Covenant Read online

  “This way!”

  A hand shoved him and he stumbled blindly forward, banging off the walls of the tunnel and dislodging chunks of earth and dust with his shoulders. He heard whispered exchanges from behind him and guessed that two men were following.

  The air became slightly cooler, and the tone of the hushed voices changed as he emerged into what felt like a larger space. A hand grabbed his shoulder, turning him around and shoving him downward. Ethan slammed into a wooden chair that almost toppled backward beneath him. Before he could react he felt himself being bound again, this time to the chair itself, and for a brief moment he was almost comfortable as his weary body settled onto the chair.

  A long silence ensued and he braced himself for any sudden impact. Something wrenched at the hood over his face and a harsh white light burst into his eyes. He blinked away from it, squinting and struggling to focus on his surroundings.

  The room was surprisingly large, about five meters square and braced at the corners and the center by old but sturdy wooden pillars. The earthen ceiling was restrained by a simple latticework of timber beams, from which dangled a single unshielded lightbulb that illuminated the room with an unnatural glow. A handful of scattered crates and boxes lined the walls of the room, and in one corner two AK-47 rifles leaned against a large four-gallon water canister.

  “Welcome.”

  Ethan squinted up and to his right to see a pair of dark eyes observing him. A thick scarf covered the rest of the man’s face. He looked about twenty-five years old, his hair thick and black, coarse stubble peeking above the scarf. Ethan looked into those eyes and did not like what he saw there.

  “Who are you?” he asked, already knowing the answer but eager to establish some sort of dialogue with his captors. Keep them talking, always keep them talking.

  The dark eyes narrowed cruelly. “Are you that stupid?”

  Ethan managed to hold the Palestinian’s gaze with a thin veneer of bravado.

  “You don’t look like one of the good guys.”

  The man leaned close to him. “You parachuted into Gaza from an Israeli airplane at night. You don’t look like one of the good guys either.”

  “Where is Rachel?”

  The features creased into a smile that conveyed no hint of warmth or comfort. “She remains well.”

  “Let me see her.”

  The man straightened, glancing at his companion before whirling and plunging his fist deep into Ethan’s stomach. A surge of air blasted from Ethan’s lungs as his eyes almost burst from their sockets. Ethan gagged as he bolted forward over the blow, trying not to vomit as he strained to suck air back into his lungs.

  “You may not,” his captor said simply, above the blood rushing in Ethan’s ears. “Who sent you here and why?”

  Ethan sucked in another lungful of air, waves of nausea flushing and tingling like needles on his skin.

  “Nobody sent us,” he gasped. “We were forced out of our airplane over Gaza.”

  The Palestinian strolled across the room and grabbed a small chipped mug, dipping it into the open water canister and sipping from it as he returned to stand before Ethan.

  “The airplane continued into Israeli airspace,” he said quietly. “It was not damaged so there was no reason to escape from it. I will ask you one more time. If you do not answer me properly, I will make you very sorry that you ever encountered me. Who sent you and why?”

  Ethan shook his head, slowly gaining control of his breathing.

  “Nobody sent us. We’re not Israeli. I’m American; so is Rachel. We were forced to jump from the airplane by an organization trying to stop us from reaching Jerusalem.”

  The Palestinian looked across at his companion, who remained impassive, standing with his arms folded and regarding Ethan from behind a scarf that scarcely veiled a thick beard.

  “That, my friend, would seem highly unlikely, would it not?” Ethan’s interrogator leaned close to him, the smell of tobacco thick on his breath. “If I were sitting where you are and you were questioning me, would you believe what you have just said?”

  Ethan looked at the man and performed a rapid mental calculation.

  “I’d wait and see what evidence turned up,” he said.

  A cruel smile creased the man’s features. “Yes, so would I.”

  He raised a hand and clicked his fingers. Instantly, the bearded man grabbed something from inside one of the nearby crates. Ethan recognized his rucksack. The Palestinian reached inside and produced Ethan’s camera, handing it to his companion.

