Dark Waters (18 page)

“Let’s sit here,” Jordan said, gesturing toward a bench about fifty feet from the front steps of the mosque. She spoke in Arabic so anyone overhearing them would think they were local.

Ganani followed Jordan’s lead. “I agree. This gives us a very good view.”

Scoping out the loiterers, Jordan didn’t see anyone she recognized. “I think we beat them to the meeting place.”

“Will you recognize them?” Ganani asked.

“I’ll recognize Alena. And if the men who are holding her are the same ones involved in the car chase, I got a decent
look at two of them. I’m more concerned they might recognize me.”

“Keep your head down and you will be fine,” Ganani said. Through the earbud, Jordan heard the bus driver announcing the stop at Manger Square. Tires squealed, air brakes hissed, and then came the chatter of passengers disembarking. She pushed the transmitter button to raise Lotner on the radio, when a young couple settled onto a facing bench. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and like Jordan and Ganani, the woman wore a
hijab
. Probably a local couple taking a late lunch break, but Jordan didn’t want to take chances.

Ganani noticed them, too, and pointed at the Church of the Nativity and offered commentary on the tourists in line. Jordan feigned interest.

The young couple displayed no special awareness of them, but there was still a real danger of exposure. Jordan engaged in Ganani’s patter but kept an eye on the crowd filtering into the square. No familiar faces leapt out. Then the radio squawked in Jordan’s ear, and Weizman’s voice cut through. “Gidon and I have circled around to enter the square from the east. The judge will arrive from the west.”

Jordan turned away from the couple and answered. “We are in position near the fountain across from the mosque.”

Turning back, Jordan found the local girl watching her with mild curiosity.

Ganani leaned toward Jordan and said, “We may have to move.”

The radio clicked back to the noise of the tourists and Jordan studied the crowd pushing into Manger Square. Ganani tapped her hand, a look of concern on her face. The young couple appeared to be watching them more intently.

“It seems our friend is running late,” Jordan said out loud, hoping to deflect suspicion. “They have done a wonderful job with the square renovation.”

Ganani and Jordan again practiced the idle chatter of friendship, talking about how much they liked the pedestrian walkway that had replaced the roadway and parking lot, the marble slabs that now paved the way from the Mosque of Omar to the Church of the Nativity, the rows of trees that provided shade for hand-hewn benches, and the water that spewed from fountains made of solid cubic stones. Eventually, the couple grew bored and their attention shifted.

Jordan kept her guard up, tracking the crowd in her peripheral vision. Only the Western tourists wore shorts, so she tossed them from the mix. Most of the other men, regardless of ethnicity, were similarly dressed, wearing jeans or khakis, T-shirts, and ball caps. A few wore
tazcats
—the predecessor of the skull cap. Fewer still wore
keffiyehs
, head scarfs, and not just the checkered ones Arafat made popular. Some were made of contemporary cloth. One or two older men wore
jallabiyehs
, flowing robes perfect for concealing a weapon.

Most of the Western women wore skintight jeans or leggings and short-sleeved tees with scarves at the ready around their necks. By comparison, Jordan’s outfit looked almost conservative. The Arab women added
hijabs
, with a few wearing
jilbābs
, the large baggy overgarments that covered everything.

Finally, Jordan spotted the judge hugging the storefronts on the far west side, making his way toward the mosque. He moved quickly and then stopped halfway to scan the square.

What the hell was he doing? Looking for them?

Jordan wondered if she dared communicate with Taylor. She would have to speak in English. The young couple seemed thoroughly engrossed in each other, so she pushed the transmitter button. “Keep moving.”

Ganani relayed Taylor’s location to the rest of the team. “Look at the Maish tree in front of the olive wood store. It is still loaded with fruit.”

Taylor looked up. If he wasn’t aware he had been spotted before, he knew it now.

The couple across from them shifted in their seats, drawing Jordan’s attention. They remained engrossed in each other but seemed more aware of their surroundings again. The noise rose and fell around them. Jordan spoke to Ganani in Arabic about the fountains and their special marble with the blue veins.

