Dark Waters (2 page)

T
he dirt path ran perpendicular to the edge of the paved road. Packed hard from heavy use, it wound downhill through a valley of thorny bushes before forking uphill, skirting the town of T
ū
lkarm and ending at the workers’ crossing at Taibeh. The stamped ground served as a testimony to the permeability of the border. It also served to convince Haddid that he was correct—peace was the only answer.

In just over a week, President Hadawi would meet with Israel’s prime minister, America’s secretary of state, and leaders from Gaza and the West Bank to try to broker a peace. To Haddid’s way of thinking, only this could guarantee the future of Palestine. Without a peace agreement, Israel would continue its encroachment on the West Bank, Gaza, and the Golan Heights. Without a peace agreement, Palestine would eventually cease to exist.

He glanced around at the others making their way from the West Bank into Israel and imagined most of them believed the same thing. They were men and women who simply wanted to work and come home, put food on their tables, and spend time with their families. How sad that their voices could not rise above the noise of Hamas. Like the voices of the free world, only those who shouted loud enough were heard.

“Why so serious, Haddid?” asked Mansoor. “What are you thinking, my friend?”

Haddid had nearly forgotten his friend was beside him. The two of them had been close, like brothers, since grade school, yet he lacked the courage to tell Mansoor the truth. “I was wondering how Israel will survive when the wall is finished and the border sealed.”

Mansoor threw back his head and laughed, his white teeth flashing against the deep brown of his skin. “Not to worry, Haddid. If they finish the wall, there will be a gate. Besides, once our mission is complete, Israel will have more to worry about than building a barrier to keep us out.”

The mission
. Haddid stared at the ground.

His friend had worked hard to bring him onboard, but in the end, it had been the unspoken threat to his family that had pushed him to join. Although Mansoor believed in Abdul Aleem Zuabi, the head of the Palestine Liberation Committee, or PLC, Haddid considered Zuabi just a well-spoken, middle-aged man who came from somewhere outside of Palestine. As a leader, he emerged after the latest intifada and wanted the eradication of the State of Israel for no better reason than hate.

His was an untenable position, thought Haddid. Israel was too strong. There were already too many dead.

Mansoor clutched Haddid’s arm at the elbow, dipped his head, and spoke quietly into his ear. “We are to meet Najm and Muatab in Yaffa this afternoon. By now, they should have the information that Zuabi requires.”

A wave of nausea tightened Haddid’s stomach. He battled the urge to knock away Mansoor’s bony hand. The chatter of the workers around them filled his ears, then the crossing appeared in front of them and all conversation ceased, as though tiptoeing silently across the border made them invisible.

The legal crossing into Israel was fewer than one hundred meters to the north, but few of the workers ever crossed there—only those with blue cards. At the official checkpoint, Israeli guards stopped and questioned all people entering or leaving the West Bank—mostly curious tourists, reporters, or Israeli occupiers. Most workers slipped across the invisible line under the watchful eye of the enemy. They were the illegal workers, happy to sweat in the jobs undesired by a group of people who, by virtue of religion, viewed themselves as superior. The Palestinians built Israeli houses, cleaned, cooked, and tended the gardens, and the Israelis paid them under the table. It was an arrangement that had existed for years. Usually they dispersed into the bowels of Israel without confrontation, yet, occasionally, like a pack of wolves, the soldiers would move in and scatter the workers like frightened gazelles. Separating the weakest, the soldiers would terrorize some poor soul who could not run so fast. The only difference between the soldiers and wolves were that the soldiers were not hungry, just bored. Today, they were simply too busy.

In Netanya, Haddid and Mansoor climbed aboard a bus bound for Tel Aviv. It was crowded and hot, and Haddid sat alone near the back. The windows were open, and he could smell the flowers of Ramat HaSharon, a city of wealthy Israelis who employed many illegal workers. The bus stopped there and emptied out. Mansoor moved back, sitting beside Haddid. Mansoor marveled at how modern the city was, but Haddid barely listened. All he wanted was to smell the sea.

