Guardian (7 page)

 

Chapter Eleven

K
harija stood at the top of the terraced gardens of the Shrine of Báb and gazed out over Haifa toward the intoxicating blue waters of the Mediterranean. The view from the top of Mount Carmel was, albeit a cliché, absolutely breathtaking. All at once he could see the surrounding gardens with their lush grass and manicured hedges, the exquisite dome of the shrine half a kilometer below him, the skyline of Haifa, and the sea. For a moment he forgot he was not a tourist like the dozens of ­people around him, hiking and chatting and snapping photographs.

But you are playing tourist for a day, and you have somewhat enjoyed i
t
, he thought, and commenced his descent down the stairs toward the base of the shrine.
That is why you came here. To be a normal person for a few hours before baiting the hound.

Yet it felt false, no matter how much he wanted to appreciate the beauty. He knew why, of course. He was alone. Without Malika and Rasha, he was nothing. A tool. A means to a regional holocaust. But he would willingly bring about that holocaust to save them. Millions of strangers meant nothing to him. Malika and Rasha, though, were everything. Their lives were still savable, though he knew that the only way to save them was to bait the hound. To catch him and hand him over and ensure the holocaust Nassir desired. And he would do it. To be with them once more.

Or die trying.

Mayyat had failed to draw Caldwell into the open thus far. Two days since the first two victims had been set on the hook with not even a nibble. The man had not succumbed to his anger. The need for vengeance, which Caldwell's profile clearly reflected as a serious character trait, had not blossomed. Instead, he had probably moved deeper underground.

Kharija had learned something over the years. Better to wait and react than to simply react. He had not anticipated this, but then, he'd been desperate, and so hoped that Caldwell would fall into his usual intoxication with justified killing. As a result, he could see that a new catalyst was needed. The time had come to lay fresh bait. Kharija nodded and quickened his descent.

A cool breeze drifted off the Mediterranean and kept the high sun from heating the air beyond comfortable. Wearing a white linen shirt and slacks, Kharija looked very much the part of a successful Arab on holiday. Even the Haifa police ignored him, probably assuming he was one of the few rich Arabs who made Haifa home. Or maybe they thought he was a Syrian Jew. Either way, it worked to his advantage.

He reached the bottom of the mountain and found a gift shop. He selected a postcard with a wide view of the Shrine of Báb and the terraced gardens rising behind it. He also picked up a bottle of water and set them on the counter for the cashier.

This is a desperate and terrible plan,
he thought.
But what choice do I have?

He thought about Malika and Rasha. Nassir's patience grew thinner by the second. And Mayyat's brutality had failed thus far. It was time to tell Caldwell where the man searching for him was. It was time to call him out directly.

Kharija handed his credit card to the cashier and said a silent prayer for his family.

K
itra Shamar reached across her desk snatched the phone. “Shamar.”

“Director, a credit card registered to Kharija bin Al-­Aswad was used an hour ago.”

Surprised, Kitra rocked back in her chair. She had told Mike she would keep an eye out for Kharija in case he surfaced. One of the standard procedures was to flag the name in the event a credit card or a computer log-­in or something similar was used. She never dreamed the credit card would pop. Maybe under an alias, but his real name? An amateur's mistake. Kharija knew better.

If it was a mistake.

“Where?” Kitra asked.

“A gift shop in Haifa.”

“Haifa?”

“Yes, Director.”

What in God's name was he doing in Israel, let alone Haifa? Definitely not a mistake using the credit card. Not dumb, either. Kharija. would not be stupid enough to use a credit card with his real name anywhere in the world right now. Not a career intelligence man like him. He had to have done it on purpose. In Haifa.

Haifa. Israel.

Kitra leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk, feeling like the entirety of her country's history and future used her shoulders as a foundation. “Very well. Alert me if anything else is discovered.”

“Do you wish us to deploy-­”

“Not yet. Keep me informed.”

She hung up the phone and then rubbed the back of her neck. What was Kharija playing at? Kitra had ­people in Haifa. She knew they could be ready to move in an hour if they found Kharija's location. But without a decent photo, the only description they had was from Mike Caldwell. And how had he described him? A wealthy-­looking Arab with incredible teeth.

Hell. She'd laughed at the description at the time. It pretty much summed up any well-­off Semitic person from Saudi Arabia to Turkey. In the cities, especially one like Haifa, a person meeting that description would not stand out one bit. No, Caldwell's description did not help.

