Fahad squinted and glanced at Uzi.
He held up his phone. “Just got Sahmoud’s address.”
DeSantos moved the phone to face him. “Those are GPS coordinates.”
“A lot of the Arab neighborhoods in the West Bank don’t have street names, so no addresses,” Zemro said.
“Do you know where this place is?”
“From GPS coordinates?” Zemro laughed as he pulled away from the curb. “I’ll have a better idea when we get close.”
“So we don’t really know what we’re getting ourselves into,” Vail said.
“Wrong.” Uzi pulled out his Glock and checked the chamber. “We know exactly what we’re getting ourselves into.”
65
They followed the GPS, navigating the streets of downtown Nablus, driving through the town center and past electronics stores and groceries. Open-air bazaars with rainbow colored umbrellas shielded the markets’ vendors against the sun — or today, against the threat of rain.
Zemro craned his neck to get a view of the area. “Looks like we’re pretty close.”
“I know some people here,” Fahad said.
Uzi kept his gaze ahead on the metropolitan landscape. “Maybe we should let you off, see what you can learn.”
“I think we should all stick together,” DeSantos said.
He wants to keep his eye on him, make sure he doesn’t blow our op.
“That woman we just passed,” Fahad said, twisting his torso and watching out the rear windows. “I went to school with her. She’s a real pain in the ass. Knows everyone’s business.”
“Pull over,” Uzi said.
Zemro brought the car to a stop at a break in the car-lined curb.
“I think this is a bad idea,” DeSantos said.
Uzi swung around to face Fahad. “Keep in touch. Don’t go off the grid. We may need you once we scout out Sahmoud’s office.”
“Right.” Fahad swung the door open and got out.
DeSantos studied Uzi’s face. “I know you don’t want to believe he’s part of the problem. But it’s not worth the risk. You’re overcompensating for all the pent-up anger you’ve had toward Palestinians for murdering your family. But your emotional need to like the guy could get us all killed.”
“You think that’s what’s going on here?”
“I do.”
“Drive,” Uzi said, gesturing to Zemro, who nodded and then pulled out into the traffic.
Hector may not be too far off in his assessment.
The streets were packed with yellow cabs bearing green and white license plates — a key designator for vehicles that entered Israel. The soldiers guarding the checkpoints knew to be extra careful when examining these cars and trucks, scanning the under chassis with long-poled mirrors and, during times of inflamed violence, bomb-sniffing dogs.
Vail wiped her sweaty palms on the thighs of her 5.11s. She checked her Glock and then the Tanto to make sure both were in place. She had not had to draw either one in a while, but she had a feeling that was going to change very shortly. Her heart was racing, beating against her chest wall as the tenths of a mile ticked off the odometer.
Zemro made several turns into secondary areas of the city, past apartment buildings and a number of hollow facades, structures that had been destroyed — either by bombs that went off while they were being constructed or by Israeli bulldozers in retaliation for a terror attack in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.
The secondary roads were potholed and the houses were a mix of well maintained homes and rundown hovels.
The GPS took them down a side street that fronted a series of older structures. A block later, Zemro brought the SUV to a stop against the curb.
Uzi looked out the window at the surrounding neighborhood: they were in a light industrial area with tile factories, automobile repair depots, and carpet warehouses, by the look of the signs. He gave a final glance around and checked his mirror. “We go on foot from here.”
Vail’s breathing got tight as she popped open the door and they poured out of the vehicle.
Zemro led the way down the cement path between buildings constructed of large, pale yellow block masonry, a style Vail had grown accustomed to seeing on this trip.
“Are you armed?” Uzi asked Zemro by his ear.
“Don’t worry about me, my friend. What’s the saying? This isn’t my first show?”
“Rodeo. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Good. It’s not mine, either.”
They continued through the wide alleyway, which doglegged right. Zemro slowed, glanced down at the GPS, and stopped. Vail, at his side now, was jerked back by his grip on her wrist. Before he had pulled her away, she had seen, ahead and slightly around the bend, two men standing guard on either side of a large brown metal door.
Zemro pressed his upper body against the masonry wall and reported on what he had seen. “They’re armed. Assault rifles, maybe AKs. They had the al Humat patch on their left shoulder. There’s a double metal door set back in a stone archway. The entrance to Sahmoud’s office, I’m sure of it.”
“Here’s our play,” DeSantos said. “Karen, use your charm. Walk right by them, make eye contact as you pass. Maintain their gaze and, you know, do your thing.”
“My thing?”
“Wink, smile at them seductively. Lick your lips. Something to get their blood pressure rising. But don’t oversell it.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’ll take care of the rest.”
Vail glanced at Uzi and Zemro and they both seemed to be on board with the plan. “Okay.” She removed the scarf and tousled her hair, giving it a playful and sexy look. Then she walked off, her arms swinging and her butt rocking up and down.
“I told her to get their blood pressure up,” DeSantos said, “not mine.” He took a breath and followed several steps behind her.
Vail did as instructed, slowing as she made eye contact with the two guards, showing genuine interest in their appearance, undressing them with her gaze. She looked at them over her shoulder as she passed and then swung around, walking backward and holding their attention.
DeSantos ran up on their blindside, his Boker knife drawn. He sliced viciously and quickly at the carotid of the man closest to him, then drew it forward and blocked the other guard’s attempt to raise his AK-47 and stabbed backhanded at his abdomen — once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Both men dropped to the ground as if gravity had increased exponentially in a split second, arterial blood spurting out from the first guard’s neck.
Uzi and Zemro, handguns at the ready, came up behind them and moved the bodies aside. They took the AK-47s and slung them over their own shoulders as DeSantos checked the front door. It was unlocked.
He nodded to them, then turned the knob and pushed it open. It swung inward, squeaking softly.
Vail pivoted into the building. It was dark and dungeon-like, with only a few visible windows that were obscured by solid wood shutters on metal hinges. Light leaked in along their periphery.
She nodded at Uzi and Zemro, who dragged the two bloody bodies into the entryway, followed by DeSantos.
They stood there, backs against the wall, allowing their eyes to accommodate to the darkness. There were no guards there, which was a good thing — because at the moment, Vail could not see much, and she was sure her colleagues had the same problem.
Seconds later, she started to get a sense of the layout of the room: it was an old factory of some sort that had been cleared of all the machinery that had once been there. The walls were cinderblock and unfinished cement covered with spider cracks emanating in all directions. Puke green wood walls, with glazed windows, apportioned the space into separate offices.