JET - Ops Files (3 page)

“I know. I’d have to be crazy to do anything but sit here like a good little girl waiting for the next car filled with explosives to blow us into the Dead Sea.”

He frowned. “I’m not listening to any more of this. Things are already bad enough.”

Her expression softened as she bit back the anger that was broiling just below the surface. Ari wasn’t the enemy. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Ari. I know Sarah really liked you. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know that I’m…I’m hurting too. And I want whoever is behind the attack to pay.”

He nodded. “I’d drag them behind a jeep all the way to Tel Aviv.”

“Don’t let me infect you. I was just spouting off. I’m sure the powers that be have some retribution planned.” Maya glanced around the area and shrugged. “I’m not on shift until graveyard tonight. I’m going to try to get some sleep. It’s been a long thirty-six hours.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Thanks.”

Ari watched as Maya strode to the women’s barracks, empty now that Sarah was gone, and wondered what was going on behind her placid expression, as unreadable as a statue except for the flash of fury in her jade eyes when she’d let her guard down talking about Sarah. Whatever it was, he was glad he wasn’t in her crosshairs. There was something about her that scared the living crap out of him, even after almost two years of mandatory duty in a hostile land where anyone and everyone could be an enemy willing to give their life to see his extinguished.

Chapter 3

The minaret of the Jamal Abdel Nasser Mosque cast a long shadow over the surrounding Ramallah neighborhood as the afternoon sun faded into the distant hills. Automobiles pulled to the curb in front of the mosque as the call to prayer sounded over the city, signaling to the faithful that the time of worship was upon them. A crowd of locals milled on the sidewalk, waiting to enter. A man in his thirties with a head of curly black hair and a bushy mustache watched the procession with hawklike eyes from the street corner, his presence unremarkable except for the attention he paid to the worshipers’ faces.

Half an hour later he was still there, one foot propped against the wall as he read the newspaper. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a coil of smoke rising from it like gray string. Once the prayer finished, the mosque doors opened and the assembly dispersed. The observer’s gaze roamed across the sea of humanity as he pretended to read. When the crowd dissipated and the last man had left the building, he murmured into his cell phone, shaking his head.

“No sign of them,” he said.

The gruff voice on the phone grunted. “Stick around the area. We may get lucky.”

Yitzhak Eban was one of several Israeli intelligence operatives assigned to Ramallah after the checkpoint attack as the Mossad sought to bring the perpetrators to justice. It had deployed infiltrators and spotters, hoping to get a lead on whoever was behind the attack – a long shot, everyone involved knew, but the only course of action open other than the symbolic retaliation planned.

Nearby, in a dilapidated cinderblock house adjacent to the bustling Ramallah market, six men sat at a rustic wooden table. Spread out before them were a tray of electrical components and a plastic container of acetone peroxide for loading into the modified plastic pouches that would be attached to the vests piled on the floor. Four old AK-47 assault rifles, wooden stocks scarred from decades of use, rested against the peeling wall where they could be accessed easily. The men’s expressions were drawn, the tension in the room thick. Acetone peroxide was as unstable as it was explosive, and unexpected detonations in similar suicide vest factories throughout the West Bank were not uncommon.

A knock at the entrance sounded through the dwelling, echoing like gunfire off the concrete floor. An elderly robed man rose from the head of the table and shuffled to the entryway and, after peering through a grimy barred window, opened the door. Two men waited outside, their eyes scanning the filthy street. The ambulance driver bore little resemblance to his appearance at the checkpoint. He was now wearing a soiled baseball cap, his face freshly shaved, but his companion was unmistakably the passenger who’d started the firefight, in spite of the two days of stubble that dusted his chin.

“
Ahlan wa Sahlan
– welcome to my humble abode, Ammar. It is an honor,” the host said to the driver as he moved aside, motioning for them to enter.

“Thank you, Abreeq. Your hospitality is always appreciated,” Ammar said as he stepped inside. “This is Bazir. He is my right hand.”

Abreeq bowed slightly. “I’m humbled that you’ve chosen to grace me with your presence.”

He pushed the door closed and locked it and then moved past the newcomers into the room next to the manufacturing area. After declining an offer of tea, Ammar smiled humorlessly and gestured next door.