R
aisa Jordan drank in the view from her office window. To the west, the blue waters of the Mediterranean stretched as far as her eye could see. Closer in, the waves lapped the expanse of sandy beach bordering the new high-rises, the Dolphinarium, and the ancient golden city of Yafo. She’d only been in her new post as assistant regional security officer, or ARSO, for two weeks, and already she loved Tel Aviv.

“Jordan.” The RSO’s voice crackled over the intercom. “My office. Now!”

From his tone, Jordan knew something was wrong. She headed for his office, her heels clacking on the black-and-white tiles of the hall. She entered without knocking.

“Check this out.” Tom Daugherty gestured with the remote toward a TV mounted on the back wall of his office. “Can you believe this shit?”

Jordan frowned at the images. An amateur video flashed across the screen. It showed a Middle Eastern square, dust billowing in the wake of panic. The voice-over wasn’t loud enough to drown out the screams. Most people were running or ducking for cover. A man and child had plastered themselves against the concrete wall that surrounded a fountain erupting in fire and water. To the right, two bodies lay on the ground. The photographer zoomed in.

“What’s the newscaster saying?” Daugherty turned up the volume, as though decibels were synonymous with understanding.

Jordan was surprised he didn’t speak Hebrew. She’d had to take a six-week immersion course in the language before being assigned to her post, and Daugherty had been here nearly two years. “There’s been a shooting,” she translated. “In Zinah Dizengoff Square. This feed is from a bystander’s cell phone.”

“How many dead?”

“She hasn’t said. Soldiers returned fire and have surrounded the building where they believe the sniper is hiding.”

“They have the shooter pinned down?”

“It’s unclear.” Jordan looked at Daugherty. With the secretary of state due to arrive in five days to oversee peace talks, the embassy was on maximum alert. “How far away is the square? Do we need to do something to protect the embassy?”

“No.” His gaze never left the screen. “Dizengoff’s two clicks away. The Marines are ready in the event of an attack.”

Jordan nodded and turned her attention back to the video. The female newscaster spoke again.

“What’s she saying now?”

“The shooting has stopped. Two confirmed dead.”

“Then either the gunman is a very bad shot or he only wanted to kill certain people.”

Jordan agreed.

The photographer zoomed in and showed a close-up of a soldier turning over one of the bodies. Blood seeped from a gash on his neck, making his white shirt look as if it were tie-dyed red.

“
That
doesn’t look like a gunshot.” Jordan took note of his clothes and the cut of his hair. “Is he an American?” The State Department had recently issued a traveler’s warning. She looked to her RSO for direction. His face had gone slack.

“What is it, sir?”

“That’s Steven Cline.”

It took her a moment to process the name. “The ARSO I’m replacing? Isn’t he supposed to be in Washington?”

Daugherty picked up the phone. “Patsy, get Ambassador Linwood on the line, stat!” Then he turned to Jordan. “You wanted your first assignment? Well, here it is. Get your butt out there and figure out why my former ARSO is lying dead on a street in Tel Aviv instead of at home with his family in D.C.”

N
ajm Tibi sat inside a cafe one block from Dizengoff Square and whispered a silent prayer to Allah that his own life had been spared. Muatab had not been so lucky, and Tibi grieved for his friend. They had accomplished the mission, but at what cost?

Moments after hearing the first shot, Tibi had yanked the USB drive with the plans out of the American’s computer. He remembered staring down at his friend. Muatab never twitched. His eyes were open. Realizing there was nothing he could do, Tibi had turned to run, stumbled over the girl, and dropped the drives. Then, scooping them up, he had fled to safety nearby.

He patted the zippered compartment of his computer sleeve, where he’d transferred the drives once he was out of range and positive he hadn’t been followed. Watching the drama unfold on the mounted television, his guilt over Muatab’s death grew. How could he have known they were walking into an ambush?

The footage on the screen showed the shooting was over. Soldiers and police were gathering at the scene. He watched as the bodies were turned over. While gentle with the American, the soldiers flopped Muatab on the concrete like a fish on a rock. There was no more doubt. His friend was dead.