  The Palestinian held it to Ethan’s face.

  “This, my friend, is my evidence.”

  Ethan saw the screen change as the Palestinian cycled through the camera’s menu and selected a video. He felt a deep chill as he saw the film of Ayeem being beaten by the MACE guards out in the Negev Desert, his Bedouin companions held at gunpoint nearby.

  They weren’t with us,” Ethan said quickly, aware of the sweat soaking his skin. “The man being beaten was our Bedouin guide, Ayeem. He was captured by those guards in the desert.”

  The Palestinian’s features tightened as sheet lightning danced behind his dark eyes.

  “And you filmed it. How do you say? Something for the folks back home?”

  “I filmed it and then shouted out to them,” Ethan gasped. “If I had film of it, then they couldn’t kill Ayeem. They’ve chased us from that moment onward.”

  The Palestinian sneered at him and stood upright, handing the camera back to his companion. They exchanged something and then he turned back to Ethan. Ethan saw one of the explosive devices he had stolen from the camp in the man’s hands. The Palestinian’s head blocked the light from the bulb. His voice was almost a whisper, but laden with an electric charge that crackled as he spoke.

  “Each year, Israel attacks our homes with tanks and fighter planes. They kill innocent men, women, and children. They fire mortars at hospitals and United Nations buildings, and they shoot white-phosphorus rounds at fleeing Palestinians, burning them alive. They use remote- controlled drones to attack civilians hiding in buildings and then claim that they were being used as human shields.” He set the device down at Ethan’s feet and then reached down to his own waistband. From within it he withdrew a long, wickedly curved blade, a crescent of steel that glittered in the light. “My sister, my mother, my father, and two of my brothers were all killed during the wars that Israel has waged upon us, and I am not unusual in this. We all live among the ghosts of our murdered families.”

  Ethan managed to drag his eyes away from the blade, looking instead at his captor.

  “We did not come here to kill anyone,” he insisted.

  The Palestinian looked at Ethan with an expression that was no longer angry but far beyond such a pitiful emotion. It was the look of a man who had descended through the worst dungeons of horror that mankind’s prodigious talent for inflicting pain could offer, and had returned fearing nothing, not even death itself.

  “I believe you,” he whispered finally. “But I don’t care. You see, my dead sister was three months old. They dug her corpse out of the remains of our mother’s home. She had burned to death, but they wouldn’t show the pictures of her remains on your Western television networks because it might offend some people.” The Palestinian suddenly grabbed Ethan’s hair, yanked it back until it hurt, and turned the blade against his throat. Ethan felt the cold steel touch his skin, felt his pulse throbbing against the blade. “I asked you, my friend, to tell me why you are here.”

  Ethan peered at the man through the corner of one bleary eye. Tell him everything, for Christ’s sake. His voice sounded thin in his own ears.

  “You asked me who sent us and why. Nobody sent us. We came here looking for someone, but were forced to jump from the airplane to protect that camera and what it contains. The explosives I stole from an American camp in the Negev, owned by the same people who pursued us. Check the photographs in the camera!”

  The Palestinian raised the b
lade in his grip. “Who were you looking for?”

  “A scientist who went missing in the desert: Lucy Morgan, Rachel’s daughter.”

  The Palestinian’s left eyelid twitched erratically.

  “Why would you be here and not the mother alone?” he snapped.

  “I was asked to help her by the American Defense Intelligence Agency. They’re afraid that Lucy’s abduction might be an attempt by insurgents to derail the peace efforts out here.” Ethan let what felt like an unconvincing glare settle on his strained features as he hissed. “They think that you took her.”

  “Why did they ask you?” the Palestinian shouted, spittle flying into Ethan’s face.

