Dark Waters (4 page)

G
anani perched on the perimeter wall near the Dizengoff fountain and surveyed the crowd. Word about the shooting had moved through Tel Aviv like fire through a forest, and the sheer number of people gathered for the 6:00 p.m. show was as much of a spectacle as the fountain itself.

Odd how the hint of death held so much attraction. All that remained of yesterday’s incident was a spot of blood on the concrete that had refused to be washed away, yet the people pointed and whispered.

Standing, Ganani stretched and moved so she had a better vantage point of where the body had fallen. She’d been hanging around the square, waiting for Cline’s contact to show since early that morning, since an hour after Brodsky had called her and told her to get down to Dizengoff Square.

Through her government contacts, she knew that the police had not yet identified the dead accomplice and that nothing of any value had turned up at the scene. They had recovered a damaged tablet, but nothing on the hard drive had been retrievable. They had the accomplice’s knife and were running his fingerprints through AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. She thought the contact had made away with the information, but Brodsky heard through his informants that someone was making
inquiries about what had been found at the scene and wanted to identify the American witnesses.

Ganani’s stomach churned. It was a long shot, but if Cline’s contact didn’t have the USB drive and was looking for the Americans, he might return to the scene of the crime. For her sake, he had to show. She felt no remorse for the shooting, but locating Cline’s contact was an imperative. Brodsky had made that clear. Without the plans the contact had intended to trade, the mission was over. If she failed to find him and secure the plans, she didn’t know what her boss might do.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the voices of the people around her. By the time she was eight years old, she had known her destiny differed from those of her friends. Raised in Ramat HaSharon, a wealthy suburb of Tel Aviv, her father had worked for the Israeli government. He was an important man, a friend to those in the highest power. The year she turned ten, he had sent her away to school.

“Learn your languages,” he’d told her. “They will come in handy.”

Now, whenever she heard snatches of Arabic emanate from the crowd, she studied the faces. At last, she was rewarded. Three young Arabs were making their way onto the bridge. Cline’s contact was the man in the lead.

The three men climbed the rise, Cline’s contact moving with confidence. The other two men walked with more hesitancy, suggesting that they did not belong. Attractive and young, they drew attention. Women watched from hooded eyes.

Cline’s contact made a beeline for a bench to her right with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the square. He appeared to be scanning the crowd, looking for something—or someone. He suddenly tensed and spoke softly to the others. Too softly for her to pick up his words.

Ganani tracked his gaze to an American man and a young girl exiting a small garden at the Dizengoff Apartments. It was the
child who had been in the way of her shot. Why were these two foreigners of such interest to the Arabs?

Ganani snapped several pictures with her cell phone—one of the American and the child, several of the three men. The contact and one of his colleagues stayed in the shadows, but the tall one with them kept his eyes locked on the girl. The malevolence with which he regarded the child made Ganani’s skin crawl.

The man and his daughter made their way into the square and sat on a nearby bench. The fountain revved up, and the crowd oohed and ahhed. The girl appeared mesmerized, clinging to a pink purse and her father for dear life. Her father kept a hawkish gaze on the crowd. Once the fountain spun to a finish, he placed a hand on his daughter’s back and said something to her. The child nodded. The two rose and moved away in the opposite direction from where they had come.

Ganani expected the Arabs to tail the pair, but to her surprise, the men conferred.

The tall man gestured toward the apartment building on the west side of the square.

Ganani’s gaze drew a straight line from the men to the window of the apartment offices. An old man sat behind a desk near the window facing the sidewalk. If what she thought was about to happen came to pass, the old man would meet God tonight.

The Arabs headed toward the apartment building, and Ganani pushed off the wall. Ignoring the appreciative glances she drew from the men around her, she adjusted the leather vest that covered her shoulder holster and gun and smoothed her black slacks. With her white T-shirt and wide-buckle belt cinched tightly around her waist, she looked like any of the young woman getting off work in this cosmopolitan city—minus the three-inch high-heeled boots. She wore black flats instead.

