9/11 TWO Chapter 3. Fences

3. Fences

Seven years after the death of Arafat, Larry MacIver leaned back while the makeup artist put on the final touches.

“Not too much. I’ve got a faculty meeting to attend right after this. I don’t want them making fun of me.”

“Dr. MacIver, let me do my job. Mr. O’Reilly is a stickler for everything being done right. He likes his guests to look as great as he does.”

“That would be impossible,” he grinned.

“If there’s time, stop by after and I’ll remove it for you”

“How long till I’m on, anyway?”

“That’s not my department. I’ll be done with you in a few minutes, though. Then you go back to the Green Room.”

MacIver looked at himself in the mirror. “She has done her job well. I look younger than my 55 years,” he said to himself as he stroked his close cropped, slightly silvered sandy beard and admired his full head of golden hair, combed with an old fashioned part on the left. He had to admit that it was thinning a little at the front, but it was still a full head of hair that he imagined other men of his age would envy.

“OK. We’re done.”

He climbed down from the make-up chair and straightened his suit.

Tried to stand tall, all six feet of him, and buttoned his suit jacket. He disliked suits and especially the ties that had to be worn with them. But his agent had insisted that he should not look like a musty old academic in a corduroy jacket with leather elbows. It would just give more ammunition to O’Reilly to make fun of him. But the real reason he did not like suits was that they all looked loose on him because he was so thin, the consequence of his compulsive running. He ran five miles a day, every day, rain, snow or shine. If he missed a day, he could not sleep at night and when he finally got to sleep, he’d then wake up feeling depressed and would remain so until he could run again. He’d been doing this since the day his divorce became official. On reflection, maybe he should have taken it up earlier; might have saved his marriage. Not really. It wasn’t as simple as that. He wondered right then whether either of his kids ever saw him on television, whether she’d tell them who he was. Not her fault, though. Fact was, he chose work over family. But she did force him to make that choice. And once he had made it, he cut it all off, put it all away completely. The child support went to her bank account automatically. She invited him to their birthdays. He never went.

They were calling him.

“Professor MacIver?”

He headed for the Green Room and met O’Reilly’s assistant on the way. She didn’t look anywhere nearly as beautiful as the women who bantered with O’Reilly on camera.

“So there you are,” she said, “let’s just run through a few questions on our way to the set. We have just a couple of minutes.”

MacIver handed her an index card. “Here’s a list of some questions O’Reilly might like to ask me. Makes it easier and quicker for us both.”

“He won’t be needing that. Mr. O’Reilly writes his own questions. This isn’t the lame stream media, you know.”

“Ouch! I stand corrected!”

“So your book is titled ‘Good Fences, Good Neighbors Make: How Fences Save Lives and Keep Order’ right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you wrote this book after visiting Israel to study the fences they built to stop suicide bombers from getting to their targets?”

“Partly. I also studied the uses of fences and walls throughout history.

The Romans really perfected them, and used them both as offensive and defensive weapons. Not to mention the many walled cities that still stand throughout Europe.”

“And what about the Berlin wall, then?”

“Its role was to keep people in, as well as to keep people out.”

“You also argue that we should build a fence along our entire southern border to keep terrorists out and to stop illegal migration?”

“Yes, it’s crucial to making our country safe. We should start with the southern border and then do the north.”

“You mean Canada is a threat too?”

“Neither Canada nor Mexico are threats in themselves. But both countries have lax immigration control which makes it easy for terrorists to get into their country and then make their way to the United States.

“You’re convinced that these fences work?”

“My scientific research in Israel shows they do, without any doubt.”

“OK. I think we’re good here. Remember, Dr. MacIver this segment has just one minute. So you have to say what you want to say as concisely and clearly as possible. I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.”

MacIver walked back and forth. He was nervous. He had watched the O’Reilly Factor before. It would be hard for him not to make a fool of himself. His agent had tried to talk him out of appearing and to just stick with the regular networks. But MacIver was not one to shrink from a challenge. And his agent had admitted that this was the perfect venue to promote his book. O’Reilly’s views on illegal immigration were very compatible with MacIver’s findings.

“O.K. We’re on!”

She led MacIver on to the set. O’Reilly, staying seated at his table, leaned over to shake hands.

“Welcome to the Factor, Professor MacIver. We have one minute.

Short and pithy is what we need!” He immediately turned to the camera.

“In our Back-of-the-Book segment tonight, we have Professor Larry MacIver, an eminent forensic scientist at Rutgers University School of Criminal Justice, who is convinced that fences prevent terrorism, and has written a book to prove it. The title of the book is ‘Good Fences, Good Neighbors Make: How Fences Save Lives and Keep Order.’ Quite a title professor. So tell me professor, what do you think about putting a fence between us and Mexico? As my viewers know, I am a big advocate of controlling our borders as the first step to immigration reform.”

“My research on the fences in Israel shows conclusively that they have reduced suicide bombing by ninety per cent over the past decade.”

“But we haven’t had any suicide bombings here in America. Are you saying that unless we control our border with Mexico by building a fence all along it, suicide bombings are inevitable?”

