The Medusa Stone

Jerusalem

Security all over Israel was still on a heightened alert even after two incident-free months had passed since the deadly bombing at the Western Wall. Nowhere was this more apparent than within the towering ramparts surrounding Jerusalem’s Old City. Armed patrols walked the narrow, twisting streets in even greater numbers than during the Infitata. While every Israeli citizen had to perform two years of active military service, it appeared that the IDF was using only the toughest veterans to patrol the sacred city. Uniforms and machine pistols were a common sight all over the country, but the grim faces of these shock troops chilled even the most impassive residents.

The streets and meandering alleys were eerily quiet this night except for the low mutterings of the patrols and the occasional rustle of feral cats picking through garbage. The shops were boarded up for the night, and little light escaped from the shuttered windows of the houses. The gibbous moon shone on the cobbled roads, its milky, otherworldly light only adding to the haunted feeling of the city.

Beyond the crusader walls, the new city of Jerusalem, too, was quiet. The presence of so many armed soldiers patrolling the streets and neighborhoods, harassing both Jew and Arab alike in their search for terrorists, had strained the patience of the inhabitants to the point where they no longer ventured out unless absolutely necessary.

In the safe house within the old city, the strain of maintaining vigilance was also telling on the remainder of Yosef’s team, those charged with guarding Harry White. These soldiers were the group’s lowest ranks, those with minimal combat experience. The best of the organization had gone to Eritrea with Yosef, leaving the younger, less-trained zealots to hold their prisoner. Without Yosef’s direct control, discipline had started falling and was now at its lowest ebb. While their belief in their cause and in Defense Minister Levine had not wavered, they’d lost interest in baby-sitting a cantankerous old man.

The younger members chafed at the forced inactivity. Arguments had become a problem. Rachel Goldstein, the nurse who was the ranking member in Yosef’s absence and now team leader, found herself treating cuts and abrasions from the fights that broke out with increased regularity. Her authority was all but gone, and she realized that if they didn’t receive new orders soon, they would murder the old man and leave for their homes.

Fervency, like flame, needs fuel to burn brightly. Un-tended, it can quickly die.

Then, finally, direction had come. Minister Levine had called earlier in the evening with word that he wanted them out of the city. He promised them a new safe house at a secure military base in the Negev desert, adjacent to the Demona nuclear research facility. This was welcome news, but Levine had not specified how they were to get past the security patrols in Jerusalem. Rachel had asked him about safe passage out of the city and Levine had responded that he could not issue such orders without rousing suspicion. He explained that the curfew in effect all over Jerusalem could not be broken for any reason without direct orders from Prime Minister Litvinoff, no exception. She had argued with him fiercely, but the Defense Minister didn’t budge.

Because vehicles were not allowed in most parts of the Old City, Rachel realized they would have to walk Harry White to a van they had waiting in the new city, making their task that much more difficult.

Rachel had already sent one man to get the van and wait for them outside the Zion Gate on Eziyyoni Street. He had a cellular phone and would call when he was in position. She sat at the kitchen table with the rest of her people, discussing ideas that would make their evacuation easier, but so far they had come up with nothing inspired. Their lack of training and experience showed.

“I guess we will have to go with the idea of a diversion,” Rachel surmised after thirty minutes of wasted conversation. “Jacob and Lev will leave here when David calls from the van.” The two agents nodded. “I want you at least a half kilometer from the safe house before starting anything. What you do for a diversion is at your discretion — a burst of automatic fire into the side of a building should be sufficient. I needn’t remind you that you can not be apprehended.”

She noted the excitement in the young men’s faces. They didn’t understand her completely, so she spelled it out for them. “If it appears that you’ll be captured by a security patrol, your only option is suicide. We can’t take the risk of your capture exposing us. There is no way you would ever be able to stand up under a physical and pharmacological interrogation.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Moshe?” She looked at the youngest member of the team, the man most responsible for watching Harry White. “Get our prisoner ready. We should be leaving within ten minutes.”

“Okay,” the boy said smartly.

Harry knew something was up as soon as Moshe entered his cell. As the days of his captivity ran into each other, their interest in him, and thus their attention, had slackened. It was unusual for his guards to check on him unless it was meal time. Not being harassed gave him some comfort, but it didn’t offer any better chance of escape. They had guns and he did not.

Always a thin man, Harry had lost weight during his captivity. His cheeks hung like empty pouches off his face, and his bright blue eyes had sunk behind wrinkled folds of skin so they almost disappeared in his head. Despite his ragged appearance, he felt better than he had in years. He’d drunk sparingly of the bottle of gin Moshe had given him and still had nearly half left. At first it had been difficult not to polish off the bottle in one drunken sitting, but after getting over the physical craving, Harry’s discipline surprised even him. Back home, he drank more out of routine than any deep-seated emotional problem, and with the tension he’d experienced in the past weeks, boredom was no longer a problem.

