Seconds later she was free.
She jumped to her feet just as she heard the shofar ring out a second time. The image of her assailant rose in her mind.
He was going to ruin everything.
She wasn’t going to let that happen.
Maya Bloom stashed the piece of glass in a pocket and rethreaded the remnants of her laces into her boots, ignoring the way the blood oozed over her hands and nails.
That done, she ran to the other side of the rooftop and started climbing down the ladder. She was at ground level in thirty seconds, and already sprinting.
THIRTY-ONE
10.49 hrs.
Luke pushed through the crowd. Those waiting patiently to approach the wall shouted at him in Hebrew, but he ignored them. Luke was a head taller than almost everyone else here, and a lot stronger. There was nothing anybody could do to stop him barging through.
Ten metres from the wall he halted. The strange sound of the horn had filled the air again, and for some reason it chilled him.
He scanned around. More men in traditional dress.
Stop, he told himself. Think.
He’d seen four people emerge from the van. Four bombers, he reckoned. But they wouldn’t be together. That would be a tactical fuck-up, because if one was caught, they’d all be caught. No, Luke’s targets would be spread out, along the wall. He looked forward and to the left, where he saw the entrance to the tunnels. There’d be fewer people there. Easier to spot one of his targets.
Luke started shoving his way through the crowds again. Thirty seconds later he was at the entrance to the tunnels. He burst into the room that led into them. There were about twenty-five men in here, talking to each other quietly. Those who paid Luke any attention frowned at his appearance. He scanned their faces, trying to recognise one of the people he’d seen at a distance, or to identify anything suspicious about any of them.
Nothing.
He hurried through the room and took the tunnel leading north.
His field of vision was full of people. Many stared at him as he headed along the tunnel, keeping the covered section of the Western Wall to his right, and he just stared back at them, occasionally wiping away the sweat that ran into his eyes.
Peculiar glances.
Suspicion.
Once or twice one of the celebrants said something to him in Hebrew. He hurried past, every sense heightened.
Luke was fifty metres along the tunnel when he saw him. There were fewer people here now. The tunnel had just opened up slightly and there was a single Hassid facing the wall. His head was bowed, his eyes closed and his lips were moving silently. Luke stopped five metres from the man and didn’t have to look at him for more than a couple of seconds to know something was wrong. The guy was shaking. A thin trickle of sweat was dripping down the side of his face — a face whose skin was several shades darker than that of any of the Hassidim he’d seen so far.
And in his right hand there was a mobile phone.
Luke instantly recalled the tourist sign he’d seen yesterday in the plaza: ‘on the sabbath and holy days, smoking, photography and cellphone use are strictly forbidden.’ Surely a devout man would know that?
He slid the ceramic knife from behind his belt; just as he did this, the guy opened his eyes and raised his left hand to look at his watch. But then he noticed Luke.
His eyes widened and a look of panic crossed his face.
He glanced down at the phone in his right hand.
But by then Luke was on him. He hurled himself towards his target, thrusting his left hand up to his neck and slicing the knife across the back of his right hand. There was an eruption of blood; the man cried out in pain and his fingers spread out of their own accord as the blade severed his tendons. The phone hung loosely from the wire that was threaded up his sleeve and the man grabbed at it with his left hand.
Too late. Luke pulled the device loose, then yanked the man’s sleeve several inches up his arm. A strip of plastic explosive was taped to the skin. No doubt about it. He had his man.
Luke looked along the corridor. He saw three figures approaching from the direction of the plaza, but they were deep in conversation and after a few seconds they stopped anyway to face the wall. Looking north, nothing.
The bomber was shaking violently now, and the blood was flowing more freely from his hand. Luke pocketed the mobile, yanked the guy’s left arm behind his back, just a fraction of an inch from breaking point, and forced him down the corridor, out of sight of the approaching men.
Now they were alongside the ancient cisterns Luke had recced the night before. He tightened the bomber’s arm another few millimetres. The man gasped and the shaking became uncontrollable.
‘Where are the others?’ said Luke.
The man just shook his head.
Luke didn’t fuck about. He put his spare hand over the bomber’s mouth and yanked the arm upwards. There was a sharp crack as the bones broke and splintered, followed by a muffled, deadened shout of pain.
‘Where are the others?’
It was the bomber’s eyes that told Luke everything he needed to know. They flickered, almost involuntarily, in the direction of the plaza. Luke sighed. It was time to dispense with the fucker.
He let go of the broken arm, which flopped awkwardly. He moved his left hand from the bomber’s mouth so that his palm was under his chin, which he pushed upwards so that his throat was fully exposed. It was the work of less than a second to slice the sharp blade of his knife across the bare flesh to create a gash half an inch deep and three inches wide. The wound vomited blood and the bomber tried to scream. No sound came from his throat, however. His larynx was severed and the life was draining from him. Luke knew how deep the cistern was. It took barely any strength to push the body sufficiently for it to fall into the cavity. The bomber’s body fell more heavily on to the ground than the mortar he’d thrown down last night — out of sight. They’d only find him when he started to stink.
Luke’s hands and T-shirt were spattered with the man’s blood. It didn’t matter now. He was already sprinting away.
Maya Bloom’s wrists were still stinging and sticky and her hands were clenched against the pain. None of this slowed her down. None of this was going to stop her doing what needed to be done.
Her head was down and her eyes forwards as she ran towards the gates leading into the plaza. The female queue snaked a good thirty metres back, but she hurried straight to the front, deaf to the shouts of complaint as she pushed through the body scanners. Moments later she was looking out over the crowded plaza.
She studied the crowd, paying particular attention to the area round the wall. Was there anything untoward there? Anything unusual?
Nothing. Just the faithful gathered on their holy day.
Her eyes caught movement. Three armed IDF soldiers pushing clumsily through the crowd towards the entrance to the tunnels. She turned to the right. A woman, her face lined and her body wrapped in a black robe, was about to walk past her, back towards the exit. Maya Bloom stood in her way.
‘What time is it?’ her hoarse voice demanded in Hebrew.
The woman looked taken aback. She glanced at Maya’s bloody hands, then back up at her face. ‘Five to eleven,’ she stammered nervously then continued to stare, clearly alarmed by the woman’s total lack of expression. The old lady sidestepped, put her head down and continued to walk. ‘Happy Hanukkah,’ she muttered as she passed.