“If our guys go into the negotiations with their minds already made up, then why have the negotiations in the first place? And I think you would agree that we can’t afford to stop the dialogue with Iran before it even begins. There’s too much riding on just sitting at the table together. And not just once. But if you want to bring them back to talk about Iraq, Afghanistan, whatever, they need to believe that you will actually listen—to them, not a third party with its own agenda.”
Susan didn’t smile, though she was beaming on the inside. She was impressed by Casey’s argument. She was even more impressed when Paula said she would talk to William Burns that night.
“I can’t promise that he will even take me seriously, but I promise that he will hear everything you just told me.”
A weight was lifted from Casey’s shoulders. He and Susan both thanked Paula, and the two visitors from New York headed out to find something to eat.
They had done their part.
Chapter 41
Tel Aviv, Israel
“They are fucking idiots! All of them. How can they not see what will be the consequences of all this?” the man on the phone shouted.
Eli Gedide sat in his home study and sipped his cognac as he listened to the man on the other end of the telephone line. The room was dark except for a single lamp on the desk and a small amount of light that bled in from the distant kitchen. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, still in disbelief of the news he received less than an hour before.
“No, sir. That is not possible. We have taken measures.... Measures have been taken, Bibi. Do not concern yourself with the details. Just trust me that there is no way for anything to be traced back to Israel or you.” Gedide hoped he was telling the truth. He had not heard back from his two men in America.
“Very well. I will contact you tomorrow....Good night.”
He hung up the phone and took another sip, staring at a facsimile print-out. The intelligence memo from his man who was planted as an aide in the German delegation reported that the P5+1 group was in agreement after just three days of talks in Ankara. They supported Iran’s right to the limited development of nuclear energy for commercial and research purposes. The remaining day and a half would be used to determine the exact nature of the limitations and the controls that would be used by the IAEA to ensure compliance with those restrictions.
Eli’s heartburn was not knowing. It had been eleven days since he heard from the team in New York. When he did not get a call that night confirming the successful completion of the operation, he told himself there had to be a legitimate reason. The men he sent were professionals, after all.
But eleven days!
Gedide resigned himself to the fact that his men were not coming back. Whatever happened in New York, he could not say for certain that their mission was a failure. America’s support of Iran in Ankara led him to believe that it was, but the absence of public condemnation of Israel from the U.S. president gave him doubts. Perhaps his assassins had succeeded in stopping the truth of Israel’s culpability in the incidents of the past month from reaching the ears of America’s leaders.
He wished he could tell his friend what the Americans knew with even a small degree of certainty, but he couldn’t. In any case, the prime minister would decide what to do next. Eli Gedide took comfort in that knowledge. It was always good to be the number three man, as it were. He was below the level where he was ever in the public eye, and because he was not affected by the political windfalls of his countrymen come election time, he had longevity. The top men in the government relied on his experience to guide them in their decision-making processes. That was true power that few understood, and even fewer ever held.
Gedide poured himself another drink and put the bottle back in the desk drawer. He decided to finish the work he was doing on the computer before the incoming fax broke his concentration. He stood to make a trip to the toilet before proceeding.
“Sit down.”
Eli jumped. His heartbeat accelerated dangerously at the unexpected sound of a man’s voice in his own study. He froze in place, allowing only his eyes to dart back and forth, scanning the darkened room for the location of the intruder.
“I said sit down,” the voice repeated.
There was no telltale click of a hammer being cocked, but Gedide knew there had to be a pistol trained on him. The voice sounded too relaxed and confident for its owner to not already have the upper hand. He sat back down.
“Good. Now tell me, Eli, what are you feeling at this very moment.”
The east corner. By the bookcase. That was where the voice was coming from.
“Are you afraid?” the voice asked. “You see, fear is an equalizer. Even the most powerful men, when faced with the uncertainty of death at the hands of an unseen enemy can be so overcome with fear that they become no more powerful than a new-born infant. Helpless.”
“I am not afraid.” Gedide was only half-lying. He was not afraid of death. He had long-since passed that childish stage where he was actually concerned about his own life. But the idea that he might die alone, in his own home, without ever knowing who was responsible or why he was killed, frightened him. The voice was strangely familiar.