“Maybe not suicide bombings as we see in Palestine and Iraq, since they are weapons especially suited to the local context. But the nine eleven attacks were also suicide bombings that made use of local vulnerability and access. Any terrorists, Al Qaeda or any other, can easily cross our Mexican border, which makes planning, organizing and managing a terrorist attack much easier.”

“What exactly do you mean? Give us an example.”

“Terrorists always attack the targets they can reach most easily, which usually means targets that are unprotected and close to their base of operations. So once across the border, they are free to choose any target they want, and set up their base close to it. That’s why the nine eleven terrorists settled in Newark.”

“But a fence would not have stopped them.”

“No, they used false documents to cross our borders. So we need both an effective fence and careful control of access points.”

*

It was the last faculty meeting for the year, so MacIver thought he’d better attend. He had rushed out of the studio, hailed a cab, and tried to wipe off the makeup as he sat in the back seat. He was annoyed. He always was after a media interview. There was so little time and the questions came so fast that he hardly knew what he was saying. It seemed to go well, but there were things he left out, wanted to emphasize, wanted to put up a stronger show against O’Reilly.

He was late for the faculty meeting. Not that it mattered. Nothing of importance ever happened. He had only missed the Dean’s Announcements, all of which he already knew, or could have known, had he not automatically deleted all the emails the Dean sent around. Anyway, the Dean never announced anything of importance. If it were important, he would not announce it. That was his principle. And, quite frankly, MacIver agreed with it. He would do the same.

He tried to enter the room quietly, but the Dean stopped talking as soon as he came in. The faculty, all sixteen of them, stared at him with disfavor. Not because he was late, but because they all knew he had just taped an interview with O’Reilly. This was a compounded sin. Not only had he appeared on a television show, verboten for serious scientific researchers, but it was on the O’Reilly Factor, the show academics loved to hate, considered it to be infantile nonsense, not a fitting venue for a serious academic. It smacked of crass self-promotion, an attribute derided by his colleagues, even though, MacIver had often pointed out, they all, every last one of them, thought only of their own promotion and would, given every chance, do anything they could to set back the careers of their colleagues. And the vehicle they used to do it was the epitome of the science establishment, peer review.

The Dean, grinning broadly, turned to MacIver as he found his seat.

“Glad you could make it Larry. Congratulations on your appearance on the O’Reilly Factor. I hope you managed to get in a plug for our school?”

“I certainly did. The Rutgers School of Criminal Justice is now on the radar screen of millions of conservatives across the country, even the world.”

“Let’s hope it results in lots of applications for admission!”

There were titters among the faculty, all trying to hide their jealousy. What a pity that the scientific quality of his work was so highly regarded! It made it so hard for them to express their derision openly!

MacIver sat quietly through the rest of the faculty meeting, which lasted for another two hours. There were committee reports, students discussed, arguments over curriculum revision, arguments over the hiring of new faculty. He had heard it all before. His thoughts were elsewhere.

He had a plane to catch.

*

MacIver had met Captain Rahav at a conference of the American Society of criminology in Philadelphia some years ago. He had just finished a presentation on target hardening, emphasizing the importance of barriers and security fences and in passing, mentioned the wall built in Israel to protect its population centers from suicide bombers crossing over from the Palestinian territories. When it came time for questions, Captain Rahav asked the first one, or rather offered the first criticism on MacIver’s talk.

“I am Captain Shlomo Rahav. I have worked on the security fences in Israel. I wish to correct the mistaken impression created by the American media and reflected in your presentation that we are building a wall —which conjures up the picture of something like the Berlin Wall. In fact, it is a series of fences, mostly hi-tech wire fences, with a ditch and road running along each side, and rolled barbed wire at the edge of the road.”

“I stand corrected Captain. But do you have any data that demonstrate the effectiveness of the fences in stopping suicide bombing?”

“No study has been done officially. But I can tell you, I have worked patrolling the fences and helped plan parts of them. I have no doubt that they have saved many people’s lives.”

“But you need a scientific study in order to convince the skeptics. You have data you say?”

“We do, but it is guarded closely for security reasons. But you should come to Israel and see for yourself.”

“I would like to do that very much.”

The session ended. Rahav and MacIver had lunch together and became instant friends. They designed a study to test the effectiveness of the fences right there on a paper napkin.

*

Captain Rahav extended his hand, a roughhewn hand that had seen a lot of hard work.

“Welcome, Larry. The flight was fine, I hope?”

“As good as it could be. I enjoy watching the El Al security procedures in action. They’re so much better than ours. I always feel very safe.”

Rahav beckoned to a young officer who took MacIver’s bag and placed it in a rather beaten up Dodge Caravan.

“Do you need to rest, or can we go straight to our operations center? I have a special treat for you, if you are up to it.”

“What’s the deal?”

“We are monitoring a suicide bombing operation which we think may be under way very soon. Thought you’d like to see our high tech operations in action. We do more than just build fences.”

“Such as?”

“We move them where we want them.”

“Barriers you mean?”

“That and other things.”

“Let’s go straight to it!”