“I see you are doing good work, even at great risk to yourself.”

Abreeq shrugged. “I do what I can. Alas, our martyrs’ glorious acts of sacrifice have yet to turn the tide. But I am proud to be part of the effort, regardless of how small a part I play.”

“Nonsense. It is men like you who are the backbone of our movement. Without you we would have no soul,” Bazir countered, an obligatory bit of flattery.

Abreeq’s expression was impassive. “I only wish I could do more.”

Silence settled over the room, and Ammar cleared his throat. “Providence has smiled upon us all, then. I’m here to tell you that your wish has been granted.”

Abreeq nodded, having suspected that his visitors hadn’t come to pay their respects. “I am your servant, in this as in all things. Tell me what you need me to do.”

Ammar leaned forward, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We just took possession of four kilos of C-4, and we need a seasoned hand to help us design a device that can inflict maximum damage in a populated area.”

“Four kilos! You must be a magician. I haven’t seen any for several years. Fortune has indeed blessed us.”

“I figured you would know how to work with it.”

“Of course. Depending upon the target, it could be devastating. What did you have in mind?”

Ammar told him. Abreeq grinned – a sight reminiscent of a bird of prey eying a field mouse.

“I see. So you will want the equivalent of a large version of the American claymore mine – an explosive charge with the largest amount of shrapnel possible to maximize the casualty count. What size blast area would you like, and what do you envision the delivery system will be?”

They discussed the details for ten minutes in hushed tones and agreed that Bazir would coordinate with Abreeq to get him whatever he needed. When the pair left, slipping onto the street like ghosts in the waning dusk, Abreeq was pensive. What had been proposed was a considerable undertaking – one that would require careful planning but was well within his capabilities.

He tried to imagine the headlines following the explosion. If he did his job skillfully, the cursed invaders would feel the blast all the way in Jerusalem, and the cost to occupy land that rightfully belonged to his people would have increased dramatically.

Abreeq’s name translated to ‘glittering sword’ in Arabic – a scimitar used to smite the enemies of his ancestors. A vision of a white horse mounted by a Saracen charging into battle galloped in his imagination, and for the second time that day, he smiled. He would soon live up to the lofty promise of his birthright.

A glittering sword indeed. Exceedingly deadly and forged of holy steel, the blade razor sharp, the arm that wielded it bathed in the blood of his foes.

Chapter 4

Bali, Indonesia

The jumbo jet dropped from the pale blue sky and floated over the tarmac before its wheels scorched the runway of Ngurah Rai International Airport, a metal and glass interloper in paradise. Humid gusts of warm wind buffeted the aircraft on its slow taxi to the terminal, and the heady perfume of tropical flowers and the sea blended with jet exhaust as the sun glinted off the plane’s windows with blinding intensity.

Once through customs, a tour group of eighteen young men and women from New York followed their guide to a waiting bus, a Mercedes coach that had seen better days, its red paint peeling as it sat vibrating in the muggy heat. Its big diesel engine idled roughly as porters loaded the group’s luggage into the baggage hold. Arriving passengers chattered like a flock of agitated birds outside the terminal, waving at taxis or their rides. The tour guide welcomed the group aboard in colloquial English, smiling and bowing as they filed onto the bus, the air-conditioning seeping from the open door all the invitation most of them needed.

When everyone was loaded, the driver closed the door with a hiss before swinging from the curb, leaving the busy airport behind as the coach embarked on the hour-long journey to an exclusive ecotourism resort on the eastern coast of Bali, roughly ten miles northeast of the sprawling beach community of Sanur. Motorcycles buzzed through traffic like angry hornets, darting between cars with daredevil precision, racing along at suicidal speed in controlled chaos as the bus lumbered through the metropolitan lunchtime rush.

The guide stood at the front with a clipboard and microphone in hand, pointing out landmarks and areas of interest, giving a canned recitation of the region’s history with bored resignation: a description of the Dutch invasion in the early 20
^th
century, followed by the Japanese occupation in World War II, and finally Indonesia’s turbulent challenges to Dutch rule that ended with independence in 1949.