  “Because I know Gaza!” Ethan yelled back as a sudden and unexpected anger surged through him. The pale flame flickered back into life. “Because you bastards took my fiancée away from me and I spent years searching for her in this shit hole! If I could have my way, I’d blow every single one of you terrorist bastards to hell for what you’ve done!” Ethan glared at the Palestinian for a moment longer, felt hot tears scalding his own face and running down across the hands of the man about to kill him. The anger faded, lost amid a turmoil of despair, regret, and helplessness. “So go ahead and do it, because like you, I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  An unexpected void of calm descended upon Ethan’s shoulders, the fear suddenly purged from his veins as he realized that he meant every word. The Palestinian held the blade still, his expression riveted on Ethan, and then from the deep silence another voice spoke softly.

  “That is enough, let him be.”

  The Palestinian looked past Ethan, then lowered the blade and stood back without another word.

  Ethan struggled to look over his shoulder and saw that another narrow tunnel led away from the chamber into some unknown darkness. A figure moved out of the shadows, thin and bespectacled, his features drawn and lightly touched with graying stubble. He moved to stand before Ethan.

  “Who are you?” Ethan rasped, his throat parched.

  “My name is Dr. Hassim Khan. I was working with Lucy before she disappeared. I am truly sorry for your suffering, Mr. Warner, but these men had to be sure you were who you said you were. Rachel has told us everything.” He turned to Ethan’s captor. “Release him; he is telling the truth.”

  Ethan blinked in confusion as the Palestinian moved behind him and began loosening the restraints from his wrists.

  “We thought that you’d been abducted by insurgents,” Ethan said to Hassim.

  The doctor shook his head. “No, Mr. Warner. These men are not insurgents. They are protecting me.”

  Ethan’s mind reeled as he tried to assimilate what he’d heard.

  “Protecting you from what?”

  BEN GURION INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  ISRAEL

  Byron Stone stepped out of the sleek Gulfstream V550 jet and onto the tarmac, catching the commingled odors of aviation fuel and distant deserts on the night air. He might have briefly reveled in the unmistakable, aromatic scent of the Middle East, were it not for the pall of displeasure that enveloped him. A ring of uniformed soldiers surrounded the aircraft as Spencer Malik strode out to greet him.

  “Good trip?” Malik saluted Stone, his back ramrod straight and his expression unreadable.

  “What news?” Stone asked without preamble. Malik dropped the salute and joined him as they walked toward a parked car nearby.

  “The preparations are continuing as planned, and the remains will be here by tomorrow and flown back to the States. Customs won’t be a problem, I’ve handled that.”

  “What else?” Stone demanded.

  Malik squirmed uneasily.

  “Our site in the Negev was compromised earlier today by a journalist.” Stone ground his teeth but remained silent as Malik spoke. “The man’s name is Ethan Warner. He’s got history in Gaza going back a few years.”

  “So I’ve heard. What was he doing at the site?”

  “We’re not sure, but he wasn’t alone. He was led in by a Bedouin guide whom we captured but who subsequently escaped. Warner also escaped, along with Rachel Morgan.”

  Stone hissed a breath from his lungs as he stopped beside the car.

  “Go on.”

  “The pair fled in a private aircraft that was intercepted by the IDF at Ben Gurion. Warner was not on board, nor was the woman. The owners of the aircraft claim they took off alone and were then harassed by a MACE helicopter in a case of mistaken identity, a story that the IDF appears to believe, and they have no apparent interest in Warner or the woman. The pair must have jumped out over the Gaza Strip, in which case they’re now almost certainly trying to return to Israel with the evidence.”

  Stone cast a fearsome glare in Malik’s direction. “Evidence?”

  Malik carefully formulated his response.

  “The Bedouin guide was involved in an altercation with the guards at the site that resulted in an unfortunate incident. It would appear that Warner was able to film part of the altercation and escape with the footage.”

  “Your purpose was to ensure that MACE maintained a low but professional profile,” Stone growled. “What kind of imbecilic morons have you employed here?”

  “My men were guarding a site on the border of the Negev’s training area,” Malik replied quickly. “They had no knowledge of what the site contained, as we agreed. Our people are told only that which they absolutely need to know.”

  “What happened to the soldiers at the site?” Stone snapped.

  “One was killed, another two injured. They’re being treated in a field hospital in Jerusalem. The dead man’s family have been informed. We can use his demise to illustrate the aggression faced by our team at the site.”

