Before Quinn could respond, Lana’s father gripped her by the shoulders and spoke firmly to her. Quinn watched the girl’s expression melt from anger to fear. Finally, she wiped at her face and spoke to Quinn. “You must bring her back, Mr. Quinn. Bring back my Adiba.”
“I’ll try, Lana.”
The girl nodded, once. In her mind a deal was made. Then she spoke to her father.
“Mr. Quinn, my father will take you to Tel Aviv now.” Quinn stood, and she took his hand and shook formally. “Thank you for saving me.”
Lana’s father led the way, and Quinn climbed into the Datsun, relieved to be in the front seat this time. Lana’s mother came out of the house, ran around the car to the passenger side, and handed Quinn a package wrapped in brown paper. She smiled at him, kissed her finger, and touched it to his forehead. He and Lana’s father pulled away. Quinn opened the package and finished the honey cake before they reached Jerusalem’s outskirts.
They drove for about an hour until they pulled up in front of a painted clapboard building, larger than Lana’s home.
Maybe this was the moneyed side of the family.
Lana’s father signaled for Quinn to remain in the car. He went to the door and knocked. The brother-in-law appeared, similar to Lana’s father: short and stocky, with a dark beard and mustache. The two men talked for a few minutes. Quinn watched through the windshield until he was waved over.
Lana’s uncle greeted him, “Mr. Quinn, on behalf of my family I want to thank you for saving Lana. I am Hassan. Welcome to my home. Please come in.”
Relieved that the uncle spoke English, Quinn shook the man’s hand and stepped through the front door directly into the living area. A low table sat in the center of the room: hand-carved wood, ornamented with beaten copper, and well used. His ex-wife had a similar piece; to her it was an ornament. A sofa and two beanbag chairs completed the furnishings. When his gaze landed on the white telephone sitting on a small table at the corner of the room, Quinn smiled. Perhaps his luck was changing.
Quinn pointed to the phone. “May I make a call?”
“Yes… yes, please.” Hassan herded him to the phone and dragged a large cushion across the room. Quinn hadn’t sat on a beanbag since he was a boy. He wondered whether he’d be able to get up again. He pulled Keisha’s number from his pocket and plunked himself down, back against the wall. Hassan politely moved to the opposite side of the room and began a low-voiced conversation with his brother-in-law. He dialed, and she answered on the first ring.
“This is Keisha.”
“It’s Quinn. Do you have further information?”
“Are you on a cell phone, Detective?”
“No.”
“Excellent. You will need to take notes.”
Chapter 29
The day after his phone call to Keisha, Abdul stood in the downstairs office of the medical center while Ghazi paced in front of him. Thirty minutes earlier, Abdul had left a tearful and frightened Adiba in her room. Finally, Ghazi stopped, leaned in so his face was close enough for Abdul to feel his breath and fixed him with a hard stare. “Complete this task and you have my word that you and the girl will go free.”
Abdul didn’t want to know about the alternative if he didn’t complete the task. A sharp rap on the outer door signaled it was time. He slipped his arms through the straps of a small backpack that contained a bottle of water for him and a vacuum flask he must deliver to Nazar Eudon’s representative.
Ghazi returned Abdul’s passport and handed him a digital watch. “Remember Adiba,” he said. “Allah be with you.” He slapped Abdul on the back.
The man he and Adiba knew as Stinky opened the office door, and Abdul followed him to the car. Stinky dropped him in a bustling parking lot near downtown Jerusalem. Walking free among so many people seemed strange to Abdul; he’d grown accustomed to being a captive. Scanning the line of buses, engines idling, waited for passengers, he spotted one with ‘Historic Jaffa Tour’ marked on its front window.
The dozen passengers already seated on the bus watched him as he climbed the steps and stood next to the driver. His hand trembled as he handed over the ticket Ghazi had given him. The driver stared at him. Perhaps his face had been posted; the man seemed to recognize him. Abdul glanced behind, but the next passenger stood on the bus step, blocking his exit. The driver tore a piece off his ticket and returned the remainder to Abdul with a flyer, in English, detailing the trip.
“Shalom. Welcome aboard. Sit anywhere. We leave in twenty minutes.”
Heart pounding, he selected a seat.
Abdul sighed with relief when the bus finally pulled out and no one had doubled-up with him in the seat. A two-hour conversation with an enthusiastic tourist would have been excruciating.
They approached the ancient town of Jaffa from the east. Not until they parked did Abdul notice the clear, blue Mediterranean shimmering five hundred feet below.
He and his fellow tourists gathered like day-old chicks around the tour guide, who held a bright-yellow umbrella above her head for them to follow. Abdul walked the first few hundred feet with the group. After they entered a cobblestoned pedestrian area, the guide began describing one of the many archeological digs going on in the city, and Abdul drifted away.
He pulled out the tourist map he’d received from the driver and located his destination — the Church of Saint George. Abdul checked the cheap watch Ghazi had given him. They’d arrived in Jaffa at 11:00 a.m. By 11:30 he must be kneeling in a pew on the left side of the church, and someone would exchange backpacks. It seemed simple enough.
He strode up the hill toward the main part of the town. Twenty yards ahead, on his right, two Israeli police officers leaned on a railing in front of the sandblasted exterior of an ancient church. They stopped talking and stared at him as he passed. Looking straight ahead, Abdul put one hand in his pocket, acting nonchalant.
Through his peripheral vision, he saw them peel away and follow. Behind, he heard the metal taps on the heels of their boots, as they gained on him.
They split, drew level either side of him, and matched his pace.
“Shalom,” the officer on his left said.
“Hello,” he answered in English.
“On vacation?” the other officer asked.
“Yes.” His answer came out as a dry-throated croak. “Yes,” he repeated, clearer this time.
“Where are you staying?” the first man asked.
They suspected something. Could they know who he was?
“The King David, in Jerusalem.”
“Ah, beautiful.”
He turned to the officer, tried to smile, but it froze on his face and probably looked weird.
“Where are you from?” the officer asked.
“London.”
“Ah, fish and chips.” The officers laughed. Abdul offered his grimace again.
“Enjoy Jaffa,” the officer on his left said, and they veered off toward a side street.
With legs like two slithers of jelly, Abdul took deep breaths to slow his racing heart. After a twenty-count, he found the courage to glance behind. The policemen had gone. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
According to the brochure, the church’s principal attraction was a large fresco of Saint George slaying the dragon. Saint George’s body reputedly lay in a mausoleum below the altar. Abdul reached the church with time to spare. He had no idea whether Ghazi had sent men to watch him, but he thought it likely.
Inside the church, a solitary woman knelt in the front pew on the right, head bowed and hands steepled in front. He heard her murmured prayers in the quiet of the church; could she be the contact? Two tourists stood at the front of the middle aisle, gawking at the huge, golden chandelier that dominated the center of the church. He slipped into a pew halfway along the left-hand side, pulled off the backpack, placed it on the seat, and knelt.