She tailed the men to the front of the apartment building. The men entered, and the tall Arab lowered the blinds. Unable to see and
unwilling to draw too much attention, she walked past the apartment building. Then, making sure no one was watching, she slipped through the gate in the hedge into the garden and hurried around to the back.

The back door to the adjoining bar stood ajar, and Ganani paused. She watched for signs of people and heard only music blaring into the small courtyard. Cigarette smoke poured out of the open doorway and disappeared into the night sky like smoke drawn from a mouth to a nostril. A few apartment windows above the bar were lit up, but no one stood at the glass.

Once she was sure the garden was empty, she slipped along the pathway to the back door of the apartment office. Peering through a crack between the blinds and the edge of the window, Ganani could see that the tall Arab had backed the old man up against the wall. The Arab wanted the apartment number of the girl and her father.

The apartment manager finally spoke. Then, in one swift motion, the tall Arab slit his throat. The old man’s eyes widened in horror. His mouth gaped open. Blood sprayed from his jugular, dotting the tall Arab’s clothes and spattering across the surface of the desk. The Arab pulled back his supporting arm and dropped the corpse to the floor.

As the men inside came toward the back door, Ganani moved for cover. These men were quick to violence. Slowing her breathing, she slipped into the shadows behind an olive tree just as the door swung wide.

“The apartment is on the second floor,” the tall man said, striding to the center of the concrete patio and pointing toward the stairs. “Najm, you keep watch. Haddid, come with me.”

Neither of the men argued. The man called Najm, the smallest of the men and Cline’s contact, took up a post at the bottom of a set of open stairs. A well-muscled Arab, the one called Haddid, followed the giant up two flights of stairs to an apartment on the right.

The tall Arab knocked.

Ganani prayed the father and daughter had left no one at home.

H
addid glanced around as Mansoor pounded on the door, sensing someone watching. A resident of an adjacent apartment? A bar patron tucked into the shadows of the open doorway? Or was it Allah, as displeased with the senseless murder of the apartment manager as was Haddid? The manager was an old man. He did not need to die.

But there had been no stopping Mansoor. Haddid had not seen the knife, nor had he seen the murder coming. Worse, he had never before seen his friend unleash such violence. He knew Mansoor was enthralled with Zuabi, but this was a new level of dedication. One brought on by the death of his brother, Muatab, perhaps. Mansoor’s seemed a vengeance as yet unfulfilled.

When no one answered the knock, Mansoor raised his boot and kicked open the door. “Look for the USB drive.”

The two of them ransacked the living room—Haddid sifting through the contents of things on the tables, Mansoor sweeping everything onto the floor. He even slit the furniture, though, to Haddid, the idea of a child hiding the USB drive in the cushions seemed absurd.

Leaving Mansoor to his task, Haddid slipped through the doorway into the first bedroom. A child’s room, the walls and furniture were white. A white bedspread draped to a black-and-white-tiled
floor. The one personal touch was a gray stuffed rabbit nestled between the bed pillows. Near the door, a computer sat on a small white desk.

Haddid reached for the mouse and the screen lit up a picture of a young pop star. He wasn’t sure which one—only that the boy pretended to play a guitar.

“What have you found?” demanded Mansoor.

“It’s her computer.”

“Is there a drive?”

Haddid shook his head. “It has a password.”

Mansoor grabbed the computer and sent it smashing to the floor. “
Allah yela’an American kelbeh.
” May the Lord curse the American bitch.

“She is only a child, Mansoor.” The pain from Muatab’s death was changing Mansoor, and the depth of his friend’s anger stirred the fear lodged in Haddid’s chest.

“She is an infidel.”

Haddid bent down and picked up the computer. The screen wobbled on its hinges. “There was no need to break the computer.”

Outside, sirens blared in the distance.

Tibi yelled up from the garden. “Let’s go. Someone must have called the police.”

Mansoor headed for the front door. Haddid set down the computer and started to follow when something small and silver in the trash caught his eye. The USB drive?

