Covenant (22 page)

Ethan turned to look behind. He could hear the voices of their pursuers crossing the open ground, closing in on them. They would reach the alleyway within moments. He turned to Rachel.

“We’re going to stand out like a sore thumb. Just walk behind me and try to look normal.”

Rachel shot him an uncertain look, but Ethan turned and with a deep breath walked out into the street and turned immediately right.

The street was narrow, with ancient, battered cars and taxis parked haphazardly by the curbs. A cyclist rattled past and looked at them curiously as they made their way along the street, while a young boy sitting in a makeshift carriage being pulled by a mule stared openly at them as they passed. The music from a café on the opposite side of the street became louder, and Ethan could see from the periphery of his vision old men wearing traditional Arab garments sitting outside in the warm evening air smoking hookahs and drinking hot, sweet coffee. They stopped talking as Ethan and Rachel passed by on the other side of the street, watching them with intense gazes.

Ethan searched for a side alley that they could vanish into, and was rewarded with a dimly lit street twenty meters ahead and on the opposite side of the road.

“This way,” he motioned, crossing the street with purposeful strides, Rachel struggling to keep up behind him.

The music from the café behind them fell silent.

Ethan glimpsed a car pull into the street, headlights sweeping accusing beams toward them as they walked. The handful of people walking along the street suddenly disappeared in silence, drifting into houses as though obeying some unheard command. He glimpsed shutters on windows closing, saw the old men abandon their hookahs to vanish inside the café.

The car accelerated toward them with a squeal of scorched tires.

“Go, now!

Ethan shoved Rachel toward the alleyway, running after her as the car bore down on them, its screaming engine battering the night air. He looked over his shoulder to see the doors opening as it skidded to a halt ten meters away, men leaping from the vehicle with weapons in their hands. Hoods, boots, bandanas and balaclavas, dark and glowering eyes filled with hatred and anger.

E
than plunged into the alley behind Rachel, running hard as they dashed between the narrow walls, dodging abandoned litter and leaping the rusting carcass of an old bicycle. Rachel burst out into another street, this one narrower still, looking left and then right as Ethan rushed out behind her.

Another café to their left stood with chairs abandoned outside on the pavement. A pram with a missing wheel lay on its side on the opposite side of the road, and somewhere above them a series of window shutters slammed shut. At both ends of the street, cars accelerated toward them.

Ethan turned and saw the shapes of men rushing toward them through the alley. He felt his guts twist deep inside him as panic fluttered through his chest. The cars screamed up to them, armed and masked men leaping from the interiors with assault rifles in their hands. Ethan moved closer to Rachel, and realized that he had failed to protect her.

“Game’s up,” he said.

In the abandoned street Ethan raised his hands, watching as a group of fifteen or so men poured out of the alley behind them, AK-47s in their hands and unimaginable thoughts running through their minds.

Within seconds Ethan and Rachel were surrounded by shouting Palestinians, several of whom began punching the air and firing loud staccato shots from their rifles into the night sky. Ethan placed a hand on Rachel’s forearm and squeezed it as reassuringly as he could.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispered.

From behind him, a gruff voice shouted out in broken English, “Get on the ground, hands on your head!”

“We’re American,” Ethan said, “and we’re looking for—”

Something hard cracked across the back of his legs and he collapsed, his knees smashing painfully on the unforgiving concrete. He had just enough time to see Rachel being grabbed by two men, and then a musty-smelling sack was shoved over his head.

Jerusalem

“We lost them.”

Spencer Malik stood behind a MACE technician operating a computer and two monitors, one of which was filled with the face of a helicopter pilot glowing in the light of his instruments.

“How the hell can you lose a damned airplane?”

“They bailed out,”
the pilot explained.
“Israeli air traffic control ordered us to cease jamming their signals. We saw two ’chutes go down somewhere in the Gaza Strip. We’re tracking them with cameras but they’ve been grabbed, probably by insurgents. We’re having trouble keeping them in sight outside of Gaza airspace.”

“Does air traffic know that anyone has bailed out?”

“Not yet. My guess is that whatever they’ve been up to, the pilots are not going to admit anything to the IDF. Best we’ll get is a detention and questioning, but we can’t prove a thing.”

Warner had the camera footage, Malik reasoned, and his priority was getting it back to Israel without MACE being able to intercept him. Now, Malik had to find the little bastard before he managed to get to any of the crossing points on the Gazan border. Byron Stone was due to arrive soon, and if Israel got hold of the footage, heads would roll. He had the distinct impression that his would be first.

“Let the aircraft go,” Malik said quickly, “stay on the refugees.”

Malik looked down at the technician.

“How soon can we have a Valkyrie drone over the Strip?”

“An hour,” the technician replied, “but it would have to be cleared by Israel first.”