Lotner’s voice cut through in English. “Everyone is in place. Move into position.”

Taylor nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Do you know what causes the veins in the marble?” Ganani asked in Arabic, and Jordan wondered if she had missed something. The couple didn’t seem to be paying them any heed.

“Graphite.” Jordan tried picking up on whatever it was Ganani had seen. “The color variations of marble are caused by impurities in the soil—things like clay, silt, sand, iron oxides or chert, fossils from ancient times—working their way into the limestone. The variations depend on where the marble is mined.”

“You remember that from the guide books?”

“No. Freshman year geology.”

“What else do you remember?” Ganani asked.

“Nothing.”

Taylor was now moving toward them. Jordan’s focus was so intent all sound faded away until she heard only the slap of his shoes against the marble. His eyes flickered in their direction. Neither Jordan nor Ganani acknowledged him.

Jordan noticed his breath kept time with his footsteps. She felt the rustle of a breeze as he passed, heard the tinkling of the fountain, and smelled the tang of citrus and spice. Taylor’s cologne or someone’s cooking? She couldn’t be sure.

Shifting in her seat, she watched from the corner of her eye as he climbed the steps to the mosque. He stopped at the top of the
short flight of stairs and turned in a tight circle, his head held high, his gaze sweeping the square.

Weizman and Lotner entered the square to his right, Weizman moving straight forward while Lotner veered off and settled into the shadows of the police station.

Taylor’s voice rose above the noise of the square. “Alena!”

Off to his left, two men half-carried Dr. Petrenko between them.

“Keep your voice down!” said the man nearest to Taylor. Short, with a stocky build and thick head of black hair, he looked like one of a dozen Palestinian men in the square. He wore khaki pants, a Banksy “Get Out While You Can” T-shirt, and Nike tennis shoes. He dropped Alena’s arm and positioned himself between the mosque and the exit.

He glanced around. “Did you come alone?”

Jordan heard him clearly through Taylor’s com. His was the voice of the man on the phone.

Taylor ignored him and moved toward the doctor. “Alena, are you okay?”

The man stepped sideways, blocking his route. “I asked you a question.”

Taylor looked down on the man. “What have you done to her?”

“Answer my question. Did you bring the USB drive?”

“Answer him, Taylor,” Jordan whispered, moving to the edge of her seat. The best way to get them to release Petrenko was to make the trade.

Ganani stirred beside her.

Jordan kept her eyes on Taylor and waited for him to speak. Whatever happened now, right here, determined all their fates.

“I came alone,” Taylor said.

Hearing the anger in his voice, Jordan could only imagine the control it took for him to keep himself in check.

“Do you have the drive?”

“Right here.” Sunlight flashed off the silver in his hand. “Let her go and it’s all yours.”

For her part, Alena remained unresponsive. She stood on her own two feet, but her head wobbled on her neck and her eyes appeared heavy. She had to be drugged.

“Ganani.” Jordan turned, wanting the agent to flank the kidnappers, but the Shin Bet agent had disappeared. A quick scan of the square only turned up the young couple making their way toward a clump of Palestinian Authority security officers standing near the Door of Humility.

Jordan pushed the transmitter button. “
Tsara
.”

She repeated the code and then moved the dial on her transmitter one click and waited for someone to respond.

Nothing.

She tried again.

Still nothing. She was on her own, and she needed to get closer.

Pulling a brochure out of her pocket, Jordan pretended to study the text, moving forward until she stood parallel to the doctor and the Palestinian who gripped her arm. He was taller, thinner, and more agitated than his accomplice. A look of paranoia distorted his face, and his eyes flitted in all directions. He gripped Alena’s elbow with one hand, the other buried deep in his pocket.

She depressed the transmitter button and tried raising the com tech again. This time, an answering squawk nipped her ear.

“Where is Detective Weizman?”

“At the northeast corner of the mosque.”