A young officer, probably a conscript, opened the door and they climb into the back seat. It would be an hour or more until they arrived at the Israel Defense Forces suicide bombing operations center in Jerusalem.

“How is the family?” asked MacIver.

“We are all well. Although Frieda is a little down this week. It’s the anniversary of Simon’s passing.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. You lost your son in a suicide bombing of the coffee shop near the King David hotel a few years ago. I don’t know how anyone could get over such a tragedy.”

“They don’t.”

Silence seemed the only way to cope with such sadness. The van had left Tel Aviv and headed along the freeway to Jerusalem. They passed olive and orange groves, rich and prosperous. They passed high rise apartment buildings, a lot of new construction, and soon the road wound through the low hills that led to Jerusalem, bare hills lacking vegetation, wind gusts here and there whipping up clouds of dust. What a desolate wasteland thought MacIver as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

*

They arrived on the West Bank via Jordan. Kommie held tightly to Shalah’s waist. She had never liked motor bikes, and this one had to be the worst. But it was worth it to be able to hug Shali from behind, turning her head so she could rub her cheek into his back. This form of transportation was not typical of Shalah Muhammad who liked the trappings of money and style when he traveled. So did Sarah. It was the best part of her job, contrasting so incredibly with the Spartan lifestyle in which her parents had raised her. She pulled her head back to talk.

“How much longer?” she yelled.

“Half an hour. Depends if there’s a checkpoint. Shouldn’t be.”

Sarah pushed her head between his shoulder blades. The years had slipped by. And to end up here, in this God forsaken desert? Shali had treated her well, though. She wanted for nothing. Almost. She wanted Shali, but he would not give himself to her. Claimed it would not be fair to his wives. And, as he had promised, over the years she had met all three of them, and countless numbers of his children. They were lovely, softly spoken women who were clearly devoted to him. Any women who spent any time with Shali seemed to be devoted to him, she concluded. He had a mysterious attraction to them. But he kept his distance. Maybe that was why they were attracted to him. Who knows?

They had only one quarrel in all this time. It was over him spying on her. Literally spying! He revealed it to her only a few weeks ago, even though she had known it for years, but did not want to believe it. They were having breakfast in the Cairo Hilton, the one on the Nile. And out of the blue he said, “So how is your uncle these days?”

She had never ever spoken of her uncle or any of her relatives that she was rumored to have in Russia. Her mom had occasionally prattled on about them over the years, but Sarah had taken little notice. It seemed that her mom and dad had fallen out of touch with them anyway.

“I have an uncle?”

“Of course you do. Two of them, I think, your father’s brothers, no?”

“Supposedly. I don’t even know their names. I never listened to mom’s prattle, and dad never spoke of them or anyone else for that matter. Why do you ask? How do you know?”

“You forget I am a terrorist and a spy. It is my business to know everything about you.”

“You don’t trust me?” Tears flooded into her eyes. “You don’t trust me? And we’ve worked together all these years?” Sarah stood up in anger, knocked over her tea cup, and the chair flew backwards.

“Kommie, it’s not what you think.”

“What else could I think? You’ve been spying on me all this time, me your most trusted friend and servant!”

Shalah Muhammad rose slowly and walked around to pick up her chair.

He moved it slowly into the back of her legs, and gently placed a small kiss behind her ear. “Let’s sit quietly and I’ll tell you all about it,” he whispered, “I did not expect you would be angry. When you hear what I have to tell you, you will be very excited, I should think, happy.”

Sarah, who had lost quite a lot of weight since she had graduated from Oxford, but was still quite plump, steadied herself at the table and, still crying, slowly allowed Shalah to slide the chair under her. The tea had spilled on her shirt and trousers. Since losing weight, she had taken to wearing military-like khakis. She dabbed at the spots with a napkin she had wet from the hot water pot and continued to sob.

Shalah moved back to his place, then reached over to pour Sarah another cup of tea. “Are you ready for this?”

“What, what is it?”

“Your uncle Sergey, you have heard of him? Your dad’s younger brother, who these days considers himself to be a Chechen, fled to Kyrgyzstan in 1991 soon after the collapse of the USSR. Why he had to flee so quickly to escape the Russian or former Soviet authorities doesn’t matter, though he clearly upset someone.”

“So?” Sarah responded belligerently.

“So, he’s a big wig in the Russian mafia.”

“And this should make me happy?”

“I hope so. Because I have a mission for you to go meet with him and broker a deal.”

Sarah wiped the tears from her eyes with a table napkin. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes red. She was taken aback. The trouble was she didn’t know how to feel. She didn’t think of herself as having relatives. It seemed like a kind of fairy tale.

*

The motorbike slowed down and slid to a stop. Sarah kept hugging Shalah’s waist, her face buried between his shoulder blades.

“There’s a problem,” she heard him say.

“What?” she looked up. Unlike Shalah she wore no helmet.

“There’s a checkpoint up ahead.”

“So we’ve been through lots of checkpoints before. What’s the problem with this one?”

“It’s new, very new. I think they are tracking us.”

“You mean the IDF?”

