The Palestinian’s face turned pale as his initial excitement turned to trepidation.
“I do not wish to tread beneath the site of the sacred rock,” he said solemnly.
“That will not be necessary,” Maria replied. “Your work is finished.”
As she spoke, she reached into her pack and retrieved a compact Beretta pistol, which she leveled at the startled Palestinian.
Unlike her brother, Maria felt no rush or thrill at taking the life of another. In fact, she felt nothing at all. Committing murder was the emotional equivalent of changing her socks or eating a bowl of soup. They were at different ends of the sociopathic scale, products of abusive childhoods and genetic homogeneity, but they had both ended up as remorseless killers.
The pistol barked twice, sending a pair of slugs into al-Khatib’s chest as the echo of the shots reverberated loudly through the chamber. The relic hunter dropped to his knees, a momentary look of incomprehension in his eyes, before he fell over dead. Maria calmly walked over and removed the envelope of banknotes from his pocket and stuffed it in her pack. Then she glanced at her watch.
“We have less than an hour before the explosives are to be delivered,” she said to the Janissary. “Let us survey the quarry and select our sites.”
Stepping over the dead man’s body, she retrieved his lantern, then quickly scurried off into the dark.
45
It was nearing ten o’clock when Sophie pulled into a small dirt lot outside the northeast wall of the Old City and parked behind a closed dress shop. Across the road and down a short hill was the northern tip of the Muslim cemetery, which meandered south across a widening gulch as part of the Kidron Valley headlands. Shutting off the ignition, she turned to Dirk, who gazed at her from the passenger seat.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Most night operations turn out to be a boring exercise in futility.”
Dirk smiled as he nodded his head. “I’m not one to waste the chance for a stroll in the moonlight with a beautiful girl.”
Sophie suppressed a laugh. “You’re the only one I know who could find something romantic in a stakeout.”
But she had to admit to similar feelings. They had enjoyed an intimate dinner at a quiet Armenian café inside the Jaffa Gate, and as the evening progressed she developed a compelling desire to cancel the surveillance operation and invite him to her apartment instead. She quelled the notion, knowing the prospect of obtaining potential information about the killers of agent Holder was much too important.
“It’s not like Sam to be late,” she said, checking her watch, then gazing out the window for his vehicle.
A minute later, her cell phone vibrated, and she answered, speaking animatedly in Hebrew.
“It was Sam,” she said after hanging up. “He was in an auto accident.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes. Apparently a van filled with Christian pilgrims missed a turn and drove into him. He’s okay, but his car is wrecked. He thinks a few elderly tourists might be injured, so it’s going to take a while to clean up. He doesn’t think that he’ll be able to get here for another hour.”
“Then I guess we better start without him,” Dirk replied, opening the door and climbing out of the car. Sophie followed him, opening the trunk and removing a pair of night vision binoculars, which she strung around her neck. Then she leaned over and opened a large leather case that was lying flat in the trunk. Inside was a weathered, government-issue Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle. Sophie slid in a fully loaded clip and chambered the first round, then slid the weapon over her shoulder.
“Armed for bear this time, I see,” Dirk remarked.
“After Caesarea, I will always be better armed,” she said, her voice filled with resolve.
“Why not let the Shin Bet handle the stakeout if you suspect the Lebanese smugglers are involved?”
“I considered that,” she replied, “but the tip was rather flimsy. We’re most likely dealing with some ragtag teenage pothunters who probably won’t even show up.”
“That would be all right with me,” Dirk said with a wink as he grabbed her hand.
They crossed the road and hiked down the embankment that spilled into the cemetery. Sophie stopped and scanned the grounds with her binoculars.
“We need to move farther down,” she said quietly.
They hiked another dozen yards down the slope, stopping at a low rise that offered an unobstructed view of nearly the entire cemetery. Around them, the Muslim flat stone graves glimmered white under the moonlight like an array of displaced teeth scattered about a sand-colored blanket. Sophie took a seat on a stone ledge and carefully surveyed the lower grounds with her night vision glasses. She spotted a few kids playing a late-night game of soccer on the other side of the Western Wall, but the cemetery itself appeared deserted. She was scanning toward the east when she felt Dirk’s body slide in alongside her, his arm wrapping around her waist. She slowly lowered the binoculars.
“You are distracting me from my work,” she protested lightly, then placed a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him passionately.
They embraced for several minutes until a faint shuffling sound disrupted their intimacy. Sophie quickly gazed down the hill again.
“Three men with large backpacks,” she whispered. “Two of them appear to be carrying shovels or possibly weapons, I can’t tell.”
She put down the binoculars and looked up the hill. “We need Sam,” she said with frustration.
“He’s still a half hour away,” Dirk said, glancing at his watch.
The sound of the three men’s steps grew louder as they trudged up the center of the cemetery. Sophie unholstered her Glock pistol and handed it to Dirk.
“We’ll make the arrest,” she whispered. “Then I’ll call the Jerusalem police to take them in.”
Dirk nodded in agreement as he took the pistol, checking to see that it was loaded. They crept from their spot, moving slowly down the hill. They followed the larger grave markers for cover, which gradually carried them to their right. Approaching a raised tomb that offered concealment, they inched along its high back side, then kneeled down and waited.
The minutes ticked by slowly as the three purported grave robbers worked their way closer. Sophie quietly clipped her flashlight to the barrel of the Tavor, then held perfectly still as the men trudged by a few feet away. She nodded to Dirk, then suddenly sprang to her feet. Leaping behind the men, she clicked on the flashlight, then shouted in Arabic, “Stop! Hands in the air!”
The three men turned and froze at the sudden ambush, squinting as Sophie played the light’s beam on their faces. Two of the men, each holding an AK-74 pointed at the ground, glared at her with menace. One of them was short, shabbily dressed, with droopy eyes, who Sophie recognized as Hassan Akais, the subject of the tip. The second was equally dirty, distinguished by a prominently bent nose. It was the third man, however, who sent a shiver down Sophie’s spine. Clearly the leader of the trio, he calmly stared back at her with probing eyes that danced above a deep scar on the right side of his jaw. It was the same face that had glared at her in Caesarea, leading the assault that killed detective Holder.
Sophie’s hands trembled in recognition, causing the flashlight’s beam to flicker about the terrorist’s face. Sensing her hesitation, Akais quickly and silently swung his weapon up to bear on Sophie. As his finger reached for the trigger, a loud shot echoed through the cemetery. A splotch of red materialized on the gunman’s wrist as a 9mm slug tore through his forearm.
The man winced in pain, letting go of the trigger while grabbing his bloodied arm with his free hand. He looked up blankly at Sophie before spotting Dirk standing a few steps to her side, an automatic pistol extended in his hands at arms’ length.
“Throw down your weapons or I shall aim a bit higher next time,” Dirk commanded.