“You should be.”
“Who are you? And why are you in my house?” Gedide didn’t bother asking how the man had even gotten in the room in the first place.
“I am a soldier of David. A protector of Israel.”
That voice.
“Something you used to be.”
“Cohen?”
Lev stepped out of the shadows, his image distorted by the single light in the room. Gedide had been right to be cautious. There was a gun pointed at him.
“Welcome home,” Eli said with feigned enthusiasm. “I thought you would be sunning in Eilat right now.”
“Perhaps later,” Lev said. He took a seat in an antique wooden chair opposite from Gedide. He did not take his eyes or the pistol off of Eli. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Gedide began to worry. “Okay,” he said as he placed his hands on the desk. “You never answered my question. Why are you here?”
Lev didn’t answer him directly. He had his own questions to ask. “Tell me, Eli, why did you join Mossad? I mean, why didn’t you become a baker...or a dentist?”
Eli Gedide wasn’t sure where Cohen was going with this line of questioning, but he knew he had to answer truthfully. Cohen wasn’t a minor legend in the Kidon for nothing. He would know if he was being lied to. “The Mossad was the best way for me to contribute to the defense and survival of Israel.”
“So what happened?” Lev asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What happened that warped your sense of duty and patriotism so badly? To the point where you can no longer see things clearly?”
Now Gedide was beginning to get angry. “You question my patriotism? I have given my life for the service of Israel.”
“Not yet you haven’t,” Cohen said. Gedide did not hear him.
“For over three decades I have put Israel above all else. Including my family,” Gedide said.
“Then why do you work against her now?” Lev asked. “You would jeopardize the most important relationship Israel has by killing that country’s citizens? On their own soil? Please explain to me how that contributes to the defense and survival of Israel?”
“You hypocritical bastard” Gedide said. “You were a trigger-man in that very scenario. Why don’t you ask yourself the same questions?”
Lev anticipated that response. “I have. And I am sure that one day I will answer for what I have done. But I am through playing your games, Eli. There was a time when the work I did mattered. When the people who needed killing were the targets. Not anymore. I realize now that the problem is not, as you would have people believe, that Israel is surrounded on all sides by people and governments who see us as a threat and are hell-bent on our destruction. The problem is you. And people like you. You have soiled the good nam
e of Israel and made us no better than the terrorists you so despise. So I will ask you again, what happened?”
Eli Gedide leaned forward. He kept his hands flat on the desk. He did not want to provoke his guest any more than he himself was being provoked. “What happened? I will tell you what happened. The world happened. Since the founding of Israel, we have been under attack. It has been one conflict after another, threatening the very existence of our country and the lives of its people. You are naive if you think any different,” Gedide said.
“You know our country’s history,” he continued. “The cycle of violence has become a part of who we are. We are survivors. God’s chosen people. At every turn we have faced our challengers and been victorious. The nature of the enemy has not changed. Each one is determined to see the fall of Israel. Arabs, Persians, Palestinians, Germans, Americans. It doesn’t matter where they are from or what level of violence or subterfuge they employ, they have one goal, one slogan: Death to Israel.
“It is my job...our job...to stop those enemies wherever they are. We are in the business of stomping out that threat before it crosses our borders. We are one part of the defensive system that keeps our citizens safe and our government intact. If that means we must take the fight to the lands of our friends because they are unwilling to kill a tarantula in their own house, then so be it. That is the world we live in, Cohen. And that is why I will continue to serve Israel in the best way I know how. Doing what is necessary, not matter how unappealing it may seem.”
Lev Cohen watched as a bead of sweat rolling down Gedide’s temple reflected the light from the lamp. The man was breathing heavier. The diatribe had taken a lot out of him. Gedide obviously believed every word he had just spoken. Vehemently.
“I feel sorry for you, Eli. To live with that much hatred and paranoia must be a difficult burden to bear.”
“You have no idea,” Gedide said, almost to himself. He watched as Lev Cohen stood, his body above his shoulders disappearing completely in the shadows.
