He jerked her hard to the right — and she was able to reach down low enough to touch the handle of her Tanto.
But he rocked her back the other way and then yanked her toward him, arching her spine and regaining control over her free hand.
Her head struck the ceiling of the tunnel and her fingers slipped off the knife’s grip.
He shouted something in Arabic and she screamed something in English.
She began rocking on the balls of her feet, bucking left and right — and again his grip weakened enough for her to pull a hand from his grasp. She grabbed the Tanto and jerked it from its sheath, then fought to draw her forearm forward.
He pulled. She pushed.
She yelled long and loud to summon her strength — and then slammed her heel onto the top of his foot.
He recoiled and she drew the blade back hard, toward his body. And stabbed him in the thigh.
He screamed.
Now there’s a language I understand—
She jabbed at his body again and again, blindly using him as a pin cushion. But none of the thrusts were deep enough to do life-threatening damage.
He tugged back on her neck, compressing her larynx, but she kept stabbing, hoping the pain would eventually force him to try to get the knife away from her — which meant he would have to loosen his grip on her throat. And once he did that he would no longer have control.
A few seconds, that’s all she needed.
She continued thrusting and he continued yelping — until Vail got the window she was waiting for. He reached for her arm and grabbed her wrist, but she had already transferred the knife to her other hand.
Vail twisted out of his grip, spun, and started slashing, left, right, left, as if the Tanto were a sword and she were a swashbuckler. She struck something soft, but in the darkness it was hard to know if she did any damage.
She couldn’t blindly thrust because if he got hold of her arm, he could take the knife from her. And then he would surely make her pay for treating him like a cooked Thanksgiving turkey.
Get away from him!
Vail backed down the tunnel, running the palm of her left hand along the wall to give her some bearing.
She stopped suddenly and listened, doing her best to slow her respiration, to keep noise at a minimum. She could no longer see the light from her phone but she could hear the tango breathing loudly.
Let him come for you.
Vail stood there, back flat against the cement. One minute. Two.
She slowly reached into her pocket and rooted out her spare magazine. She tossed it away, about ten feet to her right, hoping to hit the wall. It did — and seconds later he advanced.
Vail waited a beat, then stuck out her leg and he ran right into it, then struck the ground with a thud. She pounced on his back and jabbed the Tanto into his neck, then grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. A final slice across the front of his throat and all movement stopped.
She slid off his body and fell onto her side, her heart thudding, her hands shaking. Hyperventilating.
Vail pushed herself up and stumbled away, slamming her back into the wall and her head into the curved ceiling.
Focus, Karen. Calm down.
She took some deep breaths, slowed her pulse, then licked her lips and pushed forward, back the way she had come, hoping to find the pistol she had dislodged — and the tube Uzi had given her. A couple of minutes later she had both in hand.
She chambered a round and sheathed the Tanto.
Continuing a few paces farther, she came upon the fork in the tunnel — which she recognized only because of the slight breeze she felt coming from the other shaft she had taken from the surface. She felt around — hoping to find something that the tango had — a drawing, a diagram of some sort — that could show her the way out of here, one that would take her into Israel.
Wait, the booklet I found at Sahmoud’s.
She reached back — and it was still there, wedged into her waistband.
If only I could see it.
Then she remembered the satphone. Its screen should throw off enough of a glow to read the map.
She powered it up and held it over the page, traced her tunnel with a finger and determined she needed to take the path where the dead militant lay. She moved forward and found her Samsung and reactivated the flashlight.
As she gave a final sweep of the area, she saw what appeared to be a cot against the wall along the other corridor. She jogged over and took a quick look: the tango had been sleeping down here. Why? To guard what? She moved a bit farther in and saw wood crates stacked along the wall with Arabic writing on them. She pulled one down and used her Tanto to pry off the top. Grenades, assault and sniper rifles were nestled among Styrofoam popcorn bits. She thought of taking one of the rifles with her, but the ammo must have been in a different box.
She headed down the tunnel, stepped past the bloody al Humat militant, and continued on. If the map was to scale, she had another ten minutes of brisk walking to reach the exit.
When she climbed the ladder to the surface, she found a metal covering and a fair amount of brush obscuring its opening. Upon emerging, she dropped to her knees and breathed in the fresh, damp air. While crouched there, at the edge of what looked like farmland, a light drizzle prickled her cheeks.
Seconds later two headlights struck her face. She shielded her eyes and got to her feet. The driver pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window.
“I need some help. Do you speak English?”
“Of course I speak English.” He squinted, leaned closer and said, “You’re bleeding!” He got out of the car and came around to walk her over to the passenger seat.
“I’m fine, it’s not my blood. I got into a fight with an al Humat soldier.”
“Al Humat? Where?”
“In a tunnel. There’s an opening a few feet from where you found me. They’ve got a cache of weapons down there.”
The man pulled out his phone, made a call and jabbered Hebrew at someone on the other end. He hung up, then thanked her for the information.
“During the war, they came out of the tunnels, attacked the kibbutzim — our communities — then disappeared back inside.”
“I heard.”
“I have to ask. What were you doing down there?”
“You don’t have to ask and you don’t really want to know.”
He looked her over, his eyes resting on her blood-soaked shirt. “What can I do for you? To repay the favor.”
“I need a ride to the Israel Museum.”
His brow rose. “In Jerusalem?”
Vail tilted her head.
“Okay, okay. It’ll take us a bit. You need something to eat? Drink?”
“No time. Just get me there as soon as possible.”
He laughed. “You know how Israelis drive?”
“Not a clue.”
“Crazy. Fast. Hang on.” He accelerated hard and Vail was slammed back into the seat.
78
The man was telling the truth. He drove like a demon, zipping around cars and getting Vail to Jerusalem in just over an hour. By the time he pulled into the Israel Museum’s parking lot at 8:00 PM, the rain had stopped.
A few vehicles were still there, likely staff and whoever else they were supposed to meet. A curator? Police? A Mossad officer? Vail realized that in the rush to get out of Sahmoud’s house they had gotten no details as to what was going to transpire when they arrived.
As she neared the entrance, she passed through security barriers and walked by a rectangular reflecting pool. She saw a sign for the museum offices as well as those of the Israel Antiquities Authority.