Jordan studied the building’s façade until she found his form silhouetted by sunlight.

“Got him. Now track down Agent Ganani.”

“We thought she was with you.”

Was
being the operative word. “I turned around and she was gone.”

“Is it possible she went to high ground?” came the tech’s response.

Jordan scanned the rooftops, catching the flicker of a shadow along the edge of the monastery roof. She watched for a few seconds, then, seeing nothing more, allowed her gaze to wander back to the square. The young couple from the bench had reached the Palestinian officers. They gestured in the direction of the mosque, and two of the policeman broke ranks.

Jordan depressed the transmitter button. “We’re about to have unwanted company—my eight o’clock. Notify the team.”

“Consider it done,” said the tech.

Jordan switched the com back to Taylor’s channel.

“Here.” Taylor held out the drive but jerked it back when the man in the Banksy T-shirt reached for it. “Have your man sit her on the bench and walk away.”

The short man gestured to the taller one, who shuffled Alena to the bench, dumped her unceremoniously, and stepped a few feet back.

Taylor held out the drive. The short man snatched it out of his hand and the two kidnappers moved swiftly across the marble toward the west-side exit. Taylor raced toward Petrenko.

She slumped sideways before he reached her, as a shot rang out in the square.

Chaos erupted. Some people dropped to the ground; others ran. Everywhere people were screaming. Jordan pulled her gun from under her skirt and bolted for Taylor and Alena.

He had dropped to his knees on the marble stones, pulling Alena with him, just before a second shot drilled a divot into the side of the mosque.

“Stay down!” Jordan helped Taylor drag Alena behind a large, square planter that was home to a tall palm tree. He knelt
beside the doctor, his hands checking for a pulse. She lay on the stone, limp, with her hands flopped open and her eyes rolled up in her head.

Jordan took a quick inventory. Two shots fired, two shots missed, both of them aimed at Alena Petrenko. Someone wanted the doctor dead.

J
ordan tried scanning the rooftops.

Another shot was fired, chipping the top of the planter where Alena’s head had been just seconds before. The trajectory told Jordan the shot was taken from one of the buildings of the Church of the Nativity.

“
Tawaqqafa!
” Cease! Stop! The police officers were closing in, guns drawn. A fourth shot ricocheted off the stones, forcing them to veer away.

Weizman materialized beside Jordan. “Come on!” he yelled. “Let’s go!”

He grabbed Taylor’s arm and stood up. The fifth shot fired caught Weizman in the back of the head, snapping his head back then flinging him forward to the ground. Jordan was beside him in seconds, rolling him over. His eyes were open, fixed, and a large exit wound gaped from the middle of his forehead.

“Jordan!” Taylor shook her arm, snapping her out of her stupor. “He’s gone.”

As an agent, she had seen dead people before, but she’d never seen anyone die. One moment he was there, telling her what she should do. The next moment he was gone. And they would all be joining him soon if she didn’t pull it together.

“What about Alena?” she asked.

“She’s still alive. We have to get out of here.”

“Grab her arm.” Jordan hooked her elbow under one of Alena’s armpits. Taylor did the same. “Go for the road on the count of three. One . . . two . . .” On three, Jordan started running, firing her weapon into the air at the same time. The crowd panicked. She and Taylor bolted toward Paul VI, the street to the north of the mosque, dragging Petrenko with them. Behind them, the PAS officers scattered, the crowd hindering their forward progress. It opened a window.

“Keep moving!” Jordan ordered.

An officer broke free of the mob. “
Tawaqqafa!
”

“Go, go!” she yelled.

They ducked around the corner of the mosque and ran along the road. Alena started coming around and struggled against them.

“Where to?” Taylor asked, plowing their way through a crush of men headed to the square to see what the commotion was all about. Others behind them followed in their wake.

“Just keep moving.”

Another shot rang out from Manger Square. Another surge of panic stirred the crowd. Ganani, Lotner, or a random shooter? All that mattered was that the chaos slowed down the officers behind them.

