Fuse of Armageddon (18 page)

Quinn fought showing a reaction. The man was directly implying he was Safady. “We need more than sixty seconds here.” It was important to get the other side to make concessions early. “I’m going to do everything possible to help you get what you want, as long as you keep the Americans safe.”

“You are not curious as to my identity? I know who you are—the man who wants me dead. And I, in return, want you dead. But you will serve my purpose for now.”

Quinn needed to stay focused. The man underneath the mask could be anyone. Safady or not, it was obvious the man was trying to unsettle Quinn. “I’ll need proof that you have them and that they are alive,” he said, ignoring the issue of the man’s identity. “Then we can talk.”

The man moved away, and a half second later, another face was shoved in front of the camera, a hunting knife visible at the man’s throat.

Jonathan Silver.

“We are all in good health,” he said in a shaky voice that did nothing to hide his naked fear. “Please help.”

He was yanked away again, a hand visible as it pulled his hair.

The masked man returned. “I am the Black Prince. The Americans are hostages of Red September and will pay the price for America’s support of Israel’s oppression of Palestine unless my demands are met.”

So this was Safady. Or someone claiming to be Safady. Which?

“Twenty seconds left,” Quinn said. “If that’s all you’re giving me, how can I begin to make it happen?”

“I lied,” Safady said. “You don’t have that much time. I just wanted to see your face. To dream about what it’s going to be like to watch the terror in your eyes when I finally kill you. Like I killed your family. Good-bye.”

Beneath the desk, Quinn had his hands in fists. His forearms quivered at the effort it was taking him to stay in a relaxed position.

The face on the screen remained briefly, the eyes flicking back and forth as the man in the mask studied Quinn’s face. Then the face disappeared as the conference terminated.

“That’s it?” Zvi asked. “What kind of negotiating was that?”

Quinn was still watching the screen. The instant message box popped up.

BP:
Still there?


BP. Black Prince.
Quinn hit the keyboard. The conversation scrolled downward as his fingers clicked.

MQ:
Still here.


BP:
Tomorrow at 10 a.m., two hostages die unless $10 million is deposited into the bank account of my choosing. This will be seen as a good-faith gesture.


MQ:
Can’t make decision without authority from family and organization. How can I contact you with questions?


BP:
I contact you. Ten million is only the beginning. Two die every hour until my total ransom demand is fulfilled.


MQ:
What is total?


BP:
The ransom must equal all of the money that FCU has raised for Israel in the last twenty years. It will be spent in a similar way on Palestinians.


MQ:
I need an amount here to take back to the family and organization.


BP:
I also want to see this computer conversation broadcast on Silver’s Christian network. Maybe they will raise the money for him.


MQ:
How much?


BP:
That would be justice—if Silver’s people run a telethon to raise money for Palestine, like the many telethons that raised money for Israel. I want to see the announcers begging for money for Palestine like they’ve begged for money for Israel. Once the money has been raised, Jonathan Silver and the other Americans will be released.


MQ:
How much?


BP:
I’ve made it clear. The amount that Silver and other evangelists have raised for Israel while ignoring Palestine: $650 million.


14

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 8:04 GMT


Jonathan Silver was in his bunk, trying to fall back asleep. His eyes were squinted shut against the sunlight, and he tried to imagine the hero’s welcome he would receive when he was released. A shadow fell across his face. Something or someone tapped his shoulder. A giggle came from near his ear.

Silver opened his eyes. Reality replaced his dreams. He was in the room with bunk beds lined up military-style.

The girl standing above him was the crippled girl, leaning on her crutches and smiling.

He struggled to remember her name. “Good morning,” he said slowly. It tore his heart, the contrast of her cheerfulness against the disfigurement of her body. For a moment, he forgot about his own self-pity.

“Good morning?” she repeated with the halting shyness of trying out new sounds.

The woman from the night before appeared behind the child. “My name is Esther. I trust you remember that this is Alyiah.”

The girl nodded in recognition of her name.

“Alyiah,” Silver repeated. He propped himself up on an elbow, conscious that he was still in the clothes he’d worn the day before and of the sour dryness of his mouth. He might be dead by nightfall, yet he was still worried about morning breath. If he could find humor in that, maybe his spirit hadn’t been as broken as Safady wanted.

“Alyiah.” The girl smiled her heartbreaking smile.

“She doesn’t speak English,” Silver said to Esther.

“What magnificent powers of observation,” she snapped. “I can see why you are one of the leaders of the American evangelical world.”

“Her crutches,” Silver said, thinking it better to ignore the sarcasm. “Why?”

“Half her leg has been amputated.” Esther’s voice rose slightly with irritation.

“I meant, why has it been amputated?”

“Ask about her leg then, not the crutches. Or the scars on her arm. There is no room here for false pity. Touch her arm.”

Silver hesitated.

“Touch it,” Esther commanded. “Look her in the eyes and tell her you are sad that her arm has been damaged like that. She won’t understand the words, but she’ll understand your compassion. These children need compassion and love. You are capable of compassion?”

Silver still hesitated. Usually he had his people around him to form a protective wall from matters like this. Otherwise all his days would be consumed by listening to pleas for help.

“She’s not a leper,” Esther snapped. “She’s also smart enough to know that you can see she is disfigured. Reach out to her.”

Silver pointed at Alyiah’s arm. He lifted his hand and brought it close. “Yes?”

