Cautiously they worked their way down Aqabat El-Saryia Street, expecting an ambush at every door and alleyway, but so far it had been clear. When they got to El-Wad Road, Natasha poked her head around the corner. She turned back and motioned that they were taking a left; no sooner had they done this than they came upon a set of stairs leading to a small apartment. It was surrounded by fencing and barbed wire, and an Israeli flag was draped over one window. Natasha headed up, two steps at a time.
“Where are we?” Bennett whispered, scanning the rooftops around them for any signs of danger.
“My friends Ori and Lila Shochat live here,” Natasha whispered back. “Their daughter, Sara, was a student of mine at the university.”
“How long ago?”
“Three, four years maybe.”
“You trust them?”
“They’re political Zionists, not religious ones,” Natasha replied. “Believe me, if they hate you, it’ll be over your peace deal with the Arabs, not over Jesus.”
“And you’re sure they still live here?”
“Absolutely,” said Natasha. “When Jews move into the Moslem Quarter, they don’t leave unless they’re in a body bag.”
Natasha turned and buzzed the intercom. She spoke for a moment with a man in Hebrew, then held her breath. Seconds passed. Then a minute. No reply.
Bennett’s heart was racing. Whoever was in there was (a) consulting with his family, (b) finding his gun, or (c) calling the police. Whichever, time was running out. He could hear people spilling out onto the streets, shouting in Arabic. He wiped his hands on his pants, then tightened his grip on the machine gun and checked on Erin, now guarding Natasha’s back. She was okay for the moment, but he didn’t want her out in the open a minute more than necessary.
And then the electronic locks on the door clicked open.
They were in.
30
The Shochats didn’t know what to say at first.
They were obviously surprised to see Natasha at their door at this late hour, but they were clearly worried about her too. Natasha suddenly seemed dazed and incoherent, and Bennett realized she was going into shock.
Erin quickly explained that they were friends of Natasha’s from the U.S., that there had been a series of shootings in the Arab market, and that they weren’t convinced there was a safe way out of the Quarter just now. She also explained that Natasha thought the Shochats were the only people they could all turn to, and that’s why they were here. For now, Bennett noticed, she chose not to tell them Natasha’s grandfather had just been shot or that they were on the run. It was just as well.
Erin apologized for inconveniencing them, but the Shochats wouldn’t hear of it. They had seen Jon’s and Erin’s faces on the news for years, they said. It would be an honor to protect them for the night.
“You’ll be safe with us,” said Mr. Shochat, his Uzi in hand. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shochat,” Bennett replied, shaking his hand. “We really appreciate it.”
“Please, please, call me Ori.”
Natasha began to worsen. She slumped down on the living-room couch and started to shake. Mrs. Shochat ran to get blankets to wrap around her, and then she led them all into the basement, opened two fold-out couches, and gave them clean sheets, towels, blankets, and pillows. Erin tucked Natasha in and took her vital signs. After a few minutes, Natasha began to relax a bit, and soon she was fast asleep.
“Perhaps I should let you all get some rest,” said Mrs. Shochat. “We can talk more in the morning. Is there anything else you need?”
“Actually there is,” said Bennett apologetically. “You wouldn’t happen to have a computer we could use for a few minutes, would you?”
“Of course, in the corner,” the woman replied, “with wireless access, if you need it.”
She showed them how to get it started, then gave Natasha a kiss on the forehead, said good night, and went back upstairs to bed.
Bennett stepped into the bathroom.
He closed the door and pulled out his cell phone. The first thing he did was call his mom. He got voice mail and breathed a guilty sigh of relief. They had much to talk about, but now was not the time.
“You’re going to hear some terrible things on the news,” he explained. “We’re okay. We’re safe. I can’t tell you everything now. I just need you to pray for us, Mom. That would mean a lot to me. I’ll call you when I can. I love you. Bye.”
Next, he speed-dialed Ken Costello.
“Ken, it’s Jon. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Costello. “I’ve been on the phone the last half hour with the ambassador, Langley, Foggy Bottom, the Situation Room. I’m watching the coverage right now on Channel 2.”
“Are you still at the King David?”
“For a few more minutes,” Costello replied. “They’re sending a car from the consulate in East Jerusalem. Kirkpatrick wants me to monitor the situation from there. But what about you? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Bennett, “but I need a favor.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Ever heard of a guy named Abdullah Farouk?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Get whatever State and the FBI have on this guy and e-mail it to my BlackBerry.”
“Why? Is he involved in this thing?”
“I’ll explain later. But it’s urgent — fast as you can.”
“No problem,” said Costello. “What about Rajiv at CIA?”
“Erin’s about to call her,” Bennett said.
“And Avi Zadok at Mossad?” asked Costello.
“No, we haven’t tried him yet.”
“Why not?”
Bennett hesitated for a moment, but then realized he didn’t have much choice. He explained their growing fears of a high-level penetration inside the Doron inner circle.
“A double agent inside the prime minister’s office?” said Costello. “Come on, Jon. That’s crazy.”
Bennett conceded that he’d thought so at first. But then he gave Costello a rundown of all the recent deaths and how all of them were linked back to Doron and his team in one way or another. Costello still couldn’t believe it. He, like Jon and Erin, knew each member of the prime minister’s team on a first-name basis. They’d worked together for years. It seemed impossible that any of them could be involved in anything like this. But Costello agreed that the whole chain of events was suspicious, and he promised to proceed with caution and get back to him in a few hours.
“How’s Tracy doing?” Bennett asked before saying good-bye.
“You won’t believe it,” said Costello.
“What’s that?”
“She just called me an hour ago with news.”
“What?”
“We’re expecting.”
Erin speed-dialed Indira Rajiv at Langley.
Fortunately, Washington was seven hours behind them, and it was now only six-thirty in the evening there. Rajiv picked up on the second ring.
“Tell me you’re not in the middle of this thing,” Rajiv said immediately.
“It’s made the news there already?” Erin asked, surprised, even by the standards of American cable news.
“No, not yet,” said Rajiv. “I got a priority flash traffic from our consulate and dialed up Israeli TV off our satellite. The whole section is watching it. It’s the first violence in the Moslem Quarter since the firestorm. And you’re in it, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Erin conceded, glad to find a sympathetic voice.