“Who else?”

“How can they do that?”

“They have their spies too, and very good ones. There could be a tracking device on the bike.”

“But you got it from a trusted source, you said.”

“Sometimes the trusted make mistakes or aren’t careful enough. Or just plain can’t be trusted.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get another bike.”

He turned the bike around and they drove back to the small village they had just passed. Shalah had noticed a small garage on the edge of the village, a dull concrete structure, an open door, car and bike junk strewn all over, an old petrol pump, and a vintage Coke cooler. They pulled up to the cooler and dismounted. There seemed to be no one around, so Shalah helped himself to a Coke from the cooler, which he noticed was unplugged, though it was filled with a little ice. A small figure emerged from the doorway, wearing old overalls, heavily greased up.

“I need another bike. This one is broken,” said Shalah.

“Looks pretty new to me,’ said the mechanic.

Shalah pulled out a wad of bills. I’ll trade you this one for another.

“We don’t do trades and anyway we don’t have any bikes.”

“What do you have then?”

“Got the old truck over there.” The mechanic pointed to an old 1960s Ford Explorer.

“Looks kind of old.”

“Maybe. But it’s a beauty. It’s a 1969 Ford F100 Explorer, 360 ci, V8, 4bbl carb, and C6 transition.”

“Wow, you really know your cars,” smiled Sarah. The mechanic ignored her.

“In America it would be worth thousands.”

“Not in that condition,” Sarah pointed out.

“It’s a bit heavier than I would like, but on second thoughts, it might just be the thing I need,” said Muhammad.

“You give me the bike and $2,000 and it’s yours,” offered the mechanic.

“Deal!”

Shalah Muhammad counted out the money and gave the mechanic the keys to the bike. They shook hands and Shalah, gripping him fiercely, warned, “this truck better run good, or you’re dead meat. Understand?”

The mechanic tried to pull his hand away and eventually Shalah let it go. The threat had been effectively communicated.

“You could drive that thing through a stone wall, that’s how tough it is,” boasted the mechanic.

“That’s just what I had in mind.” Muhammad threw his helmet to the mechanic who was forced to catch it. “The keys?”

“In the truck.”

“Petrol in the tank?”

“Only a liter. Can’t leave any in it ‘cos someone will steal it.”

Shalah climbed into the truck and after a little practice, drove it to the old pump.

“I can only let you have 20 liters. Have to keep some for my regular customers.” The mechanic began pumping gas, the old fashioned way and stopped at 20 liters.

“All right. That will do. We don’t have time to fill it any more anyway.”

“That’s 120 Shekels.”

“Yeh, right. Take it out of what I gave you. Come on Kommie, climb in.

We have to hurry.” Sarah struggled to climb up to the cabin. She had hardly slammed the door shut when Shalah sped away and drove directly towards the checkpoint.

“There are no seat belts,” complained Sarah.

“That’s the least of our problems. We have to get to the check point before the IDF figures out that we have switched vehicles.”

“Why don’t we just take the freeway?”

“Because we might run out of petrol and we don’t want to create a spectacle on the freeway. Do you know how much petrol these trucks consume?”

They peered ahead through the dirty and cracked windshield. There were two officers standing out on the road, in front of the portable boom gate, guns at the ready. “Probably conscripts,” thought Muhammad. “What are they doing both standing out in the open like that?” He had to fight really hard against the urge to slam his foot on the accelerator and drive right through them. They’d get in a shot or two, but they’d probably miss.

“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

“Stay calm and show them our IDs.”

He let the truck roll to a stop a few yards from the boom gate. The young officers approached them, one on each side of the truck. Sarah had trouble winding down the window on her side, Shalah was already talking to the officer on his side. Each of them presented their Teudat Zehut, Israeli ID cards.

“Where are you going,” asked the female officer on Sarah’s side.

“My friend is taking me to visit Bethlehem, the place where Christ was born,” answered Sarah in her strongest American accent.

“Do you own this truck?” the other officer asked Muhammad in Arabic, “you don’t look like the kind of person who would own this kind of truck.”

“Rented it from the garage in the village. My other car broke down.”

The officer stepped back and opened his phone. He was suspicious.

“He should command me to step out of the truck,” thought Muhammad. He began to wind the truck door window up.

The officer put his hand on the rising window and said, “Just a minute sir, I still have your ID.”

At that moment, Shalah Muhammad grabbed the conscript’s hand and pulled it inside the truck with all his might and at the same time slammed the truck into reverse and zoomed backwards, dragging the officer with it.

He pulled the steering wheel round with his free hand so that the truck slid into a fast arc, knocking down the officer who had been in the process of handing Sarah back her ID. Sarah reflexively wound up her window and pushed her feet against the dash board.

“Hang on!” yelled Muhammad. He let go of the officer who fell to the road. Quickly, he shoved the truck into ONE, the rear wheels spun and the truck lurched forward. He ran over the officer who was scrambling to stand. The female officer had already raised her Uzi and was in the act of pulling the trigger when the big mudguard of the Explorer truck rammed her against the checkpoint box, knocking over the box completely. Not satisfied, Muhammad backed up and ran over the other officer who was writhing on the ground already severely injured. When he was convinced that they were both dead, he took a deep breath and looked over to Sarah who sat petrified, still pushing her feet against the dashboard.

