Jordan paced the length of Weizman’s office, a small, gray room with windows that faced out toward the highway. Outside the detective’s door spread a maze of cubicles with desks and chairs, all painted the same drab gray as the carpet and manned by Israeli beat cops wearing navy slacks and light blue shirts.
Earlier, with no authority to arrest anyone, she had ordered the Marines to restrain the woman at the scene of the attack and waited for him to show up. In turn, he had hauled the woman in for questioning. Now, watching him pick his way across the squad room, she moved forward impatiently.
“The woman’s clammed up,” Weizman said, pushing her back and shutting the door behind him.
Jordan had expected her to ask for a lawyer. “Batya Ruth was the name on her registration,” she said. “We couldn’t find any more information on her.”
“That’s because it’s a cover name. The woman is connected.”
“What do you mean ‘connected’?”
Weizman perched on the edge of a desk. “Her real name is Batya Ganani. She works for Shabak.” The Hebrew and Arabic word for Shin Bet, the Israeli equivalent of the FBI.
“You’re telling me she works for the Israeli government?”
Weizman nodded. “She asked to speak to Ilya Brodsky, who heads up a special antiterrorist unit. Colonel Brodsky has ordered her release.”
“You’re letting her go?”
Weizman threw up his hands. “Of course. She is an agent of the State of Israel.”
“What about the attack on the judge and his daughter?” Jordan asked.
“Ganani claims she was tailing the Palestinians and realized they were planning an attack. She moved in to protect your flank. Shabak’s stance is that you owe her an apology and a thank you.”
“What about her involvement in the Dizengoff shooting? And al-Ajami? She must be the one you’re looking for. Why else would she be tailing the Palestinians?”
Weizman shrugged. “I can’t prove she’s involved or that she did anything wrong if she was acting as an agent of the government. I have no reason to suspect Shabak of being involved in nefarious dealings.”
“So you believe what she’s telling you?”
Weizman smiled thinly. “If she had wanted to kill you or the judge, you would both be dead.” He moved behind his desk, sat down, and gestured toward a chair. “Now I have some questions for you.”
Jordan ignored the seat he offered. “What questions?”
“I need something to justify the discharge of U.S. weapons on Israeli soil and to explain why you shot out the tires of a Shabak agent and held her at gunpoint.”
“Fuck.”
He smiled again. “Did you draw your weapon because you were threatened?”
Jordan could see where this was headed. Moving forward, she planted both of her palms firmly on his desk. “Yes, Detective Weizman. I heard a shot in the alley as we were leaving the doctor’s office. I believe the Shabak agent shot out the front tire of a green Forester carrying four men who intended to ambush our transport. I drew my gun.”
“Go back to the embassy, Agent Jordan.” Weizman sat back, planting his elbows on the armrests of his chair, steepling his arms and tapping together his index fingers. “Take the judge and his daughter, put them under protective custody, and send them home.”
“I can’t do that.”
Weizman sat up sharply. “Are you saying you have no power to force them into your embassy? With what’s happened, the judge will not be so stupid as to refuse to protect his child.”
“Maybe you can order your citizens around, Weizman, but we can’t order Ben Taylor to do anything. He’s an American here on legitimate business. He believes that the medical treatments Lucy receives are saving her life.” Jordan made no attempt to mask her own skepticism. “We can’t force him to leave. If I could, I would. How about you have him deported?”
Weizman cupped his chin in his hand and shook his head. “He has legal documents and, so far, he has done nothing wrong.”
A door opened on the far side of the squad room, and Jordan turned as Batya Ganani stepped through the doorway. She glanced around until she spotted Jordan, and a faint grin spread across her face. She nodded slightly.
“Round one, Ganani,” Jordan said.
“Excuse me?” said Weizman.
“It’s an expression.” She started for the door, but Weizman called her back.
“Hold up. I have something for you.” The detective rummaged around in his desk drawer and then pulled out a small USB drive and pushed it toward Jordan. “It’s a copy of one we found in the apartment at al-Ajami. I think you will find it interesting. It’s full of American pop music. Maybe you can help me identify its owner?”
*
Haddid trembled. No one had died. Yousif had been wounded, but the rest of them had come through unscathed.
“Where did that crazy bitch in the Volvo come from?” asked Fayez. “Who the hell was she?”
They were sitting on the couch in the safe house, watching through the bedroom door as Basim doctored a moaning Yousif. He was lying across the bed and looked pale. The four of them had failed to fulfill their mission.
“She is the woman from Najm’s house. She must be Shabak. I don’t know.”
Fayez raised his eyebrows. “If that’s true, then why aren’t we dead?”
It was a valid question. Plus, it would save Zuabi the trouble of killing them. Haddid shuddered to think how their leader would react to this latest news. There had to be some way of appeasing Zuabi without giving him the means to carry out his plan.
“Zuabi is going to be angry,” said Fayez, as if reading Haddid’s thoughts.
“It was beyond our control.” Haddid feigned disappointment at their failure to capture the girl and her father. In truth, he was glad. She was only a child.
His thoughts drifted to his own son. Sami was younger than the girl but held the same innocence of youth. Children did not care about war. They did not care about politics. They did not care about race. They cared only about what their parents told them. About playing with their friends. About eating. His son was always hungry.
And his wife. What did she care about? She only wanted Haddid to go to work and come home. She wanted him to put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. She hated the violence. She hated Zuabi. As the head of the Palestine Liberation Committee, he supported three things she opposed—Hamas, jihad, and racism. Haddid’s beloved was convinced that one day it would be one of those three things that would bring death to Sami.
Haddid feared she was right. Zuabi was bent on revenge, and his view of the bigger picture was skewed. But these were not things he could share with his colleagues. If the others knew he rejoiced in their failure, there was not one among them that would hesitate to kill him.
“What are we to do now, Haddid?” asked Fayez.
Earlier, the man had treated him like he knew nothing, and now he wanted guidance? Why did he think Haddid had any answers?
“We wait,” Haddid said. “We need to see what the father and daughter choose to do.” It was possible that after this the man would take the girl inside the U.S. embassy. If he did, it was over.
Haddid closed his eyes and prayed to Allah. Please, let the father use his brain.