Once this ordeal was over, however, he promised himself a week-long bender. But until then, he had to keep sharp. Knowing his life depended on his actions, he allowed himself only a few small sips before falling asleep after his dinner. Three weeks of near sobriety had done wonders to clear his mind of fifty years of accumulated hangovers. He was a bit more liberal with the cigarettes but he still smoked less than half a pack a day. A few more weeks of this, he joked to himself, would leave him feeling like he wasn’t a day over seventy-five.

“What’s going on?” Harry greeted the young Israeli when the boy nudged him gently awake.

“We are leaving, Harry. Get dressed.”

Harry sat up, swinging his foot to the floor. His prosthetic leg leaned against the wall like a little-used umbrella. “Time for another bogus call to Mercer?” Harry could only hope that his friend had understood the reference to Boodles during their last communication. Of course, the brand Moshe had given him wasn’t Boodles, but he was sure the men holding him wouldn’t recognize the brand while Mercer should. Even Harry knew that if Moshe drank, he couldn’t be a Muslim as he had first guessed.

“No, Harry, we are leaving this house,” Moshe replied while his prisoner strapped on his leg and began to dress.

Excitement tickled the back of Harry’s brain. He’d thought that if they ever moved him again, and they didn’t drug him as they’d done the last time, he might find a way to escape. He kept his voice neutral. “Where we headed?”

Moshe gave a small laugh. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He finished with his shirt and reached into the bundle of blankets to retrieve the gin still cached there. “Can I at least bring this along? Nothing makes time pass quicker than a drop or two of liquor.”

Moshe’s expression brightened. “We will share it on the drive. We’ll have a few hours together. But you must cooperate with us when we walk to a vehicle we have waiting.”

“Come on, my boy, look at me,” Harry chuckled. “Does it look as if I have a choice?”

Moshe laughed. Harry was as threatening as a toothless tomcat.

Their driver, David, called twenty minutes later. He was waiting at the Dormition Abbey just outside the Zion Gate. Lev and Jacob left the safe house immediately, their Uzis hidden under long dark coats.

“All right, people, get ready. They should be in position in a couple minutes. As soon as we hear the gunfire, I want us moving,” Rachel ordered.

The wait was only seven minutes.

The sound of gunfire was muted by the distance. Still it echoed throughout the old city. Rachel’s face remained impassive as they paused at the door. Seconds later, the night was filled with running feet and police whistles. She could imagine the people in the neighborhood cowering in their beds, quietly asking each other what was happening.

“Okay, let’s go.”

There were only four of them including Harry White. Moshe kept a tight grip on the old man’s arm as they eased out the door. Rachel took the lead, an automatic pistol held discreetly against her thigh. They had to cover about three-quarters of a mile through the Jewish Quarter to reach the waiting van, and while she didn’t like the exposure, she had no choice.

Harry’s mind worked furiously. He tried to recognize any landmark that might look familiar as they moved, but nothing came to him. He was in the Middle East, of that he was sure, but had no idea where. The one clue he had — Moshe drinking the gin with him — gave him nothing. And then he realized that a woman was now leading the team. A woman! Not in an Arab country. In a rush everything came clear. His kidnappers were Jewish! Some Israeli extremist group, no doubt.

He should have seen it all along. Moshe was a Jewish name, the name of a former Israeli leader. “Shit,” he cursed himself under his breath.

But how to make this work to his advantage? This was his best opportunity to escape, and still he had no ideas. Muslim or Jew, it didn’t matter as long as they were armed. He did sense the group’s tension and wisely decided not to delay them by intentionally slowing his pace. He could tell they were all in danger.

Rachel stiffened when she heard a group of men running toward them. She hid the pistol behind her leg just as a dozen soldiers rounded a corner a half block away, their equipment slapping against their uniforms. As soon as the security patrol spotted the four people breaking the curfew order, their weapons came up, twelve fingers tightening on the triggers.

“No, please, wait!” Rachel cried in Hebrew. “We are Israeli citizens!”

“What are you doing on the street?” the ranking soldier called back, his weapon centered on Rachel’s head.

“There was a shooting close to our apartment, my grandfather was frightened,” Rachel improvised, pointing at Harry. “He demanded we leave immediately. He is very ill. The strain is bad for his heart.”

“Return to your home at once,” the soldier ordered. “You should not be out here.”

“I know, but we cannot calm him.” She lowered her voice to draw on the soldier’s natural compassion. “His wife, my grandmother, was killed in the bombing at the Wall. He has not been himself.”

At that revelation, the leader of the patrol lowered his weapon, and his troops followed suit. The soldier looked at the group critically, deciding that a woman, two boys barely out of their teens, and a man who looked as though he would die at any moment did not pose a threat. The radio on his belt squawked, and he shifted his attention from Rachel to it.

“A patrol has made contact,” he said to his group. “Two men armed with automatic weapons. They’ve split up. I think one of the bastards is heading our way.” He looked at Rachel again, but already his concentration was on the hunt for the renegades. “Clear the street as quickly as you can. There are two of them out here tonight.”

