‘Do not glance around. If you alert those men that we are onto them, I will slit your throat myself.’ Davari walked slightly behind and to Lutfi’s right as they passed a half dozen closed shops.
‘I do not care for this.’
‘If you talk about anything other than the weather or sports, I will kill you.’
Tucking his head into his shoulders, Lutfi kept walking, choosing not to talk at all.
That suited Davari. The streetlights behind the two men trailing them allowed him to track them by their shadows, but it was good to be able to hear their movements as well. The men were good, probably Israeli, judging by how patient they were, but they’d grown confident and didn’t try hard to mask their presence. They also didn’t pull in the second unit, and Davari was certain there was a second unit. If the men had been Hamas, they would have seized him an hour ago and taken him to a torture chamber to find out why he was in the Gaza Strip.
If they were Israeli, they would be operating on foreign soil, as he was. This was in his favor, because they wouldn’t want to draw much attention to themselves. On the other hand, they would be very good at unarmed combat, as the Mossad seemed to live and breathe krav maga. Davari smiled in anticipation of the coming confrontation.
‘Where is your car?’
Lutfi nodded at the end of the alley. ‘Around the corner.’
‘When I step away from you, run for the car and bring it back here.’
‘If I do not, you will kill me?’
‘Most assuredly.’
‘I do not like you very much.’
Davari smiled at that. ‘Thankfully, you do not have to like me.’ He heard the two men behind him exchange a brief conversation, then their steps quickened. Obviously, they felt they had waited long enough, and the alley was ending soon.
Davari immediately turned and ran at them.
They were good, he had to give them that. They separated at once to give each other room to maneuver.
Davari went for the bigger one first because closing with him would give the smaller man less room to position himself, and the bigger man would provide a better shield. The man set himself, obviously expecting Davari to pull up short. The colonel continued his headlong pace and slammed into the man’s chest, giving his opponent no time to decide whether to shoot him with the pistol he suddenly held.
Using his weight and speed, Davari powered the man backwards till he was almost running, then slipped and started to fall. Instinctively, the man reached forward to grab him. Davari planted his own feet, caught the man’s shirt in one burly fist, and snared his opponent’s gun wrist with the other.
Yanking backwards, Davari spun the man around so his back faced his partner, then kicked him in the crotch. The man groaned in pain and threw up a little. Still, he clung stubbornly to his weapon as the second man sprinted toward him, leading with a silenced pistol.
Maintaining his grip on the man’s shirt, Davari swung his elbow into the man’s throat, then head-butted him in the face. His opponent’s nose broke, and blood gushed. Nearly out on his feet and sagging heavily, the man’s hold on the pistol loosened.
With a quick twist, Davari slid the pistol free and popped it into his hand. He raised the pistol and fired by instinct.
Three shots struck the approaching agent in the chest and threw him off stride. Davari fired two more rounds into the man’s left leg as he came down on that foot and he fell, sprawling into the alley. The colonel placed the pistol silencer under the chin of the man he was holding and pulled the trigger twice, blowing the top of his head off.
Shoving the dead man from him, Davari strode toward the second agent. The man was trying to roll over onto his back and get a shot off. He managed to fire two rounds, but both missed, ricocheting off the alley wall.
Davari shot two rounds into the man’s face and kicked the pistol away. Working quickly, he knelt and went through the men’s pockets, taking their IDs, cash, and personal effects, and dropping it all into his jacket pockets. He found a spare magazine on the big man and quickly changed out the one in his captured weapon. He kept the half-empty magazine, then picked up the other pistol and the spare magazine for it and switched that one to full capacity as well.
He turned and headed for the end of the alley, thinking Lutfi had bolted and run and that he would kill the man if he ever saw him again. Then an ancient Russian sedan rounded the corner and headed toward him.
Davari stepped out of the way and fisted the pistols in his jacket pockets.
The car’s brakes squealed as the vehicle shuddered to a stop. Lufti stared through the bug-spattered windshield as Davari opened the passenger seat and got inside.
‘They’re dead?’
‘Yes. Go.’ Davari relaxed in the seat as Lutfi shifted into gear and drove over the dead men in the alley.
Minutes later, Davari followed Lutfi into a pottery warehouse. They walked in silence to the back of the building, aided only by a flashlight Lutfi carried. Davari didn’t mind the darkness. He was armed, and he’d just emerged victorious from a confrontation. His blood sang.
At the back of the warehouse, Lutfi stood against the back wall, then stamped his foot in a practiced rhythm. ‘If I didn’t do that, you would be dead.’
A moment later, a section of the floor lifted, then slid noisily across the floor. Lutfi descended a narrow set of stairs into a small room. Three men armed with AK-47s stood at the bottom.
They all wore olive drab pants, khaki shirts, and red berets. One was in his early forties, sallow-faced, with acne scars and a salt-and-pepper hair and beard. Commander Ahmad Meshal calmly smoked a cigarette and studied his guest.
‘Colonel Davari?’
‘I am.’
Meshal stood his ground. ‘Commander Meshal.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You have blood on your face and on your shirt.’
‘There was trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I was picked up at the airport by two men. They moved and acted like Mossad agents.’
Meshal glanced at Lutfi.
‘They did not follow me.’ Fear etched Lutfi’s face. ‘They were there when I arrived.’
‘As I said, they picked me up at the airport.’
Davari glanced around. There did not appear to be any other exits. A wire shelf on the wall to his left held a small selection of food. Next to it, a curtain covered the far half of the wall. A laptop computer and other equipment sat on a card table in the corner. A stack of magazines sat on the floor.
‘May I borrow your table?’ He nodded at the card table.
‘Of course.’
On the table, Davari spread out the IDs and papers he’d collected from the men he’d killed. ‘These are probably fake, but we have experts who can tell who did the work. If I may use your computer.’
‘Please do.’
Davari used the scanner to copy the IDs and papers onto the laptop, then used an encryption sequence from a Web site the Quds Force had set up for him. Then he uploaded the images to another Web site accessed by the Quds intelligence division. He probably already knew as much as they would find out, but confirming his suspicions would be good.
He turned to Meshal. ‘I would guess that the two men I killed are here looking for the ones you have.’
‘Probably.’
‘When the Mossad finds those two agents dead, they’ll send more. Unless we give the two men back to them. Where are they?’
‘In the next room.’ Meshal walked over to the far wall and pushed the curtain back to reveal a glass window.
Inside the room, two men knelt in apparent agony. Both men wore plastic zip-ties that cuffed their hands behind their backs and to the chains that bound their feet together. Blindfolds covered their eyes and ears. One had wet himself, the dark stain showing on his beige pants. Their arms and legs showed evidence of burning, cutting, and assault with blunt instruments.