The dense tree canopy filtered what little moonlight trickled down amidst the weary glow of streetlamps dotting the park’s multiple levels. Uzi checked his watch, then fought off another yawn. A welcome teeth-chattering breeze blew across his face and woke him a bit. He wished Peled would arrive soon.
Fifteen minutes past the hour, the stocky form of a man in a running suit sauntered up to the reflecting pond set into granite banks near the center of the park. Uzi nonchalantly gazed in the man’s direction, positively identified his friend, and then pulled himself off the bench, headed toward the large bronze statue of General James Pershing, the park’s namesake. Marbled charcoal granite walls surrounded the figure; historical World War I blurbs and battle tales etched the smooth rock face.
The patter from the pond’s fountain masked surrounding noises — so well that Peled was able to make a silent approach. Uzi turned and took in the man’s face. More lines creased the eyes and a few scraggly gray hairs sprouted beneath his knit cap, but otherwise Nuri Peled looked the same as the last time Uzi had seen him.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” Peled said, his voice as rough as a nail file.
Uzi looked away. “I’m with the Bureau now.”
“We know.” Peled rocked back and forth on his heels. “How have you been? Since, well… since you left.”
“Fine. I’ve been fine.”
To this Peled looked at Uzi for the first time, his clear, appraising eyes doing a quick calculation. “You’re lying.”
“I need some info,” Uzi said. He glanced over his left shoulder and scanned the park’s crevices. He faced the statue again, the high walls behind it effectively shielding their mouths from anyone attempting to lip-read from a distance. The fountain noise would foil parabolic microphones and other high-tech listening tactics. “Intel,” Uzi said, “on hostiles back home.”
A short chuckle blurted from Peled’s throat. “That’s a bit open-ended, my friend. Can you be more specific?”
“Relative to the US, anything major being planned the past few months?”
“There’s always chatter.”
“I’m not interested in chatter. Reliable intel, Nuri. You know what happened tonight. You know what I’m asking.”
“I’m no longer with our former employer. A friendly ally, though. Not to worry.” Now it was Peled’s turn to check their surroundings. After a scouring look around, he turned back to Uzi and said, “Possibly some activity involving a radical Islamic group. A whisper on the wind that one of them has set up shop here. Haven’t been able to verify any of that yet.”
“This whisper. Related to the chopper bombing?”
“Can’t say. But if they are here, they’re quite good, very quiet. Unaffiliated with mosques or imams. Independent funding. At least, no known connections with traditional money sources.”
“Best guess.”
“Best guess is that I can’t guess yet. If you don’t mind some friendly advice, this one smells domestic. But that’s just my gut. Other than the whisper — which may or may not be related — I’m not seeing anything that puts a foreign terrorist anywhere near your case. But I just started poking around. If they’re here, I’ll find them. I’ll have to dig a little faster in light of tonight’s… events.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You know me well enough to know I’m not doing it for you.”
Uzi nodded contritely. “Of course.”
“I miss working with you, Uzi.”
“Yeah, well, things don’t always turn out the way we expect them to, you know?”
Peled kicked at a pebble by his shoe, then said, “I’ll contact you if I find anything.”
Uzi stood there, considering the inadequacy of his own words, thinking how life can change from white to black in the tick of a second hand. He knew this meeting would refresh unpleasant memories, memories he could ill afford to sort through right now. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Directly in front of him stood General Pershing, hero of a war nearly a hundred years earlier. And now a different war in a different world, a war fought against an elusive enemy, without masses of troops or land, tanks or submarines. Brutal and deadly nonetheless.
Uzi turned to shake Peled’s hand, but the man was gone. Only the empty cement plaza stared back at him, the white noise rush of the pond’s fountain the lone sound of the sleeping city. A brisk breeze reminded him how tired he was. He turned and lifted heavy feet toward his car.
Long murky shadows stretched across the sidewalk like tendrils from a hideous monster. The dark night stank of death, of destruction and terror. Uzi moved amidst the darkness, through Jerusalem’s myriad alleys and hidden spots only he knew… scores of stray cats sensing his urgency and scurrying away as he approached.
His nerves were like rotten teeth, ready to crumble at the slightest hint of pressure.
The phone call from Nuri Peled had been short and laced with warning. “Go home, Uzi. Now.” Peled then hung up and Uzi took off on foot. Driving a car this close to home was too risky. The chances of being followed were great, the ability to lose your pursuer difficult.
Uzi moved anonymously through the bustling Ben Yehuda with speed and efficiency, weaving among the raucous youth, musicians, and tourists. He cut across the dark Independence Park and emerged on Agron, the urgency in Peled’s voice pushing him, driving him faster than was safe.
Go home, Uzi. Now.
What could possibly await him at home that would warrant Peled’s attention? Had he discovered a bug buried in a wall of his apartment? Papers hidden away in his floorboards? He had no hidden papers.
Dena… Had Dena discovered something and called Gideon? Had something startled her? With Uzi having gone dark — officially an “important business trip” to his wife, while in reality a covert mission in Syria and then Gaza — Dena knew the protococlass="underline" call the private security line, and whoever answered would alert Gideon. Gideon would then dispatch someone to look in on his wife and daughter. Dena, of course, did not know who Gideon was, or who manned the private line… only that she was to call it at the slightest hint of trouble.
Trouble. Had something happened to Dena and Maya? It was a possibility too painful to even consider. Besides, it was highly unlikely. “They’ve got the best security anyone could have,” Gideon Aksel had told Uzi when he signed on. “Your family will be safe. We live and die by procedure, my friend. Follow it to the letter and everything will be fine.” Uzi had branded the rules into his brain like a technogeek embeds an encryption algorithm on a computer chip. And until yesterday’s mission, he had always followed procedure. Always.
But now, as he turned the corner to his apartment building and took in the scene before him, his heart skipped and jumped and his stomach pumped his throat full of bile. Police cars — fire engine — ambulance. Living room window missing. No, not missing, blown out—
“Uzi!” Emerging from the front entrance of the building was Nuri Peled, his face as long and dark as the night’s shadows.
Uzi moved toward his friend, though he didn’t remember covering the distance. They stood toe to toe, Uzi searching his mentor’s face for information. Peled only looked up toward the stairs. Uzi turned and flew up the steps, floating, an apparition navigating the air currents as he headed toward his apartment. Through the open front door — no, it was blown off its hinges — he saw a large figure, its back to him.