Anger festered in Tibi’s belly as the Israelis in the bar reveled in Muatab’s death. To them, Muatab was nothing more than a killer.
But to Tibi, he was a hero. The Palestinians would celebrate him as a martyr. As it was written in the Quran and ordained by Allah, “A soul for a soul.” They would avenge his death. Tibi would see it was done.

The camera panned to a view of the Zinah Dizengoff Hotel. The newscaster reported that the shots were fired from a fourth-floor window. Tibi was sure the shooter was gone by now. But who was he, and how had he known about the exchange? No one at Tibi’s workplace of work was smart enough to figure out that he had taken anything of importance. After all, he was just a maintenance worker. And Zuabi had only given him instructions that morning to meet the contact at Dizengoff Square. That meant the sniper had to be an Israeli or an American, either working with the contact or having tailed him to the square.

Tibi decided he had waited long enough. Paying for his coffee, he exited the bar and headed south, swept along in the wake of the crowd pressing toward Dizengoff Square. Before he could break off and move toward the bus stop, a soldier moved toward him.

“Hey, you!”

Tibi froze.

“What are you doing?”

As an Israeli Arab, Tibi knew he was someone on whom suspicion might fall. He didn’t want to bring attention to where he was headed, so he pointed across the street to the post office, with its red-and-white sign and deer logo. “I am going to the Postal Authority.”

“Then why are you lingering here?”

A surge of anger made him brave. He was a citizen of Israel, with the same rights as anyone else. “Because there is a crowd stopping here.”

Those who only minutes ago fled in terror were now filtering back. Tibi understood why. What better place to relive a
near-death experience than the crime scene? But this soldier focused on him. Not because of his presence, but because he was Arab.

The soldier waved his rifle. “Move along.”

Even though he wanted to stand his ground, Tibi knew now was not the time to stand and fight. Turning away, he struck out toward the Postal Authority. He would go in and then out the back. In the end, all Tibi wanted to do was leave him with no memorable impression.

J
ordan parked the embassy vehicle on a side street near Zinah Dizengoff Square behind a dozen other police and military vehicles pulled up haphazardly to the curbs and counted twenty-three Israeli soldiers blocking the perimeter of the square. Their khaki green uniforms offset a long row of bright blue removable metal fencing, creating a picket-like effect as they stood at attention, their guns ready. Even so, a large crowd had gathered. Workers from nearby office buildings had come out to gawk, along with the hotel staff and the waiters and cooks from the restaurants lining the street. Along the sidewalks, parents boosted children onto their shoulders. Tourists snapped photos. Everyone looked to see what was happening near the fountain—everyone, that is, except a solitary man who kept his head down and moved swiftly toward the Postal Authority. Something about him struck her as off.

Jordan tracked his movements as she climbed out of her car. At the entrance to the Postal Authority, the man looked up. Olive-skinned, with dark hair and dark eyes, he appeared to be an Arab. He held open the door for an elderly patron and then ducked inside. When he didn’t exit quickly, she chalked up her suspicion to nerves.

She reached for her Kevlar vest—the one with “Federal Agent” stamped on the back—and slipped it on over her shirt. Regulations
required she wear it, though from her perspective, it was like donning a bull’s-eye. Her outfit screamed “American.” There was already one dead agent. Why not make it two?

She checked her gun, making sure it was visible on her hip and holstered securely per the Defense Security Service—better known as DSS—agreement with the Israeli government. Attaching her ID to a lanyard, she slipped it over her head and reached back to gather her hair into a ponytail. Then, taking a deep, calming breath, she headed toward the barricades.

“Special Agent Jordan,” she announced in Hebrew to one of the guards stationed at the edge of the square. She held up her badge. “Who’s in charge here?”

A tall, thin man kneeling beside Cline’s body signaled to the guard to let her through. He stood as she approached and extended a hand.

“Detective Noah Weizman, homicide division,” he said, his English perfect. “Daugherty informed me that you were coming and would be following the investigation. It makes sense seeing as one of the victims is yours.” He pointed to the body. “It was my understanding Cline was headed back to the United States soon.”

“That’s correct.” She didn’t add that Cline should have already been stateside. His transfer request had cited family reasons—that his mother was ill and he was needed at home. But a cursory check Jordan conducted less than a half-hour ago turned up that his mother was on an extended Italian vacation with his sister.

