The Infiltrator Read online

  It wasn’t much of a fight. I popped him in the face with a one-two punch, swept his feet out from under him, and slammed him to the floor. He quit fighting, mewling about his broken arm. I put a knee on his neck, holding him still.

  I turned to see Jennifer in the doorway pulling security to the rear, and Aaron holding Ezra’s pistol on the boy. Not threatening, but just to be safe. He waited until Shoshana entered the room, looking expectantly at her. She squatted in front of the boy for a second, then nodded. He lowered the weapon.

  The boy said, “What is going on?”

  She said, “Your brother attacked the Temple Mount. He wanted to kill many innocent people.”

  “I had nothing to do with that! I swear! I heard them talking and was going to confront him today.”

  She said, “I believe you.”

  The boy’s mouth fell open.

  Underneath me, Ezra said, “He’s a terrorist! I don’t know who you are, but you’re interfering with an official police investigation.”

  The boy showed absolute fear at the situation he was in, not knowing whom to trust. Not knowing what to believe. Shoshana said, “Why was that man trying to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. He was in here to see my brother a few days ago, but he never said he was a policeman. He came in the clothes of a Palestinian, and he was speaking Arabic.”

  Shoshana hooded her eyes, then walked over to Ezra. She squatted down and gave him the full force of her gaze. He recoiled from the violence lurking just below the surface, saying, “Let me go!”

  She ignored the outburst, asking, “Where is the bomb? You tell me that, and I’ll let you live. You don’t, and I’ll gut you right here.”

  Ezra showed confusion, then true fear, saying, “The attack was at the Temple Mount! You saw it. There was no bomb. I am a lieutenant in the border police on a sanctioned counterterrorist mission. You had better let me go.”

  She searched his body and pulled out an old-school flip phone. She watched him closely, then said, “This is important to you, yes?”

  He spit out, “That’s not my phone. I found it on the Temple Mount. And I don’t know anything about a bomb.”

  The boy said, “It’s a friend of my brother. A shahid. He’s a walking bomb.”

  We all whipped our heads to him, and Shoshana ran back. “What do you know?”

  He shrank back at her intensity. She calmed herself, locked eyes with him, and it was like watching a cobra mesmerizing its prey. She said, “You have nothing to fear. I promise. Tell me.”

  He said, “They had six men, and one was detailed to blow himself up. They said that if they couldn’t have free rein where the Prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven, then they would destroy the same for the Americans.”

  I said, “They’re planning on blowing up the Dome of the Rock? That makes no sense. Why would Americans give a shit about that?”

  Jennifer whirled into the room, agitated. “No! They’re going to blow up the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It’s where Golgotha is. The place where Jesus was crucified. It’s where he ascended into heaven. That’s what the American reference is. Christians.”

  It crystalized instantly. She was right. I said, “Aaron, we need to get a police response to that place right now. Can you call on one of their radios? Will someone listen to you?”

  The boy said, “No, no! You cannot do that. My brother told him to wait until the police reacted to the other attack. If you rush in with police, he will kill himself.”

  Shoshana said, “What did he look like?”

  The boy described him, and Shoshana said, “I remember. Jennifer, do you?”

  “Yes. The one with the scraggly beard that you stared at like you wanted to gut?”

  Shoshana nodded. “That’s him.”

  I said, “Where’s the church?”

  “Two hundred meters away, just up the street.”

  I said, “Jennifer, strip four radios from the guys outside. We can use them ourselves. Aaron, we need to go, right now.”

  Shoshana turned to the boy and said, “Thank you for your help. Go. Get out of here.”

  He looked wary, squinting his eyes, expecting a trick. Wondering if Shoshana would kill him for “escaping,” like the other policeman had tried to do. Shoshana read his anxiety, as only she could, and shook her head.

  “Do not fear me. You made a mistake not turning in your brother, but I know you’re not evil. I don’t want you here when the police wake up. I want you gone. Do you have a place you can hide?”

