Saving Sophie: A Novel (51 page)

The paramedic took the bag from Yonit and set it on the hook. Fakhir tilted his head to watch in horror. Sweat poured off his forehead. Large wet circles grew in the armpits of his shirt. He struggled against the straps. The paramedic took the needle and catheter out of the kit and tapped the veins on Fakhir’s wrist.

“No, no, wait. Wait. I will tell you. Don’t do that, please. I have a wife and children.”

“Who delivered the IVs?”

“I think his name is Samuel, but I’m not sure of his address. Somewhere in East Jerusalem.”

“Not good enough.” She nodded to the paramedic, who swabbed Fakhir’s wrist with alcohol and inserted the needle into his vein.

“I want his address and I want to know how and where he made the deliveries.”

Fakhir’s eyes were fixed on the paramedic. He began to cry. “Oh, stop. Please don’t connect that bag. Please. Sami works for the Mediterranean company. Mediterranean Medical. That’s his job. He’s a delivery driver to Jerusalem hospitals. Please don’t give me that solution. It has a horrible disease in it. I don’t want to die. You can’t do this. It’s inhuman.”

“Where did he deliver the bags?”

“He took them to the hospitals on his route. The company will know which ones. I don’t know, on my mother’s grave, I don’t know.”

“When were the deliveries?”

“Yesterday, the day before.”

“I want the names and addresses of everyone involved in your godless plot. I want to know where they are right now.” She gave him a pen and paper. Fakhir was crying convulsively. His hand shook so badly, he could barely hold the pen.

*   *   *

T
HE CENTRAL INTERCOM OF
Jerusalem Memorial broadcast an emergency message. All Sexton IVs were immediately to be taken out of use. Any patients receiving IV treatment with any Sexton product within the past two days were to be identified and contacted. In the moments after Mediterranean Medical Supply called each of the hospitals on Sami’s route, the Sexton IV bags were segregated. Substitute IV sets were rushed from other hospitals. Calls went out to alternative medical supply companies in several countries.

*   *   *

“O
KAY, MR. KELSEN, WE’RE
going on the record.” Assistant US Attorney Thomas Tryon sat opposite Victor Kelsen and his lawyer in the small government conference room. A ten-page statement lay on the table in front of Kelsen. A video camera was recording the event. “Please identify yourself.”

Kelsen nodded. “My name is Victor Wallace Kelsen.”

“The purpose of this meeting is to place your signed statement into the record, is that right, Mr. Kelsen?”

“Yeah, and to make a deal for a reduced sentence.”

“As we’ve explained to you, the Justice Department can only make recommendations to the court. The judge will determine your sentence after you plead guilty and your presentence investigation is finished.”

Kelsen looked at his lawyer. “But we’ve made a deal for twelve years, with a chance I could get out in ten, right, Marty?” The lawyer nodded.

“That will be our office’s recommendation,” Tryon said. “But as we’ve explained to you at least three times, there are no guarantees on your sentence. The judge can disregard the recommendation. Please affirm you understand that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand. No guarantees. And you’ll put me in some minimum-security prison under a false identity so that those fucking Russians won’t know where to find me. Right? I mean, that’s the deal.”

Tryon nodded and patted the statement. “Again, that will be our recommendation. You need to sign and identify your statement.”

“And my wife. Can you put her in witness protection somewhere?”

“We’ll see.” Tryon tapped the paper. “Please read and sign your statement.”

Kelsen read the ten-page statement into the record.

“Have you fully and accurately supplied the information about Dmitri Borsinov and his involvement in the scheme to kidnap the Sommers child and embezzle the escrow money?”

Kelsen nodded. “It was all his idea.”

“But you willingly participated?”

Kelsen nodded. “Yeah. I shoulda never let him into the basketball payoffs. That was my big mistake. Wish I never met him or his goon Evgeniy.”

“Have you fully and accurately set forth the details of your sports bribery scheme?”

“Yeah, it’s all there. All eleven years.”

“Finally, you understand it is your obligation to testify in accordance with this statement at the trials of Borsinov, Karisov, and Porushkin. If you refuse to testify or testify falsely, this plea agreement will be voided and you will additionally be prosecuted for perjury. You understand all that?”

Kelsen nodded.

