Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff
Authors: Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff
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man’s trousers suddenly splotched with wetness.
“You are fortunate I don’t have time to kill you slowly,” Safady said. “Fool. All that time convincing me where to hide the hostages. Acting as if you and I were equals, partners. Hear this before you die: From the beginning, I knew why you appeared with money. The operation will fail. Do you understand?”
The Iranian closed his eyes.
“Say it,” Safady said. “Tell me you understand the operation will fail.”
The Iranian looked up again at Safady. And spit.
In a moment of fury, Safady pulled the trigger. It caused him faint regret. He would have enjoyed taunting the man for a few more minutes.
8
Acco Harbor, Israel • 12:24 GMT
When his cell phone rang, Quinn glanced at the caller identification display.
“Rossett?” Quinn answered.
“They’ll want to get you next,” Rossett said. Rossett’s voice sounded strangled. “I don’t have much time to explain. Get to your car. Run.”
“Me next? Who are they getting first?”
An explosive noise in Quinn’s cell phone sounded like a gunshot.
“Roz? Did someone shoot at you?”
No answer.
Quinn scanned the promenade, seeing no unusual movement. “Rossett, what’s happening?”
More explosions. Clicking. Then silence. Echoing silence, not the silence of disconnection.
Then Quinn heard a voice, not Rossett’s, as if from someone standing nearby. “Nice try. Think we didn’t expect that? On your belly, Rossett.”
Quinn was desperately trying to make a mental picture. Rossett shooting at attackers? Attackers shooting at Rossett? The clicking when his automatic ran empty?
“What did Rossett tell you?” The new voice spoke into the cell phone.
“Who is this? Where’s Rossett?”
“What did Rossett tell you?” the voice repeated.
Quinn thought quickly. CCTI was founded on the need for corporate security. Could anyone really expect that under any circumstances, let alone based on the confusion of the previous minute, Quinn would give that answer to a stranger who had just picked up Rossett’s phone? Then it struck Quinn. The person on the other end of the line wasn’t really trying to get information from him. There was another purpose in trying to keep Quinn engaged and the line open—GPS.
“He told me his appointment had shown up,” Quinn lied. “Are you his appointment? What is going on? Let me speak to Rossett again.”
Quinn was moving now at a jog, headed toward the end of the promenade and back toward street traffic. With his painkiller wearing off, his hand throbbed at the movement. The Kevlar vest rubbed hard against his chest. He calculated maybe twenty seconds to reach his destination.
“Rossett wants me to do the talking,” the voice said.
“Then talk,” Quinn said. “I have no idea what’s going on. What can you tell me?”
In front of him, pigeons scattered in flight. An old woman who had been feeding the pigeons scowled. Quinn shrugged apologetically but kept jogging.
“Given the situation here,” the voice said, “you need to answer me first. What did Rossett tell you about Fawzi?”
Fawzi! The Iranian connection to Safady!
Quinn passed a falafel stand with a dozen Israelis pushing to be at the front. No one lined up in this culture; they always formed a crowd and pushed.
“Look,” Quinn said, “you’ve got to understand what business we’re in. I’m not in a position to tell you confidential information passed on to me by my partner.”
He was at the street now, facing the usual chaos—motorcycles, cars, trucks. An open produce truck had slowed to turn. Quinn stepped onto the street and, without ending the connection, threw his cell phone into the back among the cabbages just picked from the nearby kibbutzim.
There , Quinn thought, go ahead and track that.
Quinn turned again and stopped at the falafel stand. He pulled out his wallet, waved it above his head, and yelled at the crowd. “Anybody here want to sell me a phone for two
“You are fortunate I don’t have time to kill you slowly,” Safady said. “Fool. All that time convincing me where to hide the hostages. Acting as if you and I were equals, partners. Hear this before you die: From the beginning, I knew why you appeared with money. The operation will fail. Do you understand?”
The Iranian closed his eyes.
“Say it,” Safady said. “Tell me you understand the operation will fail.”
The Iranian looked up again at Safady. And spit.
In a moment of fury, Safady pulled the trigger. It caused him faint regret. He would have enjoyed taunting the man for a few more minutes.
8
Acco Harbor, Israel • 12:24 GMT
When his cell phone rang, Quinn glanced at the caller identification display.
“Rossett?” Quinn answered.
“They’ll want to get you next,” Rossett said. Rossett’s voice sounded strangled. “I don’t have much time to explain. Get to your car. Run.”
“Me next? Who are they getting first?”
An explosive noise in Quinn’s cell phone sounded like a gunshot.
“Roz? Did someone shoot at you?”
No answer.
Quinn scanned the promenade, seeing no unusual movement. “Rossett, what’s happening?”
More explosions. Clicking. Then silence. Echoing silence, not the silence of disconnection.
Then Quinn heard a voice, not Rossett’s, as if from someone standing nearby. “Nice try. Think we didn’t expect that? On your belly, Rossett.”
Quinn was desperately trying to make a mental picture. Rossett shooting at attackers? Attackers shooting at Rossett? The clicking when his automatic ran empty?
“What did Rossett tell you?” The new voice spoke into the cell phone.
“Who is this? Where’s Rossett?”
“What did Rossett tell you?” the voice repeated.
Quinn thought quickly. CCTI was founded on the need for corporate security. Could anyone really expect that under any circumstances, let alone based on the confusion of the previous minute, Quinn would give that answer to a stranger who had just picked up Rossett’s phone? Then it struck Quinn. The person on the other end of the line wasn’t really trying to get information from him. There was another purpose in trying to keep Quinn engaged and the line open—GPS.
“He told me his appointment had shown up,” Quinn lied. “Are you his appointment? What is going on? Let me speak to Rossett again.”
Quinn was moving now at a jog, headed toward the end of the promenade and back toward street traffic. With his painkiller wearing off, his hand throbbed at the movement. The Kevlar vest rubbed hard against his chest. He calculated maybe twenty seconds to reach his destination.
“Rossett wants me to do the talking,” the voice said.
“Then talk,” Quinn said. “I have no idea what’s going on. What can you tell me?”
In front of him, pigeons scattered in flight. An old woman who had been feeding the pigeons scowled. Quinn shrugged apologetically but kept jogging.
“Given the situation here,” the voice said, “you need to answer me first. What did Rossett tell you about Fawzi?”
Fawzi! The Iranian connection to Safady!
Quinn passed a falafel stand with a dozen Israelis pushing to be at the front. No one lined up in this culture; they always formed a crowd and pushed.
“Look,” Quinn said, “you’ve got to understand what business we’re in. I’m not in a position to tell you confidential information passed on to me by my partner.”
He was at the street now, facing the usual chaos—motorcycles, cars, trucks. An open produce truck had slowed to turn. Quinn stepped onto the street and, without ending the connection, threw his cell phone into the back among the cabbages just picked from the nearby kibbutzim.
There , Quinn thought, go ahead and track that.
Quinn turned again and stopped at the falafel stand. He pulled out his wallet, waved it above his head, and yelled at the crowd. “Anybody here want to sell me a phone for two