Nick glanced down. His skin still remembered the soft press of that frail woman’s hands, hands that would never hold her daughter again. He looked back up at Rami. “Maybe for you.”
CHAPTER 57
The applause wasn’t exactly thunderous, but at least they were still awake.
As the lights came up, Dr. Kurt Baron smiled and gave a modest nod to the clapping students, scattered among the rising rows of seats like scrub dotting a rocky mountainside.
Avi Bendayan applauded, too, as he strode out onto the stage. “One moment,” he called, beckoning to the students who were heading for the doors. “One moment, please. As this is the last installment of Dr. Baron’s series, we must take a few extra minutes to bid him farewell.”
The Israeli professor produced a plaque from under his arm and presented it to Kurt — the usual fare, a shining blue aluminum plate set on a piece of cherrywood, laser-etched with the school emblem and a word of thanks. There was also a scripture from the Talmud — Bemidbar 6:24–26. The two shook hands amid a final smattering of applause.
“Any chance of getting some brunch together?” asked Kurt, shutting down his laptop as the students filed out.
Avi sat down on a stool next to the lectern. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? But I’m afraid I have a class next hour, and I’m booked solid for the rest of the day. What about dinner?”
“Can’t. My daughter-in-law got us reservations for a dinner theater for our final night in Jerusalem. Comedy with a Hasidic Jew or something.”
“Ah, yes,” said Avi. “You brought young Nick’s wife along. How is she working out?”
Kurt slid his laptop into his leather portfolio and smiled. “This is the most time we’ve spent together since the two of them were married. She’s grown strong, Avi. Much stronger than I would have guessed.”
“As do they all once they have weathered a few of life’s storms.” Avi lightly slapped his knees and stood. “Well. This is it, my old friend. You are here, and then you are gone. You’d think we would have remembered to schedule a dinner together.”
Kurt followed Avi down the stairs from the stage. “We’re old men now. We’re lucky if we remember our keys when we leave the house.” He stopped at the base of the steps. “Speaking of forgetting. I never thanked you for bringing me out here.”
“You’re most welcome.” Avi patted him on the shoulder. “I must apologize for taking so long to extend the invitation. It was long overdue. Had it not been for the hint in your last letter, I might never have realized my oversight.”
Confusion clouded the older Baron’s face. “My hint?” He and Avi maintained a tradition of writing pen-and-paper letters to each other every few months. But Kurt would never dream of dropping a hint that he wanted to come speak at the university. His sense of propriety forbade it.
His hesitation caused the smile to slowly fade from Avi’s face.
Then again, Kurt decided, maybe his subconscious desires had overcome his sense of propriety. “Of course,” he said, playing down his confusion. “My hint. Well, we absentminded professors need to help each other along sometimes.” He winked at his old friend. “What was it the old rabbi said would be the first sign of old age?”
Avi hesitated a moment and then grinned and winked back. “I don’t remember.”
They laughed as they climbed the carpeted steps between the rows of seats. At the top, they stepped through double doors into a sunlit hallway. “You know,” said Avi. “Your flight is not until the afternoon. How about an early breakfast in the courtyard at the American Colony, just like when we were students? The sunrise, a little scripture. For once we could both forget that we’re old men, rather than forgetting our keys. Say, six thirty?”
Kurt smiled. “Six thirty it is.”
Out on the university plaza, a young man in black jeans and a faded black T-shirt left the shade of a bushy olive tree and fell in step behind the American professor. The kid placed one earbud of his iPhone headset in his right ear and bobbed his head, moving his lips as if singing along to the music. He spoke so softly that none of the students passing him could hear. Even if they had, they could not have understood the unique conglomeration of Turkish and Farsi that he spoke.
“Position Two, we are on our way. Target is ten meters ahead of me, west side.”
“Position Two copies. Leaving now,” replied a voice in his earbud.
The American entered a narrow walkway, shielded from the desert sun by more olive trees and thin towering cypress. Ahead of him, another young man came into view, strolling in the opposite direction. This one, bearded and wearing a yarmulke, had his head buried in a thick black book. He seemed so absorbed in his studies that he did not notice his path drifting toward the oncoming professor.
The two collided, not hard enough to knock the American off the walkway and into the trees, but enough to give him a good jolt and knock the student’s book from his hands. The kid apologized in Hebrew as he scooped up the book, keeping his eyes low and patting the professor’s arm. The professor assured him he was all right, also in Hebrew, though his pupils drifted slightly up and right as he searched for the proper words. The student patted his arm once more and then continued on his way.
The professor paused and smiled, watching the young man go. As he did, the kid in the black jeans passed in front of him and kept walking along his original path, still bobbing his head to the imaginary music. He continued in this manner down a sidewalk until he reached a beat-up green Mazda RX-7. The moment he plopped into the driver’s seat, his cell phone rang.
“Is it done?”
“Yes, Emissary. We planted the device in his portfolio, the one that never leaves his side.”
“Excellent. His son will try to call him soon, but from this moment on, Dr. Baron will only receive and transmit the communications that we allow.”
“Emissary,” said the young man, his tone cautious, “the battery will not last much longer than twenty-four hours.”
“Do not worry, young one. I have seen Armageddon, and it will come much sooner than that.”
CHAPTER 58
Youssef offered up the use of his car, a white VW Golf from the early nineties. Nick protested, warned him he might never get it back, but the priest gave it anyway.
The drive across the Thames to Fleet Street was uneventful. The bobbies were still out in good numbers, but there were no checkpoints blocking the roads. Nick anticipated as much. A big city in a free society could not sustain checkpoints through rush hour. That could be a blessing or a curse, depending on which side you were playing for on a given day. This morning it was a blessing.
“The Jamatkhana is on the southeast corner of Whitefriars and Fleet,” said Drake, hanging over the seats between Nick and Rami and flicking his finger across his phone. “Satellite photos show a courtyard behind the building, blocked in by the surrounding structures. Exits from the courtyard are to the north and west, with additional escape routes through the buildings on each side.” He spread his fingers on the screen, zooming in. “I can see only one door from the mosque to the courtyard. Blocking that will effectively plug all those leaks.”
“Plug away. You watch the back door. Rami and I will go in through the front.”
They parked two blocks south and a block east in a garage off Victoria Embankment. The Hashashin would have lookouts who knew their faces, and Nick did not want to spook Kattan. But when the three of them turned the corner onto Whitefriars on foot, Nick got the feeling that lookouts didn’t matter anymore. Up ahead, men in white taqiyah skullcaps poured by ones and twos out of the western entrance to the mosque’s hidden courtyard.