I should have prepared for him to show up here. Our involvement in Caldwell's rescue was enough reason to consider this course.

But how could she have known the man would show up in her own backyard? It was craziness. Yet, after all the years in the intelligence field, she knew crazy was a far too common outcome to many situations.

Kitra sighed, picked up the phone and dialed a new number. She would give the description of Kharija to the security forces and the police. And hopefully they would find him before whatever game the man was playing took a deadly turn.

A
bu Umar sat at his computer in his Baghdad apartment, reviewing the latest e-­mails from fellow Brothers around the world. Every one of them basically read the same way:
All conditions normal.
Normal was not what Abu wanted.

To say the alert for Kharija had yielded nothing so far would be an understatement. Once again the traitor had vanished like a ghost. And the chances of ever finding him again decreased with each passing second.

At least the entire order now knew to turn over every rock for Kharija and contain him if possible. The disasters of Gazzar and Haddad had convinced the order's upper leadership to inform all Brothers, rather than to keep the information restricted to Abu and his security team. They had not wanted to do this, out of fear that other traitors still lurking in the shadows might alert Kharija, but Abu had convinced them the only way they would find him now was if all eyes searched for him. He did not reiterate that his team had failed twice to bring Kharija in. He also did not mention that he needed the help.

Help to find and contain, Abu thought. Not kill. He wanted that honor for himself. Kharija had earned it, and Abu desired it more than anything. Besides, they could not risk any more Brothers who had no idea what they faced. Kharija was more dangerous than any of them, even Abu himself. No, they had learned their lesson the hard way in Cairo and An Nasiriyah. Find him and report to Abu was the command. And then Abu would bring his team and do the job the right way this time.

And savor the traitor's blood.

Unless Kharija has already seduced more Brothers into supporting him and he was alerted before they came. Abu thought about it, then shook his head. He had no choice right now but to trust his Brothers, even if doubt shrank his heart.

The best thing that could happen would be to find and eliminate Kharija within the next twenty-­four hours. Then the threat to the order would be neutralized, as well as whatever the traitor had planned, without fear of him disappearing for the next twenty years and operating from a cave in northern Pakistan.

So find him already.

Sure. Easier said than done. Every last known residence, place of business, restaurant, anywhere and everywhere Kharija frequented, had been searched and was presently under surveillance. No clues had been discovered. Not one hint of what the man was up to or who he had further corrupted. Kharija was a lethal specter by choice. He had even made sure his wife and daughter left nothing behind that could lead the order on a shallow promise of a trail.

Close to losing control of his frustration, Abu lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. As he exhaled, he saw, through the rippling waves of smoke rising in front of him, a new e-­mail arrive in his in-­box. From a Brother in Israel, of all places.

Abu double-­clicked it and a new window opened, taking up the entire screen. It was a short note to him and the other security chiefs within the order.

Israeli security and police forces ordered to find and apprehend Kharaji bin Al-­Aswad. Special emphasis placed on the city of Haifa. Basic physical description only.

Abu reread the e-­mail several times.
Haifa?

The American,
he thought.
Rescued by the Israelis.
Haddad had given them Kharija's name. Now they were on the hunt as well.

A lot of wolves hunting a wolf, no?

He closed the e-­mail and started planning how to get himself and a team into the Hebrew fortress that was Israel. It would not be easy. Nor would bringing in weapons. They would have to exploit an old Hezbollah gun and rocket smuggling tunnel the order had assumed for trafficking Brothers in and out of the country. And that would take time. Time Abu knew he did not have if he hoped to catch Kharaji in Haifa.

He stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his cell phone and called to have one of the order's Learjets fueled and standing by to take him and his team from Baghdad to Beirut immediately.

M
ike stood at the window in his hotel room outside the Washington Navy Yard. From his eighth floor room he stared at Nationals Park, trying to remember the last time he'd been to a baseball game. Trying to remember the last time he'd watched one on the tube. Trying to remember the last time he'd done anything normal. Yeah, he couldn't remember shit. Other than the night with Katherine. But that—­

No, asshole, that was normal, too
.
Drunk on both sides, sure, but normal. It's what normal drunk ­people do and you enjoyed it and so did she and—­

His cell phone rang. “Hey, Glenn.”

“You should check your caller identification before answering.”

Mike didn't recognize the female voice at first and wondered if the killer had somehow managed to snag his number. He had no idea how, but these ­people had proven resourceful so far. Then he realized it was very unlikely the killer was a female.

