Fuse of Armageddon (40 page)

“Not my worry. They’re hidden pretty well and not going anywhere.”

“Quinn,” Kate said, “that might be like leaving all those men there to die.”

“Whoever sent the two agents to get me is going to send more when the first two don’t report back. Our biggest worry is how long that’s going to take. I just hope it’s enough time to give us a good head start.”

“We haven’t done anything wrong,” she said. “We don’t need to run. Let’s make some calls. Media. Law enforcement. Someone who can help.”

“Here’s a quick recap. Our van explodes right after Hamer tells me to start driving. Had to be a remote signal—not a problem for IDF. I put myself up for bait, call Hamer back. His guys show up. I know they’re his guys because they don’t ask about you; and they don’t ask about you because I just finished telling Hamer you’re dead. Hamer wants me as dead as you. I know this because the van exploded, but instead of putting me down as soon as I’m in the safe house, his guys first try starting me like a car. Why? Because Hamer believes I have something of value to give up. How long would they have let me live once they learned it? And how long are we going to live once IDF knows we’re on the loose? They can get to us anywhere, Kate.”

“The explosives had to be in place before we picked up the van.” Kate looked past Quinn, blinking as she thought it through. She turned her eyes on him again. “What is it you know that makes them want you dead?”

He shook his head. “We didn’t know anything before the van blew. Two questions then: What does Hamer gain if we’re dead? Why had he decided to kill us early enough to rig the van with explosives before we picked it up? That was then. Now he’s really motivated to make sure we are dead. Because we’ve learned a lot more since the van blew.”

“I know where you’re going with this.”

“Yeah. When someone comes back for those agents, Hamer will know we know about a safe house that leads to the orphanage through a tunnel beneath the street. And that we know about the failed IDF op to land on the Temple Mount. This operation was in place long before the hostages were taken here. Tell me if that suggests something to you.”

“This is big. A setup like this doesn’t happen unless it gets sanctioned by the top.”

“It is big. One of the things it means is that someone knew what Safady had planned. We’re in the middle of it and have no idea what’s going on.”

That was a partial lie. Quinn had some idea. The heifer. Soon enough, he’d have to tell her about it. And he hoped she would understand too.

In the Air over Jerusalem • 18:09 GMT


The helicopter tilted dangerously as it made a turn.

Jonathan Silver found it strange that he wasn’t terrified. Instead, he was enjoying a sense of peace. He had his arm around Alyiah and was whispering comforting words. The little girl couldn’t understand, of course, but he knew she was able to absorb his calmness. She had one hand across her chest to reach upward and touch his arm where it rested on her shoulder.

Would the helicopter crash? Silver had been praying it wouldn’t. But he was also content to let the future be in God’s hands.

As he looked out, the helicopter’s floodlight showed high stone walls. Then, briefly, a bell-shaped gold dome.

Impossible,
he told himself.
We couldn’t be at the—

The helicopter leveled, then began to fall. Slowly.

It wobbled precariously a few times. But one side of the landing bar touched down; then the other banged the ground.

It was on land.

No explosions.

The inside of the helicopter became a chaos of movement as the engines shut down. Noise of human yelling replaced the throb of the motors.

Silver found himself pushed up. He made sure he had the little girl’s hand and tried to protect her as people moved all around them. Silver looked in disbelief through the open door of the chopper and saw the dome outlined against the night sky.

Impossible,
he told himself again. Yet if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, they were at the Dome of the Rock. Almost in the night shadows of the shrine.

With security guards rushing toward them, armed with machine guns.

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 18:14 GMT


“Let’s make some phone calls for help,” Kate suggested again. They had taken a few minutes to shake any followers, then had returned back to the area near the safe house, clicking on the Mercedes key, hoping to identify the car by seeing blinking lights. “I think the chances of surviving protective custody are better than finding out what this is all about. And once we’re on an airplane headed for the United States, we’re fine.”