“What about the other man?” she asked. “The one who slit Cline’s throat. Who is he?”

“No ID yet. We think he’s Palestinian. We’re running facial recognition. So far, no hit.”

“What about the shooter? Did you catch him?”

Weizman shook his head. A dark curl settled on his forehead, accentuating his tan and the strong line of his nose. He pointed
to the hotel. “Whoever she was, she set up on the fourth floor and managed to elude the soldiers.”

She?
Female terrorists weren’t unheard of, but normally they carried out missions via suicide bombings or poisonings, not through sniper rounds. “How do you know it was a woman?”

“A young soldier stationed in the kitchen saw her. He claims she identified herself as working for the Israeli Police Counter-Terror Unit.”

“Did he get a description?”

“He claims she had a nice set of tits. Oh, and black hair.” Weizman shrugged as if to say,
it happens
, and then gestured toward the Palestinian’s body. “The sniper’s first shot brought him down.”

“Only two victims?”

“Correct.” Weizman scraped his fingers across the stubble that darkened his chin. “Any ideas on what your man was doing to get himself killed?”

Jordan shook her head. It seemed Cline had gone off the grid. During her fact-finding mission, she uncovered that he had notified the State Department in D.C. that he would be delayed in Israel by a week and had rescheduled his flight from Ben Gurion International Airport to Dulles. She had no idea why he had not informed their RSO.

Squatting beside the bodies, she studied the wounds and the blood spatter patterns. The wound at Cline’s throat seemed the clear cause of death. An entrance wound in the Palestinian’s forehead indicated he had died from a single-round shot from a high-powered rifle. No doubt there was a gaping hole in the back of his head.

Jordan stood. “Any witnesses?”

“Fifty or so. Those two were the closest.” Weizman pointed toward a man and a young girl seated on the wall across from the
fountain. “The man was almost killed by another shot. It’s possible he was a target.”

“How do you figure?”

“He told us. The last shot fired drilled the fountain right above his head. Maybe you’d like to speak to him. He’s one of yours.”

“One of ours?”

“An American.” Weizman led the way across the square. When they reached the man and child, he introduced Jordan to the police officer standing guard. “This is my partner, Detective Gidon Lotner. Gidon, this is Special Agent Jordan.”

She extended her hand to Lotner.

The short, stout man ignored the gesture and nodded curtly. “This is Judge Ben Taylor and his daughter, Lucy.”

The judge seemed to be taking stock of the situation, though the young girl was clearly shaken. She huddled close to her father while he gently stroked her hair. The gesture touched Jordan at gut level, reminding her of her own father.

“Judge Taylor, I’m the assistant regional security officer assigned to the U.S. embassy. Whenever there are incidents in Tel Aviv involving Americans, I am sent out to investigate.”

The father nodded, but the child look scared. Jordan dropped down to her eye level.

“How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“You must have been scared.”

The child shrugged. Blood spatter spotted the front of her white tank top like brown freckles. She clung to her dad’s hand and kept her eyes focused on the concrete. “I lost some of my stuff.”

“But you and your dad are okay.”

The judge, who was watching his daughter, said, “Can we do this later?”

Jordan shook her head. “It’s better for us to get the information while it’s fresh in your minds.” She stood up, focusing on the present. “Judge Taylor, can you tell me why you’re in Israel?”

“We’re here because Lucy is sick.”

Jordan studied the girl. When the child looked up, Jordan was struck by the depth of the circles etched under her chocolate-brown eyes.

“Go on.”

“We’re seeing a doctor here—Dr. Alena Petrenko.” The judge’s arm slipped around his daughter’s shoulders, and he drew her closer to him. “It’s making a difference.”

Jordan noted an edge to his voice.

“Is your mother here?” she asked Lucy.

“My ex-wife is stateside,” the judge said. “Lucy spends her summers with me.”

Again, Jordan took note of his tone. Maybe he didn’t get along with his ex-wife, or maybe it was something else. “What type of judge are you, Judge Taylor? State—”

“Federal.”