“Who is this?”

“Kitra.”

Shamar
. “How'd you—­” Mike cut himself off, remembering Kitra had retrieved his phone from his shot-­to-­shit car. Must have noted it then. “How's it going?”

“I thought you would like to know your man Kharija has popped up in Haifa.”

“Haifa?”

“Yes, I was as surprised as you are when I found out. He used a credit card to purchase some trinkets at a gift shop.”

“What a piece of work.”

“What do you mean?”

Mike told her about the two murders, including the amputations. “And now the ringleader pops up in Haifa and just happens to use a credit card he knows will get flagged.”

“An invitation to the hunt.”

“It's not inviting.” Mike turned away from the window. “It's daring. He's daring me to come out and play.”

“I assume he has not poked you in the right spot yet?”

Mike gritted his teeth, thinking of Temms and Katherine.
Oh, he has.
And now that I know where he is, I just have to slip under Glenn's radar and hitch a ride to Haifa.
“No, not yet.”

“Well, you have an open invitation to Israel as a guest of mine if you choose to come. Together, we could hunt him. In the meantime, know that I have my ­people searching Haifa for him.”

“Thank you, Kitra.”

Mike hung up and turned back to the window. He scratched at the sill with his fingernail, wishing he could leave right now. But he also knew never to do what a crazy motherfucker wants you to, when he wants you to do it. Instead, he would wait and let Kharija stew, and hopefully lull Glenn enough for him to escape.

Or I can eat the bullet,
Mike thought, shaking his head. Or go to church. Maybe a priest could wash the mark off with holy water.

Yeah, like it'd be that easy.

 

Chapter Twelve

“T
hree days and nothing,” Kharija said, pacing his hotel room in the dark, cell phone pressed to his ear as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling over. Three days without sleep and nothing to show for it had turned him into a wreck. “I sit here and wait and you sit and do nothing.”

“You know that is not true,” Mayyat said.

“Two ­people Caldwell knows are dead. He must have knowledge of my whereabouts by now. Yet he has not shown up here yet.
No one has!
I wait and the abduction team waits and you wait and Caldwell remains hidden.”

“What did you expect, Kharija? For him to jump on a plane as soon as he heard you are in Haifa? He is probably sitting and assessing, trying to determine how you are playing this. Even if he was in Haifa, how would he find you right away? This will take time.”

“I am not that hard to find.”

“Has Mossad found you because you know they flagged you as soon as your credit card popped? Yet no one has closed in on you. Again, this will take time. You know this.”

“Why have you not moved on the next target?”

“Because the American does not have significant motivation yet.”

“How so?” Kharija rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sleep had avoided him. Instead of dreams, his restless nights had been filled with images of his wife and daughter, huddled together, Nassir standing over them with a knife or gun. It varied from hour to hour.

“Two ­people he knew have been eliminated. By now he realizes who is behind the deaths and what the reason is. And he knows who the next target may be. So, he will have warned that person without having to reveal himself. There is no further motivation for him to step out of the shadows. To him, pursuing you is not worth the risk.”

“Killing two ­people close to him and me dancing almost in public to take responsibility for their deaths are not enticement enough?”

“No.”

Kharija caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the desk. Haggard. Eyes, bloodshot. “And how do you propose to make me worth the risk?”

“I must make it more personal. Only then will he risk his life. Only then will he be incensed enough to chase you. To kill you and avenge his losses. To jump on the next plane to Haifa.”

“I cannot wait here forever while you play your game.”

“You must remain patient.”

Kharija kicked the desk chair into the wall on the opposite side of the room. “There are more things at stake than my patience!”

Mayyat remained silent a moment. “I understand. I promise you, I will force him into the light.”

“You better, lest I remind you what will happen to both of us if this fails.”

“No need for that.”

A
bu moved up the stairwell, Glock in hand. His three-­man team followed, carrying the same type of pistols, all of them silenced. When they reached the sixth floor, Abu paused and peeked through the door's small rectangular window into a well-­lit hallway.

Quiet.

He checked his watch. Just after midnight. He hoped Kharija would be in bed and asleep.