If Jordan remembered correctly, Paul VI was the main north-south artery into Bethlehem. The road intersected with Derech Hevron, skirted Rachel’s Tomb, and then joined with Sderot Manger. The three hundred checkpoint lay just beyond. They could take one of the roads that branched off and try to find refuge in one of the churches, but it could also make them easy to track.

“Turn into the
souq
!” Jordan yelled. “Into the market!” It was their best chance, and hopefully it was packed with tourists at this time of day. “One more block, on the left.”

The Bethlehem
souq
filled a small square between two main roads, Paul VI and Milk Grotto. Small souvenir shops in tented
stalls created a maze where vendors hawked gold jewelry, olive wood carvings, handmade soap, and beautiful embroidery. For the tourist wanting a bargain, the
souq
was the place to go.

Jordan moved into the lead as they entered the market and slowed the pace as they wound deeper into the square. Reholstering her gun, she called com on the radio again.

“Have you found Ganani or Lotner?”

Neither of them had checked in.

Jordan switched channels back, this time hearing the chaos of the square and Taylor’s hard breathing through the open com.

The people in the market seemed oblivious to what was going on up the street. The buildings surrounding the smaller square muffled the sound of street traffic and must have blocked out the gunfire, too.

Reaching the center of the square, Jordan pulled up short in front of a small shop selling T-shirts.

“Do you have any money?” she asked Taylor.

He dug in his pockets and came up with one hundred shekels. Jordan snatched them out of his hand.

“Keep moving,” she said. “Take Alena and find a bench somewhere along the south wall. Wait for me there.”

Whatever the kidnappers had given the doctor seemed to be wearing off. She nodded at Jordan’s instructions. Taylor draped her arm around his shoulders, wrapped his arm around her back and propelled her forward into the marketplace.

Jordan rummaged through the selection of T-shirts, grabbing a blue one for herself and a bright red one for the doctor.

“May I help you?” asked the shopkeeper.

Jordan asked him how much.

“Eighty shekels.”

Jordan paid him and then waited for him to pick up another customer before slipping between a row of embroidered
jilbābs
and
stripping the
hijab
from her head. Shaking out her hair, she pulled off Ganani’s black tee and wriggled into the T-shirt stamped “Bethlehem: The Holy Land,” with a wreathed circle depicting the four major holy sites of the city on the front. Tying the
hijab
around her waist, she moved through the stall and exited on the far side. The shopkeeper spotted her leaving and pointed to the red T-shirt in her hand.

“Forty shekels.”

“I’ve already paid,” she said, starting to walk away.

The shopkeeper raised his voice. “Forty shekels.”

“I told you—” she stopped herself short, realizing she was creating a scene. Digging in her pocket produced the change from Taylor’s hundred. “All I have are twenty. Will you take twenty shekels?”

“No. Forty shekels.”

“I need the T-shirt.” She held out the money. He grabbed for the shirt.

“Is something wrong here?” said a voice. Jordan turned to find a Bethlehem policeman stepping in to referee.

“I already paid for this shirt once,” she said. “Now he wants me to pay him again.”

The shopkeeper spoke in Arabic. He told the policemen that she was trying to steal the shirt and had offered him twenty shekels.

“Why would you offer to pay him again if you had already paid?” The policeman narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you have a receipt?”

“No, he didn’t give me one.” Jordan forced herself to stay calm. He clearly hadn’t come from the square, but she couldn’t afford for the situation to escalate. Taylor and Alena were waiting for her, and then there was the matter of her gun.

“Forget it.” Jordan tossed the red shirt back onto the pile of T-shirts and started to walk away.

The shopkeeper let loose with another tirade about how the shirt was damaged, dirty now, and how she had to pay.

“Wait!” the policeman ordered.

Jordan stopped, feeling the awkward press of the leather holster against her thigh. Turning, she spotted a PAS officer entering the square, causing a whisper about a shooting in the square to move through the market like wind rustling through the leaves of a copse.