That got her attention.

Jordan turned to Lucy. “Do you mind if I speak to your daddy alone?” She tipped her head at Detective Lotner, waiting for Lucy to respond. Lotner scowled. Lucy looked scared.

“It’ll only be for a minute,” Jordan said. “You can wait right there.” She pointed to a bench farther away from the fountain and the dead bodies.

Lucy tightened her grip on her father’s fingers.

He leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand, moving toward the bench with Detective Lotner.

“Thank you,” said Jordan, waiting for them to get out of earshot.

“Let’s get this over with,” the judge said, his voice commanding, like a man who was used to giving orders rather than taking them.

Hoping to put him at ease, Jordan sat on the edge of the wall beside him. “Judge Taylor, did you know either of the two men who died?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any reason someone might want you dead?”

Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a federal judge.”

“Let me rephrase. Do you know of any reason someone
here
might want you dead?”

Taylor looked away. “I would never willingly put Lucy in danger.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” It was obvious that his daughter was his primary concern, so when he didn’t respond, Jordan played the card. “I need an answer, Taylor, for her sake as much as yours. I need to know if someone here tried to kill you.”

The judge drew a breath and exhaled loudly. “The last case I presided over involved two American children orphaned when their parents were killed on 9/11. Based on the conviction of a Palestinian named Mohammad Al Ahmed, their attorney asked for a court-ordered freeze of his U.S.-based investments until liability was determined. It essentially ties up U.S. funding of the Palestine Liberation Committee.”

“And you complied?” It wasn’t really a question. She knew about the case. She had been there for it, not to mention the fallout that brought her here.

Taylor nodded.

“Have you received any specific threats from the Palestinians?”

“No.”

“So you thought it was safe to come here?” Again, it wasn’t really a question, and Jordan had to work hard to keep the criticism out of her voice.

Taylor looked at Lucy. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Judge Taylor, only a crazy person goes out and plays in the bully’s backyard after handing down a verdict like that. You are aware that the Palestine Liberation Committee has a presence here? That there are people here who might see you as hampering their efforts by placing sanctions on their money?”

He turned his attention back to her. “I’m not stupid, Agent Jordan.”

“No, you’re not.” But neither was she, and none of this added up. Jordan tried a different tack. “You’re here because of Lucy, because she’s sick? Why not see a doctor at home?”

“Because Alena Petrenko is the best in her field.”

Jordan pushed herself up from the wall. “You’re sure you didn’t know either of these two men?”

“I’ve never seen either of them before.”

It might make sense if Cline had been in the square to protect the judge. But Daugherty would have been the one who assigned him, and Daugherty thought he had already left for D.C. Plus, it didn’t fit for the sniper to kill the Palestinian and then take a shot at Taylor. He had to be shooting at someone else.

“For what it’s worth,” Jordan said, “I don’t think you were the target. I think you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, your face has been all over the news, and we need to get you out of here.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll send someone with you to help pack up your things and make arrangements for you and your daughter to stay at the embassy until we can get you on a flight back to the U.S.”

“No.” He spoke sharply, and Lucy’s head turned in their direction. He gestured to his daughter that things were okay. “We aren’t leaving.”

Jordan frowned. “Excuse me?”

“We need to stay.”

“Look, I don’t know what prompted you to come here in the first place, but now it’s clear that the only reasonable thing for you to do is to go home.”

“We can’t,” said Taylor. “Not yet. Besides, you said it yourself, no one was shooting at me.”

Jordan heard the conviction in his voice, but it carried no logic.

“Judge Taylor, maybe you don’t value your own life, but what about Lucy’s? What about her life?” She gestured toward the girl, who was paying close attention.

“You’re right. We probably would be safer at home. But it’s for her sake that we have to stay.”

Jordan could hear his desperation and see it in his eyes. “The doctor?”

“Lucy goes for treatments every day. That’s where we were headed when . . .” His gaze shifted toward the bodies. “It doesn’t matter what happened here. Finishing her treatments is more important. I’m not taking her home until they’re done.” He held up a hand and measured two inches of air. “We’re this close, this close! We just need two more weeks.”