Fuse of Armageddon (37 page)

Patterson was perplexed until he realized that Saxon was washing away the splotches that had given the red and black appearance to the heifer.

“Sir?” Patterson asked.

Saxon stopped and grinned. “A harmless dye. This is a red heifer, son. A pure red heifer.”

Patterson blinked a few times as the implications hit him.

“I see you understand,” Saxon said. “It’s a miracle from God.”

Patterson nodded. But getting the answer to one question just led to others, questions that would not be smart to ask. He watched and waited for Saxon to finish scrubbing away all the blotches.

“Without a blemish,” Saxon said proudly.

“The heifer has come this far with no injuries, but if this animal doesn’t want to go up, it isn’t going to be easy to keep it that way,” Patterson warned the lieutenant. The other Freedom Crusaders were standing back, waiting and watching. “It weighs a couple hundred pounds. I don’t see how even five men could hold it still and carry it, unless we hog-tie it first.”

“Find a way.”

“I’ll do my best,” Patterson answered, regretting again that he’d been the one to first control the animal in the cargo shipping container. Why couldn’t someone else be responsible? In that moment, it occurred to him. Saxon had known of Patterson’s expertise. It wasn’t an accident that Saxon had barked orders at Patterson as the container was swaying in the air between ship and truck.

Patterson tried coaxing the heifer. He tried pulling the heifer. It would have nothing to do with the stairs. He was surprised that Saxon didn’t get angrier. All of them knew the time from now to boarding the helicopters was short—very short.

Saxon responded instead by speaking into his walkie-talkie, reaching one of the Freedom Crusaders already up in the orphanage. “We’ll need the crate. I want it here in less than thirty seconds.”

Crate?
Patterson wondered.

Saxon motioned for Patterson to move away from the stairs. “Get the heifer back too. I don’t want to risk it in any way.”

Noise came from above and Patterson glanced upward.

At the top of the stairs, two Freedom Crusaders were wrestling with a long, high, narrow crate. They placed the bottom of it on the first step, then held it as they slowly slid it down toward Patterson.

There had been a box up there? Ready for this?

The crate was built perfectly for the heifer. The animal could fit in but not move.

“Get it in the crate,” Saxon said. “We’ve got enough men to carry it.”

The meticulous planning was almost a sure promise of the success of the operation. But Joe was frightened because it showed how futile it was to expect he could disobey Saxon and get away with it. Especially with Sarah’s life at stake.

17:14 GMT


Safady faced all his men. He had gathered the fifteen of them in one of the schoolrooms near the back of the compound. The men had left their weapons at the door at his request. They were sitting on the desks with relaxed postures.

Safady, however, had left his machine gun on a sling on his shoulder. He lifted it and pointed it at them.

“All of you,” he said in a pleasant voice, “must lie on the floor on your bellies. I will count to five. Any of you who refuse will be shot.”

It was such an unusual and unexpected request that not one of the men moved.

Safady fired a burst of bullets into the three closest men. They cartwheeled backward, limbs flung in all directions. The shots were deafening.

Safady waited for the air to clear. “One.” He paused. “Two.”

The remaining men flung themselves to the floor.

Safady didn’t have to get to three.

17:16 GMT


Joe Patterson and five other Freedom Crusaders stepped into the schoolroom. A Palestinian man stood with a machine gun trained on several other men who lay prone on the floor, hands on their heads.

A pool of blood was spreading slowly across the floor, evidently the result of the gunshots Joe and the others had heard a moment ago.

The Palestinian with the gun barely acknowledged the entry of the Freedom Crusaders. He set down his weapon. The men, following Del Saxon’s lead, ignored him as he rushed out of the room.

The Americans stepped forward. Two of them kept machine guns pointed at the Palestinians. Patterson joined the other two as they briskly and efficiently bound the hands of each of the captives behind their backs with plastic ties.

Once this was completed, they kicked the Palestinians until all of them were on their feet, gesturing and pushing until the captives were in a single line.

One of the Palestinians began a verbal protest in broken English.

One of the Freedom Crusaders waved him to silence.

It didn’t stop the man, who grew louder.

The soldier who had gestured him to be silent pulled out a knife and, without hesitation, cut through the man’s windpipe. The man toppled slowly, disbelief in his eyes.

When the Crusaders gestured for the other captives to step forward, there was immediate compliance.

Patterson had to step over the dying Palestinian to keep pace with the other Freedom Crusaders. He told himself this was a holy war and followed all of them out of the room.

Time to play the part of these dead men.

17:16 GMT


“What I did was wrong,” Quinn told Kate. After Hamer’s call, he’d sat in the van, totally drained by the emotional roller coaster he’d endured, waiting to find some energy to let him apologize to Kate. The sound of gunfire had reached him, but there was so much shooting on the Strip he didn’t give it much attention. Not in his state of mind.

He’d moved out of the passenger side of the van and found Kate at the corner, where she was standing silent and motionless. Just another forlorn woman in the desolation of Gaza. “I was lashing out and wanted to hurt someone. You were in my line of fire. I’m sorry.”

He could sense her anger shifting as she reappraised him.

“Rule one in negotiating,” she said, “never get emotionally involved.”

“Yeah. Rule one. I’m fine now. Teflon.”

“If you’re fine
now
, that means something got to you
before,
” Kate said. “What?”

“The situation’s the same,” Quinn answered. The image of his daughter’s shoe flashed into his mind again. And of Safady at the orphanage gate, taunting him about it. “Negotiations finished. I want to be gone before you get in the line of fire.”

“Line of fire?”

“Safady still wants me dead.”

17:16 GMT


Safady had hurried away from the execution of his men to find a window that overlooked the white van. He wasn’t leaving Gaza until he knew that Quinn was dead.

