Jordan parked the embassy vehicle on a side street near Zinah Dizengoff Square behind a dozen other police and military vehicles pulled up haphazardly to the curbs and counted twenty-three Israeli soldiers blocking the perimeter of the square. Their khaki green uniforms offset a long row of bright blue removable metal fencing, creating a picket-like effect as they stood at attention, their guns ready. Even so, a large crowd had gathered. Workers from nearby office buildings had come out to gawk, along with the hotel staff and the waiters and cooks from the restaurants lining the street. Along the sidewalks, parents boosted children onto their shoulders. Tourists snapped photos. Everyone looked to see what was happening near the fountain—everyone, that is, except a solitary man who kept his head down and moved swiftly toward the Postal Authority. Something about him struck her as off.
Jordan tracked his movements as she climbed out of her car. At the entrance to the Postal Authority, the man looked up. Olive-skinned, with dark hair and dark eyes, he appeared to be an Arab. He held open the door for an elderly patron and then ducked inside. When he didn’t exit quickly, she chalked up her suspicion to nerves.
She reached for her Kevlar vest—the one with “Federal Agent” stamped on the back—and slipped it on over her shirt. Regulations required she wear it, though from her perspective, it was like donning a bull’s-eye. Her outfit screamed “American.” There was already one dead agent. Why not make it two?
She checked her gun, making sure it was visible on her hip and holstered securely per the Defense Security Service—better known as DSS—agreement with the Israeli government. Attaching her ID to a lanyard, she slipped it over her head and reached back to gather her hair into a ponytail. Then, taking a deep, calming breath, she headed toward the barricades.
“Special Agent Jordan,” she announced in Hebrew to one of the guards stationed at the edge of the square. She held up her badge. “Who’s in charge here?”
A tall, thin man kneeling beside Cline’s body signaled to the guard to let her through. He stood as she approached and extended a hand.
“Detective Noah Weizman, homicide division,” he said, his English perfect. “Daugherty informed me that you were coming and would be following the investigation. It makes sense seeing as one of the victims is yours.” He pointed to the body. “It was my understanding Cline was headed back to the United States soon.”
“That’s correct.” She didn’t add that Cline should have already been stateside. His transfer request had cited family reasons—that his mother was ill and he was needed at home. But a cursory check Jordan conducted less than a half-hour ago turned up that his mother was on an extended Italian vacation with his sister.
“What about the other man?” she asked. “The one who slit Cline’s throat. Who is he?”
“No ID yet. We think he’s Palestinian. We’re running facial recognition. So far, no hit.”
“What about the shooter? Did you catch him?”
Weizman shook his head. A dark curl settled on his forehead, accentuating his tan and the strong line of his nose. He pointed to the hotel. “Whoever she was, she set up on the fourth floor and managed to elude the soldiers.”
She? Female terrorists weren’t unheard of, but normally they carried out missions via suicide bombings or poisonings, not through sniper rounds. “How do you know it was a woman?”
“A young soldier stationed in the kitchen saw her. He claims she identified herself as working for the Israeli Police Counter-Terror Unit.”
“Did he get a description?”
“He claims she had a nice set of tits. Oh, and black hair.” Weizman shrugged as if to say, it happens, and then gestured toward the Palestinian’s body. “The sniper’s first shot brought him down.”
“Only two victims?”
“Correct.” Weizman scraped his fingers across the stubble that darkened his chin. “Any ideas on what your man was doing to get himself killed?”
Jordan shook her head. It seemed Cline had gone off the grid. During her fact-finding mission, she uncovered that he had notified the State Department in D.C. that he would be delayed in Israel by a week and had rescheduled his flight from Ben Gurion International Airport to Dulles. She had no idea why he had not informed their RSO.
Squatting beside the bodies, she studied the wounds and the blood spatter patterns. The wound at Cline’s throat seemed the clear cause of death. An entrance wound in the Palestinian’s forehead indicated he had died from a single-round shot from a high-powered rifle. No doubt there was a gaping hole in the back of his head.
Jordan stood. “Any witnesses?”
“Fifty or so. Those two were the closest.” Weizman pointed toward a man and a young girl seated on the wall across from the fountain. “The man was almost killed by another shot. It’s possible he was a target.”
“How do you figure?”
“He told us. The last shot fired drilled the fountain right above his head. Maybe you’d like to speak to him. He’s one of yours.”
“One of ours?”
“An American.” Weizman led the way across the square. When they reached the man and child, he introduced Jordan to the police officer standing guard. “This is my partner, Detective Gidon Lotner. Gidon, this is Special Agent Jordan.”
She extended her hand to Lotner.
The short, stout man ignored the gesture and nodded curtly. “This is Judge Ben Taylor and his daughter, Lucy.”
The judge seemed to be taking stock of the situation, though the young girl was clearly shaken. She huddled close to her father while he gently stroked her hair. The gesture touched Jordan at gut level, reminding her of her own father.
“Judge Taylor, I’m the assistant regional security officer assigned to the U.S. embassy. Whenever there are incidents in Tel Aviv involving Americans, I am sent out to investigate.”
The father nodded, but the child look scared. Jordan dropped down to her eye level.
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“You must have been scared.”