  He nodded hesitantly. She said, “Go to it. Wait until this is over.” She pointed at Ezra and said, “When you see the news that he’s under arrest, come out. Come find me. I will protect you.”

  She handed him one of their business cards, and he nodded again, this time more forcefully. She said, “Go.”

  He scampered out of the store, jumping over the police bodies in the front. The door swung closed and Aaron said, “The clock is ticking. We need to go.”

  I said, “What about this shithead?”

  “He needs to remain here until we’re done. Immobilize him until we can return.”

  Jennifer ran to the front, pulling two sets of handcuffs from the police lying in the showroom.

  I said, “My pleasure.” I looked at Ezra. “Good night.” And hammered his temple with my fist.

  His body went rigid for a second, then his eyes rolled back into his head. Jennifer returned, saw what I’d done, and stopped, holding the handcuffs.

  I looked at her and said, “What? He’s immobile now.”

  16

  We sprinted west down Via Dolorosa, dodging the visitors at each station on the path of Christ’s final walk. We reached an intersection and Jennifer turned south, now running through a souk of some sort, forcing us to battle through the throngs of tourists eagerly buying religious trinkets.

  She broke out into an opening, the cloistered walls falling away to a courtyard, the flagstones packed with tourists. At the back was a Gothic-looking building, with rough stone and brick. It wasn’t that impressive. Near the front door was a squad of policemen, milling about and scanning the crowds.

  Jennifer said, “This is it.” She pointed to a double-door opening at the base of the building. “That’s the main entrance, but those cops weren’t there yesterday.”

  I said, “It’s because of the attack. Where should we go?”

  “There are two possible sites he’ll target: Calvary, where Jesus was crucified, and the tomb, where he was resurrected. One’s on the ground floor, and one’s upstairs.”

  I said, “Which one is more crowded?”

  “The tomb, but it’s crowded in a line, with people filing past. Actually, both sites are sort of like that. If he wants to just destroy the artifacts, that won’t matter to him, but if wants death, he might be in the crowds milling around inside the chapel.”

  Shit.

  I turned to Aaron and said, “You take Shoshana and go to the tomb. I’ll take Jennifer and head upstairs. Remember, this guy is looking for a response. If he sees us coming, he’ll detonate.”

  I pointed at a squad of policemen and said, “Whatever you do, don’t get those guys involved. He sees them come inside, and somebody’s dying. That means neither one of you can turn into that little death-dealing slaughter-monster you guys seem to like.”

  Aaron chuckled and tapped his hand mic under his shirt, attached to the radio at the small of his back, saying, “Stay on the net. Call if you make contact.”

  I nodded and said, “You two first.”

  Shoshana said, “Chicken?”

  I said, “Not at all. I just figured he’d rather blow up some Israelis than me, so I don’t want to be near you. I’ll give you thirty seconds, and if I don’t see smoke billowing out, I’ll follow.”

  She didn’t find my comment funny, but
at least Aaron smiled. I watched them thread through the crowd and disappear inside.

  I said, “You sure you can recognize him?”

  Jennifer nodded. “Yeah. He’s got a long, thin face and facial hair that looks more like mange than a beard. And he’s Palestinian. Separate the grandma-grandpa tourists, look for the singleton.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Excellent student you are. Good teacher you must have.”

  She said, “Come on, Jedi, let’s go.”

  We walked through the courtyard, avoiding the police like the plague, and entered the church. The décor inside was night and day from the outside, with incredibly ornate carvings and everything gilded in gold and silver, inlays of multicolored tile everywhere as the architectural styles of Orthodox and Catholic competed for attention. The main chamber was packed with people, all milling about like an anthill kicked over. It would be impossible to find him in that crowd, and I could feel our time running short. He was waiting on a trigger of some sort, probably from the dead terrorists at the Temple Mount, and when he didn’t get it, he wouldn’t just leave.

  He’d execute.

