Confluence. Stephen J. Gordon

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СКАЧАТЬ at Josh. “We can take them over,” she added.

      Josh was just looking at me. Less than ten minutes ago he had two strangers invade his house, and one of them hold a gun to his head.

      “Why don’t you both go. Take them next door, explain to the neighbors there are going to be police cars all over the place in a matter of minutes. Get the kids settled, make kiddush, and then come back. I want to speak with both of you when there’s a chance.”

      They nodded and threw some clothes together for the kids. Within five minutes, the four of them headed out the front door. I watched them go to the neighbor’s, and then went back into the kitchen. Without looking at the body on the floor, I pulled a bar stool out from the island in the center of the room and sat down. Mazhar’s semi-automatic was just a few feet from me on the counter, its grip devoid of the magazine, and the slide locked open. I took the clip and single bullet from my jacket pocket and placed both near the gun.

      After a few long deep breaths, I ran the confrontation through my mind: disarming the first man, hitting him with the descending elbow, Josh held at gunpoint, baiting the other guy so he moved the gun off of Josh, and shooting the bastard through the head.

      Without being conscious of it, these images were replaced with others. Sidon, Lebanon at night, and my four man Sayeret Matkal team hustling through a second floor apartment one block from the harbor. We were hunting a bomb maker. We called him ha-bogair, the Graduate, because he looked like a young Dustin Hoffman.

      The bomb maker’s apartment was a series of rooms off a narrow hallway. We were all dressed similarly in jeans, ratty shirts, and kaffiyahs. All four of us were wielding M4 carbines. We divided into two pre-arranged groups of two. Each pair took a different section of the apartment.

      Asaf and I went straight ahead. Gal and Eitan went left. We knew exactly where we were going. We had been practicing in a mock-up of this apartment every day for a month. Asaf and I cleared two bedrooms and then moved to the end of the hall. Asaf was a big man – six-four and solid – but moved fluidly and assuredly. I knew the other pair was moving the same way. At the end of the passageway, Asaf and I turned left into a dining room that had dirty white walls, a low, slip-covered sofa and a wooden coffee table. As soon as we entered the room, we froze. We saw another team member backing out of a side room, slowly stepping away from the Graduate. The terrorist had his arm around the neck of our fourth man, Gal, and was pressing a pistol into his head. Ha-bogair saw us and started shouting, first in Arabic then in Hebrew. He ordered us to move back and drop our weapons. He was going to shoot Gal. The man was shouting quickly, almost hysterically. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. Gal was trying to stay calm, but he kept looking at me to do something.

      The Graduate continued shouting at us, but the team stayed even, pointing their M4s at him. The remaining three team members to include me had fanned out in the dining room, with all of the weapons aimed at one focal point – the bomb maker. But there was no clear shot. The terrorist was using our fourth man as an effective shield. I looked over at Asaf on the far right. He caught my silent signal and started speaking. Take it easy, take it easy. We’re lowering our guns. The three of us did so. Asaf continued: Let him go. We’ll leave. Just let him go. As Asaf spoke and distracted the man, I drew my Glock 19, and aimed it at the Graduate’s head. The bomb maker saw me and began to move his pistol off his hostage.

      I fired, but so did he. He must have already been squeezing the trigger as he turned on me. His gun had just cleared his human shield. My nine millimeter hollow point blew into the center of his forehead. His hung there for a millisecond then collapsed. His hostage, Gal, stepped away from him and nodded to me. I nodded back.

      There was movement to my right. We turned to see Asaf on the floor, pressing his big hand into the right side of his neck. Blood was spewing everywhere.

      The doorbell rang.

      I blinked a few times as the Mandels’ kitchen came back into focus.

      “Police.” The doorbell rang again.

      I got up and moved to the front door. Without hesitating, I opened it to see two large Baltimore City Police officers, each easily a head taller than me. The one on the left was Caucasian, the one on the right African American. “Gentleman, come in,” I said, opening the door wider and motioning for them to enter. Behind them, I saw their parked cruiser with its revolving red and blue lights.

      “Step back, please,” the officer on the right said.

      I stepped back.

      Both officers came in, their hands resting on their service automatics.

      “Major Aronson?” the officer on the left asked.

      I smiled. That was what the Israeli Army ID in my bottom right desk drawer said. I simply responded, “Yes.” Nate must have given them my rank to help build a sense of brotherhood and authority. I would have thought that rank would not have impressed these guys. If they felt compelled, they would have drawn their weapons regardless of my rank.

      They saw the body on the floor in the hallway.

      “There’s another in the kitchen,” I offered.

      They looked at me. “Have a seat,” the mountain of an officer on the right said, nodding to a dining room chair.

      I complied. “There’s also an unloaded semi-automatic on the kitchen counter,” I said to no one in particular. “It’s his.” I looked at the man on the hallway floor.

      The Caucasian officer left his partner standing over me and went into the kitchen. He came out ten seconds later, and spoke to his partner: “Just like the report. Body on the floor. Gunshot to the head.”

      The African American officer addressed me. “I’m Officer Williams. This is Officer Johns.” He nodded to his partner.

      “The Captain specifically asked me to tell you that you’re a pain in the ass.”

      “He’s only being complimentary because I’m still alive.”

      They both smiled.

      “And where are the homeowners, sir?” the Caucasian partner, Johns, asked.

      “Rabbi and Mrs. Mandel. Next door, getting their children situated. They’ll be back in a few minutes.”

      “Captain D’Allesandro asked us to get your statement,” Williams said. “Said it would be good practice since you’ll be telling it again to the detectives.”

      I nodded and recounted the events objectively, professionally, without embellishments. By the time I finished, there were more lights flashing through the windows, and Josh and Shelley had returned, still looking very shaken.

      Within minutes the Mandel household was filled with activity: cops everywhere, both uniform and plainclothes, as well as EMT’s, and forensic men and women. Josh and Shelley had parked themselves out of the way on a nearby staircase. They were huddled close to each other, with the action swirling around them in their own house.

      A few minutes later, as the medical people were examining Mazhur’s body on the floor, a man about fifty walked in. He was wearing a tan blazer over a navy polo shirt. He was about my height with receding close cut salt and pepper hair. It was actually hard to tell where his hair stopped and his scalp started, for his hair was cut nearly to the skin. He was followed by a thirty-something, well dressed man in a black sport coat, white shirt, gray pants, СКАЧАТЬ