“Are you OK?" he asked.

Sarah hugged her legs, then let them fall to the floor.

“I’m OK,” she said. It was the first time she had seen Shalah’s violent side, though he had hinted of it every now and again. So far, all their so called terrorist action had involved planning, management, and deal making. All except, of course, her own first assignment to kill Arafat. But that wasn’t violent, was it?

“You better get out and collect our IDs,” said Shalah, always testing her. She was on the verge of vomiting and did so as soon as she stepped down from the truck. She forced herself to approach each of the lifeless conscripts and retrieved the IDs. When she returned to the truck and climbed in beside Shalah, he said, “There’s my girl.”

*

Sarah’s body responded to trauma by closing down. She fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until the truck ran out of petrol just as they reached Bethlehem.

“You can wake up now, we’re here,” Muhammad laughed as he opened the door to her side of the truck. Sarah struggled to wake up. Shalah extended his hand to help her step down from the truck. She looked around her. They walked across the street and picked up one of the many local vans to Jerusalem and soon they were in the midst of a Palestinian slum, close to Jerusalem. It teemed with people, buying, selling, eating, shouting. Shalah led the way and Sarah followed him through a maze of alleys until they finally reached the steps of a dilapidated building, pock-marked with bullet holes and shrapnel. Shalah withdrew a key from his pocket, and opened the door.

“This is your house?” Sarah asked.

“Not exactly. It’s one of our safe houses that we use for preparing suicide bombers. And as you know, that’s why we’re here.”

There were no windows. Inside it was dark and gloomy, except there was a bright light focused on a handsome boy standing against a bare wall, his arms outstretched. A woman, robed in an abaya, circled around taking a video of the boy. There was only one chair, and Shalah Muhammad took it. Sarah sat on the floor at his feet, a place she was used to, hugging her small backpack to her knees. She was happy to be there.

Halid the handler barely acknowledged their presence. He was putting the finishing touches to the bomb vest. Shalah Muhammad broke the ice.

“You're wasting your time, Halid. They're on to you."

“Doesn't matter. He wants to die.”

“It's an unnecessary risk and —”

“Do not insult the honor of his murdered father!” The boy’s mother broke in, annoyed, but not shifting her eyes from the iPhone that she held with outstretched hands, taking a video of her son.

Shalah ignored her, “— a waste of money,” he continued.

The mother raised her voice to a screech. “He dies for freedom!”

“And $10,000,” muttered Shalah, sarcastically.

Halid the handler spoke softly to the boy. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

The boy, who turned fifteen just the day before, cocked his head high, his deep black tousled hair the envy of everyone present. “Yes,” he said, a proud smile on his fresh adolescent lips.

“You will detonate the vest yourself ? If you can’t, I can do it with my phone, or your mother could if you prefer.”

“No, I can do it. In the name of my father, Inshallah!”

“Speak, my son! Show the world your beautiful mind,” announced his mother, holding the iPhone high, circling around him.

Halid looked across to Sarah. She smiled a little and nodded slightly.

Shalah Muhammad nudged her with his foot. “Kommie, the money,” he said.

Sarah pulled out two tightly bound wads of bills and handed them up to Shalah.

“The Jews have captured or killed all but two of our bombers this year.

None of them made their targets,” scorned Shalah, as he handed Halid the money.

“So?”

“So this is the last one. We’re terminating the program.”

Halid the Handler was not pleased. “You’re a bunch of fucking assholes!”

“Watch your language in front of the boy!”

“How will I feed my family? You and your smart-ass friends sit in Teheran, think you know everything. Our suicide bombings have changed the face of terrorism. Without them, you’ll lose the support of the camps.”

The boy continued with his speech, egged on by his mother. “…for the love of my father and my family and for our freedom…”

“This kid will make it,” said Halid, “besides we’ve got a very experienced driver and he has a real-time GPS phone.”

“A what?”

“It automatically updates when they close roads and move checkpoints.”

“Bull shit! I tell you, they’re on to you. We’re done with suicide bombing. Get a new job.”

Shalah Muhammad abruptly rose and pulled at Sarah’s shirt. “Kommie,” he commanded, “we’re out of here.”

Halid scowled and walked back to the boy.

Sarah struggled up, reached for Shalah’s hand, but he walked past her. She followed, slipping her arm through his as he turned to Halid and spoke to him in a formal way, as though conducting a job interview. “We need missile operators. Or maybe we could use you in Iraq, but I don’t think you’d fit. The handlers there are much younger, mostly Iraqi.”

“When will you be back?” asked Halid.

“If all goes well, in three months, the anniversary of nine eleven.”

“I heard something big was coming?”

“And make sure there’s a big screen TV when I come back.”

“Oh, and would the general like anything else?”

“You could put a bed in the bedroom.”

“Sure, anything you say.”