Malik nodded, looking at the helicopter pilot. “Relay the camera’s tracking data here.”

The pilot said something over his intercom to a crew member in the rear of the helicopter. Instantly, a grainy image from a night-vision camera appeared, following a convoy of four cars through the streets of Gaza.

Malik watched the screen for several seconds before making his decision.

“Track them to their destination. Mark the coordinates and relay them here. I’ll organize clearance for the UAV.”

“Roger that.”

The helicopter pilot’s image vanished, and the technician turned to look up at Malik.

“Israel’s not going to give us UAV clearance over the Gaza Strip easily.”

Malik looked thoughtfully at the screen. Having a foreign-owned, built, and armed unmanned aerial vehicle marauding over Gaza wasn’t going to be a walkover, but Israel’s deeply ingrained xenophobia had served MACE well in the past.

“Get all of the video data downloaded to my workstation. All Israel needs to know is that we’re tracking terrorists who may pose a threat. Enhance anything that may give that impression from the footage and remove everything that suggests otherwise.”

EVANGELICAL COMMUNITY INSTITUTE
IVY CITY, WASHINGTON DC

L
ucas Tyrell disliked most all medical institutions. But more than that he disliked the clinically insane who haunted them, those who had crossed the line between reality and oblivion. The fact that the Evangelical Institute reminded him of the hospital in which his brother had died so many years ago did nothing to comfort him.

The building was modern, smoked-glass windows stark against white paneled walls blazing in the midday sun, overlooking freshly mown lawns and quiet, shady gardens. He followed Nicola Lopez through a reinforced glass door into the interior of the hospital, more like a rest home than a refuge for the crazies. Gone were the days of iron bars and locks. A sign on a wall in flowing script caught his attention as he passed by.

We do not restrict or restrain. We rehabilitate.

“How many patients do you have here?” Lopez asked the female nurse who met them at the reception desk and led them down an immaculate white corridor.

“One hundred twenty-eight at the moment,” came the serene reply, as though even the staff were strung out on sedatives.

“No murderers or other felons?”

“No, although some of our clients are former convicts who suffered breakdowns in the prison system. We analyze them first to ensure they’re not playing the mental card to get onto the wards permanently.” She smiled. “Many find God while in our care.”

Tyrell glanced around as they walked, seeing frail-looking patients who were being guided gently along by orderlies. Soft instrumental music played through speakers concealed in the ceiling panels.

“What’s Daniel Neville’s history?” he asked the nurse.

“He was brought here four months ago by the MPD after a drug incident over on Logan. He’d been found near death in a crack den and rushed to General Hospital Southeast. They managed to stabilize him, but by then the damage was done.”

“What’s his condition?” Lopez asked.

“Daniel Neville suffered oxygen starvation to the cerebral cortex as a result of heart failure brought on by his overdose. He has lost some motor function and suffers from various psychological and physical disorders.”

“What sort of medication is he on?” Tyrell pressed. “Can he be considered a suitable witness in a court case?”

The nurse frowned.

“Daniel is currently on a prescription of lithium to maintain the chemical balance in his brain, but his concepts of time, space, and judgment are severely distorted. His bouts of depression produce symptoms of mania and extreme paranoia that are difficult to control. I’d imagine most attorneys would reject any testimony from him.”

Lopez cast a doubtful glance at Tyrell.

“What blood group is Daniel?” Tyrell asked.

“O-negative, the rarest type.”

Tyrell and Lopez exchanged a look but said nothing more as they turned left into another corridor that led to a set of steel gates blocking their path to the corridor beyond. A tall, rangy man in a blue jumpsuit swabbed the floors as they walked past, his face hidden behind a mop of shaggy blond hair. Outside the gates stood a robust-looking man in a security guard’s outfit; he moved to meet them.

“These detectives are here to question Daniel Neville,” the nurse explained to the security guard.

The guard shook his head.

“I’m afraid Daniel Neville is required to remain in isolation,” he said politely.

“On whose orders?” the nurse asked, surprised.

“Chief medical officer,” the guard responded calmly. “Doctor and patient confidentiality.”

“And you are?” Tyrell inquired.

“Michael Shaw. I’m responsible for security here on the ward.”

“We need to speak with Daniel Neville,” Tyrell insisted. “We can arrange warrants if we have to, but we’d prefer to do this on a voluntary bas—”

“Mr. Neville signed a confidentiality agreement with his doctor upon his admission,” Shaw said firmly. “I doubt that warrants would have any effect.”

“We can obtain a subpoena from the district attorney,” Lopez challenged.

Michael Shaw looked apologetic but shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got my orders and I just can’t let you guys in.”

“Lives could depend on what Daniel Neville may know,” Tyrell pressed.

Michael Shaw was about to reply, but the voice that Tyrell heard boomed like thunder down the corridor from behind them.

“You get your hands off m’boy!”