“We’re in Gaza,” Quinn said, “not Chicago or New York. Protective custody will make us sitting ducks. Whoever is capable of organizing something like this is easily capable of finding a way to get rid of us and cover it up.”

“You want me to bet my life that you’re right, but from my point of view, you’re going to argue against anything that gets you on the airplane, headed for prison.”

“I’m not the one betting your life. The dice have already been thrown.” Quinn handed her a cell phone taken from the IDF agents, along with a pistol. “But if you think the reason I want us on the run is to avoid extradition, go ahead; make your first call. Just think of where we are and how easy it is for something to happen between here and two coach seats out of Ben-Gurion. And remember that even when we got in the air the first time, we didn’t get very much farther.”

Kate took the phone and flipped it open. Then she studied Quinn’s face and snapped the cell shut again. “Here’s the deal. We play it your way for twenty-four hours. Then I make my calls. If it turns out you’re doing this to get away from me, I’ll spend the rest of my life tracking you down.”

They’d stopped. They stood not far apart. In the darkness, along with the rush of surviving attempts on their lives and the chemistry that lingered from their first conversation in Acco, it seemed even closer, almost intimate. Quinn had the feeling all he had to do was move a little nearer. He wanted a touch. Any touch. A kiss on her forehead. A hand on her shoulder.

“Deal,” he said, mentally pushing away the danger of intimacy. He took a step farther down the street. “Now give me your cell phone. I have an idea.”

39

Temple Mount, Jerusalem • 18:14 GMT


Safady stepped down from the helicopter, arms raised high.

Both choppers had landed easily in a wide area on the Temple Mount, well away from the Dome of the Rock. The engines had been immediately shut down, and the choppers’ blades were slowly thumping into silence.

It was dark except for flashlights trained on the helicopters by the Waqf security—Muslim guards armed with machine guns. There were twenty-two, Safady noted with satisfaction and relief. Based on intelligence reports, this was the entire unit. The Waqf security had fanned out in a wide oval that surrounded both helicopters.

“Who is in charge here?” Safady called loudly in Arabic.

“Keep your hands raised,” a voice to his left said. “Walk toward me slowly.”

Flashlight beams blinded Safady as he obeyed the command.

“No,” barked the commander. “All flashlights on the choppers!”

The beams moved back to illuminate the sides of the choppers, except for one, trained squarely on his eyes to reduce his vision.

“Nobody steps off the choppers,” the commander shouted.

Arabic, Safady noticed. This was good. It meant the commander assumed there were more Palestinians aboard the helicopters.

“Any sign of weapons and we open fire.”

Safady had no doubt the guards were filled with adrenaline. Fingers on triggers. Eyes intent on the first sign of danger from the choppers.

Safady was only a couple of steps away, unable to see past the flashlight beam in his face. “We will disembark in whatever way you order us,” Safady said. “We praise Allah that we were able to reach this refuge.”

“How many of you?” the commander asked. “Are the media reports accurate?”

“Only because I made sure the world was watching,” Safady answered. “You know the situation. We had safe passage to Jordan until rocket fire disabled the helicopter.”

“You still have the American hostages.”

“Our only leverage. Much as I wished to throw them overboard.”

This remark was met with a grunt. “You know the walls of the mount are surrounded by Israeli military already.”

“I do,” Safady said. “They don’t dare take us. Not on sacred ground.”

“You’ve made this difficult for us.”

“You would release us to the Israelis?”

“That will be their demand.”

“And mine will be for another helicopter. In one hour, we will be gone from here. You will have served Allah by allowing this.” Safady paused. “It would be helpful if you allowed me to put my arms down. And the light on my eyes is painful.”

“Keep your distance then.”

“You don’t trust a brother?”

“A brother who brings us trouble. Choppers. Wanted by the Israelis. Hostages. The entire Israeli army will be against us tonight.”

“One hour,” Safady said. “I may put my arms down?”

“I want you to return to the choppers and order everyone to stay on board. Understand?”

“My arms,” Safady said. “Give me some dignity.”

“Put them down,” came the grudging answer. “Slowly.”

