The Tourists (Mac Dekker #2)

Prologue

Golan Heights

Israeli-Syrian Border

The first bullet struck the truck’s windshield. The second ricocheted off a boulder a few meters to their left.

“Who the hell is it?” shouted Benny as bursts of gunfire lit up the horizon.

Ava pushed him flat against the ground. “Does it matter who it is? Keep your head down.”

“I’d like to know who’s trying to kill me,” said Benny.

“Them,” said Ava, gesturing with her Uzi. “That’s who. Them.”

“Some help you are,” said Benny.

They lay on the cold, hard earth of the easternmost Golan Heights, spitting distance from the Purple Line, the line of demarcation between Israel and Syria, fixed after Israel conquered the territory first in June 1967, and then again in October 1973.

It was night, 3:00 a.m., frigid and windy, dense cloud obscuring the stars.

The nearest village was Al Katzim, fifteen kilometers to the north.

“What do we do?” asked Jonny, official title Jonathan Oren, PhD, professor of nuclear physics, Cambridge University.

“We finish what we came here for,” said Ava.

“Aren’t you going to call in backup?”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Ava. “A couple of F-16s?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” said Jonny.

“Did you forget, Dr. Oren, that we are not here?” said Ava. “You can’t send backup to a team that doesn’t exist.”

“If we don’t exist, why are they firing at us?” asked Benny angrily.

“Because we’re Jews and they’re Arabs,” said Ava. “That’s what it usually comes down to.”

It was a flippant answer, but she refused to countenance the alternative. That “they,” the creeps blowing off their weapons four hundred meters across the border, knew why Ava, Benny, and Jonny were there and had come to take possession of what they’d been sent to collect.

Ava was Mossad via Shin Bet, trained in counterterrorism, and the leader of the small team. She was pushing forty, and at that moment, feeling every minute of it. A black knit beanie hid her hair. Camouflage face paint darkened her cheeks. Like all of them, she wore black utilities and boots.

Benny was with Unit 8200—army signals intelligence—just a kid, maybe twenty-five, a tech rock star.

Benny was tasked with retrieving the transmitter.

Jonny was the big dog, a physicist on temporary duty (very much against his wishes).

It was Jonny’s job to make sure they didn’t blow themselves to kingdom come.

Ava pulled on her night vision glasses and scanned the horizon.

She didn’t like what she saw. Silhouettes of a half dozen vehicles—jeeps, Hi-Lux pickups, sedans—and too many men to count.

She had no idea who they were. Syrian regulars, rebels, ISIS.

It didn’t really matter. There was a civil war going on. Each was as bad as the others.

“Get up,” she said. “We have a job to do.”

“But they’re firing at us,” said Benny.

“If any of them could shoot,” said Ava, “we’d be dead already.”

“Fire back,” said Benny. “You’re the one with the gun.”

“With this?” said Ava, tapping the Uzi submachine gun at her side. “I’d have a better chance slinging a rock at them. Now shut up and dig.”

Benny got to his knees and grabbed the shovel. It was a spading shovel—sharp at the nose, its blade forged from alloyed steel—but it barely dented the frozen ground. “Whose idea was it,” he asked, breathing heavily, “to send us out here in the middle of February?”

“Keep at it,” said Ava, patting his shoulder. “That’s a good boy.”

She slid over to the physicist. “Dr. Oren, you can’t stay here. Take the transmitter to the truck. Get in the back seat and lay down. You’ll be safer there.”

“But Samson . . .”

“We’ll take care of Samson.”

Dr. Jonny Oren raised his head tentatively. Gunfire rang out, and he buried his face into the cold earth. “I’ll never make it,” he said, lying as flat as a shadow.

“We’ll wait a minute,” said Ava, soothingly. She couldn’t be angry with him. He was a scientist, not a soldier.

“Yes, a minute,” said Oren. “Maybe two.”

Ava scooted over to the transmitter. It was a heavy rectangular object, painted olive drab, the size of an ammo box.

Wires sprouted from one end, where it was to be connected to Samson.

She waited for a lull in firing, then jumped to her feet.

Using both hands, she picked up the transmitter and sprinted to the truck.

She opened the rear door and slung the transmitter inside.

At that instant, a volley of bullets struck the door, the racket making her ears ring.

Ava threw herself to the ground. She landed on her side, the wind knocked out of her. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with night vision glasses. With her foot, she slammed the door shut. She lay still for a moment, too shaken to move. The fear passed. It took longer for her to catch her breath.

Flipping onto her stomach, she commando crawled back to her colleagues. “How’s it coming?” she asked Benny.

“Almost there.”

Ava inched closer and saw that he’d dug a considerable amount. The hole was as deep as her forearm. With a grunt, Benny thrust the shovel into the earth. It struck something hard and metallic.

