Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

 

December 20

The Russian UN Ambassador’s residence

Pregny-Chambésy, Geneva

Switzerland

 

Justin pointed his rifle at al-Nueimi.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” al-Nueimi shouted as he took a few steps forward.

Justin glanced at al-Nueimi’s chest. An array of wires and explosives were strapped around his chest. They were visible through his half-unzipped jacket. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” Justin called at the woman and the operator.

“Yes, you better listen to him.” Al-Nueimi advanced a few more steps.

“Stop. Don’t move!” Justin shouted. “I’ll blow your head off.”

Al-Nueimi stopped and raised his right hand, which was tightened into a fist. “You won’t shoot. See this?” He waved a small black object connected by a wire to the vest. “You know what it is.”

Justin nodded. It was the dead man’s switch to the explosives. If al-Nueimi had used a pressure system—commonly employed by ISIS bomb experts—his suicide vest would blow up even if Justin killed al-Nueimi. Constant pressure was needed to hold the switch and avoid the explosion.

If Justin fired now, there was a chance the bomb would go off. Depending on the amount of explosive loaded onto the vest—and he had no way of determining that—they could be within the deadly blast range. The explosion could kill them all, including the ambassador’s wife and her daughter crouching by the door. But if Justin hesitated a few more seconds, and al-Nueimi advanced a few more steps and blew up the vest, they would all be dead.

“What do you want?” Justin shouted.

“What do I want? Really? I have to explain it? I want to kill that Russian pig’s wife and daughter. He must pay for his crimes, if not in blood, then in pain and suffering. Just like I did,” Al-Nueimi spat out his words and took a couple of steps forward.

“Stop! Stop!” Justin moved closer to one of the wall fragments remaining near the front entrance. “I’ll—”

“You will not. Because we’ll all die. But I’m ready to die. Are you?”

Justin did not answer.

“Are you? Tell me!”

Justin peered over al-Nueimi’s shoulder as something moved along the fence. It seemed like a woman was running bent at the waist. Is . . . is that Carrie?

“Answer me, Justin!”

“I think you should look at that.” Justin pointed to his right.

“A distraction? So someone can shoot me? I told you about the—”

“Pa . . . Papa, Papa,” came a faint boy’s voice.

Al-Nueimi turned his body slowly. “What . . . no, no!” He shook his head as he glanced at his son standing less than twenty yards away near the fence.

Carrie was holding him by the hand. She caressed the boy’s head, then said, “Go to your father, Naim.”

He ran toward al-Nueimi, who was still shaking his head. His right hand was still tight, but he stooped down. The boy fell into al-Nueimi’s chest and hugged him. “Papa, Papa, Papa,” was all he could say.

Al-Nueimi held onto his son, then looked at Justin. The terrorist’s eyes welled up. A look of disbelief filled his face. “How . . . I thought he was dead.”

Justin lowered his rifle to the side. It was now less likely for al-Nueimi to blow up his explosives vest. Besides, Carrie had her pistol trained on al-Nueimi’s head. “We brought back your son. He can have a good future, if you allow him.”

Al-Nueimi stood up. He dropped his glance to the boy, who had rested his head against his father’s leg. “I . . . I’m . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again.

“We’ll take him back to your relatives in Mosul or elsewhere in Iraq. He doesn’t have to die,” Justin said.

Al-Nueimi’s shoulders slumped, but his hands remained balled into fists. His eyes had lost some of the fire they had when he first stepped onto the front lawn. His jaws were locked into a menacing grin. He offered a small nod, then said, “You . . . you promise to take good care of him?”

“Yes, I promise,” Justin replied in a firm voice without hesitation.

Al-Nueimi nodded again. “All right. You’re . . . you’re a man of honor, Justin Hall.”

Justin held al-Nueimi’s eyes.

Al-Nueimi said, “I’ll deactivate and remove the vest.”

He reached with his left hand inside his jacket.