Haddid leaned down and grabbed the lip of the waste can. The sirens were getting closer. He pawed through the papers and tissue in the trash, but all he found were gum wrappers. Maybe his imagination was playing tricks on him and he hadn’t really seen it. Or maybe Allah willed that it remain behind. Without the information on the device, Zuabi’s plan would be ruined. A much safer
alternative for his family and for all of Palestine than the endless war the plan’s execution would bring about.

“Haddid!” Mansoor called out.

“Coming,” Haddid set down the waste can. He would leave it. If the USB drive was there, let it end up on
GivatHaZevel
. One more piece of garbage on the rubbish hill.

G
anani pressed herself against the scratchy trunk of the
zayit
tree, breathed in its sweet sulfur smell, and waited. Upon hearing the sirens, Cline’s contact, the one named Najm, had called out to his friends. Now he paced back and forth at the base of the stairs, jumpy and nervous, startling at every noise. She focused on keeping her breath shallow and even and hoped that her dark outfit did not make too deep a shadow against the ash-gray of the tree.

Louder sirens on the street drew Najm around the corner. Someone must have discovered the old man’s body.

Ganani debated scaling the garden wall, but then she would not have what she came for. It was clear Brodsky was right. The Arabs were still after the USB drive with the schedules—the one Cline was prepared to trade. She could only guess at the content. Or, for that matter, at what these men wanted with it. She only knew her boss wanted it back, along with the plans that the Arab was supposed to pass off.

At last, the men appeared on the landing. As they headed for the gate, Ganani considered her options. There was little she could do but follow them.

She waited for the three to exit the garden before she moved out of hiding. By the time she could follow, the police had converged on the apartment manager’s office. Slipping into the bar
through the propped-open back door, she pushed her way through the crowd on the dance floor to the front door. Once outside, she scanned the crowd for the tall Arab. She caught sight of them exiting the square on the other side.

Hurrying up the rise to the square, she crossed the road and tailed the three along Dizengoff Street. She kept a respectable distance and had to run to catch the ninety-two bus when they boarded, dropping into a seat near the front as they worked their way toward the back. The other passengers eyed the men with anger and distrust. Ganani relaxed into her seat while the other passengers, along with the soldier beside her, kept watch.

For their part, the men hung together. They spoke quietly to each other, avoided eye contact with everyone, and disembarked in Yafo.

Ganani waited until the three had moved away from the stop and then climbed off the bus before it rumbled away, slipping into the shadows of the buildings. Pressing her back tight to the stone, she relaxed only after the Arabs set out, seemingly unaware of her presence.

Tailing them was more dangerous here. The residents of Yafo were mostly Israeli Arabs, and although some dressed more Western, in her attire, she would stand out as a Jew. Unzipping the pocket of her vest, Ganani pulled out her paper-thin, black pashmina and shook open the fine wool. Draping the shawl over her head and neck, she crossed the ends in front of her, flipped them back over her shoulders, and zipped up her vest to hide the belt with its flashy buckle.

She kept pace with the men. Ahead of her, Najm strode with confidence. This was his part of town. The other two kept glancing around, forcing her to hug the buildings. They didn’t belong here any more than she did.

She followed them to a four-story apartment building in the heart of al-Ajami. Here, men and women gathered in the streets
to talk. She nodded to several of the women as she passed, keeping her hair and face hidden, careful not to meet the eyes of the men. When Cline’s contact turned into the building, Ganani walked past.

Once she rounded the corner, she picked up her pace and ducked back into the alley. There were no people here. Trash littered the ground, and scrappy cats dug in the overflowing garbage. The scent of rotted meat mixed with the pungent smell of feces, and her stomach turned. Above her, small balconies faced the sea, but no one stood outside enjoying the last of the sunset. They couldn’t have handled the stench.

Ganani watched the windows for a sign and was rewarded when the light came on in a third-story window. She backed up against the wall and forced herself to hold still for ten seconds before stepping out into the alley.