Abu opened the door and moved into the hallway, gun raised and leveled. He scanned the numbers on the room doors. Earlier, the front desk had called the Haifa police after room ser­vice reported a man matching the basic description of Kharija in Room 614 to the night manager. Luckily, a janitor of Syrian descent overheard the conversation between the two and immediately called one of the Brothers in Haifa, a Brother who had put the word out on the street three days ago that Kharija was wanted by Hezbollah, that there was a hefty award for anyone who had information about him, and to contact him if anyone heard or saw anything. The Brother then called Abu.

Thanks be to Allah, he and his team were already mobile and nearby. They had arrived before the Haifa police, again Allah be praised. How long they had, though, he could only guess. Three minutes, maybe less.

Room 611 . . . 612 . . . 613.

Abu froze and hugged the wall. He motioned for his team to take position. Then he inched toward Room 614.

He listened for a second. Kharija's voice on the other side, yelling. Probably on the phone. But to be sure, Abu motioned one of his men over, pointed at his eyes and then at the door. The man nodded and pulled a fiberoptic scope camera from his backpack. He slipped the flexible probe under the door and turned on the five-­centimeter-­wide LCD screen.

It took a moment for the resolution to clear. Once it had, the width of the hotel room came into focus. And there was Kharija, pacing, brow-­beating whoever was on the other end of the phone.

Now you are mine,
Abu thought.

But before he signaled the others to enter Kharija's room, he had the camera operator move across the hall and repeat the process with Room 613. Abu looked over the man's shoulder at the screen. He counted four men inside. Two on a bed conversing, the other two watched television. Automatic weapons rested within all of their reaches.

Abu signaled the others. As they moved around Kharija's door, he pulled a black marker from his pocket and scribbled over the peephole for 613. Then he trained his Glock on the door, covering his team.

In position, Abu nodded and the man across from him, who raised his foot to kick Kharija's door in.

“D
o not forget time is of the essence right now,” Kharija said. “I understand your strategy but haste is more important than perfection.”

“I have not forgotten.”

Kharija caught a shadow moving through the crack at the bottom of the door. “I will call you later.”

He hung up, slipped the phone in his pocket and hurried to the kitchenette. Behind him, the door buckled, but the dead bolt held. He grabbed a steak knife from the counter. Another kick and the frame busted, splinters flew, and the door swung in.

Kharija moved in the dark to the side and flattened his back against the wall. He held the knife in his right hand at chest level. Footsteps. Several ­people, by his estimation.

The exhaustion faded. His nerves tingled. His weary eyes sharpened.

An arm holding a pistol emerged from the other side of the wall closest to him. As soon as the head of the man came into sight, Kharija's left arm sprung out and wrapped around his the man's extended hands. At the same time, he sliced the knife across the man's throat. Blood burst from the carotid artery, and Kharija turned his head to prevent the spray from blinding him.

The footsteps in the apartment went from controlled to frantic. Kharija pulled the dying man toward him, using his body as a shield. Dropping the steak knife, he freed the pistol from the man's dying grip. Hot blood pumped from the man's throat onto his arm and shirt, but Kharija ignored it, surveying his new threats.

W
hen the door was busted in behind Abu, he did not turn to look. Instead, he watched Room 613. A second later that door flew open and a man with an AK-­47 stood in the doorway. His rifle was pointed at the floor, his face a nest of confusion. Abu fired a single round into his forehead.

As the body dropped, another came into view. This one raised an AK-­47 toward Abu. He fired two rounds. One hit the man's gut. The other went higher and tore a hole through his throat.

Abu dropped to one knee. The third man pivoted from around a wall, rifled pointed high. Abu shot him in the knee. When he hit the floor screaming, Abu shot him in the face.

The fourth man did not appear.

Behind Abu, he heard screaming from his own men. And gunshots.

Something has gone wrong.

But he did not take his eyes off 613. Then he caught movement. A shadow on the right wall.

Abu entered Room 613 and pressed his back against the entryway wall. He made no sound. The shadow of the fourth man still danced on the wall. He reached down and grabbed the AK-­47 from the first man he'd killed, tossed it into the room toward one of the beds.

A burst of automatic fire erupted toward the projectile, and the stock of the thrown weapon exploded in splinters.

Abu pivoted around the corner and found the man, rifle raised. He was bare-­chested and covered with tattoos. Another Brother corrupted by Kharija. His eyes were wide and face slack as he realized he had fallen for a simple trick. Abu shot him in the head, then turned and hurried back to Kharija's room.