Justin felt sweat bubbling on his forehead. If al-Nueimi’s fingers slipped or he made a mistake in dismantling the bomb, the explosion could pulverize everyone. Justin took a step to the side, closer to the wall. If the explosives went off, that move would not do much, but his survival instinct was strong.

A few tense moments dragged on.

Justin glanced at Carrie, whose pistol was still aimed at al-Nueimi. “Can . . . can you do it?”

“Another second . . . Yes. It’s . . . it’s done now.” Al-Nueimi’s right hand released the trigger.

Justin drew in a deep breath of relief.

Al-Nueimi unstrapped one of the belts, then removed the vest. He placed it gently onto the lawn, then stepped to the other side along with his son.

Justin nodded. “Good, very good.”

He dashed toward al-Nueimi.

Carrie rushed from the other side.

Al-Nueimi crouched so he could be at the same eye level as his son. “These . . . these people will . . . they’ll take care of you. They’ll take you to Grandpa, remember Grandpa Zehab?”

The boy returned a small nod. “Will . . . will I see you again?”

Al-Nueimi glanced up at Justin standing next to them.

Justin said, “You . . . uh, yes—”

“Of course, you’ll see me again. Now, cheer up and go with them.” Al-Nueimi stood up.

“I . . . I don’t want to leave.” The boy held on to al-Nueimi’s leg.

“I’ll come and see you soon. You, I, and Grandpa will go ride horses. Remember the horses?”

The boy nodded slowly.

“Come with me,” Carrie said and offered the boy her hand. “I’ll take you back to the car and buy you some ice cream. You like ice cream, right?”

“Yes. Can I get Papa some too?”

“Chocolate for me. A large chocolate ice cream,” al-Nueimi said.

“See you, Papa.” The boy waved and reluctantly shuffled away with Carrie.

Justin waited until Carrie and the boy turned to the left and were beyond the fence, then said to al-Nueimi, “Turn around and drop to your knees.”

Al-Nueimi did as he was ordered.

Justin pulled out a pair of plastic handcuffs. “Arms behind your back.”

He handcuffed al-Nueimi, then gestured at the operative sitting near the front entrance. “Keep an eye on him.”

The operative nodded.

Justin looked at the woman, who was holding her daughter close to the chest. “It’s all over—”

Gunfire cut off his words.

Justin glanced in the gunfire’s direction. It was coming from the right, where he had last seen the van.

Al-Nueimi shouted, “What was—”

Justin said, “Stay down!” Then he called to the operative, “Watch him.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve got him,” the operative replied.

“Are they shooting at my son?”

Justin ignored al-Nueimi and raced toward the fence. Is it Carrie and the boy? Or Claudia?

Another short burst came from the Portuguese residence. It seemed to be return fire, but Justin had no way of knowing. The tall thick hedge separated the two houses.

He dropped to his knees when he came to the fence. After securing a position, Justin peeked around the fence. Two gunmen were firing from the rear of the van. One had turned his assault rifle toward the Portuguese house, while the second was firing at Claudia, who was pinned down and trying to hide behind a thin streetlight post about thirty yards away.

Justin fired a short burst. He missed, as he had not aimed to hit the targets. His bullets were supposed to give Claudia a break, to allow for her retreat to safety.

But she did not move.

“Claudia, Claudia,” Justin called. He fired again and gestured for her to run toward him.

She shook her head. “Can’t! My leg.”

Justin peered at Claudia. He thought he noticed a large bloodstain on her leg, but could not be sure. “I’ll come and get you,” he shouted.

Claudia nodded, then turned her rifle toward the van. “Ready.”

Justin squeezed off a few rounds and bolted toward Claudia.

She swung her body around and fired a long barrage to cover Justin’s advance.

He had taken seven or eight steps when one of the gunmen popped up near the front of the van. He blasted his rifle at Claudia, then at Justin. Bullets struck near the agent’s feet. He ran to the left, bent at the waist. Then he rolled on the ground.

Claudia’s barrage ended, and she dropped behind the lamppost.

