Free The Devil's Banker by Christopher Reich

screeching in submission. He only had a block to go. Images passed in a blur. A boy on a bicycle. Workmen digging a ditch. A vendor hawking oranges from a wooden bucket.
    The voices on the radio barked like rabid dogs. Do you have him in sight? Close the distance. Requesting order to fire. Negative. Hold. We can take him on the ground. Unit Two move in. Unit Four take Al-Ashram Road south two blocks. Confusion. Panic. Then a change of tack. Arm missiles. Lock on to target.
    The helicopter hovered behind him. In the rearview mirror, he spotted a sniper seated in the open bay, legs dangling into oblivion, his rifle raised, its stock pressed to his cheek.
    Faster. He must drive faster.
    He skirted Jaffa’s main square, the site of an ongoing archaeological dig. The ruins descended three levels, showcasing successive Hellenic, Roman, and Moorish buildings dating from the third century B.C. In 231 B.C. the Greek king Pompus, had housed his soldiers here. Wary of an attack by land, he had tunneled three hundred feet through the limestone cliffs to the harbor below to guard his retreat.
    A tour bus was parked across the street. Students dressed in clean blue and white uniforms paraded to the ruins. He sped past them, pulling into the opposing lane of traffic. At the corner, he braked hard and pulled the wheel to the left. The car skidded and came to a halt. A curio vendor’s canopy shaded the driver’s side and the hood. The helicopter was no longer in view.
    Kahn grabbed the rucksack. “Fire,” he spat at the radio. “Give the order, now!”
    They were too scared. Too confident of his ineptness. He cursed their indecision.
    Picking up his officer’s revolver, he shoved the snout out his window and fired a volley of shots into the air. The curio vendor scuttled into his shop. Across the street, the students scattered. He thanked God for the well-practiced survival of his people.
    “Fire, missile three,” said a voice on the radio.
    A scarlet sizzle burnt the air as a Hellfire missile dropped from its carriage and sped toward Mordecai Kahn’s car. The missile penetrated the rear window and exploded on impact with the dashboard. The force of the detonation lifted the car ten feet in the air and engulfed the car in a billowing fireball whose core temperature exceeded three thousand degrees Fahrenheit.
    The watchers surrounded the car a moment later. Several tried to approach the inferno. They wanted to confirm their kill. But the fire burned too hot, and they kept their distance.
     
     
    Sailing a fisherman’s skiff across the diamond-kissed waters of the eastern Mediterranean, Mordecai Kahn watched the plume of smoke snake into the bleached sky. He prayed the missile had not damaged the excavation site. Archaeology was his first love. Before he discovered numbers. Before the numbers turned on him and made him their captive. A stiff wind filled the mainsail and the boat picked up speed. He looked at his feet, where the rucksack lay on weathered wooden slats. He unzipped a pouch and took out a bottle of water, a bag of gummy bears, and a long-billed cap. Popping a few of the gelatin candies into his mouth, he turned his eyes to the sea.
    He had bought himself three hours and not a minute longer. To a man who lived by the most precise calculations, it was more than enough time.

 
    Chapter 7
    In a leafy Paris suburb, a warm wind gusted through the burned-out remains of Mohammed al-Taleel’s apartment, sending a curtain of fine dust dancing through the air. Lifting himself off a knee, Sergeant René Montbusson of the French Sûreté’s evidence recovery unit turned his nose into the breeze and breathed deeply. He was happy for the relief. Eight hours after the explosion, the crime scene still smelled of seared flesh and scattered viscera, and it sickened him. As he looked around what had been the living room, it seemed that every square inch was coated with the victims’ remains. Medical technicians had removed the larger