Shalah Muhammad and Sarah stepped out to the street. Shalah stopped to put on his sunglasses. A taxi pulled up, the door flung open, the driver bounded up the steps, pushing right past them. Sarah looked to Shalah but he did not return the look.

“These people are insane,” he said. “They’ve been kil ing Jews for decades, and where has it got them? Still no Palestinian state. Still no freedom! It’s time for a radical change.”

An old Toyota Corolla pulled up and they climbed in the back seat.

*

MacIver felt a light nudge to his ribs.

“Larry, we’re here. Hope you had a good nap, you poor old thing,” joked Rahav.

“I think best with my eyes closed,” smiled MacIver.

The old van pulled into a small parking lot next to an ancient but well renovated building.

“We’re in the Christian sector of old Jerusalem. We like to be right in the middle of things.”

“So this is what kind of operations center?”

“You’ll see.” Let’s go right in. Our young officer here will take your things and drop them off at the Ma'ale Hachamisha Kibbutz Hotel where I know you like to stay.”

“Great,” MacIver yawned, “let’s go to it.”

They walked to the back of the building where Rahav nodded to a guard standing at the door. MacIver had to remind himself that this was Israel, and get used to the preponderance of armed personnel, especially in old Jerusalem. Once inside, he was surprised to see that there were no more locked doors. They walked straight in to the Operations Room where several civilians, or officers not in uniform, sat at consoles arrayed around the room. A large screen displayed a map of the West Bank and locations of fences, walls, street barriers and checkpoints. It was an electronic map that could be drawn and redrawn at will. MacIver picked up a laser pointer and immediately felt right at home.

“This is our bomber?” he asked, as he pointed at a pulsing blue car image.

“It will be. The driver has stopped to pick up the bomber,” Rahav replied.

“How do you know that?”

“He has one of our cell phones.”

“He’s one of yours?”

“Not exactly. He doesn’t know he has one of our phones.”

“Brilliant! So you’ve infiltrated them?”

“Not exactly. We supply almost all the available cell phones in the West Bank. One other thing, before you get wrapped up in this pursuit.”

“What?”

“Have you ever heard of Shalah Muhammad?”

“Don’t think so.”

“He's probably the smartest terrorist operating around the Middle East these days.”

“So what does he have to do with our suicide bomber?”

“We think he is the brains behind all suicide bombings on the West Bank at present, and certainly is supplying the cash.”

“So?”

“So we nearly caught him at a check point this morning. Unfortunately, he was too smart for us and outwitted the two young officers who were manning the check point. We were tracking his motor bike. He was probably on his way to direct the suicide bombing that we are now watching in action.”

The blue image of the car began to move. MacIver was having trouble paying attention to Rahav. “It’s moving!” exclaimed MacIver excitedly.

“The damned terrorist killed both the officers. Drove over and over them with a truck and destroyed the entire checkpoint.”

“Gee, that’s too bad. Why don’t you pick him up at the safe house, then, since you must know where it is if you can track this bomber from start to finish?”

Unfortunately, he already slipped through our fingers. He was at the safe house for only a brief moment, then left. But we’ll get him at the right time.”

“No doubt you will. So let’s play Pac-Man with this bomber!”

“I’m a bit young to have played that game,” Rahav responded, “but I suppose you mean getting around barriers and closures.”

“You’re not that young! But yes, you’re right.”

“The street pattern was changed as soon as we saw our taxi driver on the move to pick up his rider,” said Rahav.

“You knew that too?”

“A calculated guess. But we’ve arranged the barriers and closures to give him little choice but to follow the route we want, regardless of where his target lies.

“So the old checkpoint was here,” MacIver moved the pointer, “and the new checkpoint is here?”

“That’s right. So long as we have not messed up the traffic too much, he should come into our checkpoint in about twenty to thirty minutes.”

MacIver put down the pointer. “I want to be there!”

“Larry, you’re not trained. It’s too dangerous.”

“But I must interview the bomber. Find out how he came to do this.”

“You can do that once we bring him in.”

“But he may blow himself up.”

“And if you’re there, you too!”

“It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. I’m a trained psychologist, you know.”

“But you’re not a trained bomb specialist. You’re not going.”

“I have to. In the name of science.”

“We have plenty of failed suicide bombers in custody. You can interview them.”

MacIver was not listening and was already at the door. Captain Rahav, not altogether an agile person, was too slow to catch hold of him.

Throwing up his hands in dismay, he nodded to an officer to follow. He knew Larry too well to think he could stop him now. For a scientist, he was really much too headstrong. There was no stopping him. He supposed that tenacity was an important attribute for a scientist too.

MacIver was no sooner outside than he realized that he had no idea where he was going.

The officer called out. “Wait up sir. I’ll take you. Follow me, this way.

The bike is around the corner.”

“Bike? We’re going on a bike?”

The officer led him around the corner and into a small courtyard.

“Hope this is OK sir?” He hurried over to a gleaming motor bike, which sported a rear seat almost as wide as a horse’s saddle.

“I have to spread my legs over this?” laughed MacIver.

“It’s the only way we can get there in time. Your helmet, sir.” They climbed on the motor bike. “Hang on, and lean with me when I lean!”