The hodgepodge of shacks and buildings thinned once they progressed north of Sanur, and traffic dried to a trickle on the coast road. As they picked up speed, the guide shared tidbits of advice about local customs and mores, including dire warnings about the effects of tropical sun on unsuspecting skin. The passengers listened with scant attention, preferring to take in the blue water and breathtaking beaches interspersed with undulating fields of tall grass and lush jungle.

The driver muttered a curse and slowed after rolling around a long curve. An overloaded pickup truck was stalled, the hood up, effectively blocking the two-lane road. Another car was parked at its side, straddling the oncoming lane. Its owner stood by the truck, commiserating with the unfortunate driver.

The bus eased to a stop. The door swung open, and the guide stepped out, hoping to convince the men to clear a route. An old Toyota Land Cruiser behind the coach leaned on its horn impatiently, and the bus driver shrugged and held a hand out the window as the guide moved to the truck.

Four men with bandannas covering their faces darted from the surrounding jungle, brandishing assault rifles. The driver’s eyes widened in horror, and after a moment paralyzed with disbelief, he reached down to pull the lever that controlled the door. He’d almost reached it when three rounds slammed into his side, knocking him against the window in a bloody heap.

Screaming erupted from the passengers as two of the attackers mounted the steps and rolled grenades down the cabin aisle, and then opened fire on the helpless passengers. The rifles emptied in seconds on full automatic, and dying moans followed the killers as they spilled out the door and ran for cover. The guide watched the slaughter in shock from his position by the truck, held at pistol point by the driver of the car.

The grenade blasts blew a shower of glass and debris from the bus as it swelled like a plumping sausage, its sides distended from the detonations. A woman’s hand landed at the guide’s feet, severed above the wrist but still encircled by a bracelet with a tiny gold Star of David bangle glittering in the sunlight. The car owner barked an order, and the guide dropped to the ground and put his hands behind his head as the truck hood slammed and the old truck pulled away. The gunman swung his pistol butt against the hapless guide’s skull, knocking him senseless, and then sprinted for his car.

By the time the guide regained consciousness and could sit up, both vehicles were gone. He stared numbly at his bus, from where black smoke belched from its mangled interior. He barely registered when the occupants of the Land Cruiser approached. Blood streamed down his face as he took in the nightmare vista, the horizon tilting like he was on a carnival ride. He looked up as they spoke to him, not comprehending what they were saying. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, and the keening of sirens from town competed with the shrieks of survivors begging for help from within the inferno.

A mile away the terrorists abandoned their vehicles and piled into a white box van. The driver listened intently to a handheld radio as he tromped on the accelerator and, once they were on the road, turned to the passenger.

“It was a complete success, Wira. The police transmissions are saying that everyone but the guide is dead.”

“Excellent. We have sent an unmistakable message. Nowhere is safe for sympathizers of Israel,” Wira said, a familiar speech for the terrorist, whose organization was one of the most violent in Indonesia. “The Americans are as bad or worse than the Zionists. Without their support, the cursed place couldn’t exist. We have demonstrated that their actions have consequences – no corner of the globe is safe for any of them.”

“Yes. Perhaps this will lessen their appetite for meddling in our affairs,” agreed Putra, his second in command, as he turned off the main highway onto one of the numerous arteries that led into the hills. “It is a moment of great triumph for us all.”

Wira gazed out his open window, enjoying the cooling breeze on his face, and smiled. “This is only the beginning. I have bigger things in mind.” He paused, as if savoring the words, and leaned his head back as they raced down the jungle road. “Much bigger.”

Chapter 5

Ramallah, West Bank

Traffic at the checkpoint was backed up for a quarter mile as a long string of tired vehicles waited to enter the city. The armed IDF detail around the tower stood alert as a television news crew filmed for a follow-up report to the attack. A pair of emaciated dogs trotted in the waning heat, pausing to nose at piles of refuse before continuing on their way. A Palestinian boy on a homemade tricycle with an ice chest suspended over the two front wheels negotiated good-naturedly with an Israeli soldier for a can of soda, assault rifle gripped in one of the young man’s gloved hands as he handed the boy some coins with the other.