“Hit it harder next time,” said Ava. “Then it won’t matter who’s shooting at us.”

“It can’t go off without a code,” said Jonny Oren. “For that, the transmitter needs to be attached.”

“Good to know,” said Ava. “I’ll sleep better at night.”

She reached her hand into the hole and brushed the dirt off a circular metallic plate. There was no digital readout, no buttons, no switches. It didn’t look like much.

Samson.

The name said it all.

“Dig around the sides,” she said to Benny. “I’ll help you lift it.”

Benny slid the shovel into the hole and excavated the soil on all sides of the circular device while Ava scooped out the dirt with both hands.

From across the plain came a crescendo of catcalls, exhortations, and ululations.

Kalashnikovs fired lengthy volleys into the sky, the muzzle bursts sparkling like fireworks.

Headlights lit up the desert. Motors revved.

The Hi-Lux pickups. She knew their sound, and she knew that they carried thirty-caliber machine guns bolted to their flatbeds.

“Hamatzav-Kara,” she muttered. We’re in deep shit.

Ava knew then that their presence—whoever they were—was no coincidence. They hadn’t decided to gather at this exact spot at this exact time for the hell of it.

“FYI,” she said to Benny. “The party’s about to get started.”

Benny rammed the shovel into the dirt as if it were a jackhammer. “That’s as good as we’re going to get.”

Ava thrust her arm into the hole. Her fingers touched the device’s rough canvas casing. “Got it,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the handle.

Benny dropped the shovel and fell to the ground beside her. “Got it.”

“Lift on three,” said Ava. “One . . . two . . .”

Ava and Benny struggled to free the device from its decades-old tomb. It was not especially heavy, maybe fifteen pounds, but time and the elements had welded it to the earth. With a final heave, it came free.

It was tall and cylindrical, resembling a sturdy fire extinguisher and wrapped in an olive canvas sleeve with shoulder straps attached.

Samson was not meant to be buried but to be carried by infantry into battle.

It was more than powerful enough to bring a temple down on the Philistines’ heads. Ten temples. A hundred, even.

The earth beneath their feet began to shake. The sound of approaching vehicles grew louder.

“Dr. Oren,” called Ava. “We’ve got it. Let’s go home.”

“I can’t,” said Oren, his hands clawing at the dirt. “I can’t.”

“Move your ass,” shouted Benny. “Unless you want it shot off. Do you hear that?”

Oren lifted his head an inch off the ground. He nodded.

“Now,” said Ava kindly. “We have to go.”

Oren clambered to his feet. He blinked madly, brushing the dirt and gravel off his uniform, taking stock of himself. “I’m better,” he said. A pronouncement. “I’m not frightened anymore.”

A bullet struck his forehead dead center. Blood and bone and brain sprayed from the rear of his skull. He dropped to the ground like a rag doll.

“Take Samson,” said Ava. “I’ll get Dr. Oren.”

“He’s dead,” said Benny. “Leave him.”

“We don’t do that.” Ava slung her Uzi behind her back. She handed the device to Benny. “Go,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

“And if you’re not?” Benny turned and ran before she could answer.

Ava knelt and slid an arm under Oren’s body. She hauled him to a sitting position, then lifted him by his hips and hoisted him over a shoulder. He was small, bone thin. Even so, she struggled beneath his weight.

Ahead, Benny reached the truck. He threw Samson into the rear seat and secured it inside its protective case. He gave Ava a thumbs-up, then jumped behind the wheel. He fired the engine. The truck’s headlights illuminated.

“No,” screamed Ava. “Off! Off!”

Before the words had left her mouth, machine gun fire raked the truck. A rain of bullets struck the hood, the engine block, the windshield. Tires burst. Glass shattered. The barrage intensified until the vehicle seemed to be dancing. A bullet punctured the gas tank. There was an explosion.

Ava looked over her shoulder. It was no good. They were too close. Any moment, she would be caught in their beams.

Still, she couldn’t run away.

She laid Jonny Oren onto the ground and ran to the truck. Flames enveloped the chassis. She had a glimpse of Benny, or what was left of him. She darted into the fire and grabbed the door handle. The metal scorched her fingers. She yanked with all her might. The door was jammed.

There it was: Samson in its protective case. So close. She pulled harder. The smell of cauterized flesh stung her nose. Again, she pulled, but no.

A bullet grazed her ear, stunning her. She stumbled away from the car.

Still, she refused to run.

Ava dropped to a knee and pulled the Uzi to her shoulder. The first trucks came into sight. She could see the green-and-black banners whipping in the wind; the soldiers, scarves covering their faces, Kalashnikovs at the ready. There were fifty of them, maybe more. Too many.

Ava lowered the Uzi.

“God help us, everyone,” she whispered.

She ran into the night.