The Trident Deception by Rick Campbell

school for the Lag Ba’Omer holiday, Sarah and Rachel had ventured into the Old City, shopping in the upscale stores along David Street, eventually arriving at Sandrino’s. Unlike most adolescents, who shied away from being seen with their parents in public, Sarah and Rachel looked forward to the occasional lunchtime rendezvous with their father. To others, he was the prime minister, but to them, he was simply abi, the Hebrew word for father. When translated to English, Sarah knew it meant “the one who gives strength to the family.” Now that the dark days following their mother’s death had passed, he was there for them, giving them strength when they missed their mother the most.
    Tonight would be one of those times, as they gathered with their aunts, uncles, and cousins to celebrate the end of the plague that had killed Rabbi Akiva and twenty-four thousand of his students. Aaron would be there, an attractive boy not unlike the teenager standing just inside the café entrance. There was something about the strange boy who stared at them, a dark brooding in his eyes that captured Sarah’s attention. He had suffered a terrible loss, she could tell, the type of loss shared by many in Israel, for who had not lost a friend or a loved one in the bitter and pointless conflict between Jews and Arabs?
    The boy’s eyes left the two girls, scanning the restaurant, evidently searching for a table. Sarah considered asking him to join them. After all, there were two empty chairs at their table and he was rather attractive. But she thought better of it. Rachel didn’t need any encouragement; she went through boyfriends like fashion accessories, and it seemed the boy across the café had suffered enough heartache. She noticed Rachel was about to rise and ask him over. A hand on her forearm and a quick look convinced her otherwise.
    *   *   *
    Abdulla turned away from the two girls; they were Jews, after all, and therefore their beauty should hold no appeal. Besides, his attraction to the twins would be irrelevant in a few minutes. Abdulla made his way to the back of the café, where, standing against the wall, the effect would be magnified. He stopped, turned around, then reached into his jacket pocket, his fingers sliding through the slit in the pocket lining.
    *   *   *
    Sitting at a table near the back of the café, Katherine Jankowski fed her six-month-old son as she waited for her antipasto to arrive. Matthew, strapped into a high chair, was waving his hands in the jerky and uncoordinated way infants do when they’re excited, his eyes locked onto the spoonful of pureed carrots his mother was pushing toward his open mouth. Katherine would normally have been accompanied by her friend Alanah, but as Shabbat gave way to Lag Ba’Omer, Alanah had joined the half million Jews who make the pilgrimage each year to Mount Meron in northern Israel. Katherine’s husband, Jonathan, had graciously volunteered to fill in during Alanah’s absence, but he was running late, which was not an unusual occurrence.
    As the waitress dropped off the antipasto, a teenager passed by Katherine’s table. She watched him stop at the back wall and turn around and reach into his jacket pocket, searching for something. He surveyed the café in an odd way, and his thin face was somehow incommensurate with his girth. Her subconscious hammered at her, warning her that she was missing something important. As she studied the young man, searching for a clue to the uneasy feeling, he looked up toward the restaurant ceiling, his face radiating utter joy and contentment. His hand stopped fidgeting, evidently finding what he searched for. Katherine’s eyes widened as the pieces fell into place.
    She reached for her son.
    But it was already too late.
    *   *   *
    A bright orange flash illuminated the windows of Rosenfeld’s BMW. A second later, he lurched forward against his seat belt as the sedan screeched to a halt. Rosenfeld peered through the