Musrara, Jerusalem
Three days after Assassinations
Eight days to Announcement
Abdul Masih was the furthest thing from Zeb’s mind. He was breaking into Meir’s apartment when the terrorist was enquiring about suicide bombers.
Getting entry into the building hadn’t been a problem. The residential complex didn’t have a concierge, nor did it have security of any kind.
With his ball cap pulled low over his face, Zeb raced up the stairs and reached Meir’s fifth-floor apartment. He inspected the door and spotted the discreetly mounted security camera.
Can’t risk picking the lock.
He took the stairs, climbing rapidly until he reached the landing on the twelfth floor, and took a door that opened on the roof.
A water tank in one corner. Air-conditioning equipment. Solar panels. No other human.
He peered over the parapet that ran all around. Luck favored him for a change. The Mossad operative’s apartment was at the rear of the building and overlooked its parking lot. Which happened to be quiet at that time of the night and was dark.
He extracted a climbing rope from his backpack and secured one end to the tank. Donned gloves and slithered down the side of the building. He slid down the eleventh floor, tenth; kicked hard and jumped to the right when a bedroom window opened on the ninth floor and a head peered out. He remained motionless, a dark figure against the wall, his feet braced against the building, his palms wrapped firmly around the rope.
The head, a woman, called out querulously in the night. A voice replied from somewhere beyond the parking lot. The resident cursed, retreated and slammed the window shut.
Zeb resumed his approach. He stopped when he reached Meir’s window. No curtains inside. He looked around and upwards and downwards. He was alone in the night. He peered cautiously through the pane and saw only his reflection. He brought out a palm-sized flashlight and aimed it at the room.
Bedroom. A double bed. A floor-to-ceiling wardrobe. A door at the far end. No alarms visible. He clutched the flashlight between his teeth, drew out his blade and jammed it beneath the sill. There was give between the window and its frame. Sufficient enough for him to use his burglar toolkit and open the window.
Moments later, he was padding across the room, after confirming there were no intruder alarms or cameras. He searched the room swiftly. No phone. There was a laptop on a side table, but it was password-protected. That wasn’t a deterrent. He inserted a thumb drive in its port. The program on it would force the machine to perform certain commands and yield its files. Zeb knew how it worked; the twins had explained it to him in excruciating detail. Hopefully Meir hasn’t encrypted his files. Werner could crack those, too, but it would take longer.
He searched the rest of the apartment while the thumb drive did its work. There was another bedroom that seemed unoccupied, a living room that also doubled as a dining room, a kitchen, bathroom. The apartment was comfortably furnished, pictures of Meir and his girlfriend adorning the wall. No files of any kind. No concealed safe, not that he could detect. There must be one for his passports, weapons. Or he has a locker somewhere else. He didn’t find another phone.
He planted listening devices in the apartment and, when the thumb drive stopped flashing, removed it and stowed away the laptop in its original position.
One last look around the apartment and then he was out of the window, climbing back to the roof.
Forty-five minutes later he was on the street, with no proof that the kidon was either innocent or the killer. He hoped the thumb drive would have something.
One hour later, Zeb was in his hotel room, fresh after a shower. He sent the files to the sisters and crashed on his bed.
He woke up in the morning to find a Glock pointed at him.