She studied her options. Each floor had three windows that cut relief into the plaster wall above her. Based on the placement of the alleyway door, she deduced that one of the smaller windows was off the stairwell. Another small window most likely serviced a bathroom. Then there were the double glass sliding doors off the balcony. That was the best entry point, but there was no way to reach the balcony from where she stood.

She examined the building, taking note of a series of thin ledges running at windowsill height along the rough-plastered building. Whether a visual detail or the marking of an addition, each ledge looked wide enough to traverse. It meant going inside, up three floors, and out a window.

The back door stood ajar. Ganani approached with caution. With no one in sight, she slipped inside and climbed the first flight of stairs.

On the second landing, she encountered a group of teenage boys. Keeping her head down, she ignored their comments
about her tight pants and their questions about why she was unaccompanied.

“
Sharmuta
,” they spat. Whore.

She paused on the third-floor landing and listened for sounds of the teenagers climbing the stairs behind her. Luckily for them, they didn’t follow.

She could hear voices from inside Najm’s apartment, but only garbled words. Ganani tried the door handle first. It was locked. Not surprising. Kicking the door open was her easiest access option. She could deal with the three men, but she feared the noise would attract the teenagers and with them the rest of the neighborhood. That might jeopardize the retrieval of the drives.

Crossing to the stairwell window, Ganani grabbed the handle and yanked upward. The window squealed and stuck as she tried to raise it.

She froze.

After a few moments, when no one came, she examined the window. Either something was blocking its track or it was rusted. A quick check of the track showed no obvious obstruction.

Reaching into her vest pocket, Ganani removed a tube of lip gloss, smeared it onto the track above the window as high as she could reach, and then climbed onto the windowsill to reach higher. Suddenly, voices mixed with those of the teenagers in the stairwell, and she scrambled down from the sill. A man and a woman passed by, and she pretended to be headed down.

Once the couple turned the corner to the fourth floor, Ganani grabbed the window handle and yanked upward. The window budged. She kept pumping it up and down. It was like rocking a car out of a sand hole, with the lip gloss working a little farther into the track with each motion.

It took a few moments, but eventually the window opened enough for her to squeeze through. She listened for signs of
anyone on the stairs. Looking out, she checked the alley. Then, tying the pashmina securely around her neck, she slipped feet-first out of the window. Flipping onto her stomach, she searched the outside wall with her toes until her shoe caught an indentation. The ledge was at windowsill height, so she would need to climb before traversing.

The window frame provided the grip she needed, and she pulled herself up, using her toes for leverage. The ledge to her right was all of two inches wide. Centering her balance, she clung to the window with her left arm and reached up with her right to find a handhold. Her fingers brushed the rough plaster until she found a small indentation between the blocks.

Ganani inched her way toward the balcony that hung maybe three meters away. It seemed farther. The ledge crumbled under her feet with each step, not leaving much for her toes to grip. Fingerholds between the plaster-covered bricks became more and more difficult to find. She kept her eyes trained on the target and did her best to ignore the ground looming three stories below.

She was halfway to her destination when someone shut the window. Her heart rate quickened. A rush of white noise filled her ears like surf pounding inside a shell. Pressing forward into the plaster, she waited.

When no one raised an alarm, she drew a deep breath and started moving again. She felt relieved when her foot touched the balcony, but then the iron wobbled under her weight. A cursory inspection showed that one anchor had torn loose from the building.

Ganani cautiously lowered her weight onto the platform. The metal swayed and groaned beneath her. She caught her breath as someone came to the window.

The lighting played in her favor. The sun had set and the alley was dark, lit at only one end by a bare, low-watt bulb. Above her,
she could see a man silhouetted in the glass. She heard the latch pop and the door opened a crack.

Ganani prepared to attack. Her position was not optimal, but the element of surprise was on her side. If he jumped back, she could follow. If he leaned out to confront her, she could throw him onto the road.

“Haddid.” It was the tall man’s voice. He sounded distant.

