Chapter 10

Wearing a ceremonial hardhat, shoes half-covered in sand, I watched the final piling being sunk into water 100 meters off the shore of Gaza, completing the base of the Solar One tower.

Seen from above, the hundreds of concrete pilings formed a perfect circle in the water, the foundation for 20,000 heliostat mirrors that would be focused on the 200-meter tower rising in the center. When fully operational, the surrounding air would gleam like a jewel on the ocean from the reflected light. The central tower pumped seawater up into a collector at the top; focussed heat from the mirrors evaporated the water into steam, driving a turbine. Salts extracted, the resulting fresh water would be piped back to Gaza, together with 200 megawatts of power.

It wouldn’t be enough to completely offset the constant brownouts and blackouts, but it was a start. There were already plans in place for Solar Two further down the coast.

The yellow arm of the ship-borne crane lifted from the piling, leaving it in place on the ocean. Applause broke out from the assembled guests, dignitaries and press standing a dozen meters away.

I’d laid out most of the groundwork for this project nearly two years ago, and had no desire for recognition now. The politicians had been provided with suggestions to keep the press attention on themselves, and they were very happy to oblige.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the entire venture was that I barely needed to control it. There was the usual intervention required with managers and suppliers to eliminate kickbacks and graft, but most everything else had worked by itself.

Things weren’t perfect. Despite my best efforts and well-placed controls, the project was behind schedule, partly due to the increased demands of training: eighty-five percent of the project’s workforce was local. A few militants had tried taking potshots at the infrastructure and its workers from beyond the security fence surrounding the project, but they had failed to damage anything, and the attacks were deeply unpopular.

I allowed myself a brief moment of satisfaction as the main group of dignitaries, followed closely by the gaggle of press, moved towards a large white tent for further celebration.

“Alright, let’s go.” I took off my helmet, holding it under one arm as my protective detail moved back up the beach. The line of armoured cars on the beach road had already started up.

I slid into the back of the Canadian Embassy Jeep. As the convoy took off I slid my phone out and held it up in front of my face.

“Yael.”

“Hi, baby!” Yael’s face smiled from the screen. Instantly, my heart swelled.

“Hi, yafa. Is this an okay time?”

“It’s okay. We’re still waiting on footage for the evening show, so things are going to get tight in a little bit. Ma nish?”

“I just wanted to tell you much I missed you.” Her smile widened. “And that I’ll likely be home before you tonight.”

“Oh! Did you have a good day?”

“Great day.”

“I’m so happy.”

“Did you want anything when you get home?”

She grinned. “Surprise me.”

“Deal. I’ll see you soon.”

“Lehit, ahuvi.“

The screen went black, and I brought up an Infected Mushroom track that Yael had recommended I listen to. Psy-trance music pulsing through my earbuds, I moved to reviewing the foundations budget for next year.

On paper, Doaa remained a non-profit philanthropic organisation; in reality, it was now almost a government unto itself, with outlays exceeding a billion dollars per annum. Funds were routed through the foundation for one simple reason: providing grants gave me direct access to recipients, and thus control.

The convoy turned into a broad boulevard of low, cream-colored buildings and sped up through the light traffic, heading north towards the border gate.

The foundation was incredibly efficient for its size: many charities spent less than 5% of their income on actual philanthropic work, with the rest absorbed by administration costs. For Doaa, that ratio was entirely inverted: I was the foundation’s sole employee, and I only withdrew from the fund to cover expenses.

A sudden white flash high in the windshield diverted my attention. And then everything slowed down.

I watched the SUV in front of me come apart in a roaring red-orange flower of flame, lifting off from its back wheels, the rear chassis disintegrating. The car skidded forward, balanced on its two remaining wheels for a moment, fishtailed, and slammed into a line of parked cars, burning.

At almost the same moment, the Jeep swerved hard to the right to avoid the wreck, throwing me into the door. I could hear the car’s tyres skipping as the chassis twisted, the driver’s knuckles standing out in relief on the steering wheel. I was thrown back as it swerved again, narrowly missing a hunk of twisted black metal on the boulevard divider, tyres finally finding purchase on the road, when there was another white flash, much closer.

I was flying. Everything went weightless as the Jeep flipped forward, end over end, window glass spiderwebbing as I felt a blast of heat on the back of my neck.

