THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (12 page)

Decker stared at Warhaftig, feeling a strange mixture of anger and relief, fed by a renewed respect for the CIA Intel specialist, not so much for his favor as for his sheer audacity. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Decker said. “I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”

Warhaftig smiled. With one quick movement, he kicked the tripod and knocked the Nikon D70 to the floor. The camera shattered like an egg, like a broken skull on the sidewalk. “What lie?”

Chapter 10

Friday, January 28 – 5:07 AM

Seiden was interrupted by a loud knocking on the two-way mirror that ran the length of the interrogation room. He got up, walked nonchalantly to the door, and stepped outside into the hall.

The Director of the Mossad, Itzak Mandelbaum, and the Deputy Director, Chaiyim Cohen, stood in the observation room next door. They were watching the videotaped recording of the interrogation on a monitor.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” said Cohen. He was a slight man, with a shaved head and piercing ice-blue eyes. A small scar ran along his chin.

Seiden smiled and looked down at the monitor. “I don’t,” he answered simply. “Two girls.”

Director Mandelbaum laughed. Seiden found the sound disturbing. It was perfectly pitched, yet hollow. It was the kind of laugh one makes after a dirty joke. He looked the Director up and down. He was a large man, in his fifties, with a wide and pleasant face topped by a shock of bright white hair. His lips were thin. His eyes were small for his face. Blue. No, hazel. No, gray. Seiden couldn’t quite make out the color. They seemed to change based on the angle of his face. Then the Director smiled.

“Sir?” Seiden felt himself grow angry. This was
his
case. El Aqrab had been caught in Tel Aviv, in his jurisdiction.

“Be that as it may,” the Director said, “we are still searching for a suitable replacement. Do not forget yourself. You are only the
acting
Chief. A temporary position.” Then he smiled. “Of course, your name is one of many we’re considering. It is not inconceivable that you could find yourself Chief Stein’s permanent replacement. He was a remarkable man. A terrible loss. Terrible.”

Seiden sighed. “I’m making progress, sir,” he said. “I’m convinced the Arabic lettering, the words revealed during El Aqrab’s explosions are more than random quotes from the Qur’an. I think they’re messages to other members of the Brotherhood. I’d like to examine them more thoroughly.”

“You have your orders,” Cohen said.

Director Mandelbaum reached out and placed a hand on Seiden’s shoulder. “Don’t be upset, Ben,” he continued. “El Aqrab is not an ordinary man. And, frankly, there have been too many leaks of late. Too many . . . ” He paused for a second. “ . . . indiscretions. It is a matter of great importance to the State that all evidence, every piece of information surrounding this case, all intelligence be kept in the strictest of confidence. There are things here that you do not see.” He took his hand away.

“I agree, of course” said Cohen. “But before you go, Acting Chief Seiden, I’d be curious to hear what you think about our prisoner. As a trained psychologist.”

Seiden stared at Mandelbaum. Both men were looking at him, waiting for his analysis. “What can I tell you?” he said. “I’ve only been with the suspect a few hours.”

“Your first impressions then,” said Cohen. “What drives him, Ben? Why is he here?”

Seiden sighed. He ran a hand back through his hair, staring through the two-way mirror at the prisoner within. “It’s hard to tell. I believe he’s a true believer, unmotivated by political or personal greed. A man of faith.” He paused.

“Go on,” said Cohen.

“But there is something else. The way he kills, the way he paints with fire and explosives. There is an aesthetic to his work, a kind of art.”

“That much is obvious,” the Director said. “Are you saying he kills to be an artist?”

“Yes . . . and no. His art is devastation, to be sure. He destroys with an aesthetic sensibility. I believe it’s a kind of gift to Allah. Jung said that all great artists create not only for themselves and for their publics, but as an homage to God. I think this drives the expression of his work. Explosives are simply the aesthetic form he’s chosen, much as an artist might choose the brush or pen or any other instrument. What drives him, and why did he return?” He shrugged. “We have yet to establish a link with Miller, or any of his family. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were just a random act of violence. There is a deep self-loathing at the heart of who he is, at the center of his animus. And it isn’t just revenge, the source of hatred for so many of the Palestinians. At first I thought it was the guilt of the survivor, after the killing of his parents, or some friend. But I think there’s something else.” He shook his head. “He takes a pleasure in his pain. Did you see the way he threw himself against the chains when I told him of my ‘son’? He revels in his own debasement, in his own torture. It’s almost sexual in its expression.”

“A masochist then,” said Mandelbaum. “You think he’s crazy?”

“Unstable, yes. But crazy?” Seiden shook his head. “No, he’s not crazy. I think he’s guilty. Of what, I have no idea. Perhaps he honestly regrets his actions, the deaths and suffering he’s caused. His fanaticism drives him forward but that doesn’t mean he fails to feel some sense of guilt for what he does. He gave himself up, after all. He wanted to be caught. And I think the Qur’anic passages he quotes are probably aimed at us as well as to his people in the field. Why else would he videotape the killings and then send them to us? It’s more than just a taunting. He isn’t simply trying to demonstrate his intellect. The recordings are a means for him to share his art. After all, of what value is an artist’s work if only the artist views it? I don’t know. I need more time. Perhaps if I could continue my interrogation . . . ”

“We are out of time,” said Mandelbaum. “My thanks to you, Acting Chief Seiden.”

Seiden nodded. “I’m glad I could be of service,” he said. Then he shook the Director’s hand. His fingers felt boneless, soft as steamed asparagus.

