“I’ve still got that job in Virginia. Things have been busy. And you?”
Her smile faded. “Things are not so good with Hamid. He—” She stopped, glanced around, found Fahad’s eyes and said, “he’s mixed up with al Humat. I told him it would only bring bad things to our family. But the money is …” She shook her head. “He said he wants to do this.”
Hamid’s involvement with al Humat introduced a variable Fahad had not anticipated. He rubbed at his temple. “Hamid’s always had a rebellious streak.”
“So have you.” She grinned again, tried to lighten the sudden tension in the air. “Sit down, stay awhile. Coffee? Hamid will be home soon. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“Hamid and I didn’t exactly leave things in a good place.” Fahad’s forehead sprouted perspiration. The last thing he needed was to confront Hamid. Was he merely a sympathizer? Soldier? Official? Knowing his friend, it was all three: he was not someone who followed; he led.
With what Fahad was holding in the satchel, and the fresh news that Kadir Abu Sahmoud had been killed, running into Hamid could be disastrous. He took a step back out of the kitchen. “Besides, I can’t stay. I just wanted to stop by and see how you two were doing.” He had come to ask a favor, but now his sole focus was to get out of the apartment.
Before Karima could reply, a key slipped into the front door and the lock turned. Fahad’s head whipped around as his free hand slid toward his Glock. A second later, a man walked in wearing a black shirt. With an embroidered al Humat patch.
76
DeSantos was huddled in an alley behind two cars and a dumpster. He pulled out his cell and called a friend of his who lived in Sderot, a town bordering Gaza that had borne the brunt of Hamas rocket fire — until those rockets became more powerful and were able to reach deep into major Israeli cities dozens of miles away.
The psychological trauma of living in a constant state of readiness, of having mere seconds to flee to a bomb shelter, of having your young children grow up playing in indoor schoolyards and “parks” because it was unsafe for them to be outside, was far-reaching and had damaged an entire generation.
DeSantos met Inbar Ramon during an op in Moscow in the 1990s. She had been working for Mossad as a swallow, a female sexpionage operative whose mission was to seduce a finance official to get a line on corruption payments that they surmised were finding their way to an Iranian proxy in Lebanon. Both Israel and the US Department of Defense had an interest in stopping the flow of money.
After the mission, Inbar and DeSantos had a brief romance that ended when he left Russia and she went back to Sderot. Two months later he met his wife Maggie. A year later Inbar got married.
After quickly dispensing with small talk, DeSantos explained that he was in Gaza and needed to get through the security barrier.
“You’re not serious.”
“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”
“Hector, what you ask … as you can probably guess, the border is very tightly monitored, for obvious reasons. Where are you?”
“I saw a sign for Sheikh Za’id. Know where that is?”
“Let me see what I can do. I know someone at the Erez border crossing. You’re a few miles away. I’ll text you directions. What name are you using?”
“DeSantos. Mossad knows I’m here, no point in trying to use a cover.”
“While waiting to hear from me, make your way over to the border. Call you back in ten.”
Uzi had hitchhiked to within two miles of the Erez crossing. The youth who had given him the ride — for twenty shekels — made small talk with his passenger when the young man touched on the news that Kadir Abu Sahmoud had been found murdered.
Uzi had figured they would drive through the checkpoint after their operation. But news of Sahmoud’s demise traveled faster than he had anticipated and touched off what he expected to be a severely escalated alert level among both Palestinian and Israeli forces. He imagined that Israel was denying a role in the murder — or at the very least was refusing to comment, as Israelis often did, regardless of whether or not they were involved.
At times like these, with the border locked down tighter than usual, each individual was highly scrutinized. But he did not see an option.
He was a quarter of a mile away when five masked men approached, armed with submachine guns. “What are you doing here?” one yelled at him in Arabic.
“Headed to the crossing. I have to visit my father in Nablus. He’s ill.”
“Past curfew. They won’t let you through.”
“I know,” Uzi said, “I need to try.”
“What’s in there?” the taller militant asked, nodding at the tube.
“Some blueprints of a house I designed for my boss. I wanted to show my dad. He’s a retired architect.”
“Bullshit,” the man in front said. “Get down on the ground.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Because Kadir Abu Sahmoud was killed. Because there’s a curfew. Because you look suspicious walking around out here in the rain. And we’re searching everyone.”
As a general rule it was smart to submit to law enforcement when you were told to do so. But these men were not law enforcement — and Uzi was not in an area where the rule of law was respected.
“Okay,” he said.
They were not well trained, as they had approached him casually, overly confident, cocky, and ill prepared to take action. Their weapons were not in a position of readiness and they did not have good spacing. Two were stacked behind their colleagues.
They stood only about fifteen feet away, but with the poor illumination and their ski masks on it was impossible to tell how old they were.
“Get down now!”
Even with a balky knee, Uzi was still plenty fast. Could he outrun them before they got their submachine guns into firing position?
Uzi slowly crouched down while shielding his right hand from the men. He pulled his Glock and started firing. He hit two — but because of the way they were closely aligned, his shots were more efficient, and three of the militants hit the pavement.
He turned and ran, the roll tucked under his left arm as he put the trunks of nearby palm trees between him and the pursuing tangos. He had gotten about thirty yards when he felt the burn of a gunshot wound sting his arm. He recoiled and dropped the tube. Rounds struck the pavement at his feet and a metal pole near his head, so he ducked and spun around and began running a zigzag route, his Timberlands slapping puddles and mud as he passed the Erez Industrial Park ruins.
Ahead was the caged screening corridor, a three hundred yard cement-walled passageway featuring a blue and white sign that read, “Welcome to Erez Crossing” written in Hebrew, English, and Arabic, along with the following warning — in Arabic only: Continuing with violence results in the withholding of ease of access and luxury for the people.
The border control pavilion was a secure facility that consisted of passageways, gates, turnstiles, doors, high-tech body scanners, and identity checks. The army and Israel police monitored each phase remotely behind blast proof concrete-and-glass enclosures.
Uzi knew that for security reasons, there were no direct human contacts with Israeli personnel until the very end. And there were delays at each phase of the crossing. As a result, if his pursuers followed him into the complex, he would be leaving it in a pine box.
He ran into the corridor made of tall concrete blast walls. Behind him he heard the footfalls of at least two men. Then, shouting in Arabic for him to stop. Were they serious?
About a hundred yards ahead he saw the remote-controlled turnstile bounded by a tall chain-link fence. He started flapping his uninjured arm, gesticulating, turning and pointing behind him as he continued toward the gate. He knew the police were watching through surveillance cameras. The only question was, were they paying attention? And if so, would they get there in time?