  Unlike the innocents celebrating a once-in-a-lifetime journey to a spiritual awakening, he was here for death. I knew him. I’d met him countless times before. Once he’d made the mental leap to kill himself—to become a shahid—he was the most formidable enemy on the planet. Life itself mattered naught, because he was already dead inside.

  Jennifer grabbed my hand and said, “This way.”

  She made an immediate right, walking to an alcove and some stone steps so old they were worn down in the middle by about an inch. We wound our way upstairs, running into a line of people all waiting to exit at the top. I turned away, toward the wall, and keyed my mic under my shirt.

  “We’re headed up. You guys got anything?”

  I heard nothing for a moment, then the radio broke squelch loudly. I frantically turned down the volume on the unit at the small of my back, a couple in front of me glancing my way.

  I heard, “Nothing yet. Still searching.”

  The line started moving, and we broke out into an antechamber, the area gaudily decorated with gold and silver inlays, the scent of candles floating on the air. To the right was a chapel, with a crowd of people waiting. To the left was an ornate display, a large statue of Christ over an altar covering an outcropping of stone, the area surrounded by lit candles, with gold and silver chandeliers hanging above.

  The lighting was low, and the noise was muted, with everyone instinctively whispering. A line of people waited to see the altar covering the rock, and I noticed that, one by one, people were actually crawling into the altar, praying for a moment, then moving on.

  We moved into the chapel to the right, trying to penetrate the gloom. I saw nobody who resembled our target, and asked, “You see him? Anything?”

  Jennifer said, “No. Not unless he’s wearing a wig of gray hair.”

  We meandered to the back of the chapel, our eyes darting left and right. We reached the wall and I said, “Okay, this is clear. Next room. You get in line for the altar. I’ll act like I’m waiting for you on the other side.”

  She nodded, and entered the line of the faithful striving to pray next to the rock that had felt the blood of Jesus Christ.

  I wandered slowly to the front of the chapel that held the altar, next to a tray holding small candles left by the worshipers. I scanned the line, and froze, seeing someone who met the description. An olive-skinned guy just cresting out of his teenage years, dressed respectably for the setting, with a sport coat and slacks, but sweating profusely. And he had a mangy beard.

  I took an assessment, and saw both of his hands were empty. Now was the time to take him. I couldn’t just tackle him, though. Especially if I was wrong and the real target was nearby. If he saw that act of violence, he’d know he was made and would simply attack.

  I keyed my radio and said, “Koko, Koko, I think I’ve got him. He’s three back from entering the altar. Can you see him?”

  She said, “No. Too many people. You want me to break out of here?”

  “Yeah. Come back to my location. Quickly.”

  I saw the man put his hand in his right front pocket, and I felt the tension rise. If he had a detonator, he’d just armed himself.

  I realized the dilemma I was in. I couldn’t shout at him, threaten him, or do anything else that would deter him. There was no show of force that would stop him, short of killing him outright.

  I had a pistol, but even that was risky. I couldn’t be sure of hitting him with a surgical shot at this distance, and closing on him might engender the very thing I wanted to prevent.

  I read the odds of this ending well, and a shameful, reptilian part of me demanded I flee, running as fast as I could away from the danger.

  Jennifer appeared by my side, scanned the line, and said, “That’s him.”

  He was now number two, and I knew what he would do when he bent down to enter the altar.

  Jesus Christ. What now? I realized I’d taken the Lord’s name in vain at the worst possible moment. Shit. Sorry about that, Jesus.

  I said, “Jennifer, I hate to say this, but I need you to approach him. Get his hand out of his pocket. Get it off the detonator. You’re the least threatening.”

  “How?”

  I thought furiously. What could we do? What would get his hand out of the pocket? And I saw the line advance.

  He was now number one. I saw the woman in front of him cross herself, crawl into the altar, and begin praying. I had maybe five seconds.

  I said, “Take out your phone. Go. Tell him you want him to take a picture of us in front of the altar. Apologize, say we’ve run out of time and can’t wait in line.”