The little girl nodded understanding and raised her arm for Silver to touch it.

He ran the tips of his fingers lightly over the scarred tissue. “I’m sorry for you.” Silver felt tears in his eyes as he realized he truly meant it. In that moment, he forgot he was a kidnapping victim stuck in an orphanage somewhere in the Gaza Strip.

Tears? What was happening to him? He had never been sentimental or soft.

Esther spoke to the child in Arabic, and Alyiah smiled softly at Silver before backing away and running to join other young girls.

“Israeli helicopter attack,” Esther said. “It killed her mother and younger brother.”

“Soldiers were shooting at them?” Silver said, astounded.

“No. They were civilian casualties.”

“Oh,” Silver said. “I understand.”

“You do?” Esther gave him a tight smile. “Amazing. That makes you the first. Later, I’ll gather all of these children and translate while you explain why this had to happen to them.”

“I meant—“

“Then be more careful with your words.”

Silver stared at her. Who was she to speak to him like this? She wasn’t a terrorist armed with a pistol. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I know who you are,” she answered. “And that makes you a threat to the lives of my children.”

“You were there when he warned us. None of us will try to escape. I can promise you that.”

“You think it’s that simple, don’t you? This is the Gaza Strip. You are held by Palestinian terrorists. You’ve been placed in this orphanage because the terrorists hope it will prevent the Israelis from trying a rescue attempt. The children, you see, are a shield for the terrorists. But if you’re as important as you think you are, perhaps the Israelis will choose to sacrifice Palestinian orphans to save you. That makes me wish you were back in a place where you ordered orange juice at seven dollars a glass and had a maid to clean up your dirty towels.”

Esther gave him another tight smile. “Around here, Mr. Silver, you’ll wash and dry your own dishes. Someone like you shouldn’t set a bad example for our children.”

CCTI Headquarters, Tel Aviv • 8:17 GMT


The man in Quinn’s office snapped his cell phone shut. That’s how he’d walked in—cell phone to his ear, nodding at Kate and Quinn but putting up a hand to indicate they needed to wait until he was finished.

“I’m Major General Jackson Hamer,” he said when he ended his call. “Sayeret Duvdevan.”

“I don’t speak Hebrew,” Kate said.

“Sayeret Duvdevan is Israeli Defense Force special forces,” Quinn explained. “The Mossad is an agency oriented to gathering intelligence. Sayeret Duvdevan is an IDF unit designed for hit-and-run operations. Think of a SWAT team on steroids. Except here it’s called CT—counterterror. Does that sum it up, Major General?”

Hamer nodded. “This is an IDF operation now. Zvi Cohen has given me a full briefing.”

“Jackson Hamer,” Kate repeated. “Doesn’t sound like a Jewish name. And you don’t sound like an Israeli. More like an American. And you’re here for Mossad and IDF. They allow Americans in?”

Jackson Hamer shrugged. “It was originally Hammerstein, for those who think ethnic background is an issue.”

“Must have been an issue to someone,” Kate said. She was in a bad mood and wanted everyone else to feel the same. “I wasn’t the one who changed it.”

Hamer laughed, a surprise to her. “My grandfather changed it to Hamer when he immigrated to the States from Germany. I was born in the States and lived there until my early teens. After my parents’ divorce, my mother moved us here. Small mercy that my father’s sense of humor is mainly wasted around Israelis.”

Hamer was in his late forties, slightly shorter than Kate, wide in the shoulders, but definitely not pudgy, with short, thick hair starting to gray. He had just enough angles in his cheekbones and nose to suggest a trace of Middle Eastern heritage. He wore a black shirt, black pants, and a disarming grin.

“Wasted humor around Israelis?” Kate asked. “Sounds like an ethnic slur to me.”

She caught Quinn frowning.

“Hey,” she said, “he brought out the ethnic card first. It’s like trump; once it’s out there, anyone can play it.”

“She’s right,” Hamer said. “Most people call me Hamer, but my dad liked shortening my first name to Jack. In the States, Jack Hamer sounded too much like jackhammer. Exactly what my dad wanted—to be able to point to his son and call him a little jackhammer. Stopped being funny for me a long time ago. Lucky for me, most Israelis don’t make the connection.”

Quinn said nothing, just sipped his coffee.

“I hate to bring two pieces of bad news,” Hamer said, “but Zvi couldn’t confirm the identity of the kidnapper from last night’s webcam footage.”

“And the second piece?” Quinn asked.

“His son is on the way.”

“Son?” Kate asked. “Zvi’s son?”

“Brad Silver,” Hamer said. “He was supposed to be on the tour bus yesterday but stayed back at the King David. We finally had to tell him about the kidnapping situation, of course.”

“Call him,” Quinn said. “Save him the trip in from Jerusalem.”

“I didn’t mean on the way from the King David; I meant on the way up the elevator. That call as I was walking in came from one of our men stationed in the lobby.”

“I can’t tell Brad anything that you haven’t already told him about the situation,” Quinn said. “Everything else we can relay by telephone.”

“He’s here because he wants to be part of this.”

“No,” Quinn said. “Rule number one: never involve the family in the negotiating process. Decision process maybe, but not negotiating. There needs to be a buffer.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“But he’s still on the elevator on his way up. Do American civilians have a habit of telling the Mossad and IDF what to do in a terrorist situation?”

“No. But the Israeli prime minister does.”