Harry watched the exchange, realized that the patrol was about to leave, and got a sickening inspiration. It was now or never. God forgive me for what I’m about to do. Then as loud as he could, he screamed, “Heil Hitler!”

His shocking outburst had the desired effect. The patrol swung back toward the group of kidnappers, and in the split second of indecision, one of the young Israelis with Rachel was startled and drew his weapon. Harry dropped to the ground as the patrol’s Galil assault rifles chattered, the street dancing with the fire of the muzzle flashes. Rachel dove out of the way, bringing her pistol up. She dropped one of the soldiers with a double tap, the trooper’s throat exploding with the impact of the two rounds. Another soldier was taken out before the patrol managed to direct their aim with more accuracy. Moshe was dead from a dozen bullet wounds before his corpse hit the ground.

Rolling on the cobbled street, Harry maneuvered himself around a corner and out of the battle as gunfire whined over his head. In the gloom ahead, he saw a dark figure running toward him, a machine pistol at the ready. He guessed that it was one of Rachel’s diversionary troops, and he slunk into a darkened store entrance to let the kidnapper pass, knowing he would add to the confusion behind him.

Lev’s Uzi had a sharper sound than the patrol’s Galils, and a full magazine exploded into the ranks of soldiers, scything down four of them and wounding three more. His burst gave Rachel the covering fire she needed to race from the confined street, firing behind her as she managed her escape, limping badly from a bullet lodged in her upper thigh.

Harry didn’t wait to listen for the patrol’s return fire. He got to his feet and started running, keeping to the shadows, cutting through any alley he came to in an effort to lose himself in the ancient city.

The only thing that saved him from being picked up was the patrol’s diminished number and the fact that they tracked the fleeing kidnappers slowly, fearing an ambush. In ten minutes, Harry felt he had put enough distance between himself and the firefight to rest for a few minutes and consider his next move. Savoring freedom for the first time in weeks, he was still cut off and alone. He realized that a curfew must be in effect and he would have to wait before trying to find help.

He had to find Americans, embassy staffers or someone, if he hoped to get out of the country alive. That would be his best option. But how? Where could he find countrymen in a nation he knew virtually nothing about? Harry looked around and saw a church across the street. In the milky glow of spotlights washing up the building’s facade he saw that there was an English translation to the announcements on their bulletin board. Reading the list of regular services the church provided, Harry saw his opportunity and smiled.

David was waiting exactly as planned, the engine of the windowless van idling quietly. Rachel ran up to the vehicle, her face tight with the pain in her leg. Without a word she threw open the passenger door and eased herself into the seat. “Drive.”

“What about the others?”

“No one else made it. We were hit by a security patrol. Everyone else is dead.” Her voice was weak and exhausted.

Her cell phone chirped. Now what?

“Rachel, it’s Yosef.”

“We were hit, Yosef. The team was wiped out, and White’s gone.”

“At the safe house?”

“We ran into a patrol while leaving the city, and Harry White managed to escape in the confusion. Levine said he couldn’t compromise himself by giving us a military escort or ordering troops to let us break curfew. He left us on our own, and it turned into a massacre.”

“That prick,” Yosef spat. “He wants the prime minister’s office, and now that it’s within his reach, I think he wants to cut us loose. I spoke with him about a helicopter extraction, and while he agreed to it, it sounded as though he’s not too enthusiastic.”

“I’ve been reading the papers. It looks like he’s going to win the election in a landslide,” Rachel said. “He really doesn’t need us any longer.” The enormity of her situation crashed in on her. “Do you think he’ll have us killed?”

“No, he still wants what’s at the mine, but afterward? I don’t know.” Yosef paused as he reconsidered. “Levine is an ambitious bastard, but we know enough to force him to honor his commitment. If he kills us, he’ll never be sure we haven’t told what we’ve done to others. Besides, when we’re successful, his position within the government will be secure forever. Our involvement and our actions couldn’t hurt him. There would be no need to kill us.”

“But White will talk.”

“He doesn’t know anything, and when I kill Mercer, there will be no witnesses.”

“That still leaves Selome Nagast,” Rachel reminded.

“I know. She’ll have to die too. I didn’t want to do that. The fallout from Shin Bet will be enormous, but Levine will have to handle it.”

“Yosef, are we right?” Rachel asked. “Is our job important enough for all of these killings?”

“No job is important enough to kill for, but our quest is. Not because of Levine, but because of what it will mean to the rest of Israel.”

He told her about Mercer’s discovery of the Valley of Dead Children and his plans to reach the site the following day. He also told her about Giancarlo Gianelli’s operation and how it likely overlapped with theirs. Yosef had a suspicion that he would find the industrialist had already beaten him to the mine, which forced the Israeli agent to modify his plan. He decided they would approach the valley cautiously and keep it under observation before making their own play. He refocused his attention on Rachel and her plight. “You have to find someplace to hide until after the election and let us worry about what to do next. Don’t contact Levine, I’ll handle him. We’ve got just a few weeks left, and then it will be over. For all of us.” Yosef cut the connection.