The door clicked shut. A key turned in the lock.
Abdul took off the robes from the hotel and dumped them on the bathroom floor. The room was hot and airless so he splashed his face and neck with cold water. Why hadn’t he brought a laptop or something to write on so he could record what was happening? He smiled to himself at the stupidity of the thought. He didn’t know what was happening.
When he stretched out on the cot, canvas seams dug into his back. A low rumble of voices came from the office below.
Maybe he should have been stronger, insisted on seeing Adiba.
Ha. Exactly what leverage did he think he had?
If Quinn had gotten the note translated, what would the policeman do? He wouldn’t go to the Israelis; he didn’t trust them, but he’d have to report in to Special Branch. London would probably recall him in disgrace.
Abdul swallowed a few times. His throat tightened. Tears were close as the consequences of his actions struck home. If Quinn returned to London, no one in Israel could help him. He circled on those thoughts for a long time.
Abdul heard someone on the stairs. He sat up on the cot. The door opened. Ghazi entered, without a weapon. Abdul’s gaze locked on Gahzi’s scar. Such a vicious gash: the stitch marks formed a ladder climbing from the man’s neck to the corner of his eye. Ghazi’s chest was huge, and his hands even larger than Abdul remembered. This man could snap him like a twig. He didn’t need a weapon.
“Abdul-Haqq, are you comfortable?”
“I have everything I need except—”
“Come. I’ll take you to her.”
Ghazi unlocked the door across the landing, knocked, and stepped back to allow Abdul through. The room was identical to his, but this one contained Adiba.
She sprang from the cot and slammed into him so hard he staggered back a step.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She had him in a death grip, her head buried in his chest, sobbing, unable to answer.
Abdul knew then.
He’d made the right decision.
“Later, I’ll bring food,” Ghazi said. He left and locked the door behind him.
They held each other until her tears subsided and her grip slackened. When, finally, she pulled back and looked him full in the face, her cheeks were wet and her eyes rimmed with red. “How did you find me?”
Abdul remembered the picture of Adiba strapped to the chair with a knife at her throat. “They threatened to hurt you if I didn’t come.”
A shudder passed through her. “I was so frightened… but how will we get away from these people?”
“Have they harmed you?”
“No. But when they tied me up I thought they would slit my throat.” Her fingers trembled as she wiped at her face. He wrapped her in his arms again, moved her to the cot, and sat beside her, stroking her hair. For a long time, they stayed like that, without speaking.
Adiba broke the silence. “Now we’re both captives.”
“I don’t think they mean to harm us. Ghazi—”
“The big one with the scar?”
“Yes. He’s their leader. He wants me to publicize Allah’s Revenge.”
“The group who murdered those people in London?” She pulled back from Abdul and stared at him, a shocked look on her face.
“I came to Israel to meet Ghazi.”
“What does he want?”
“Well, he wants the Israelis to leave Palestine. But, meanwhile, he’s trying to get some buddies released from Israeli prison.” Abdul talked her through the decoy and the note on his pillow.
She kissed him on the cheek. “It was very brave of you to come.” He put his arms around her, and Adiba’s body sagged against him.
With no windows, he couldn’t estimate how much time had passed. He’d left the hotel at seven. He guessed it must be nearly midnight. Adiba lay on the cot and closed her eyes, clearly exhausted. Seated beside her, Abdul studied her face: makeup-free, smooth olive skin, high cheeks, and long dark lashes. Her breathing turned soft and shallow and she drifted to sleep.
When the room door opened, Abdul gave a start. The sudden movement woke Adiba and a scream stifled in her throat. Ghazi brought a tray with bread, cheese, and bottled water, which he placed on the floor.
“Eat. Then Abdul will return to his room.” Adiba started to protest, but Abdul held up his hand, and she fell silent. Ghazi left them alone with the food.
“Adiba, these people are Islamic fanatics.”
“I understand.” She took his fingers in hers and gazed into his face. “It’s just… I feel safer with you here.”
“My room is across the landing. It looks the same as this one. I’ll be thinking of you.”
She smiled, knelt by his feet, and began to prepare a plate for him.
Chapter 17
A pissed-off Mossad captain briefed Quinn on the loss of their decoy and left him in his hotel room with instructions to get the hell out of his territory, yesterday if possible.
Quinn hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t considered that he needed to be “on” once the Israelis took over. He was furious at himself, such a rookie mistake, never drop your guard. He dreaded relating the story of his incompetence to Frank Browning, but he had no choice, so Quinn called Frank’s home number. It was midnight, UK time.
Frank said, “Let me get this straight. The Israelis lost their operative?”
“They were following by helicopter. The car rounded a corner; somehow the bad guys slipped the decoy out of the back seat. They followed the vehicle for fifteen minutes and when it was finally dumped: no decoy.”
“And you lost Abdul.”
Quinn’s guts churned. “He gave me the slip.”
“Humph.”
Quinn couldn’t blame Frank for the sarcasm. “Frank, I need someone who speaks the language. The longer we wait, the less chance we have of finding him.”
“Perhaps I can get help from the British Embassy. Stay put until I call you back. I don’t want to lose you next.” Quinn slammed the phone down and started pacing. British Embassy, what a joke; I haven’t lost my fuckin’ passport!
At 9:00 p.m., two hours after Abdul’s disappearance, Quinn made the second call he’d been dreading.
Scott Shearer picked up.
“It’s Quinn.” The line went quiet. “Scott, I need your help. Abdul’s gone AWOL.”
Scott chewed him out, and Quinn took it. In a strange way, it felt better having someone else shout at him rather than beating himself up. Finally, Scott calmed enough to let Quinn explain what had happened.
“If I tell the Israelis about Adiba, they’ll lock me up, or worse, for getting their decoy taken.”
“So what are you going to do?” Scott said
“Translate the note. Find Adiba, and I’ll find Abdul. In his dossier I’ve got her full Arab name, her street address and all the e-mails she sent. Perhaps her family can tell me how long she’s been missing or where they saw her last.”
“Write out her contact information. I’ll call you back with a fax number. And we’ll need the note, too.”
“I don’t like faxing this stuff, Scott.”
Scott shouted so loud that Quinn had to hold the phone away from his ear. “And exactly how can you make this worse? Take off your stupid policeman’s helmet, Quinn. You’re in Israel, looking for an Arab girl you’ve never met. You don’t know the language. You don’t know where she lives. You don’t know jack-shit. Damn it, Quinn! Send the information. I’ll call right back.”