Luke looked back towards the entrance to the church. He should get out of there — he’d pushed his luck already and if those two caught him there’d be fireworks. But something held him back. He had to know more. It was ten metres from here to the altar, to the left of which he saw a wooden door. He moved quietly towards it; seconds later he had his body pressed against the front wall of the church and was listening intently.
Maya Bloom was silent, but Luke could hear Stratton’s voice. He was talking quietly and the sound was muffled. Luke tried hard, but he couldn’t make anything out. Silence. Bloom spoke. Her voice was slightly clearer. ‘Where?’ she said.
It was about five seconds before Stratton replied, and because his response was just two words, clearly spoken, Luke reckoned he caught it: ‘Here. Jerusalem.’
Another silence, longer than the last.
‘When?’
The reply was indistinct again. If he hadn’t heard the word spoken at the briefing back in Hereford he’d probably have missed it.
‘Hanukkah.’
Another pause.
Stratton’s voice again: ‘The first day of the celebrations. One hour before midday.’
And then footsteps.
Luke sprinted lightly back to the column where he’d been hiding, then gave himself five seconds to listen. Nothing. And so, keeping in the shadows along the side of the church, he hurried silently back to the entrance.
A noise from the altar end. He froze. Stay fucking still, he told himself. If he moved, even slightly, he’d be clocked.
They were re-entering the main body of the church: Bloom first, Stratton second. Bloom was moving swiftly and even from this distance Luke could see that her face was severe. She turned to look at Stratton. He was strangely expressionless and for a few seconds an unanswered question seemed to hang in the air.
And then she turned. Without saying a word, she disappeared into the shadows beyond the altar. Stratton watched her go. For a dread-filled moment, he thought Stratton would see him. But he didn’t. Instead he faced the altar and bowed his head in quiet reverence.
Luke took his chance. He slipped towards the exit and seconds later he was outside, in the bright sunlight.
Finn looked narked. He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation of what his mate had just seen. But at that very moment Stratton stormed out of the church. He walked straight past them both without acknowledging their presence, and headed towards the exit of the Garden of Gethsemane.
‘Wanker,’ Finn muttered.
‘Wanker doesn’t come close.’ Together they followed their principal through the gnarled olive groves. As they went, Luke activated his comms. ‘Zero, this is Tango 17,’ he spoke into his radio mike. ‘The Cardinal’s leaving the garden now. We’re on our way.’
A brief pause and his earpiece crackled again.
‘Tango 17, this is Zero. Understood.’ A pause and then: ‘Get a fucking move on, Tango 17. This little detour’s already cost us two hours.’
Ten metres ahead, Stratton was walking through the gate and out into the street.
‘Roger that,’ Luke said. He gripped his 53 a little firmer. A voice in his head told him he might be needing it very soon.
TWENTY-FOUR
The young Palestinian crouched deep underground. He was sweating. Not because he was hot — there was no warmth down here — but because he was scared.
He could hear the scratching of rodents both behind him and up ahead, and occasionally he would see a scrawny rat scurrying in the beam of the battery-operated torch he was using to light his way. He didn’t like rats. The thought of their long, sinewy tails brushing against his skin made him shudder and he knew the stench that reeked in his nostrils was their droppings.
But it was not rats, or rat shit, that scared him.
The tunnels were, by rights, illegal, even though everyone knew they existed. From time to time the authorities cracked down. Not because they had any real objection to the existence of the tunnels, or their purpose; but because to arrest someone was a good way of extorting money from them. Fail to pay — and this young man did not have the means to do that — and you could be sure of ending up in a Gazan prison.
But it was not the threat of discovery that scared him either.
It was the threat of a sudden and stifling death.
The tunnel was about two metres high and one metre wide, though because it had not been dug by experts, the height was not uniform and there were places — like the spot where he was now — where the ceiling was too low to stand. It was held up by a series of wooden joists, each one spaced a couple of metres apart and supported by timber poles that sagged in the middle. He had good reason to be fearful down here. These tunnels had a limited life. It was not a question of if they collapsed, but when. It always seemed to happen when there was somebody down there. Perhaps it was the vibrations they caused as they moved gingerly along the tunnel. Perhaps it happened when they knocked against one of the timber poles. There are many ways to die, and he had contemplated most of them, but being crushed by the weight of so much earth was not the method the young man would choose for his own martyrdom. Now he whispered a fervent and continuous prayer to himself as, torch in hand, he crawled over the loose dirt and rodent shit and moved further along the tunnel.
He had started out in a small house a hundred metres from the Egypt-Gaza Strip Barrier — a buffer zone between the two states with a steel and concrete wall that was even more impenetrable than the high wire fence that segregated Israel and Gaza. The basement of this house was the starting point of one of the many tunnels that crossed from the Strip into Egypt and Israel. Gaza’s neighbours had done everything they could to destroy these tunnels. The Israelis had bombed any house suspected of secreting an entrance — regardless of how many innocent men, women or children were inside. Egypt had gone so far as to start work on an underground wall to block these subterranean access points. But they couldn’t block tunnels they were unable to see, and many remained.
How far had he come? It was so difficult to say in the darkness. A hundred metres, perhaps? That would put him almost exactly underneath the border. It would mean the Gaza Strip lay behind him and Egypt ahead. With any luck, he would soon see…
He stopped. Lights up ahead. He couldn’t make out the distance yet. Thirty metres, maybe more? The young man’s heart beat a little faster. He was pleased to make contact with somebody else; but he was apprehensive about the package he was to take delivery of. It was really not the sort of thing you wanted to have with you down here. Ordinarily, these tunnels were used for smuggling essential goods under the border from Egypt to Gaza. The Israeli blockade of this tiny state’s eastern and northern borders meant that food and medicine were increasingly scarce. The Israelis allowed a certain quantity of these commodities over the border, but nothing like enough for the whole population. So it was that in Gaza, thanks to these tunnels, the black market in antibiotics was almost as buoyant as the black market in Western cigarettes.
Of course, it was not just food and medicine that found their way through these secret passages. Gaza may not have been officially at war, but there were enough angry men in that tiny strip for it to feel like a state perpetually on the edge of military conflict. Militants need weapons. They need ammunition. These tunnels had transported countless Kalashnikovs and rockets, and untold boxes of rounds and explosives. And they had transported armies, too. Not large armies, like those that the bigger nations could muster. Gaza was small, and had to make do with its meagre resources. Her forces consisted of handfuls of martyrs, armed with vests packed with explosives, tiny electrical detonators and a willingness — an eagerness — to die for their cause.
The lights ahead grew closer and the young man could hear voices. He cursed under his breath. Why couldn’t they keep the noise down? Didn’t they know what could happen if they spoke too loudly? He felt the sweat dripping down his face, and continued to pray and crawl.