Numbered Account

After fifteen minutes of navigating a warren of alleys, each narrower than the last, Jafar stopped in front of a particularly foul abode. Wooden postings held aloft a patchwork roof of tin sheeting, discarded plywood, and woolen blankets. Curtains drawn over paneless windows fluttered in and out of the hovel, allowing a malodorous stench to drift into the alleyway. Mevlevi threw back the entry blanket and ventured into the one-room shanty. Clothing lay everywhere. A bottle of milk was overturned and dried on the pressed-dirt floor. A table stood upended. Above the disorder rested a ripe, overpowering smell that demanded immediate attention. He knew it well. It was the rank scent of death.

"Where is Abu's cellar?" Mevlevi demanded.

Jafar hesitated for a moment before pointing to a rusted cast-iron stove. Mevlevi pushed him ahead and told him to hurry it up. Jafar bent over the stove and placed his arms around its back, as if greeting a long unseen relative. "I'm searching for the release," he said, even as he pulled a lever and the stove swung away from the cinder-block wall.

A short flight of stairs descended into a black void. An inhuman smell flooded out of the unlit cavern. Mevlevi's hands struggled over an uneven wall and found a fat wire that led to a switch. He flicked it and a weak bulb illuminated a dank, low-ceilinged hideaway.

Abu Abu was dead.

No one could have mistaken the fact. He lay before Mevlevi in two pieces. His severed head decorated a copper plate. His unclothed torso lay sprawled nearby, chest down. The earthen floor was covered with what looked like the blood of ten men. The knife utilized for the beheading sat abandoned next to Abu's shoulder, its serrated blade coated with dried blood. Mevlevi picked it up. The handle was of black plastic, crosshatched to improve grip. A Star of David inside a circle was stamped upon its base. He knew the weapon. A K-Bar thrusting knife: standard issue of the Israeli army. He placed his foot under Abu's bloated stomach and turned over the corpse. Both arms draped onto the ground. The thumbs of each hand were missing, and a Star of David was carved into either palm.

"Jews," hissed Jafar Muftilli before rushing to a corner of the room and vomiting.

Mevlevi was nonplussed by the sight of the headless corpse. He had seen far worse. "What has Abu done to offend the Israelites?"

"A reprisal," Jafar answered weakly. "He had special friends among Hamas for whom he worked."

"The Qassam?" Mevlevi asked skeptically. "Had Abu been recruiting for the Qassam?" He referred to the extremist wing of soldiers within the Hamas from whose ranks were drawn the legions of suicide bombers.

Jafar staggered back to the center of the room. "Is this not sufficient proof?"

"So it is." If the Jews had deemed Abu Abu so important a target as to merit the attentions of their finest killers, then he himself must have been a high-ranking member of Hamas, or even the Qassam. His commitment to his Arab brothers could not be questioned. Nor could his skill in evaluating recruits.

Joseph could be trusted.

Mevlevi stared at Abu Abu's head. His eyes were open, his mouth twisted in agony. Hardly a fitting death for a servant of Islam. Rest in peace, he said silently. Your death will be avenged ten thousand-fold.

CHAPTER 21

Nick stepped into his apartment and was immediately struck by an odor that hadn't been there that morning. It was a faint smell, not far from the lemon wax he had used to polish mess tables in the Corps. Not far- but not it, either. It had a milder flavor, its own distinct signature. He shut the door behind him and locked it, then walked to the center of his one-room palace. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. He caught the elusive scent again but could not recognize it. All he could say was that it was foreign. It didn't belong here.

Nick willed himself to move slowly, to examine every inch of his apartment from carpet to ceiling. His clothing was untouched. His books were in place. If anything, the papers on his desk were stacked too neatly. Still he knew. He could feel it, sure as if they'd slid a calling card under the door.

Someone had been in his apartment.

Nick lifted his nose into the air and sniffed several times. He caught the foreign smell dead on. A waft of men's cologne, something thick and sweet, something expensive. Something he'd never worn in his life.