The child shrugged. Blood spatter spotted the front of her white tank top like brown freckles. She clung to her dad’s hand and kept her eyes focused on the concrete. “I lost some of my stuff.”
“But you and your dad are okay.”
The judge, who was watching his daughter, said, “Can we do this later?”
Jordan shook her head. “It’s better for us to get the information while it’s fresh in your minds.” She stood up, focusing on the present. “Judge Taylor, can you tell me why you’re in Israel?”
“We’re here because Lucy is sick.”
Jordan studied the girl. When the child looked up, Jordan was struck by the depth of the circles etched under her chocolate-brown eyes.
“Go on.”
“We’re seeing a doctor here—Dr. Alena Petrenko.” The judge’s arm slipped around his daughter’s shoulders, and he drew her closer to him. “It’s making a difference.”
Jordan noted an edge to his voice.
“Is your mother here?” she asked Lucy.
“My ex-wife is stateside,” the judge said. “Lucy spends her summers with me.”
Again, Jordan took note of his tone. Maybe he didn’t get along with his ex-wife, or maybe it was something else. “What type of judge are you, Judge Taylor? State—”
“Federal.”
That got her attention.
Jordan turned to Lucy. “Do you mind if I speak to your daddy alone?” She tipped her head at Detective Lotner, waiting for Lucy to respond. Lotner scowled. Lucy looked scared.
“It’ll only be for a minute,” Jordan said. “You can wait right there.” She pointed to a bench farther away from the fountain and the dead bodies.
Lucy tightened her grip on her father’s fingers.
He leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand, moving toward the bench with Detective Lotner.
“Thank you,” said Jordan, waiting for them to get out of earshot.
“Let’s get this over with,” the judge said, his voice commanding, like a man who was used to giving orders rather than taking them.
Hoping to put him at ease, Jordan sat on the edge of the wall beside him. “Judge Taylor, did you know either of the two men who died?”
“No.”
“Do you know of any reason someone might want you dead?”
Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a federal judge.”
“Let me rephrase. Do you know of any reason someone here might want you dead?”
Taylor looked away. “I would never willingly put Lucy in danger.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” It was obvious that his daughter was his primary concern, so when he didn’t respond, Jordan played the card. “I need an answer, Taylor, for her sake as much as yours. I need to know if someone here tried to kill you.”
The judge drew a breath and exhaled loudly. “The last case I presided over involved two American children orphaned when their parents were killed on 9/11. Based on the conviction of a Palestinian named Mohammad Al Ahmed, their attorney asked for a court-ordered freeze of his U.S.-based investments until liability was determined. It essentially ties up U.S. funding of the Palestine Liberation Committee.”
“And you complied?” It wasn’t really a question. She knew about the case. She had been there for it, not to mention the fallout that brought her here.
Taylor nodded.
“Have you received any specific threats from the Palestinians?”
“No.”
“So you thought it was safe to come here?” Again, it wasn’t really a question, and Jordan had to work hard to keep the criticism out of her voice.
Taylor looked at Lucy. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Judge Taylor, only a crazy person goes out and plays in the bully’s backyard after handing down a verdict like that. You are aware that the Palestine Liberation Committee has a presence here? That there are people here who might see you as hampering their efforts by placing sanctions on their money?”
He turned his attention back to her. “I’m not stupid, Agent Jordan.”
“No, you’re not.” But neither was she, and none of this added up. Jordan tried a different tack. “You’re here because of Lucy, because she’s sick? Why not see a doctor at home?”
“Because Alena Petrenko is the best in her field.”
Jordan pushed herself up from the wall. “You’re sure you didn’t know either of these two men?”
“I’ve never seen either of them before.”
It might make sense if Cline had been in the square to protect the judge. But Daugherty would have been the one who assigned him, and Daugherty thought he had already left for D.C. Plus, it didn’t fit for the sniper to kill the Palestinian and then take a shot at Taylor. He had to be shooting at someone else.
“For what it’s worth,” Jordan said, “I don’t think you were the target. I think you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, your face has been all over the news, and we need to get you out of here.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll send someone with you to help pack up your things and make arrangements for you and your daughter to stay at the embassy until we can get you on a flight back to the U.S.”
“No.” He spoke sharply, and Lucy’s head turned in their direction. He gestured to his daughter that things were okay. “We aren’t leaving.”
Jordan frowned. “Excuse me?”
“We need to stay.”
“Look, I don’t know what prompted you to come here in the first place, but now it’s clear that the only reasonable thing for you to do is to go home.”
“We can’t,” said Taylor. “Not yet. Besides, you said it yourself, no one was shooting at me.”
Jordan heard the conviction in his voice, but it carried no logic.
“Judge Taylor, maybe you don’t value your own life, but what about Lucy’s? What about her life?” She gestured toward the girl, who was paying close attention.
“You’re right. We probably would be safer at home. But it’s for her sake that we have to stay.”
Jordan could hear his desperation and see it in his eyes. “The doctor?”
“Lucy goes for treatments every day. That’s where we were headed when . . .” His gaze shifted toward the bodies. “It doesn’t matter what happened here. Finishing her treatments is more important. I’m not taking her home until they’re done.” He held up a hand and measured two inches of air. “We’re this close, this close! We just need two more weeks.”