Fifteen minutes later, after finding a dark, well shielded area, she stopped to try to get a bearing on where she was. She knew that Google Earth and Bing Maps did not provide clear satellite imagery of Israel and the Palestinian territories, so she had to rely on regular street maps and general topography. Unless—
Is the drone still overhead? She pulled out her satphone and tried to call up the real-time imagery. It was no longer online — but then she remembered she had the booklet tucked in her waistband.
That it was written in a foreign language was challenging, but she was able to get a sense of the area using the coastline and beach as a reference point. There were a couple of tunnels into Israel that appeared to be nearby.
She plugged in the GPS coordinates of the closest one and followed the screen to set off in the right direction. By her estimate, she was about three miles away. What would the entrance look like? She had seen CNN videos during the war, but those were mostly the openings on the Israeli side, holes that emerged from rock outcroppings in rural areas.
For now, her main concerns were finding a way to traverse the distance and arriving safely. Not knowing who she could trust and not speaking Arabic, she could not pass for anything other than what she was: an American, or at best, a westerner. Who was working with al Humat or Hamas or Islamic Jihad? It would be impossible for her to tell.
She had to think like a Special Forces operator, not an FBI agent. When I get back, if Knox insists on keeping me in OPSIG, I want more training. I need to know what the hell I’m doing. Enough of this on-the-job bullshit.
The air had grown chilled, the sky overcast. A light drizzle had begun falling.
Vail came to a suburban neighborhood, not nearly as well kept or affluent as the area of Gaza City and resort community she had seen. Plain-faced concrete apartment buildings rose all around her. Graffiti marked the sides of most structures in all directions. The streets were illuminated, but not well lit, which both played to her advantage and placed her in greater danger.
She perused the parked cars and tried the driver’s doors as she passed. All were locked. Even if she got into one, it might take her a while to remember how to hotwire it. The last thing she wanted to do was get caught trying to steal someone’s vehicle in Gaza — especially since her clothing was soaked in blood.
She placed a hand on her Glock and walked down the street. A moment later, a dark sedan turned the corner, headed toward her. Engage or not? She stepped in front of it and held up a hand. A woman standing in the rain. In distress, with blood on her clothes. How could he ignore that?
As anticipated, the driver stopped. Vail smiled broadly and moved around to the window, which cranked open, revealing a male who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He said something in Arabic, then flashed a grin of his own. It did not last long, however, as Vail brought the Glock up and shoved it into his temple.
“Get out,” she said firmly by his ear. Vail did not know if he spoke English, but he seemed to understand the language of aggression because he put the car in park and opened the door. Vail kept her handgun trained on him as he got out.
“Sorry,” she said. “Very sorry. I’ll take good care of it.” She pulled the beat-up Honda into gear and accelerated away from him. After making a few quick turns, she pulled out the satphone and checked the display to see if she was pointed in the right direction. The receiver was having a difficult time getting a signal.
Shit, the clouds. The weather, it can’t get a lock on the satellite.
It flashed a blinking red warning across the display: NO SATELLITES. Five intolerable seconds passed — during which Vail held her breath — before a green message appeared: RETRIEVING SATELLITE DATA. The mapping image populated the screen and she sighed relief.
One left turn later and she was on track, headed for the tunnel.
Fahad made it safely away from Sahmoud’s house, but not without a brush with a trailing al Humat SUV. He felt it was best to make a non-stealth exit, moving through the adjacent yards before emerging on the side of a home and appearing to be coming from the garage. He had examined his clothing for blood earlier, while standing guard, and reversed his jacket to hide the lone blood spatter.
The satchel was in his right hand as he walked along the sidewalk, glancing over his shoulder at the military vehicles bearing the familiar al Humat window sticker.
He had hoped to avoid contact but was almost inviting it by strolling past their convoy. When the militant stopped his car and whistled at Fahad to approach, he pointed at his chest and asked in Arabic, “Me?”
The man extended his hand out the window and wiggled his fingers. “Come here.”
Fahad stepped off the curb and had started toward the SUV when shouting down the street caught the driver’s attention. He swung his head toward the disturbance, then accelerated hard, burning rubber.
Fahad figured they had discovered one or more of the dead guards. He continued on down the street, casually glancing left and right, counting the seconds until he was out of their view.
He passed the security booth where another al Humat officer was examining the guard. His neck was broken, so there were no overt signs of death like a gunshot or knife wound. It would take him a bit to determine why the man was not responsive.
Fahad picked up his pace and covered at least half a mile before turning right down a side street.
CIA Director Tasset had put him on the OPSIG team to deliver the codex and scroll to one of several safe houses the Agency maintained throughout the world — including one on the outskirts of Jerusalem.
But Knox had directed them to turn the artifacts over to the Israelis.
His course of action should be clear. He was a CIA officer and he was given orders — his sole reason for being on this operation was to secure the documents for the Agency. He answered to the director. But he only had a portion of them. Was his role, his covert mission within a black op, still significant?
He pivoted 360 degrees. The apartment building he was looking for was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a vast lot and an enormous pile of concrete rubble — likely one of the many Hamas structures destroyed during the recent Gaza war. An Agency informant claimed that a lot of the money donated to Hamas for rebuilding had been stolen and diverted — which could explain why the debris was still sitting there.
He stopped a woman coming down the street with her young son and asked if she knew where his friends had moved. She turned and pointed. “It’s an apartment building, on the corner, two blocks away. Second floor, I think.”
Fahad slung the satchel over his left shoulder and proceeded down the street. He turned onto the broken cement path that led to the front door and consulted the listing of names posted at the foot of the stairs. He ascended a couple of flights, and a moment later a middle-aged woman came to the door.
“Mahmoud!” Karima stepped forward and gave him a hearty embrace, then leaned back and appraised his face. “What are you doing here?”
“In for a visit, to see my family. Pay my brother a visit.”
Her bright expression sagged. “Your brother?”
“We’ve patched things up.”
Karima stepped back. “Good. That’s good.” She took his hand and turned, leading him toward the kitchen. “When did you get in?”
“This morning.”
Karima let go of his hand, turned around, and smiled. “It’s wonderful to see you. You look good. What have you been doing with yourself?”