The door shut. But she didn’t hear the man relock it.

Ganani edged her way closer to the sliding glass doors. The balcony swayed under her feet. Peering inside, she discovered the doors opened into a bedroom. A king-size bed was pushed up against the north wall and a Persian carpet covered the tile floor. A large piece of contemporary art hung on the wall.

She tested the door handle. It turned easily in her hand. Easing the door open, she slipped inside, quietly closed it behind her, and then crossed the room to the bedroom doorway.

From here, she had a clear view of the men. Their backs were toward her. Two of the men sat on the couch. The tall man perched on an ottoman.

The contact, the one called Najm, said, “We have to go back.”

“No,” said the one they had called Haddid. “We need to tell Zuabi what’s happened. We don’t know that the girl has anything, but we still have the information they wanted. Maybe Zuabi can arrange another trade.”

Najm took another swig from his bottle. “We can’t go to Zuabi without the information he needs. We must go back to Dizengoff.”

“How can we do that?” the tall man said. “Haddid is right. The police are there, and by now they will have discovered the break-in.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed the manager, Mansoor,” Najm said.

Ganani crept closer to the doorway. The tall man whom Najm had called Mansoor froze.

Harah
, shit, he had spotted her.

The man stood, shoving away the ottoman. He bolted toward her. Ganani leapt to her feet, pulled her gun, and fired.

Najm dropped his beer. The bottle shattered, and he launched himself toward her over the back of the couch.

The tall man clutched his belly and crumpled to the floor.

Fingers clamped down on her wrist. Najm smacked her elbow against the door jamb. A sharp pain caused her to loosen her grip, and he knocked the gun from her hand.

She swung her left leg and swept his feet out from under him. He landed with a crash but pulled her with him. She hit the floor hard and came up again, gasping for air.

He was back on his feet. He swung his fist, catching her jaw. Her head snapped hard to the side.

She punched his larynx. He clutched his throat and dropped to the floor.

With two men down, she picked up her gun and sought out the third. But he was gone.

Racing to the living room window, she watched as Haddid exited the front of the building. He looked up for a moment, a silhouette in the glare of the street lamp. Then, raising his arm as though waving good-bye, he disappeared into the darkness of al-Ajami. Chasing him was futile.

The tall man lay dead on the floor from the gunshot, his hands clutching his stomach, blood oozing through his fingers.

She walked over to Cline’s contact and squatted beside him. “Your friend mentioned Zuabi.”

She knew the name. He was head of the Palestine Liberation Committee, one of the main terrorist cells in Palestine.

Ganani pointed her gun at the man’s head so he would understand the importance of answering her next question. “Where is the drive that Cline was to deliver to him?”

The Arab clutched his throat and gurgled. She had crushed his larynx. He was never going to answer.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs and a fist hammered the door. “Najm. Najm, are you okay? We heard shooting.”

Her time was up.

Ganani snapped Najm’s neck before checking the computer, the coffee table, and both men for the drives. Nothing.

“Najm!” shouted a voice. She heard the deadbolt slide. She could stand, fight, and continue to search the apartment, or she could leave the way she came in and find the man who got away. Or she could pay her own visit to the Americans.

Ganani sprinted to the bedroom, slipped through the double doors, and stepped onto the swaying metal balcony. Crawling toward the ledge, she heard cries as the bodies were discovered followed by feet pounding across the bedroom floor.

Quickly, she assessed the situation. It would take too long to work her way back along the ledge to the window. Besides, someone had closed it. She couldn’t know if they had locked it, so she had to assume that they had.

Scanning the alley for another escape route, she spotted a dumpster three stories down and to the left. It was heaped with large sacks of rubbish and likely a few rats and a broken bottle or two. It would have to do.

She anchored her feet on the ledge. The double doors behind her slid open. An old saying ran through her mind:
Ein somchim al ha’nes
. One should not rely on a miracle.

She promptly dismissed it, drew a deep breath, and jumped.