Safady felt like a conductor as he began to lower his arms, knowing his movement had already triggered two countdowns.

As his hands hit his sides, he lifted them again and plugged his ears and shut his eyes hard for the first round of grenades.

The choppers burst into supernovas of blinding, searing light as stun grenades thrown from both helicopters detonated in perfect synchronization, sending shock waves of noise outward.

M84 stun grenades—
flashbangs—
had one million candela of flash each. Designed to overwhelm the photosensitive cells of the retina, making vision impossible for several seconds. With their eyes intent on the choppers, these security guards were rendered blind.

The flashbangs also blasted the Muslim guards with 180 decibels of explosion, disturbing the fluid in the ear canals so badly that they staggered with dizziness. Even with ears plugged and eyes shut, facing away from the choppers, Safady barely maintained his orientation.

This was the first countdown, giving a five- to seven-second window of opportunity as the Muslim guards tried to reorient themselves.

Safady dove to his side and landed on his belly, curling into a ball with his back to the choppers, knowing a round of sting grenades was already in the air, thrown by soldiers ready at the chopper doors.

Hornets’ nests
, enclosed not with metal casing but with two hard spheres of rubber. The inner sphere held the primer, explosive charge, and primer pin. Between the wall of the inner sphere and the outer wall of each were dozens of BB-size hard rubber balls.

The sting grenades bounced toward the Muslim guards, who were flailing to keep their balance, unable to hear the thud of the grenades’ impact on the stone of the courtyard. Safady knew another couple dozen sting grenades would follow the first wave.

The explosions of these grenades were much more muffled, far less dramatic than the flashbangs. Safady had gritted his teeth, knowing some of the pellets would hit his body no matter how he protected himself. He was deluged; most of the projectiles ricocheted off his Kevlar, but a few slammed his thighs and the back of his skull. He bit off a scream of pain.

Around him, however, the hornets’ nests had done far more damage, sending the Muslim guards to their knees in agony, knocking some unconscious. The second wave detonated a few seconds later, again hitting Safady with a barrage of pellets.

Then came the thumping of army boots. Safady rolled onto his side, seeing the bobbing beams of flashlights as Saxon’s platoon rushed from the choppers.

Half were armed with machine guns and stopped a few yards short of the incapacitated Muslim guards. The other half continued to rush forward with cans of Mace.

Safady rolled onto his back, one hand over his eyes, the other over his mouth and nose. This was not only a visual clue to the soldiers to leave him alone but also protection in case one of them mistook him for a Muslim guard anyway.

Feet rushed around him.

The Mace was directed at the ring of dazed security guards, who were on their knees or bellies or staggering in small circles. Coldly and efficiently, the Freedom Crusaders blasted the Muslims and, when the Mace had cleared, began kicking the helpless security guards until all were on their stomachs.

As this happened, Safady slowly found his feet. Above the screaming and moaning, he called out clearly in Arabic to the downed security guards. “Hands behind your backs. Any resistance as you are put in cuffs and you will be shot in the head.”

Then Safady moved to the commander, and knelt beside him. “I want your cell phone,” he said.

No answer.

Safady nodded at one of Saxon’s men, who stepped forward and put a machine-gun barrel against the back of the Muslim’s head.

“I’ll get it myself,” Safady said, taking the phone from a belt clip.

He dialed a number and, when the call was answered, spoke in rapid-fire sentences, supplied the correct passwords to the Waqf security man on the other side, then hung up, knowing that this security man believed everything was still under Waqf control on the Temple Mount.

Amazing,
Safady thought.
How could this mission fail?

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 18:22 GMT


In a way, Quinn was grateful that night had descended. He and Kate had a better chance of blending in with the people still crowding the streets. This was the Gaza Strip. Few streets weren’t crowded.

It took them only a few minutes to find the Mercedes two blocks away, parked in front of a café that had high, wailing music coming from cheap speakers above tables set on the sidewalk. The car was dusty and black and a few years old—not something that would get a lot of attention.