Batya Ganani lowered her rifle and stared down at the square from her fourth-floor perch in disbelief. Her assignment had been to oversee the exchange and provide backup in the event of a double cross. Now Cline and another man were dead, and the contact had escaped with the USB drives. Colonel Brodsky wasn’t going to be happy.
She replayed the scene in her mind. There had been no trouble with the exchange. The men had passed in the square and exchanged drives. No one seemed to notice or care. Both men carried tablets and stopped in the square to verify the exchanged information. Then Cline’s contact had nodded, and another man had stepped forward and slit Cline’s throat from behind. She had done the only thing she could do. She had put a bullet through the forehead of the accomplice. When she finally had a clean shot at the contact, the trajectory was low. The bullet clipped the wall of the fountain. She’d missed.
The sirens on the street grew louder, and she cursed her luck. Soon the building would be crawling with soldiers and police. It was time to go.
Picking up the rifle, she folded the sling close to the barrel and palmed the weapon near the trigger, holding it upright against her back. She only needed to get to the hotel’s trash chute without the rifle being seen. She wore indistinguishable clothing—black pants, black shoes, a wig, and a black, short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off her cleavage. Experience told her that few men, or women, would notice anything else about her. A loose black jacket helped conceal the weapon.
The hallway of the hotel was deserted, the beige carpet and walls broken up by closed white doors. In case any residents peeked out of the peepholes of their doors, she kept her head down, the hair of the wig obscuring her face. She avoided the main elevators and exits and made her way to the end of the hall.
She stepped into the small service room, dropped the rifle into the trash chute, and made her way to the service stairs. By now, soldiers and police would have cordoned off the lobby. The stairs led to the kitchen and then to the basement, where the trash chute emptied. From there, a separate set of stairs led to the street.
She encountered no one as she made her way down from the fourth floor to the kitchen. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open.
“Who is there?” a young soldier demanded.
Ganani considered playing the frightened guest, but she couldn’t risk being detained. Stepping into the kitchen, she flashed identification.
“Yasam,” she said, the lie coming easy. She slapped her credential holder shut before the soldier could note the differences between it and the shield of the Israel Police Counter-Terror Unit.
“You don’t dress like Yasam.”
“We had a tip. I was placed here to appear like a guest.” She did her best to sound annoyed, making it clear it was not his place to question her. “Why aren’t these stairs being guarded?”
The soldier, all of eighteen, kept his eyes glued right where she wanted them. “I am guarding them.”
“Then you need to be in the stairwell, Turái.” Private. She spoke gently, as if addressing a child. Ten years of added experience left her feeling generous.
The private glanced up at her face and then back at her breasts. “I was told to stay near the door.”
“By whom?” As the seconds ticked by, her feelings of generosity waned.
“The samál.”
She drew a breath that made her breasts rise. “Go tell your sergeant there must be two people here—one by the door and one in the stairwell.”
“I have orders not to leave.”
Enough already. “What is your name, Private?”
The boy glanced up again.
“Tell me your name.”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then go tell your sergeant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted and turned on his heels.
Once he disappeared, Ganani wasted no time. The basement entrance was hidden behind a five-tiered metal cart covered with jars of pickles, olives, and jam. Pushing the cart out of the way, she tugged open the wooden door.
Kicking a baluster free of the railing, Ganani secured the door from the inside. Then, scrambling down the wooden steps, she retrieved her rifle from the mound of bagged trash beneath the chute, slung it across her back, and moved quickly across the dirt floor to the outside door.
More steps climbed to the street entrance that opened out onto a small concrete pad crowded with trash and recycling bins, nearly a block from the main entrance of the hotel. Her car was parked across the street directly in front. Looking through the dirty, barred window beside the door, Ganani could see three soldiers standing on the opposite sidewalk. These were not young men and would not be so easy to boss around. One of them leaned against her black Volvo C70.
Pressing her back to the exit, she drew a deep breath. It wouldn’t be long before someone inside discovered the basement. From her position by the window, she could hear footsteps in the kitchen. Best to take her chances outside.
She was reaching for the door handle when a commotion in front of the hotel saved her. The young soldier who had refused to give her his name bolted into the street. From snatches of conversation, she ascertained that he had returned to the kitchen and found her gone. Now he sounded the alarm. Not to be left out of the action, the three soldiers near her car raced away behind him.
Ganani waited three counts and then slipped outside. She closed the door, jamming the handle with a trash cart from the outside, and moved swiftly to her car. Popping the trunk, she placed her rifle inside, along with her black wig, and shut the trunk. Sliding behind the wheel of her Volvo, she slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and pulled the car into the street. A policeman on the next corner gestured her into the far lane and waved her on. Two turns later, she reached Ben Yehuda Street and was free of the area.
Rolling down the car windows, Ganani let the breeze ruffle her hair and strip away some of her tension. There were still things to do. First she needed to call her boss. Then she needed to find Cline’s contact.