The officer revved the bike, kicked it into gear and they took off so abruptly, MacIver clung to his driver in panic. For MacIver, this was a most unpleasant experience. Hanging on to someone for dear life went against his deepest, innermost idea of himself. He was the one who others should hang on to. He was the driver in life, not the follower. He clung to the officer, but hated every minute of it. Took little notice of the crowded streets of old Jerusalem as they twisted and turned to get through the traffic and avoid hitting pedestrians. He hardly noticed it when they at last sped through the Jaffa gate and entered the broader streets of modern Jerusalem and finally ended up on a sandy road, speeding headlong into an endless desert. He was greatly relieved when he felt the bike slowing and eventually stop.

*

The checkpoint was a solitary steel box at the apex of a series of heavy concrete street barriers that formed a narrowing funnel along the sandy road. There were blast deflecting steel shields placed at various points around the checkpoint. Two young conscripts manned the post. There was a simple boom gate that operated to stop traffic.

MacIver stepped off the bike and immediately regained his composure.

In fact, he felt exhilarated. One of the officers who looked not much older than a teenager, maybe was a teenager, addressed the officer.

“Expecting a zero sir?”

“In about five minutes. Seen much traffic?”

“Not much sir. Only been here an hour after all.” The young man looked across at MacIver who stepped towards him.

“Oh, this is Professor Larry MacIver from America. He’s doing research,” said the officer.

MacIver nodded, smiled and offered his hand, to which the young conscript did not respond. The officer noticed.

“Sorry professor. They’re trained not to shake hands or to get too close to anyone they don’t know.”

“Of course. I should have known better. You guys are doing an incredible job, and my research is going to prove it,” said MacIver, addressing his remarks to the conscripts.

“Oh thank you.”

The officer broke in. “Here they come!”

The taxi, a beaten up old Ford Focus, approached slowly, dust billowing out behind it.

The officer stepped in front of MacIver and the conscripts. “I’ll take care of this. I’ve done scores of them. Keep your eyes open though, and all of you, stay behind the shields and barriers.”

The taxi pulled up to the boom gate. The driver poked his head out the non-existent window.

“Hello officer.”

The officer saluted. “Where are you going and who is your passenger?”

he asked as he peered into the back seat.

“He visits his uncle who has found him a job washing dishes in the King David Hotel,” replied the driver.

The officer grabbed the handle of the back door. It was locked. “This car actually locks?” he asked, trying to lighten the tension.

“Hey it’s a beautiful car!” laughed the driver. He twisted around to unlock the door by hand.

The officer signaled to the conscript. “Keep the driver in the car, but get his cell phone.” He then opened the back door and put out his hand to the teenage boy who sat nervously inside. “OK son,” he said quietly, “this is normal procedure. I just want you to take both my hands and get slowly out of the car.”

The boy complied, but he was no sooner out of the car than MacIver was standing beside him.

The officer first raised his voice to MacIver, but then controlled himself. “For God’s sake, get back behind the shield!”

MacIver ignored him. Instead, he spoke directly to the boy. “Do you speak English?”

The boy looked down. No answer. Not unlike any teenager, thought MacIver.

The officer interjected, getting upset. “Professor! Get behind the shields! You’re screwing things up!”

The boy lifted his head and said defiantly, “of course I speak English.

You think I’m an idiot?”

“Officer, let go his hands, slowly,” ordered MacIver.

“Are you kidding? He’ll blow us all up!”

The boy struggled to release his hands, but in response the officer reflexively tightened his grip.

“Release him, damn it!” yelled MacIver.

The conscripts raised their weapons nervously, one pointed at MacIver.

“Step away, Professor,” ordered a conscript calmly.

Instead, MacIver moved closer to the bomber and slowly reached inside his jacket.

The officer looked panic-stricken. “You crazy son of a bitch!” He let go of one hand and grabbed MacIver. The bomber twisted free and ran forward, past the boom gate.

MacIver turned quickly to the conscripts. “Leave him! Don’t shoot him!” MacIver strode briskly towards the boy who eventually slowed, then stopped. He had realized that he didn’t know where he was running to.

MacIver moved closer. “Take it easy son. What’s your name?”

The boy glared back and held his arms out to the side.

“So let’s get you out of this harness,” said MacIver, confident he was in charge.

The boy bomber reached inside his jacket. The conscripts yelled warnings, the officer yelled, “Hit the ground! Down! Down!” All weapons were pointed at the bomber but MacIver was in the way. He stood back, hands on hips.

“You’re not going to do it, are you?” he said solicitously.

“My name is Ali.” The boy ripped his jacket off, revealing the bomb vest. He grabbed the detonator cord. “I want to die for Allah and my family.”

“But now is not the time, is it? You haven’t reached your target.”

MacIver stretched out his hand.

There was heavy breathing all around, otherwise silence. The wait seemed forever. Sweat poured down everyone’s face, except for the boy bomber, who looked serene and incredibly handsome right at that moment.

MacIver extended his hand a little forward. “I’ll make up the $10,000,”

he said.

