Cradled in garbage, Ganani lay still for a moment. Then, with a groan and an effort that shot pain through her back, she turned over and pushed herself to her hands and knees. The bags beneath her rolled and pitched. She heard the clamor of feet on stairs and the shouts of men. From the corner of the trash bin, a rat bared its teeth at her, prepared to battle over its dinner. She shuddered and hauled herself to her feet.
Harah. Heaving herself over the metal edge of the dumpster, she dropped to the ground. The landing jarred her teeth and sent another shot of pain up her spine. The pashmina clinging to her shoulders stank of rotted fish, but she pulled it close to shield her face and fled into the darkness of al-Ajami.
The soles of her flats slipped on the loose dirt of the roadway, forcing her to slow her pace. She wove an intricate path through the alleyways, turning right here and left there, always aware of the shouts from the men in pursuit. Soon the voices faded away and the lights of Yafo welcomed her back.
People stared at her here, too. Not because she looked Israeli, she decided, but because she smelled. Ignoring the owner’s protests that the toilets were for customers only, she limped through the nearest café and took refuge in the bathroom.
Her pashmina was ruined, the fine wool embedded with bits of food. A rent in the fabric split it nearly in two. She pitched it into the trash, splashed water over her face and arms, and blotted the stains from her clothes using a handful of wet paper towels. Finally, facing the mirror, she tousled her brown hair and fished the lip gloss out of her pocket. The tinge of red made her transformation complete. A marvel considering she smelled like spoiled chraime.
Exiting the bathroom, she purchased a cup of coffee and, likely to the café owner’s relief, carried it outside to the patio. The night had cooled and, with help from the breeze off the water, the stench of the fish abated. Ganani sipped her coffee and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She needed to call Brodsky.
The thought brought with it a stab of fear. He frightened her when little else did. Colonel Brodsky was not a man who tolerated errors, and she had made several.
The phone rang and she pictured him lifting the receiver. Tall and fit, with close-cropped hair, blue eyes, and a piercing insight, the colonel engendered fear. He would know she had failed.
“Shalom,” Ilya Brodsky said, his voice quiet yet fierce.
“It’s Ganani.”
She waited for him to secure the line. After a final click, he asked, “Has it been taken care of?”
“No.” The truth was easiest when it came quickly.
Silence. Finally, he spoke. “Why not?”
She gave him a rundown of the events.
“And the Arab who got away?” Brodsky asked.
She chafed under his reproachful tone. She wasn’t trained to make costly mistakes. Today, she’d made two, and Israel would pay the price for her failure. “I will find him.”
“Does he have the information?”
Ganani didn’t want to admit it. “I don’t know for sure.”
Again, there was a momentary silence. “If the mission is to succeed, we must have the information the Palestinians brought to trade.”
“I am aware.” Ganani tried wetting her lips, but her mouth was dry. She took a sip of the coffee and wondered how he’d react to her next idea. “Perhaps we should go to the detective in charge of the shooting investigation and—”
“No.”
The word came strong. She knew that, from his vantage point, there were already enough rumors circulating about who fired the shots in Dizengoff Square.
Brodsky’s next words solidified her thoughts. “There will be more to deal with once the police are called to al-Ajami.”
She flashed back to the Palestinian’s crushed larynx and the single shot to the tall man’s head. More room for speculation. The thought made her self-conscious. She glanced around to see who besides the coffee shop owner would remember her. It was time to move on. She stood and started away from the table, but the motion caused static on the line. She stopped in the glare of a streetlamp for fear of losing the connection.
“For now,” Brodsky said, “there are only rumors, nothing more. It is not your concern. Your job is to recover both of the USB drives. You must make sure nothing passes into the wrong hands. There is too much riding on your success.”
She wondered at his meaning. Was he concerned about the mission, or was he suggesting there would be other rewards? “I understand, Colonel.”
After he hung up, Ganani turned off her phone, slipped into the shadows of the building, and waited for the next bus to take her back into Tel Aviv. She studied the landscape, reassuring herself that no one showed her any overt interest. Now all she needed was a plan.