“Do you affirm that the statement you just read is true and correct?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“And made voluntarily with no threats or coercion.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Sign your statement.”

Kelsen flipped to the last page and signed his name.

“Okay. This recording is completed. Take him away.”

*   *   *

T
WO DAYS LATER, ON
a blistering-hot afternoon, just east of Eilat, at the Yitzhak Rabin Border Crossing, several travelers stood patiently in line with their passports. One such man in traditional white desert garb—an ankle-length
thobe
and a full, white keffiyeh held in place by a golden, braided
igal
—anxiously awaited his turn to present his documents and enter Jordan.

A woman’s voice caught his attention from behind. “Hebron no longer suits you, Nizar?”

He spun around to see a woman and two men in IDF uniforms. Yonit beckoned him with her index finger. “This way, please.”

Nizar bolted out of line and ran toward the sea. He was quickly apprehended but appeared to be choking. He collapsed and died in the arms of an IDF soldier.

E
IGHTY

L
IAM STARED AT HIS
buzzing phone. The text message read,
Please call me
.

“Hey, Cat, what’s up?” Liam said.

“It’s been four days since the rescue and I just wanted to know when you’re coming home. I’m missing you.”

“I miss you too.”

“I’m not sleeping well since that incident with Kelsen. I wake up. I leave the light on. I need you to come home.”

“I know. I’m sorry, but I can’t leave Israel just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I made a promise.”

“A promise? What does that mean? I thought the operation was finished. When are you coming home?” Liam heard the tension in her voice.

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure when I can leave.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure? What’s going on Liam?”

“I made a promise.”

“It’s Kayla, isn’t it? That’s why you can’t leave?”

“Yes.”

“Damn you, Liam!” The line went dead.

He called her, he redialed her, but she wouldn’t pick up. Finally, he texted,
I think Kayla’s dying.

A few minutes later his phone rang. “I’m sorry,” Catherine said softly. “I thought…”

“My fault, I should have explained. You remember, I told you that Kayla suffered a bad injury at the compound and al-Zahani managed to inject that poison into her. What I haven’t told you is that the doctors have been unable to stop the disease. Even though we took her straight to the hospital, it didn’t matter. They’d never seen anything like it, and they didn’t know how to treat it. Now they tell me they’re trying a new antibiotic, but so far she’s real sick. She can’t eat, she’s lost a lot of weight. Cat, she looks terrible.” He paused. “She doesn’t have any family, she doesn’t have anyone. I promised her I would stay.”

“I’m so sorry, Liam. You should stay. Shame on me.”

“Listen, Cat, I miss you a lot. There’s a United flight out of Newark at ten fifty tonight. What do you say?”

“You want me to come to Israel? Just drop everything?”

“Yes, I do. More than anything.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please?”

Pause. “I’ll try. I have an appointment at the US Attorney’s Office later this morning. I’ll see what I can do.”

*   *   *

L
IAM CHECKED THE ARRIVAL
board for the hundredth time. Catherine’s flight was delayed yet again. Rain in Newark. Damn the rain. Does anyone ever get out of Newark on time? He sat at a table in the arrival hall, drinking his fourth cup of coffee, watching as passengers wheeled their luggage through the customs doors to meet their friends and family. He fidgeted. This was to be a big moment—he hoped.

Finally, Catherine walked into the lobby. Liam smiled broadly, rushed up, and hugged her tightly, lifting her off the floor.

“My goodness, Liam.”

Liam looked around the busy hall, turning his head in every direction, surveying the crowded terminal in consternation.

“Is something wrong? What are you looking for?”

“Nothing.” He took her by the elbow and led her to an area near the coffee shop. He took a deep breath. “Excuse me,” he said nervously to a couple standing nearby, “I need a little room here.”

The couple backed up. Liam dropped to his knee and held out the open jewelry box. “Oh my God,” Catherine said, “are you crazy?”

“Cat, I’m sorry the setting isn’t more romantic, but I can’t chance another interruption.”

“Oh my God.”

The crowd of passengers began to form a circle. “I want to see this,” a woman said as she yanked at her husband’s sleeve and pulled him over to the front of the gathering.

“Cat, there’s only you. All my life, there’s only you. It’s high tide, sweetheart. Will you marry me?”

