polizia if I left. I didn’t know what to do,” he said, rubbing his face with his hand.

“And you? You were ordered to be here and yet you weren’t here. Where were you?” he said to a curly-haired young Moroccan in a black Settlefish Band T-shirt.

“We were at the movies. Driss and me,” indicating the faintly cross-eyed long-haired teenage boy squatting next to him. “E chi se ne frega?” he sneered-What’s it to you? — looking around to see if his arrogance was being appreciated by the others.

“Why didn’t you come?”

“We figured finish the movie and then we come,” the curly-haired man said.

“Good movie?” the Palestinian asked.

“Pretty good. Lots of action. Explosions. When that guy was on fire, that was hajib.” He grinned, looking at the boy, Driss, for confirmation.

“That’s good,” the Palestinian said, and fired the Beretta into the curly-haired man’s head, the sound of the shot reverberating in the office. As the body toppled over, he aimed at the teenager.

“La!” Don’t, the teenager cried out, holding his hand protectively in front of his forehead. The Palestinian fired again, the bullet tearing through the teenager’s hand and into his face, killing him. When he was lying on the floor, the Palestinian fired again into his head, just to make sure.

“What about you?” the Palestinian asked the last man, a sanitation worker in his thirties still in uniform, his face shadowed with resignation like a stain on a statue.

“The capo at work. He makes us work late. Just the Moroccans. You shouldn’t kill me,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Not before I kill Italians,” he said, looking into the Palestinian’s eyes.

“Maashi,” the Palestinian said. Okay. “You,” he said to the bearded Moroccan. “You go home. Don’t come back. Say nothing. Not to your wife, not to anyone, even yourself. Here.” He reached into his pocket and handed him a fifty euro note. “Buy her something. Take her to someplace halal for dinner. But if she ever mentions the polizia again, come and tell me.”

The man nodded and left. The Palestinian ordered the others to pick up the two bodies and cram them into a refrigeration locker at the back of the warehouse, motioning to Mourad and the sanitation worker, whose name was Hicham, to stay behind. He told them they would be his lieutenants and would lead the others, who would be broken up into teams, with each team not knowing what the others were working on.

“They will be talking about this,” Hicham said, indicating the bodies.

“I want them to,” the Palestinian said.

He felt the buzz of a text message on the cell phone in his pocket. It was his emergency phone. Only one person in the world had the number and it was never to be used unless it was absolutely critical. He read the screen message, decoding the text with growing anger and disbelief. The message threatened the entire operation; everything he had worked for all this time. Either the world had turned upside down or it was a death trap.

He had no choice. He would have to leave Italy at once.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kanaleneiland, Utrecht, Netherlands

“Do you like her?” Scorpion said in Arabic.

Abdelhakim stared at him from the chair, his eyes burning. He had tried to make a break for the apartment door, and Scorpion had to use the Kimura shoulder lock on him, taking him down and pushing the wrist till the pain was so intense the Moroccan had agreed to sit still in the chair. The woman, Anika, had gotten dressed and left. As she did, her hands were shaking and Scorpion had to whisper to her that there would be another thousand euros for her if she would just wait somewhere nearby for his cell phone call.

“I need you to listen,” Scorpion told the Moroccan.

“I don’t want to hear what you say. I am willing to die. Allahu akbar, God is great,” Abdelhakim said. He looked small and defiant in the chair, still in his undershirt.

“I’m from Damascus. Your help is needed.”

“If my help is needed, Imam Ali will tell me.”

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” indicating the door where Anika had gone out.

“She lied. She said she was interested in Islamic culture,” Abdelhakim said sullenly, not looking at him.

“Does not the hadith of the Prophet, sallallahou alayhi wasallam, peace be upon him, say that a woman’s witness is only half that of a man? What she did was for you. Now you must do something.”

“Why should I?”

Before you sink the harpoon, you have to lead him into it, Koenig used to say. First surprise him with what you know. Then make the Joe come to you, so that when it comes, it’s right between the eyes and he absolutely understands the implication. The threat had to be something he feared more than death, because if he was a true acolyte and death was an option, he’d take it.

“How important is the imam to you, Brother? If you had to choose between your wife and two boys or Imam Ali, which would you choose?”

“What are you saying? Why would I have to choose?” Abdelhakim asked, and Scorpion could see by the look in his eyes that Abdelhakim was shocked that he knew about his family. “Inshallah, I would die before I betrayed the imam.”

“You already have. You are a kafir traitor. Everyone will know it.”

“Kol ayre wle,” Abdelhakim hissed at him. “Allah knows I am no traitor.”

“Yes, you are. Here’s the proof,” Scorpion said, tossing the bank ATM card onto the table next to Abdelhakim, whose eyes darted to look at it, though he wouldn’t pick it up.

“What’s that?”

“Your account at the ABN-Amro bank in Amsterdam.”

“I don’t have an account there.”

“Look at the card. It’s in your name. You have twenty thousand euros in your account. Go ahead, pick up the card. It’s your money.”

“You’re crazy! Where would I get twenty thousand euros?”

“It was transferred to your ABNA account from the Israeli Bank Hapoalim in Luxembourg.”

“Israeli!” Abdelhakim gasped. “What have I to do with the Israelis?”

“You see the problem,” Scorpion said. “Such bank transfers are easily traced. Everyone will know you’re a traitor, even the imam. It’s not just you, it’s your family, the ummah, all will be condemned.” Make him feel it, Koenig would say. Before you throw him a lifeline, twist the hook. You have to make sure the poor bastard understands what he’s about to lose. “If Hezbollah learns you are an Israeli agent, you will die. Your wife and sons will die. The imam and our cause will be in great danger. We cannot allow this. How many will die because of you? And do you know the worst of all, Brother?”

Abdelhakim looked at him, numbly shaking his head, his eyes vacant as he stared into the abyss.

“The worst is that you, a ‘good Muslim,’ will have dealt a terrible blow to the Palestinian cause, because truly, I have just come from Al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya in Damascus and I must get something out of the imam’s office before the CIA or the AIVD can get to it. Unless you help me, we are lost.”

“I don’t understand.” He blinked. “You need to get into the imam’s office?”

“If you let me in tonight at midnight, no one will ever know about you or the Israelis or that I was there. You will keep the twenty thousand and you’ll be paid another ten thousand. As for the woman, if you don’t want her,” Scorpion snapped his fingers, “she’s gone. If you choose to forgive her for her female lie, you can have her whenever you want and your wife will never see this.” He turned on the camera and held it so the Moroccan could see the video and hear the sounds of the two of them having sex, Anika moving and groaning beneath him. “Inshallah, you will save the imam and yourself and your family.”

Abdelhakim began fumbling in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette. His hand was shaking as he straightened it and he looked at Scorpion before lighting it. Scorpion sat back and waited. You have to let them feel the trap, Koenig said. They have to touch the bars and the sides of the cage, so they really understand there’s no

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