Justin aimed his rifle, but the gunman had disappeared.

“Reloading,” Claudia shouted.

The second gunman materialized behind the van.

Justin was waiting for him and planted a couple of rounds into the gunman’s head, which exploded into a mist of pink.

Claudia turned her rifle toward the van but did not open fire.

Justin crawled to the sidewalk, then covered the remaining distance at a hurried pace. He kept his rifle aimed at the van, expecting the second gunman to reappear at any moment, but he did not.

When Justin was a couple of steps away from her, a round pinged against the lamppost, about a foot above Claudia’s head. She fired at the gunman, but because of her position, she did not have a clear shot.

Justin did.

He double-tapped his rifle’s trigger, sending two bullets into the gunman’s chest. He fell to his side and did not move.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Claudia glanced at the gunman.

“He’s dead. Let’s go.” Justin picked her up in a fireman’s carry.

“Oh, ah,” she cried as she bounced hard over Justin’s left shoulder.

“Sorry, just a few more—”

A bullet slammed against Justin’s back. The impact almost threw him to the ground. His bulletproof vest took the brunt, but the bullet’s impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He cursed the gunman, then spun around.

The gunman’s trembling hand was pointing a pistol at Justin.

He fired a long burst.

His bullets riddled the gunman’s body before he could pull the trigger.

Justin sighed, then slowly dropped to his knees. He placed Claudia on the ground, then kept his rifle aimed at the van.

Claudia got into a seated firing position and pointed her rifle at the dead gunman. “I think you killed him this time.”

Justin swore again. “Sorry, I . . . I should have checked.”

Claudia shrugged. “It happens.”

Justin nodded but did not look back. His attention was focused on the van, in case another gunman showed his face. He tried to draw in a deep breath and felt the pain zipping through his back. The round bruised or cracked a rib.

He stood there on one knee for another long moment. Nothing moved in or around the van. But he had been burned and was not willing to repeat the mistake.

“Justin, I’ve got it.” Carrie’s voice came from behind him.

“Yes, and I’ve got it covered,” Claudia shouted.

Justin nodded. He took a series of small, shallow breaths, to avoid the sharp sting of pain piercing through his chest. He turned around and asked Claudia, “How are you?”

“Justin, you took a bullet for me,” Claudia said in a low voice. “You . . . you saved my life.”

He shrugged. “No, not really. You had it under control. I just . . . just gave you a hand.”

Claudia smiled. “The bullet . . . it singed my hair.” She ran her hand through her long black hair. “Another inch to the left and . . .”

“Don’t think that way,” Justin said. “It didn’t hit you, and it dusted off my vest. It’s all good.”

Claudia nodded, then dropped her eyes to the ground. “I . . . I haven’t been completely honest with you, Justin. I’m sorry about that. I need to—”

“Claudia, it can wait. Let’s get you some help and clean up this place. Shall we?”

She nodded. “Yes, but it has to be today. It’s important.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “And it involves Arkady.”

Justin flinched, but gave Claudia a reassuring tap on the shoulder. “Sure, but let’s find a doctor, first. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He glanced at Carrie, who still had the van in her sights, and said, “Bring your Jeep around.”

“Sure.”

Justin stood up and neared the van with his rifle aimed at the nearest gunman. He was not moving, but Justin was not taking any chances. He reached the van and made sure both gunmen were dead. Inside the bullet-shredded van, he found another two men, also dead.

He turned around as Carrie drove her Jeep down the road. She backed it to the front of the Russian residence, then stepped outside.

Justin walked to Claudia and along with Carrie, they helped her into the Jeep’s backseats. Naim, who was sitting in the front seat, gave Claudia a sad look, then asked, “Will you be okay?”

Claudia nodded. “Yes, yes, we’ll all be okay.”

“One of the Zaslon operatives is wounded,” Justin said.

“All right, let’s take him.”