“Oh, yes, I will. You bet I will.” She wrapped her arms around him, and the welcome hall of Ben Gurion International Airport broke into cheers and applause.

E
IGHTY
-O
NE

A
S THE SUN RISES
over the spires of Jerusalem’s Old City, a man in a black suit, the fringes of his white tallit showing beneath his jacket’s hem, like a slip beneath a skirt, walks through Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter to say his morning prayers at the Kotel, the Western Wall. He walks spritely, proudly, with his two young sons. Hundreds of others are already praying there. No matter the time of day, prayers are offered to God at the wall of Herod’s Citadel. Above, on the Mountain of the House of God, is the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque. Beneath the Dome lies the Foundation Stone, the holiest site of the Jewish religion, upon which the Ark of the Covenant was placed in the First Temple.

Directly to the west, in the Christian Quarter of the Old City, Catholic mass, served in Latin, is beginning in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The church stands directly upon the Hill of Calvary, where Jesus Christ was crucified, anointed, and laid to rest in the limestone cave donated by Joseph of Arimathea. The small aedicule in the center of the rotunda embraces the tomb. A line has already begun to form, and worshippers wait their turn to pray in the aedicule. The Church is Christendom’s most holy site, a place of pilgrimage, the site of the Resurrection.

In the Muslim Quarter, a man passes through a guarded gate and walks up the ramp to the Haram al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary, on the Temple Mount. The Dome of the Rock, the golden shrine completed in the year 691 to cover the Foundation Stone and the place where David and Solomon had planned their temple, is open for him to enter and pray. Across the square is the silver-domed al-Aqsa Mosque, Islam’s third-holiest site, where the Prophet Mohammed was transported from Mecca during his Night Journey, and from where he ascended to heaven. From a small room inside the mosque, a man chants the
adhan
into a microphone and the Arabic call to prayer is heard throughout the Old City.

Throughout the narrow walkways of the four quarters, shopkeepers begin to unlock their doors and unfold their awnings. They sweep the stone sidewalks and lay out displays of their colorful wares. Even old Abu Hammad will soon shuffle up to his door, open his antiquities store, and wait to have a cup of tea with a curious visitor. Jerusalem is waking up, coming alive. The streets will soon be filled with tourists, shoppers, worshippers, pilgrims. Another glorious day begins in this troubled land. Safe and secure from the threats of yesterday. On guard for today.

Fifty-five kilometers to the west, on the sixth floor of Tel Aviv Medical Center, a group has gathered.

“Another hospital room, another enclave,” Marcy says, pouring a glass of water into a tumbler. Jack sits by the foot of the hospital bed near Sophie, who is perched at a little desk with a coloring book, Sweetness on her lap. A McDonald’s hamburger and shake sit on the corner of the desk.

“Thank you,” Kayla says, accepting the water with both hands. She lays propped up on her bed, hooked up to patient monitors, with antibiotics dripping into her veins.

Suddenly the door opens and Catherine and Liam enter the room. Marcy smiles. “How was your flight?”

“Long and tiring, but well worth it. Liam told me he’s not leaving until Kayla gets better, so here I am, Catherine the world traveler. I can’t leave my man alone with a gorgeous spy.”

Kayla looks at Liam. “Did you do it?” she whispers.

He nods. He blushes.

“Let me see the ring,” Kayla says with a broad smile.

Catherine holds out her hand. Kayla and Marcy examine the diamond closely and give their enthusiastic approvals.

“Mazel tov,” Kayla says. “Tell me. Did he do it with pomp and circumstance?”

“Oh, did he ever,” Catherine answers. “He got down on his knee in the middle of the airport. Everyone was watching.”

“Way to go, Irish,” Kayla says with a wink.

Catherine stares at the video monitors. “So, how’s our gorgeous spy doing?”

“Not feeling so gorgeous right now. They’re working on me,” she says with a shrug. Her complexion has lost a shade or two. “They tell me it’s a real nasty bug, but they think this new antibiotic is doing the trick. I’ll have to stay here for a while until my blood work comes back clean, but they’re optimistic.”

“You’re looking much better today,” Liam says.

Kayla nods. “I’m feeling better. I think the medicine’s working. I even had some breakfast.”