T
hree other men moved into Kharija's room and swung toward him, their pistols leveled. He raised the pistol he had taken off the man he'd killed and fired two rounds at the man on his left. The first bullet missed but the second hit his torso, ripped through him and dropped him to the floor.

A bullet cut the air above Kharija's head. He ducked and lowered the pistol, swung it up under his human shield's armpit and fired three quick shots. A scream rang out and he heard another body fall.

“It is over, Kharija.”

“Is that you, Abu?” Kharija peeked over the shoulder of the human shield, recognizing the man even in the darkness. Abu's slight frame and thin neck were lit by the light pouring in from the hallway. “It seems I have eliminated all but you. I have a team next door who should be coming out any moment. How is it over?”

“I have eliminated your team.”

Of course you have.
“Then it is just you and I. Again, how is it over?”

“Five rounds per man. We were in a hurry and had a hard time procuring ammunition in Lebanon. There are no more bullets in your weapon.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“It is what it is.”

“I do not want to kill any more Brothers, Abu. Let me walk away.”

“We are not your Brothers anymore. You betrayed and turned our own against us like the dead in the other room. You declared war on us.”

“Not by choice. And now I have moved on to other pursuits. My involuntary war with the order is over. It ended with Haddad.”

“Why, Kharija? Why are you doing this?”

“My family.”

“Over the order?”

“Are you surprised I value them more than you? Perhaps you are, since you have no one.”

“Who has threatened your family?”

“It does not matter.”

“Whoever it is, you must resist.”

This is going nowhere,
Kharija thought, but he would keep him talking. “Easier said than done.”

“I do not know what you are planning but I fear it.”

“So do I, Abu. But I cannot stop.”

“Then I will still hunt you.”

“That is your prerogative.”

Two shots ripped into the human shield. Kharija pulled the trigger and thanked Allah Abu had been lying about the lack of bullets. He fired and heard Abu grunt and backpedal.

Kharija was about to advance on him when he heard police sirens wailing outside. With no time to waste, he released the body that had been protecting him, sprinted through the busted front door and down the hallway. As he ran, he stripped off his blood-­soaked shirt off and wiped his face.

Once he reached the stairwell, he threw the door open and took the stairs down two at a time to the ground floor, where he heard feet pounding in through the main entrance. Rather than sit tight, he went down one more level, to the parking garage. He hoped the police had forgotten to secure it, in their desire to race up to the sixth floor and apprehend him.

He glanced out the door. No luck. Two police automobiles blocked the garage exit. It seemed he had reached the end of the line when he noticed a custodial office directly across from the stairwell.

Maybe it was empty. Maybe there was a place to hide for an hour or so.

With no other choice, he slipped out the door and ran, crouched, across the concrete garage to the office. He opened and shut the door and pressed his back to it, breathing heavily.

“Who are you?”

Damn it.

To his right sat an older Arab man in slacks and a smock. A hotel employee. Kharija knew he could not trust him, but maybe he could play the man's ethnic sympathies off against the Jews.

“Allah be praised, I thought I was abandoned.” Kharija moved toward him, hands held against his chest as a sign of peace.

The custodian's eyebrows narrowed. “You came for the man on the sixth floor?”

Kharija's head cocked slightly but he nodded. What false information had Abu floated among the local Arabs? “Yes, but the police were too fast.”

“Did he escape?”

“No, he is dead, unfortunately.”

“I served Hezbollah well, though. That will be remembered even if you failed, correct?” The custodian ran two fingers together, as if massaging a dinar or shekel.

Had the order leaked that he was wanted by Hezbollah? Kharija wondered.
Abu, you simpleton, it almost worked.

“Of course, your foresight will be rewarded,” he said. “But for now, you will have to help me escape. More awaits you for your further assistance.”

The old man nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at another door. “A ser­vice entrance lies through there. You can lay low in the dirty laundry until they leave.”

“Very well. Can I also trouble you for a uniform like the one you are wearing?”

“There are a few soiled ones in there. Grab whatever you need.”

“Thank you.”

Kharija sprung forward and grabbed the man's head, circled behind him and twisted it violently to the left. The body jerked and then slumped, lifeless eyes staring up at him. He closed them and lowered the body to the floor.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I could not risk it. You desire money. How could I trust you would remain ignorant of who I am and not sell me to the Hebrews or my own order?”

Kharija moved to the ser­vice entrance and searched for a secure place to hide.

And if they bring dogs?
He looked at his hands and arms, still covered in blood. Perhaps it would be enough to mask his scent.