This far into the operation, he knew he could risk a cell-phone call. He hit a speed-dial button. The call was answered so quickly that it clipped off the first ring.

“I’m in position,” Safady said. “I can see Quinn’s van. If you want this to continue, deliver on your promise.”

“You received my e-mail with the phone number for the Waqf and the security password you’ll need later tonight?”

“Yes. But we won’t get there unless you deliver Quinn. Now. Before the choppers arrive. I want to see it happen.”

“I’ll make sure he’s inside the van,” the voice answered. “Give me about thirty seconds.”

17:17 GMT


Just as Quinn began to turn his back on Kate, his cell rang. He answered.

“It’s Hamer. You’re done there. Start driving back. I want you out of there as fast as possible. If Safady’s going to try anything, now’s the time.”

“We’re on our way,” Quinn said. Quinn wasn’t about to try explaining where they really were or why they were out of the van. This argument with Kate was personal. “In gear and bouncing down these miserable roads.”

“Good. You’ll get a high-priority clearance at the border crossing. They’ll be looking for you.”

Quinn hung up and completed his turn back to the van.

Kate grabbed his arm. “Don’t do this to me. We’re partners. Tell me what happened at the orphanage.”

“The choppers are on the way,” he answered, “and we’re supposed to be on our way too. I’m your prisoner again.”

“What messed you up?”

“I’m sorry. Can we leave it at that?”

“You’re lousy at apologizing,” she said.

“Sorry about that, too,” Quinn replied, not even smiling. Overhead he could hear the sound of the helicopters drawing nearer.

Kate appraised him. She stepped closer, reached toward his face, and was about to speak.

A fireball erupted on the street, throwing a shock wave of superheated air that knocked Quinn into Kate and both of them onto the ground. The reverberations of the thunderous explosion rose and fell along with debris.

On his knees, Quinn shielded his face with his arm and looked toward the source of the blast.

Their van had been torn apart.

35

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 17:29 GMT


Safady carried a gym bag onto the helicopter. Inside the bag were C-4, wires and a timer, a pistol, a machine gun, and two uniforms: Palestinian and one matching the uniform worn by the Freedom Crusaders.

As further protection, Safady wore Kevlar and an Israeli uniform beneath his traditional garb. The plan was going as expected. He’d watched the van until it exploded. While he’d enjoyed the irony that Quinn died in the same way his wife and daughter had, he regretted it could not be as originally planned—Quinn captive, Safady looking into his eyes and savoring the man’s pain as he killed Quinn himself.

But Quinn was dead. Funds were on the way—funds that would enable Safady to have more influence than anyone else in the Muslim world. The Freedom Crusaders were now posing as Palestinian terrorists and were in position to board the choppers with the hostages.

Yes. All was according to plan.

17:30 GMT


Quinn stood in the crowd, staring at the smoking ruins of the van. The sun had set, and in the darkness, dressed the way he was, Quinn wasn’t worried that anyone would see him closely enough to wonder what an American was doing here. The smoke, the sounds of approaching sirens, the wails of anguish coming from survivors—all of it brought back unbearable memories, now haunted by the specter of Safady’s laughter at the gate.

Then he heard a voice from his right. English, tinged with an Israeli accent, speaking softly. “You’d be smart not to fight this.”

The man was a few inches taller than Quinn. Dark hair, dark complexion. He wore jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a dusty sports coat and was built like a bodyguard.

“Who are you?” Quinn demanded.

“Sure,” the man said, “I’ll wave my IDF badge and give these camel jockeys a reason to rip us apart.”

Quinn became aware of another man to his left, pressing in too closely to be casual crowd contact.

They hadn’t asked about Kate, which confirmed Quinn’s suspicions. Safady wasn’t behind the explosion.

The first agent was patting Quinn down. He found the cell phone Quinn had been using to talk to Hamer when the van exploded. The man pocketed the phone, then kept patting until he was satisfied Quinn didn’t have a weapon.

“We’re going,” the agent said. “Slow and easy. Last thing we need is attention here.”

They steered Quinn through the crowd back toward the orphanage.

“Hope your car has air-conditioning,” Quinn said, wondering where they had parked. “It’s been a long, hot day.”

“No car. We’re going to a safe house for debriefing.”

“I’m done with this,” Quinn said. “If you guys aren’t taking me out of Gaza, I’ll find my own way.”

Unsmiling, the agent reached inside his jacket and pulled a pistol. He punched the barrel into Quinn’s ribs and used his body to screen this from any observers. “That’s not happening.”

17:38 GMT


In the darkness, the compound was full of the movements of men and flashlights. As ordered, Joe Patterson, like the other Freedom Crusaders, wore a face scarf to hide his features from the American hostages and the orphans. He was supervising the boarding process by standing hunched at the base of the chopper and helping them climb aboard.

Joe did not know who the hostages were, beyond that they were Americans about to be released from a hostage situation. But he was impressed. He had expected fear and exhaustion across their faces. Instead, he saw resolve and felt a shared calmness among them. More startling was the kindness and courtesy that each showed to him to the point where he wondered if they saw behind the face scarf and knew his true identity. Disguised in a way that had fooled everyone on the streets in Gaza, surely in their eyes he was one of their Palestinian captors; why would these people be so gracious to the men who had inflicted terror upon them?

He had other questions too—ones that needed to remain silent. What was the next phase of the operation? How had Saxon known to bring the Freedom Crusaders here to help the hostages? If the choppers were supposed to be bringing the hostages to safety, why was his platoon necessary? Why couldn’t the Freedom Crusaders announce themselves as friends instead of maintaining this elaborate disguise? And what was Brad Silver doing among them now?