, Palestinian in features and clothing.

“For the kids,” Quinn said in Arabic, gesturing at the drinks. “I promised it to Esther.”

“Speak English. You sound like a grunting camel in my language.”

There was something challenging about the way the man stood. Quinn felt a prickling of adrenaline, as if a harsh, hot wind as old as mankind had briefly swept away from both of them the thin veneer of civility that covered every man’s primal urges.

Something about his own posture must have changed too.

“Ah,” the man said. “You do know, don’t you? I am your enemy. But isn’t this what you wanted? Man-to-man? Otherwise why tell me you were going to deliver it yourself?”

Khaled Safady.
All of Quinn’s muscles tensed.

“I wanted you to see me,” Safady said. “I wanted to speak to you, so close to each other that you could reach for my throat with your bare hands. But you won’t. Because even if you could kill me right now, you wouldn’t. Behind me are too many other lives that matter. It also makes you a coward to come here now, before the choppers arrive. You know I cannot kill you. Yet.”

Quinn trembled. His hatred was so deep, so vicious, that he felt as though he were on the edge of a precipice.

“Right now, I too would like to reach across and tear your windpipe from your throat.” Safady pulled out a knife that he had tucked behind his back. “Or better yet, slit your throat and lap at your blood as it spills onto the ground.” He dropped the knife on the ground between them. “But I won’t. Too many other lives matter. Oppressed Muslims, living under the tyranny of America.”

“So killing is the way to peace?” Quinn said.

“Oh, the self-righteousness of Americans. You want peace? We throw rocks at your tanks because we have no water, because our tables are bare and our houses have no roofs. You want peace? Stop arming Israel. Help transform Palestine so that every child has hope. Let every Arab here see that you care as much about them as you do the Jews.”

“Deliver that message to the world instead of delivering explosives. Killing women and children of the enemy is cowardice.”

“Our women and children die at the hands of the Jews.”

“Only by accident. Or only when your soldiers hide behind them. Like now in the orphanage. Ironic—you depend on the Israeli sense of moral rightness to protect you. If it were reversed, you would slaughter every child inside to destroy Israeli soldiers.”

“You speak of peace,” Safady said. “But in your heart, you want to kill me. Don’t you find that to be hypocritical?”

Quinn knew it was true. He couldn’t help but glance at the knife on the ground.

Safady noticed and gave Quinn a chilling grin. “It would give me great pleasure if you reached for the knife.” His smile became mocking. “Yet you wonder. Is it me? The man you have hunted for five years? The man who killed your wife and your daughter? Or am I just posing as the man to take advantage of the reputation of the Black Prince?”