They made their way to the house, where the operative was sitting near the door. His face had turned white, and he could barely keep his eyes open. But he held his AK assault rifle tight in his hands, aimed at al-Nueimi lying on the front lawn.

Justin said, “It’s time to go.”

The operative nodded. “What about him?” he gestured at al-Nueimi.

“Oh, I’ll put a bullet in his head if he even blinks,” the ambassador’s wife said.

Justin nodded. “Let’s go.”

He wrapped his arms around the operative’s right side, and along with Carrie they lifted the operative off the ground. He was able to carry some of his weight, and Justin and Carrie pulled him into the Jeep.

“See you at the station,” Carrie said.

“No, I’ll come to the hospital. Give me a call when you get there.”

“Okay. Now be careful,” Carrie said.

“Yes, you too.”

The Jeep rounded the corner, and Justin made his way to al-Nueimi, who asked, “What was that shooting?”

“Your men wanted to complete the mission. Now, get up.”

“Where are we going?”

Justin ignored his question. He looked at the ambassador’s wife holding her daughter tight and said, “You’re safe now.”

The woman nodded. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Hall, Justin Hall.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hall. My daughter would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

Justin nodded and smiled at the little girl.

She smiled back and gave Justin a small goodbye wave.

“We have to go,” Justin said and grabbed al-Nueimi by the arm.

“Where are you taking me?”

Before Justin could answer, a loud engine noise tore through the road. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the approaching black BMW.

Arkady jumped out of the driver’s seat. “Justin, Justin, you got this son of a—”

“Yes, it’s all over.”

Arkady said, “For you, maybe. For me and this piece of garbage, it has just started.”

He stepped closer to al-Nueimi and threw a quick left jab at the man’s gut.

“Hey, stop, stop!” Justin shouted.

Al-Nueimi leaned forward and spat out blood. Then he cursed the Russian.

Arkady readied his other fist, but Justin stepped in between them. “Knock it off. It’s over. We got him.”

Arkady shook his head. “He’ll pay for all he did, for all of this.” He waved his arms around.

“He will, but not right now. Not in this way.”

“Fine, have it your way. But I’m taking him in.”

Justin shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

Al-Nueimi cursed the Russian again. “Don’t . . . uh, don’t hand me over. He’ll kill me for what I know.”

“Shut up, shut your face!” Arkady shouted. Then he pulled out his phone and speed dialed a number. “Here’s your boss, Flavio. He has already ordered the handover.” He gave the phone to Justin.

“No, he hasn’t,” Justin said.

He picked up the phone just as Flavio answered at the other end. “Yes, Arkady, what is it now?”

“Hello, sir, this is Justin.”

“Yes, Justin, how are you? I heard about the explosion and the helo . . .”

“Things are well, sir. But Arkady is claiming al-Nueimi, who I have in custody. If we—”

“Hand him over,” Flavio said in a cold voice.

“Sir, the Russians will kill him for what he knows—”

“And for what he has done,” Flavio interrupted him. “He was trying to kill the ambassador’s family, his wife and young daughter.”

Justin nodded. “Yes, but—”

“No, no buts. Clear order: Hand al-Nueimi over to Arkady. Got it?”

“Yes, got it.”

“Good. Wrap things up and return to Vienna ASAP,” Flavio’s voice remained cold and tense.

“Will do, sir.”

“Good. Take care.”

“Yes, you too, sir.”

Arkady reached for the phone and for al-Nueimi.

Justin’s shoulders slumped. He relaxed his grip on the terrorist, then let go.

“No, no, no,” al-Nueimi shouted. “He’ll kill me. You know they have—”

Arkady threw a right hook at al-Nueimi’s throat, which sent him coughing and spluttering blood. He tripped and almost lost his balance, but Arkady’s strong hands held him up. “What did I say about shutting up your face? Shut up or I’ll smash it!”

Al-Nueimi kept coughing and spitting as Arkady shoved him toward his BMW.

Justin cursed the turn of events, then looked around. Not much I can do around here. But this isn’t over.