The boy, insulted, jerked at the detonator cord. “You Americans. All you think about is money.”

“So how did you become a suicide bomber so young?” asked MacIver.

“My father was Hezbollah.” He raised his arms to the sky, looked up, thumb extended over the detonator button at the end of the cord.

“Ali, it’s not the time. Tell me of your father.”

“He was murdered by Jews when I was three years old.”

“Your mother told you that?”

“Everyone told me that.”

Silence. The officer and the conscripts shifted anxiously on their feet. Their arms sagged under the weight of their weapons. The rustling of clothing as they moved broke the silence.

MacIver stepped a little closer. The boy stared defiantly into his eyes.

“Stop! Come no closer! Allah has sent me a sign,” cried Ali.

MacIver stopped and stretched out his hand. Suddenly, he heard behind him the noise of the taxi starting up. He snatched a quick look over his shoulder. The driver slammed the car into reverse, backed crazily away from the boom gate, skidded and swiveled a hundred and eighty degrees and sped off. One of the conscripts fired, half-heartedly, but missed.

Ali remained still. “It is not the time,” he said.

“Where was your driver taking you?” asked MacIver as he took a very small step forward.

Ali slowly lowered his arms and allowed the detonator cord to dangle. MacIver forced a grim smile and took another step.

Ali raised his hand, palm facing MacIver. “No! Stop! A bomb expert has to defuse me.”

“So what was your target?” MacIver persisted.

The officer slowly inched forward and muttered an expletive as he moved past MacIver. “You are an asshole,” he whispered.

“I would like to speak to my mother,” said the boy, slightly embarrassed.

“Of course we can arrange that, can’t we officer?” replied MacIver.

The officer did not answer. He was now standing close to the boy, one hand gripping Ali’s right hand, the detonator hand, the other feeling carefully for the wires and the transponder that would detonate the explosives unless disarmed. There was still the danger that it could be activated by his handler’s cell phone.

“How much time do we have?” asked the officer. “Where was the target?”

Ali looked down, licking his lips nervously. “I can’t tell you that.”

“I need to know how much time we have. If your handler does not hear of the explosion, he will detonate it himself. You know that, I’m sure.”

“We’ll contact your mom. What’s her phone number and I’ll call her and you can talk,” offered MacIver.

“Professor, that’s not a good idea. She will very likely urge him to complete the mission by blowing himself and the rest of us to smithereens. I’m losing patience with you, Professor.”

MacIver persisted. “Can’t you disarm the transponder?”

“Yes, but I have to find the right wire. I think I know where it is, but can’t risk a mistake, can I?” The officer lowered his head to look closely into Ali’s face. “Ali, who was your handler? What was his name?”

“Why should I tell you that? I am not a traitor!”

“Because if I know who it was, then I will know how he arranged the bomb vest. Each handler has his own favorite way of doing it. Now what’s his name?”

Ali hesitated, licked his lips again.

“Come on! What’s his name?”

“My target was King David Hotel lobby.”

“O.K so we probably have only a few minutes, at the most. And the handler’s name?”

“Halid.”

“Now that’s better. I know his work. Turn around slowly. The transponder will be right between your shoulder blades.”

“Ali. You can use my phone to call your Mom.” Here…”

“Professor, I’m losing patience. Please shut up. I’m trying to save us from being blown up, and you’re offering this little brat your cell phone so he can talk to his mother!”

“You won’t get anywhere with these people by talking like that. You have to win him over. Then you get information.”

The officer carefully worked his hand down behind the boy’s neck, under the bomb vest. With a short, sharp flick of his fingers, he dislodged the connector to the transponder. He breathed a sigh of relief. “OK. Turn around son, I got it. We can now slip off the bomb vest, very, very carefully.” He slipped the bomb vest off, and immediately placed it behind one of the deflective shields. He turned to a conscript. “There could be a timer, so it could still go off. Call HQ and have them send a team out to dispose of it and to pick up the brat. You’ll need to restrain him with handcuffs or something so he can’t run away. That is, unless you have the guts to shoot him if he tries to escape. Keep the boy with you at all times, and keep as far away from the bomb vest as you can. It could go off any minute.”

“Right, sir.”

The officer turned to MacIver who was handing his cell phone to Ali.

He slapped MacIver’s hand angrily and the cell phone went flying to the ground. He walked over and ground it into the desert sand under the heel of his boot.

“It’s going to be a wild motorbike ride back,” muttered MacIver to himself.

The officer got on the motor bike and beckoned to MacIver who reluctantly complied. He had just settled down into the seat and grasped the officer’s waist, when the bomb exploded. The bike rose in the air, and then fell to the ground taking MacIver and his fellow rider with it. A huge cloud of dust and sand enveloped them. MacIver heard shouts from the direction of the conscripts. His leg was pinned under the back wheel of the bike. The dust cleared and he strained to look over to the boy.

The officer was already there. The boy lay still. A piece of shrapnel, the smallest piece, had penetrated his skull. He was dead. The conscripts were frightened. “Better call a clean-up squad,” ordered the officer.