  Stone forced his chest to expand and suck in air, calming himself by force of will.

  “How long ago did this man Warner infiltrate Gaza?”

  “Two hours at most,” Malik said. “We have narrowed their position down to a small area of Jabaliya.”

  “What of the IDF?”

  “They remain convinced that we were pursuing terrorists of one kind or another. The pilots of the civilian aircraft have not made any statement to the effect that they flew by choice over Gaza or allowed people to parachute into the territory: to do so would render them liable to prosecution for violating any number of Israeli aviation laws.”

  Stone thought for a moment.

  “Then we must ensure that Warner does not make it back into Israel with this evidence of his. MACE cannot afford an investigation here in Israel, financially nor professionally, especially at this time. We’ve only just closed the litigation against us in Iraq.”

  Malik nodded. “I will deal with it personally.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Stone snapped, and glanced over his shoulder.

  Rafael walked slowly across the tarmac toward them, dressed in a traditional Arab shawl that couldn’t conceal his powerful frame.

  “We don’t need Rafael,” Malik uttered quickly, his authority suddenly under threat. “If he learns of our activities in Gaza, he could become a liability and—”

  “Right now, you’re the goddamn liability,” Stone snapped.

  “This way,” Stone gestured toward a SUV parked nearby as Rafael joined them.

  The three men climbed aboard and closed the doors. Rafael regarded Stone for a moment before speaking. “What would you have me do?”

  Spencer Malik sat in frigid silence as Stone spoke.

  “I require you to infiltrate the Gaza Strip, locate and retrieve explosives and a camera stolen from one of our encampments, and ensure that you are not identified.”

  Rafael nodded silently in response. Malik, mastering his humiliation, spoke up.

  “When should we implement this?”

  “Immediately,” Stone said. “I will speak to the IDF in Jerusalem. You will provide me with any and all evidence supporting the infiltration of the Negev site by insurgents crossing the Sinai. Provide tracking evidence
and have it ready for presentation within the hour. I will then request clearance from Israel’s Northern Command to use Gazan airspace. Once Rafael has located and recovered the evidence, we will use one of our Valkyrie drones to vaporize the problem. Understood?”

  Malik twisted his features into a crooked smile as he glanced suspiciously at Rafael.

  “I know that we need this situation contained, but the more people we bring into this the more complicated everything becomes. This should remain an internal affair and—”

  “If you’d done your job, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Stone snapped.

  “What evidence am I looking for?” Rafael asked Stone.

  “Photographic evidence,” the Texan drawled. “A camera and film.”

  Malik looked at the Arab. “You don’t need to know any more than that, Araboosh.” He took the word, twisted it, and shoved it into Rafael’s face.

  Rafael regarded the soldier in stony silence, not rising to the provocation.

  “Do whatever you feel necessary to obtain that equipment,” Stone said to Rafael, then looked directly at Malik. “Let me down again and I’ll have you guarding illiterate drug dealers queuing for bread in Chechnya, understood?”

  Malik winced but said nothing as Rafael climbed out of the vehicle. Stone waited until he was out of sight before leaning closer to Malik.

  “I would prefer that the evidence is destroyed rather than recovered during this mission, along with all witnesses.”

  In the darkness, Malik’s grimace twisted into a cruel smile.

  M STREET SW, WASHINGTON DC

  What do we got?”

  Tyrell drove out of the MPD Headquarters onto Delaware Avenue, his headlights illuminating the colorful murals painted on the walls of the station claiming “We can” and “We will” as Nicola Lopez read the files she had downloaded from the Metropolitan Police Department’s servers.

  “Kelvin Patterson, born 1954, Huntsville, Alabama. Married to Julie, no fewer than six kids. The guy’s an evangelical fruit loop, the type who appears on TV after every disaster and claims it was the hand of God. Last time he got major news coverage was after Hurricane Katrina, claiming the storm was God’s wrath for the American tolerance of homosexual marriages and abortions.”