  She immediately did as I asked, and I let her get five steps away before following, far enough back so as not to appear as a threat. She said something to him, and he shook his head. She pleaded, holding out the phone.

  In a thick New York accent, the next man in the queue said, “Hey, lady, we’ve all been waiting in line. You can’t just walk up like that.”

  Jennifer said, “Please, we’ve run out of time. We have to catch our flight. It took longer than we thought it would.”

  Typical New Yorker, he said, “That’s not our problem. Leave the guy alone.”

  At that point, I wanted to punch him more than the terrorist. I approached.

  “Honey, he’s right. We should have planned better.” I turned to the New Yorker and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Jennifer said, “I’m not leaving without a picture. We flew all the way here. You’re the one who screwed this up, not me.”

  The New Yorker’s wife got into the act, saying, “You’re not cutting the line. We waited over thirty minutes.”

  I felt the terrorist’s finger on the trigger, itching to fire. Felt the pressure mounting. Keeping my eye on his hand, I said, “Please. Make my wife happy. All we want is a picture.”

  The man from New York became incensed, closing in on me, and I knew we were dead. If he did anything threatening, if he tried to act like a badass, the terrorist would blow us all to kingdom come.

  The woman in front of us left the altar, and my subconscious screamed at me to run. The New Yorker said, “Get out of here. I’m warning you.”

  And the terrorist saved us—because he was just as afraid of a commotion as I was. And he really wanted to blow up the altar. He held a hand up to the couple and said, “I’ll take it. It will be quicker than arguing.”

  I felt the sweat rolling down my face, and knew it wasn’t from the heat inside the church. I waited, silently praying for real, something I rarely did, but when it happened, shamefully it was when I needed His help the most. If there ever was a direct line to God, I figured I was standing next to it. Time literally stopped for me. Hard to explain, but I was convinced I was watchin
g my own death.

  He removed his hand from his pocket.

  Empty.

  And time resumed.

  He reached for the phone Jennifer was holding, and I slammed forward with a right cross holding all the momentum I could muster, snapping my hips to generate velocity. It caught him right above his cheekbone, my adrenaline making the punch so hard I felt his eye orbit crunch.

  His head snapped back and I grabbed his shirt, whirling him away from the altar, and the jackass from New York leapt on me, punching the back of my head. I threw an elbow, catching his short ribs and shouting, “Jennifer!”

  I slammed the terrorist to the marble floor and ripped open his shirt, seeing a suicide belt. I traced the wires running from the right front pocket to the small of his back. I flipped him over, yanked up the tail of his shirt, then ripped out the wires, the blasting caps coming free, now dangling in the air.

  I sagged back, exhaling the pent-up breath I’d been holding. I heard a yelp and turned, seeing Jennifer holding the New Yorker in a joint lock, him on his knees, keening pitifully. His wife was running around him in a circle, waving her arms about like she was clearing a fart from the air.

  The police from outside came barreling up the stairs, all guns and eyeballs. They drew down on me, and I clicked my mic, saying, “Aaron, I’ve got jackpot. And I need someone who speaks Hebrew.”

  17

  The morning air was pleasantly crisp—much more so than the past few days of heat. Later, Shoshana would say it was because God had waited for this day, knowing her first attempt at a wedding would be interrupted.

  We were standing in the plaza of the Western Wall, a small group of men watching the bride and groom under a multicolored bit of cloth held in the air by four poles, reciting their vows. The chuppah. Yes, I knew what it was now.

  The rest of the plaza was empty, still on lockdown. It was a perfect moment, given the trials it had taken to get here, spoiled only by the faint sound of shouting. Outside, a massive number of Palestinians were protesting being refused entrance to the grounds of the al Aqsa mosque, but I didn’t fault Israel. While they’d learned exactly what had happened, they had to be sure, along with the fact that the security forces were trying to figure out how to get out of this mess without admitting fault. There was no way they would say one of their own had orchestrated the entire thing. But they knew it was true.