The Deadliest Game Page 7

Blair was tired and out of patience. He counted three hundred shekels and handed the money to the driver. “This is all you get, bud. Take it or leave it.”

  Their eyes locked.

  The man’s hand went to a leather case that was concealed beneath his seat.

  Blair tensed.

  The driver pulled out a receipt and handed it to him.

  Blair quickly took the receipt in hand and stepped out of the cab.

  The hotel lobby was spacious, brightly lit, and crowded. A far cry from what it was like a number of years ago, when constant terrorist attacks badly impacted Israel’s multi-billion-dollar tourist industry. There were still problems, just not as many.

  “Welcome, shalom,” the clerk at the check-in counter said.

  Blair was impressed by her golden skin, bright green eyes. “Thank you,” he said, handing her his credit card.

  “Staying for three nights?” she asked.

  “Yes, three nights,” he confirmed.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Mulligan. It is always a pleasure to see you. Will you be needing help with your bags?”

  “No help needed,” he said, indicating his small suitcase.

  She handed him his computerized keycard. “Here you go, then,” she said. “Fifteenth floor, as usual.”

  The room was spacious. Mahogany trim, with a king-size bed and mini-bar. A large desk sat off to one side. A leather swivel chair stood next to it.

  It took him less than ten minutes to hang up his clothes and place his toiletries in the bathroom. He was disappointed not to see the message light blinking.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Jeremy’s cell, but got his voice-mail. He left a message and disconnected. He wondered if something had happened to his friend. Or if he was indeed preoccupied with a terrorist group and their nefarious plans.

  He paused, knowing how ridiculous that seemed. There was no one man in Blair’s life to whom he felt closer. It was impossible to believe Jeremy was anyone but who he said he was.

  Without wasting another moment, Blair flipped off the lights and strolled out of his room.

  It felt strange to be walking instead of driving with Jeremy in his car. Blair had never paid much attention to this part of Tel Aviv. Hayarkon was a long street that seemed to run forever. There were office buildings and hotels, for the most part. A number were only a few stories tall. He did not encounter many pedestrians. He spotted a few on the opposite side. And this lone male figure on his side, coming toward him now.

  As the person approached, Blair kept his eyes focused. He realized he had no weapon he could use, that he was completely and utterly defenseless. Is this what a suicide bomber looks like? he asked himself.

  As the person neared, he could see that he was not as old as he had first believed. A teenager, actually, concentrating on whatever was coming out of the stereo headset he was wearing.

  They passed each other without incident. And the relief Blair felt was palpable.

  He continued walking until a familiar sign on his right finally came into view: Moira’s Italian. He climbed the short staircase and entered.

  The restaurant was quaint. Tables were set for two or four, no booths. Each table was adorned with a plastic red and green tablecloth. The candle holder, a throwback to another era, was a Chianti bottle wrapped in basket-weave. The menu was basic Italian, with Mediterranean side dishes.

  The owner was performing the duties of maitre d’. Short and robust, she had a nice way of greeting him. He asked for a table for two in case Jeremy showed up. This was his restaurant of choice. Jeremy knew to meet him here if they missed each other at the airport.

  She led him to a table by the window facing the street. Before she could get away he ordered a half-bottle of Valpolicella. He looked around. There weren’t that many diners.

  The wine arrived, but he held off ordering dinner. It was 7:30. He would give Jeremy until eight o’clock.

  The sound of laughter caught his ear. A group of children, girls aged five or six, were dining with two sets of parents at a table at the far end of the room. Each child had a Coke bottle in hand, and was shaking it and aiming the spray at the others. Their parents were either unconcerned, or oblivious to their behavior.

  Blair found it common in this country: children were given far more freedom. With good reason, he supposed, considering what they lived with on a day-to-day basis.

  “Pssst.”

  He turned to the voice.

  “Atta rotzeh et ha Coke sheli?” A blond girl was beside his chair, pointing to her bottle and offering it to him.

  “No thanks,” Blair said.

  Her smile widened. He could hear her friends giggling in the background.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She tried handing him the Coke bottle again.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want your Coke.”

  She remained in place.

  Blair liked children. He admired their innocence and unconditional trust. Now, he took the cloth napkin in hand, flattened it on the table, then folded it into a reverse triangle. Holding both ends, he brought one toward the center and crisscrossed the other. Then he started to fold the napkin toward him until he it was curled into an elongated shape. He turned the pointed ends of the napkin inside out. He pulled on one end until it formed a tail and introduced his pretend mouse.

  All this time the girl had been watching in silence. When he manipulated the mouse with his fingers so that it appeared to be moving, she jumped back, squealing with delight.

  He continued his demonstration, repeating the tricks his father had taught him, the same ones he used on his daughter. Teasing the girl with them, waiting for her to try to touch the mouse before making it jump out of the way.

  This went on for several minutes.

  When the door opened, he expected to find Jeremy. Instead it was an elderly couple, gray-haired and overweight, wearing identification tags from a bus tour they’d been on. The maitre d’ seated them far enough away so he was able to go on with his game without feeling obtrusive.

