Biting softly on his lower lip, that was exactly what McKinley did. He remained quiet.
* * *
Shari Cohen loved the nights in Rome. The lighting, the architecture, its people, everything had a sense of wonderful romanticism. And coupled with a canopy of stars that glimmered and shined, everything appeared perfect.
And then she shuddered as though a cold finger traced downward along her spine. It was that feeling of warning—that sixth sense that something was out of balance, a negative shifting. Cocking her head as if to tune it like a radar dish, she could definitely feel a lingering menace. Slowing her walk, she began to scope her surroundings. Behind her and creeping along was a black sedan with tinted windows. She could see the driver and the passenger through the windshield, two men with hardened features. Then the vehicle passed her at the posted speed and rounded the corner.
Thinking little of it, Shari continued to her apartment that was close to the Tiber River.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The West Bank
2314 Hours
It was late when the Man from Paris was dropped off at a predetermined point inside the West Bank. His contacts were Arab and spoke to the Man from Paris with clipped orders and with pointed gestures, telling him where to sit, where to stand, how long to wait, and for whom. He was not to speak unless demanded to do so, making the journey a long one.
He had ridden in the back of rickety trucks that had bad springs with his backside feeling the effects of these rides across the desert landscape, his muscles growing increasingly tender and sore. As the final truck of his journey stopped with the high-pitched squeal of braking that sounded like fingers running across a blackboard, the driver exited the vehicle and demanded the same from the Man from Paris.
Grabbing the suitcase, the Man from Paris jumped from the truck’s bed and onto solid footing. It was here that the Arab pointed to a certain patch of land and stated something harshly to him in Arabic, as though angry.
“You want me to wait over there?” the Man from Paris, in French, asked the Arab while pointing to the spot.
The Arab driver appeared to go off the rails and started to scream at him. Perhaps speaking was out of line and offensive, the Man from Paris considered. Or perhaps my skin is too white to be respected—the tone the color of infidels.
After the Arab tossed his hand at the direction of the Man from Paris in dismissal, the driver returned to his truck and drove off, leaving the man alone within a desert that was several miles east of Jerusalem. His only companions were snakes and desert scorpions, hardly a kingdom for the Man from Paris to rule over.
Then from a veil of shadows, something that was blacker than black approached. It was the silhouette of a man with no features or contours, just a blackened shape. But its gender was made clear only by the deepness of the person’s voice. “You are the Man from Paris, yes?”
“I am.”
“Sent by whom?”
“The Bangladeshi.”
The shape remained silent as though it was appraising the man who stood within the silver cast of light from a partial moon. And then: “Come.”
When the shape turned and started to walk away, the Man from Paris readjusted the suitcase within his grip, which was becoming heavier and more burdensome to carry with each passing moment.
In the desert brush not too far from the drop-off point was another truck. “You,” said the shape in accented English, “place the article in the cab behind your seat.”
The Man from Paris, who also spoke English, but with a heavy Parisian accent, said, “First, a question.”
Unlike the previous driver, the shape did not ridicule him for speaking out. Instead, he knew that the Man from Paris was simply following the protocols set forth by the Bangladeshi to confirm that he was the man sent by Ahmed Jaziri. “Go ahead,” he said.
“I am not alive, but I grow; I don't have lungs, but I need air; I don't have a mouth, but water kills me. What am I?”
“Fire.” This was the answer to the predetermined question needed to prove his identity.
“And your name?” asked the Man from Paris.
“Saheem Baghdadi.” This was the name that had been given to the Man from Paris by the Bangladeshi, that of Saheem Baghdadi, the man who would take him to his next location.
Then from Baghdadi: “Now, show me the item you carry.”
The Man from Paris set the case down on the sand and took a few steps back. In the dullish light that cascaded from the pickup’s cab, Baghdadi noted the symbols on the suitcase, three sixes, and traced his fingertips over the numerals before saying, “Place the item inside the truck behind you.”
After the Man from Paris placed the suitcase behind his seat, he then had to deal with shooting pain that raced along his spinal column because the drive across the rough terrain was so bumpy and hostile, he could find no comfort until the landscape finally leveled out. In time, they found themselves on a well-lit road towards Jerusalem.
Baghdadi gave the Man from Paris a sidelong glance. “I was told to pick you up because you keep with you something of great value. Something within the suitcase, I assume?”
“You can assume so, yes.”
“An explosive of some kind?”
“How much were you told by your handler?”
“Not enough to know what it is I’m transporting.”
“Then, I assume, that’s for good reason. I’ve been told by the Bangladeshi that you are to take me to my major-target area, meaning that I’m not to provide you with answers to questions for security purposes.”
Baghdadi looked at the suitcase. And then:
