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Authors: Christopher Reich
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view down the abbreviated hallway. Mohammed al-Taleel stood in the center of a neatly kept living room. A desktop PC sat on a laminate table. A window was open and a gentle wind caressed the curtains. On a far table, a television was on, broadcasting a bicycle race, and he thought, Who keeps the television on when he goes out? His eyes ticked to the right, taking in a poster of Madonna and the French singer Jean-Jacques Goldman.
All this he saw in the blink of an eye, before he fixed on the curlicue wire running from the briefcase Taleel held in one hand to the pistol grip he held in the other.
They were all around him. Babtiste, Santini, Gomez, and Keck.
“Du calme,” pleaded Santos Babtiste, hands patting the air, teeth bared in an excruciating grin.
Santini turned and saw Chapel. “Get back, Kreskin. Get the hell out!”
Taleel looked past him and met Chapel’s eye. His expression registered nothing. Not fear, not surprise, not anger. He was already dead.
Adam Chapel stepped back.
Then there was light, more light than he had ever seen, or knew could exist, and he was hurtling through the air, the searing wallop of a gargantuan’s punch striking him squarely in the chest. He was aware of being upside down, of smashing his head, of a tremendous weight falling upon him.
Then darkness.
Chapter 6
Trails of dust scattered from the Fiat’s tires as it sped through the back alleys of Tel Aviv. The driver hunched over the wheel, hands at eleven and one o’clock, not so much steering the car as willing it with his body language. He was fifty-seven but looked ten years older, a hunted, gray figure with close-cropped white hair and beard, and mournful brown eyes that had seen too much for one lifetime. Too much hate. Too much sorrow. Too much death.
The day was hot even by the taxing standards of an Israeli summer. The car possessed no air-conditioning, so he drove with the windows rolled down. The wind rushing in smelled of dried fish and lamb on a spit and billowed his pale blue shirt like a jib in a changing sea. Even so, he was sweating profusely. The perspiration ran down his cheeks and pooled in his beard. He had lived in Israel his entire life. He was used to sweltering summers. It was not the heat that provoked his sweat.
He checked the rearview mirror.
The taxi was still there, maintaining the watcher’s distance. “A hundred meters or half a city block,” read the manual. The Sayeret were good boys, he thought appreciatively. Nothing if not studious. He was used to being followed. It was procedure; a safeguard for a man in his profession. His eyes fell to the infantryman’s rucksack sitting on the floor by the passenger seat. The pack was empty but for one item. It was not procedure today.
He had chosen the back route because he wanted to lull them. He could have reached the old port by any of a dozen quicker routes. He might have stayed on the Derech Petach Tikva until it fed into Jaffa Road, or driven down to the coast and taken Hayarkon Street past all the tourist hotels—past the Hilton and the Carlton and the Sheraton—Israel’s own Croisette. But the familiar anarchy of the old town ensured their pursuit. There would be no traffic jams, no detours, just a slow, methodical game of cat and mouse.
He had forgotten how lamentable the roads had become inside the city. Even when driving carefully, he was unable to avoid all the potholes. The Fiat lurched into a crater and he swore. It was beyond him why a technological and industrial powerhouse like Israel was unable to keep its roads better maintained. Or, for that matter, bury their telephone wires underground next to the miles of fiberoptic cable the telecom companies had insisted everyone needed, and now did beautifully without. He stared too long out the windows, as if taking a last look at the place and making his farewells.
Tel Aviv was a seething, vibrant, violent contradiction. Skyscrapers and shanties, discos and delicatessens,
All this he saw in the blink of an eye, before he fixed on the curlicue wire running from the briefcase Taleel held in one hand to the pistol grip he held in the other.
They were all around him. Babtiste, Santini, Gomez, and Keck.
“Du calme,” pleaded Santos Babtiste, hands patting the air, teeth bared in an excruciating grin.
Santini turned and saw Chapel. “Get back, Kreskin. Get the hell out!”
Taleel looked past him and met Chapel’s eye. His expression registered nothing. Not fear, not surprise, not anger. He was already dead.
Adam Chapel stepped back.
Then there was light, more light than he had ever seen, or knew could exist, and he was hurtling through the air, the searing wallop of a gargantuan’s punch striking him squarely in the chest. He was aware of being upside down, of smashing his head, of a tremendous weight falling upon him.
Then darkness.
Chapter 6
Trails of dust scattered from the Fiat’s tires as it sped through the back alleys of Tel Aviv. The driver hunched over the wheel, hands at eleven and one o’clock, not so much steering the car as willing it with his body language. He was fifty-seven but looked ten years older, a hunted, gray figure with close-cropped white hair and beard, and mournful brown eyes that had seen too much for one lifetime. Too much hate. Too much sorrow. Too much death.
The day was hot even by the taxing standards of an Israeli summer. The car possessed no air-conditioning, so he drove with the windows rolled down. The wind rushing in smelled of dried fish and lamb on a spit and billowed his pale blue shirt like a jib in a changing sea. Even so, he was sweating profusely. The perspiration ran down his cheeks and pooled in his beard. He had lived in Israel his entire life. He was used to sweltering summers. It was not the heat that provoked his sweat.
He checked the rearview mirror.
The taxi was still there, maintaining the watcher’s distance. “A hundred meters or half a city block,” read the manual. The Sayeret were good boys, he thought appreciatively. Nothing if not studious. He was used to being followed. It was procedure; a safeguard for a man in his profession. His eyes fell to the infantryman’s rucksack sitting on the floor by the passenger seat. The pack was empty but for one item. It was not procedure today.
He had chosen the back route because he wanted to lull them. He could have reached the old port by any of a dozen quicker routes. He might have stayed on the Derech Petach Tikva until it fed into Jaffa Road, or driven down to the coast and taken Hayarkon Street past all the tourist hotels—past the Hilton and the Carlton and the Sheraton—Israel’s own Croisette. But the familiar anarchy of the old town ensured their pursuit. There would be no traffic jams, no detours, just a slow, methodical game of cat and mouse.
He had forgotten how lamentable the roads had become inside the city. Even when driving carefully, he was unable to avoid all the potholes. The Fiat lurched into a crater and he swore. It was beyond him why a technological and industrial powerhouse like Israel was unable to keep its roads better maintained. Or, for that matter, bury their telephone wires underground next to the miles of fiberoptic cable the telecom companies had insisted everyone needed, and now did beautifully without. He stared too long out the windows, as if taking a last look at the place and making his farewells.
Tel Aviv was a seething, vibrant, violent contradiction. Skyscrapers and shanties, discos and delicatessens,
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