Deputy Director Cohen followed Seiden from the room. They walked together by the holding cells toward the double doors at the end of the corridor and waited for the guard to buzz them out. When they had entered the stairwell leading up to the main floor, Cohen pulled Seiden aside and held him for a moment by the elbow. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Ben,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and one more thing. I understand how an intelligent man might be tempted to retain some record of this event, in case he found his career . . . ” He struggled for the words. “How can I put it? His career no longer moving. Stalled, if you will. Promotions elusive. But I think such a man would have to fight against this temptation.”

Seiden examined the Deputy Director. He could not read his face. Cohen’s light blue eyes were impenetrable and cold, the color of icebergs in an Arctic sea. “Yes, sir,” Seiden said.

“Good, good,” said Cohen. He shook Seiden’s hand and turned away. Then he slipped back through the double doors and disappeared.

* * *

Mandelbaum ordered all the holding cells and corridors leading from the main entrance of the building to Interrogation Room B cleared. When the ground floor of the fortified structure looked like a ghost town, a figure left the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, entered the front door, and walked along the deserted corridors and stairwell to the basement. It was Yuri Garron himself, the Prime Minister. He was a huge man, tall and portly, with a round butcher’s face and large, expressive brown eyes. His thin gray hair was combed casually across the glistening dome of his head. He told the Director and Deputy Director to secure the recordings of the interrogation and to vacate the observation room. He wanted to be alone, he said. They did as they were told. As soon as Cohen and Mandelbaum had disappeared, Garron entered Interrogation Room B where El Aqrab was chained to the ceiling, his back still to the door.

“It
is
you,” the Prime Minister said as he finally got a good look at the prisoner. “When I heard, I couldn’t believe it. After all these years.” He laughed. “It’s like . . . like Déjà vu, as though I’ve traveled back to 1987, back to that incident with the interrogator from Ansar II.”

El Aqrab smiled. He knew exactly to what Garron referred. In August 1987, six Palestinians had escaped from Ansar II in Gaza. The Zionists assumed the escapees had slipped across the border into Egypt, but, subsequently, masked gunmen killed an Israeli officer in a daring daylight attack. Later the IDF announced that the killers themselves had died in an exchange of gunfire with Israeli forces. Among the dead was one of the escapees. He had not fled to Egypt, as assumed, but had gone underground to await an opportunity to shoot the officer, who – it was subsequently revealed – was the chief interrogator at Ansar II. Many Palestinians were thrilled by this event. After a depressing string of setbacks, here was an incendiary morale booster. The community held a massive funeral, attended by thousands of mourners.

“Yes,” said El Aqrab. “I remember.”

“Why did you come back?” asked Garron. “After all this time. Surely not just to kill Miller. He was the last one, wasn’t he?”

“No,” said El Aqrab. “
You
are the last one.” He smiled. “Tell me, Yuri. Do you still believe the Ansar escapees were responsible for the intifadah? I heard you say that once, on television.”

Garron didn’t respond.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” El Aqrab said. “It was never about the riots. It wasn’t the takeover of the government by the Likud, or your own ambitious settlement programs–”

“The Geneva Convention doesn’t apply to the Territories,” Garron said, interrupting him. “We’re entitled to settle there. God gave us that land. And besides, within the year, we will withdraw completely from the West Bank. All the checkpoints will be opened. As promised.”

“Allah has nothing to do with this. This is all about Garron. Even Rabin called the Gush Emunim and Kach, the Kahane Hay and all the other paramilitary settlers ‘Jewish terrorists.’”

Garron stepped up, as if prepared to strike the prisoner.

El Aqrab smiled. “Go ahead,” he said. “The truth is, Yuri, you are our greatest friend. Even though Arafat is dead, you continue to try and marginalize the PLO. And the more you marginalize the PLO, the more powerful The Brotherhood, Hamas, and Hezbollah become. You are a fool. What happens when you capitulate to the Americans and let the Palestinians have their fair and free elections? Do you think they’ll vote El-Fatah once again? And if El-Fatah loses, how long before your own people consider you expendable? You have grown old and soft, Yuri, and soon you will have an accident, I’m sure.” His voice was cool, clear as a mountain stream. “Old and soft,” he repeated. “But what motivates a boy to strap twelve pounds of high explosives to his chest and climb across the fence to kill himself? The Qur’an says we’re obliged to fight the enemies of Islam. And yet we do not do this with the support, nor the hindrance of some higher authority. No Prime Minister or President, no Mullah or Imam. The only path to self-empowerment, the only way to
be
is to defend the faith by preserving . . . no, by enlarging the boundaries of the
Ummah
. It may only be a neighborhood, a quarter or a Kasbah, but it is Muslim ground, sacred and worth defending, even unto death.”

“Just answer me,” Garron said. “Why did you come back? After all this time. Why?”

“I came back to for you, Yuri. For you! Don’t you understand? To see your face. The explosion: It’s already happening, right now, as we speak. With the cadence of glass as a liquid. The fuse has been lit. The flames are beginning to lick at your feet. Can’t you feel them? I wanted to watch, to see your eyes. They are the eyes of a dead man. You are a ghost.”

Garron drew nearer.

“Soon you will be a man without a party,” El Aqrab said. “Disowned. Cast out. Reviled. Soon the whole world, as we know it, will be gone. And whoever is left, whoever survives will look back and blame . . .
you
. The man ‘indirectly responsible’ for Sabra and Shatila!” He laughed. “I came to watch your death throws, Yuri. The end of your ugly, miserable little life.”

Garron struck the terrorist and this brought a smile of ghastly pleasure to El Aqrab’s thin face. “Be careful,” he said. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to me, Yuri, would you? Not yet. I’ve seen to it that – if it does – everyone will know . . . ” He licked the blood off his lips. “ . . . our little secret.”

Garron stepped back. He raised his hand again but it simply hung there, in the air, unmoving. Then it fell back at his side. Despite his size, Garron looked small and feeble beside the terrorist.