“If you don’t have the money, I must assume you planned on stealing the shirt. You will need to come with me.” The policeman reached for her arm.

They had passed the moment of reasoning, and Jordan was debating what to do next—run for it or pull her gun—when Taylor’s voice boomed in her ear.

“There you are. What’s taking so long?”

Jordan pointed at the shopkeeper. “This man is accusing me of trying to steal a shirt.”

Taylor stepped forward, looming over the shopkeeper. “You know that’s not true. She asked me for the money while you were standing right there. I watched her hand it to you. Are you trying to cheat your customers, the tourists who visit here?”

“No, no.” The shopkeeper waved his hands wildly. “I remember now.” He picked up the shirt and shoved it into Jordan’s hands. “Take it. Just take it and go.”

When the policeman turned to argue with the shopkeeper, Jordan and Taylor ducked away. They cut over two aisles and then doubled back to where Taylor had left Alena sitting on a bench in the shade.

“Thank you for helping me back there,” Jordan said.

“It was a good thing I could hear what was going on.” He tapped his earbud.

Jordan sat down on the bench next to the doctor. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick. Weak,” said Alena. “But I’m better than I was.”

Taylor, who’d been keeping watch, suddenly moved over beside them. “There are PAS officers moving through the crowd. We need to move.”

Jordan handed Dr. Petrenko the red T-shirt. “Put this on.” Standing, she pulled Taylor aside. “We need to separate.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m the one they’re looking for,” Jordan said. “Hopefully, they won’t recognize me. They saw three of us come in here. I want you and Alena to go out the back. Pretend you’re an American couple and your wife is sick. Take a cab. I’ll meet you back at the bus station in ten minutes.”

“Wait. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll head back the way we came in and hope I don’t run into that policeman again.”

A rumble traveled through the crowd behind them, and Jordan snapped her head around. “That’s our cue. Go. Keep the radio on.”

Taylor helped Alena to her feet, and the two of them disappeared into the throng of tourists. Once Jordan could no longer see her red shirt or Taylor’s head above the crowd, she moved to the far aisle and walked back west along the stalls. Within moments, the PAS officers appeared.

“
Imshy
,” go, ordered the man in charge. The captain signaled his men to fan out and then stood on his toes and looked over the heads of the tourists. His gaze tripped as it flitted over Jordan. She looked down, feeling his eyes linger before moving past.

“They are not here,” he said, speaking into his radio in Arabic. “We’ve lost them. You are sure no one has fled out the back?”

The answer was no, and Jordan didn’t eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation. Whomever he spoke to had not apprehended Taylor and Alena.

Moving quickly toward the street, she spotted a different officer guarding the entrance to the
souq
. Whoever had coined the
phrase “the best defense is a good offense” had it right. It was time to engage the enemy. Jordan approached the officer.

“Which way to Manger Square?” She spoke loudly in English. He grimaced and then stepped to the side and pointed up the street that she and Taylor had carried Petrenko down earlier.

“However, the square is closed,” said the officer. “There has been trouble there. You must go around.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Nevermind that.”

“I need to catch a bus.”

He waffled on his position and then pointed back toward the mosque. “There is an alleyway to the left, just beyond the entrance to the square. You may go that way.”

She murmured a thank you and slithered past him, swishing her hips slightly as she moved away.

Reaching the entrance of the square, Jordan slowed. A black body bag lay on the ground where Weizman’s body had been, with one or two small cones marking nearby areas on the ground. A small contingent of officers huddled around, arguing about the trajectory of the fatal shot.

One of the policemen pointed toward the upper floors of the Armenian monastery.

“Hey.” Another of the Palestinians had spotted her. “Move along. This is police business.”

“Sorry,” Jordan said, turning away.

“Stupid American.”

Jordan took a last look at the bag. It could have been any one of them lying there. The gunman had appeared to be targeting Alena Petrenko. The way Weizman stood up, he must have thought so, too. The shot had caught him in his third eye. It was no mistake. Someone had wanted him dead, same as Alena. The question was, who?