I was hanging upside down. The Jeep was at a titled angle, everything scattered on the ceiling, sliding towards the divider between the front and back seats. The air was thick with the scent of spilled diesel and burning plastic, together with something else, something putrid and nauseatingly sweet, a smell so strong it coated the back of my throat like a taste.

Weirdly, the music continued to play in my ears, uninterrupted. With trembling fingers I found the phone hanging halfway out of my pocket and turned it off.

Now I could hear the repeated pock of small-arms fire in the street, the occasional ping as a bullet hit metal.

“Shit,” I heard from my side. Then the sound of something unwinding fast, and a deep crunch. “Fuck.”

Yakob appeared in my field of view. “Going to get you out of here, bos. Just hold still, and keep your head against your chest.” A knife passed in front of my eyes, and then I was sliding down towards the ceiling, back grinding painfully on shards of glass.

“Amir? Carmelo?” Quiet affirmatives from beyond the broken divider in the front of the Jeep. “Get out, guys. Towards the sidewalk, if you can.”

Twisting his body inside the space, Yakob brought his knees back and kicked hard at the glass on the passenger door until it popped from the frame. Squirming forward, he looked around outside quickly before sliding back in as shots echoed down the street. “Good. We’re in the fight.” Somehow, he had instantly adjusted to the situation, while around me everything felt slightly surreal, as if I was displaced, watching what was happening with casual detachment.

He turned to me. “Listen close. You’re going to follow me. One hand on my shoulder, like we practiced. Walk when I walk, stop when I stop. Amir and Carmelo are going to follow us, if they can. We’re going towards the remaining car. Understand?” I nodded. “Tell me what I just said.” I repeated it back to him. “Good.” Yakob looked down. “Guys?”

“We’re here,” a strained voice from the front replied. “Going to have to exit to the street.”

“Okay. Heads on swivels, boys. Here we go.”

Yakob slid forward through the window frame, dropping to the ground before raising his rifle, scanning the rooftops through the scope. “Alright. Come on out.” He extended one hand, dragging me through the car window, keeping his rifle in position. From below me, I heard Amir and Carmelo making their way through the crushed driver’s compartment to the street.

The plan went to hell almost instantly.

As soon as I emerged from the car there was a fusillade of shots into the wall above me, so close that I could feel splintered chips of concrete cutting my face. Yakob pushed me down behind him and fired upwards, a three-round burst that pounded against my eardrums.

“Alright, we’ve got to move. Guys, on me. Bos, hand on my shoulder.”

We moved forward at a crouch. Ahead of us, I could see four Hamas fighters scattered around the remaining car, firing at the top stories of the buildings either side of the street. Amir had made his way out of the driver’s side of the Jeep, and was bending to retrieve Carmelo, when I half-saw someone step out of a doorway just behind me, and turned.

He was young. Large dark eyes with long, almost feminine eyelashes inside the open area of a black balaclava. A camo jacket that was two sizes too large for him. Nike high-top sneakers. An AK cradled in his hands.

I saw him turn towards me, eyes opening wide in shocked recognition. Watched the muzzle of the gun rise by degrees.

I pushed my hand out, palm first. Lowered my voice fractionally.

“Khallas!”

He blinked. And squeezed the trigger.

Fire bloomed from the end of the gun.

It felt like someone had hit me with the full length of a baseball bat. I didn’t feel any pain: just a physical force against my body strong enough to wrench me away from the wall. I staggered, coughed. The entire right side of my body was numb.

Yakob grunted and twisted behind me. I heard a series of shots just above my head. Saw the masked fighter slump and go down on the sidewalk.

I looked down. Blood was soaking through my shirt, seeping onto the concrete beneath me. It felt like someone was sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I started at the blood, not believing what I was seeing.

“Bos. You’ve got to get up. We have to make the car.”

I nodded loosely, tried to push myself up. My right arm didn’t seem to work. My mouth worked, gasping for air.

There was a sudden swell of incredible pain, as if my body was being torched with flame. My right hand scrambled weakly at the wall, leaving traces of blood on the pale concrete. Somehow, I got my left hand under me and pushed upwards, my vision going dark with the strain. I felt a tide moving inside me, crushing my lungs.

I reached out blindly, fingers shaking, finding Yakob’s vest. Felt support either side of me, the heat from the flames of the burning SUV.

We hobbled forward together, gasping with each step.

I was laid in the back of the car, Yakob beside me. Men crammed inside, squatting around me. The car took off, rocking deep on its suspension.