  Blair wished he could get to know the girl’s name. No matter how he posed the question, however, the answer remained elusive. Then something reflected in the plate glass window. It was a car on the street, trying to park next to the restaurant, even though parking was prohibited.

  The girl’s laugh distracted him for a moment. When Blair looked back, he caught sight of the driver as he got out of the car. And his heart leapt in his throat.

  It was the same man who had driven him to his hotel from the airport. He was carrying something in his hand. A canister or bottle of some sort.

  Blair didn’t know why—it could have been a sixth sense—but something made him dive, folding his body over the little girl. He sent them both crashing to the hardwood floor, just as the windowpane exploded.

  The sound was so loud it was painful. White heat followed, burning in its intensity.

  There were screams, horrible screams.

  Blair managed to maneuver both he and the girl under the table, just as the walls disintegrated. He was trying to see, trying to figure out a means of escape, when the very table protecting them blew apart.

  A piece of debris collided with his back. Then another piece slammed into his head.

  He lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER 19

  The mosque in Brooklyn was of a makeshift nature in a converted, small house. Ignoring his own discomfort, Yassin genuflected, lowering his forehead to the carpet until it touched.

  Twenty minutes later, the service was over. Putting on his shoes, he caught sight of a boy aged eleven or twelve, huddling with the imam. It brought him up short. “Mohammed,” he muttered beneath his breath. The resemblance to his dead son was uncanny. How could one boy look so much like another? Or was he imagining it? For the thousandth time?

  Trembling, he turned away.

  The earliest memory was painful: Yassin was born a year after his parents’ unsanctioned marriage. His father had
not only gone against custom by turning down the girl chosen for him, but had taken as his bride an outsider, a Christian from Norway, no less, a volunteer working for one of the many obscure charity organizations operating in Palestine.

  After his birth, it did not take long for people to notice the lighter color of Yassin’s skin as well as his other Scandinavian features. Growing older, he was heckled and harassed endlessly. His mother insisted he learn to speak English, and he spoke it well. This was a further black mark against him. To make matters worse, his siblings who were born two and four years later, a boy and a girl, were spared the same fate, having inherited their father’s physiognomy.

  Anger ruled his every waking moment. It festered, giving rise to near neurotic behavior. And it served as a catalyst, his impetus for making a name for himself among the militants who were so prevalent in Palestine.

  Nine people lived in his small house in Jabalia Camp in Gaza: their immediate family of five, and four cousins whose parents had been killed in a raid a short time ago. This was the third house they had built in recent years. The first was destroyed by Israeli bulldozers when it was decided that the road needed widening. The second house was blown apart as revenge for the Qassam rockets that were fired into Israel by Hamas.

  Attached to this third house was the restaurant Yassin’s father ran. The smell of food infiltrated the walls, often making it difficult to fall asleep. All members of the family pitched in. The hours were long, but complaints about it fell on deaf ears.

  When he wasn’t attending school or working in the restaurant, Yassin spent his free time in training, learning how to prepare homemade bombs, learning the benefit of knives, rifles, and handguns, depending on the form of combat. He was not the tallest or heaviest among the volunteers, but few exhibited his stamina or determination.

  Then came his twentieth birthday. There was no mistaking that the girl introduced by his family—Madras was her name—was intended to be his future wife. Hesitant at first, he was more than taken by her natural beauty. And something stirred inside, feelings that he never would have believed he was capable of having.

  He and the girl began to see each other on a semi-regular basis. He found himself thinking about her more and more. It got to the point where he couldn’t get her out of his head. He proposed a few months later, and they were married in a small ceremony with close relatives present.

  As a wedding gift, his parents cleared out the den. This was the only spare room in the house. And it gave the young couple some privacy.

  Yassin found himself changing, in subtle but meaningful ways. His life no longer seemed as hopeless or as bleak. He eased up on his after-hours training, and spent more time at home with his bride.

  When Madras became pregnant two months later, panic set in. As someone who had lived with juvenile diabetes from a very young age, she had been warned about the risks of having a child. Yassin had pled with her to have an abortion. She refused. Their son, Mohammed, was born a month premature. His wife did not survive the Cesarean-section. Struggling to stay focused, Yassin became more moody and quarrelsome than he had been before. He started taking risks. When the Israelis began to clamp down, he once again volunteered for active duty with the terrorists. It was on a clandestine excursion into Tel Aviv that an incendiary device exploded close by. Shrapnel tore into his upper arm, the pain remaining with him to this day.

  The memory of Madras kept him going. As did the boy, of course. More and more, Mohammed began to resemble his deceased wife. From his pear-shaped face to his near-sensuous eyebrows and lips.

  Mohammed was studious in nature. But he possessed a rather frail physique. Yassin loved taking him for long walks, took pleasure in teaching him how to play soccer, found it surprising that the boy was quick and agile on his feet.

  By the time Mohammed had reached his ninth birthday, it dawned on Yassin that his son was habitually quiet, introspective. He’d never known someone of his son’s age so adept at memorizing and reciting multiple verses of the Koran by heart. It was no surprise, therefore, that the imam took a special interest. Yassin was honored that his son was being asked to go on weekend retreats with a few of the other boys.

  Normally when Mohammed was away, Yassin would use the time to catch up on his reading, to put his personal matters in order. But on one particular weekend in the summer, a date now ingrained in Yassin’s heart, he found himself unable to concentrate. Time passed fitfully. A terrible apprehension filled his mind.

  His relatives were on vacation, so the house was eerily quiet. By 10:00 PM that Sunday, hours after the time Mohammed should have returned, Yassin’s patience ran out. He left the house and hurried to the mosque.

  He began to bang on the door. No one responded. He walked the short distance to the imam’s living quarters. He rang the bell but got no reply. Reluctantly, Yassin returned home.

  Pacing his room, he prayed for hours, until it was six o’clock in the morning. He force-fed himself a coffee. Then he lifted the phone, was about to dial the imam’s number, when he heard a knock on the door. He put the phone down and went to answer it.

  The imam wore a solemn expression.

  Yassin’s heart sank.

  The imam beckoned.

  He did not remember closing the door, or even walking, for that matter. He followed the holy man, knowing but not wanting to know. They stopped on a deserted side street and the imam began to speak.

  The Zionists were gaining ground. Their wall and their roadblocks were stopping the brave martyrs, the human bombs who sacrificed themselves, from crossing into Tel Aviv from Palestine. Only a strike into the deepest part of Israel would teach the infidels a lesson. To achieve this, they had concluded, they would have to use someone the Zionists would least suspect.

  “Your son believed in the cause,” the imam said. “He was one of the bravest boys it was my privilege to teach. He will go down in history as the one who made a difference. Twelve bodies recovered so far. I am certain they will find more…”

  The imam’s words traveled through Yassin’s head as if through a sieve. He did not even know if he was hearing them correctly. Something about how proud he should be of Mohammed’s sacrifice.

  Yassin’s stomach threatened to burst. In his mind’s eye he was visualizing his son’s frailness, overpowered by the weight of the bomb strapped to his chest. He could hear the explosion. He could see Mohammed’s body parts disintegrating, flying through the air…

  There was no way of knowing when the imam left his side. Or the exact time he returned home. All Yassin knew was that his life, for all intents and purposes, was over.

  He stopped working. Stopped eating. Despite the efforts of family and friends, he remained morose. He felt like a phantom, floating through time and space.

  No one had to tell him who was at fault. He did not have to be radicalized by fanatical clerics. The hatred he felt possessed him; he needed no other motivation.

  When the imam suggested he take on a role in America, he jumped at the chance. He believed the imam when he said that the Israelis, with their American benefactors, had caused his son’s death. If not for their oppression, the imam would not have had to use Mohammed as a human bomb. If not for the Jews, his boy would be alive today.

  They would be made to pay, Yassin decided. His life would be devoted to nothing else.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Sandra!” Blair tried calling out. It seemed his vocal chords had gone mute. He twisted and turned, made every attempt to be heard.

  It was hopeless.

  He called his daughter’s name again, believing it was she in the restaurant with him and not a stranger.

  Then he went under…

  Time passed with fuzzy irregularity. His thoughts were scrambled. Delirious, he became part of Sandra’s plight.

  Both of them were falling.

  With a herculean effort, he called for help.

  Then, a needle pricked his arm.

  He tumbled backwards, flying throug
h inner space.

  He prayed for a safety net.

  “Blair?”

  He struggled to open his eyes. Light flooded in and they began to water.

  “Welcome back, buddy.”

  He turned toward the voice.

  Someone who resembled Jeremy Samson was leaning over his bed.

  “Sandra?” Blair said in a whisper.

  “What about her?” Samson replied.

  “Did she make it?”

  “Make what?”

  “The restaurant…” He sat up too quickly and was overpowered by vertigo.

  Seeing his discomfort, Jeremy helped ease him back down.

  His eyelids drooped and he began to drift.

  “Blair?”

  Is this reality or a dream? he wondered. “Where am I?” he thought to ask.

  “Beit Cholim Shel Tikva.” Jeremy pronounced the name like a native. “One of the best hospitals in Israel.”

  “Which is where, exactly?”

  “Not far from your hotel. In central Tel Aviv.”

  “H … how did I get here?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  Sound stilled; he was gone again.

  Darkness settled in his room. He tried moving onto his side. A fierce pain in his back took his breath away. Gasping, he lay still until it subsided. He went to scratch his scalp but touched a bandage instead.

  Hesitantly, his hands traced a line from his neck to his arms. He touched his stomach and each thigh. Then his legs, one at a time.

  All were intact.

  He thanked God for small mercies.

  Jeremy was there the following morning. “I’m sorry for not meeting you at the airport,” he said. “There was another terrorist bombing. Near the factory, this time. They wanted to question me. To see if I’d noticed anything suspicious. I had no way of getting word to you. By the time I got through with the authorities, it was too late to meet you at the airport or at your hotel. I came right to the restaurant. I arrived just after the Molotov cocktail exploded.”