In a way, Cohen felt sorry for Gedide. But as much as Gedide believed he was doing the right thing by ordering the assassinations of innocent civilians whom he thought might make things difficult for Israel, Lev Cohen knew different. Cohen was an operator—a soldier. His whole adult life had involved the elimination of the enemy and the protection of the innocent. And while Eli Gedide may not have been the enemy, he was definitely a threat to the innocent.
Lev Cohen straightened his arm. He leveled the pistol at Gedide’s forehead.
And fired.
Chapter 42
New York City
“The IAEA is set to begin the first round of site inspections tomorrow under the Ankara agreement. There is some skepticism on the Hill that it will just be more of the same, where Iran only shows what they want the inspectors to see and not the other way around. I’m still waiting for our contact to get back to me on what sites are going to make the list, but I should have that by this afternoon, and that will give us a pretty good idea of what kind of cooperation we can expect from the Ayatollah’s people.”
“Thank you, George,” Jim said after George Smithfield finished giving his update. Jim turned to his senior Iran analyst next. “Susan, do you have anything else on rumblings from the Mousavi camp?”
“Well, there’s still the steady stream of activity on the net and in the opposition press about the election in 2013, but because of the Ankara talks, I think we need to look at other people who might take Mir Hossein Mousavi’s place as Ahmadinejad’s likely successor. Ali Larijani, for one. He’s definitely in the conservative camp, which will likely give him the backing of many of the Mullahs, but he was also the chief nuclear negotiator for so long, that he speaks the language better than anyone. As Iran really starts to develop their nuclear program, Larijani will be able to sell it to the general populace as a point of national pride and to the Majlis as an element necessary for the country’s economic and diplomatic survival.”
“So you think Mousavi was just a flash in the pan?” Jim asked.
“No, sir,” Susan said. “I think he will still be the front-runner for the more reformist-minded voters, but I don’t think he’s a shoe-in like the U.S. media thinks he is. And the way the candidate approval process works in Iran...well, we all know that everything’s still speculation until the final ballots are printed.”
“Okay. Keep on that line of thinking and get me a write-up by Wednesday next week. Maybe we can help influence that process.” Everyone in the room knew that was unlikely, but after what Susan and Casey were able to do before the P5+1 talks, Jim didn’t count anything out anymore.
“Yes, sir,” Susan said.
“All right, folks. Any parting shots?” Jim asked.
“I got one.” There were groans around the table as people had gathered their empty coffee cups, notebooks, and cell phones preparing to dart from the room as soon as Jim officially ended the meeting.
“Casey,” Jim acknowledged.
“I got a new couch last night, so I’m officially moved in,” Casey said. “I’ll be having an apartment-warming party on Friday and everyone’s invited, so don’t make any plans. That’s all.”
“Right. Well, that’s it then. Thank you all for coming.” Jim always ended the morning meetings by thanking people for attending. As if they had a choice.
As they filed like cattle out of the room, Susan asked Casey, “How are you gonna fit all those people in your apartment? Even if it’s just the people from our cell, is there room enough for anyone to hold a drink and still walk from one end to the other?”
“That’s why I didn’t give out my address,” Casey said. “I make the announcement, put out a general invite, and if anyone really wants to come, they’ll ask me for the specifics. That way no one can say I was rude by not inviting them when they hear about it on Monday.”
“Nice,” Susan said, smiling.
“Plus, I think only you, George, Phil, Oscar, and Barry Henson from the Russia cell will show up. My apartment can handle six people, easy.”
“Horstein? You think Oscar Horstein will show up?” Susan asked.
“He already told me he was coming,” Casey said. “I invited him personally this morning, before the meeting. Why, you got a problem with that?” Casey smiled when he asked the question. He knew Oscar and Susan were like oil and water, but despite the initial confrontation when Casey first showed up at IWG, he didn’t have a problem with Oscar. He thought about Mike and Chip. Even Vince and Allen. Everyone had their quirks and prejudices, but that didn’t mean they weren’t good people. Casey was willing to give his co-worker a chance, and a party at his apartment was as good a venue as any.
“You’re still coming, right?” Casey asked.
“Of course I am,” Susan said as they reached her cubicle. She pulled on Casey’s necktie and smiled. “You look nice all cleaned up.”
Casey blushed. “Thank you, ma’am. Now if you don’t mind, I have some work to do.”
“Well, don’t let me hold you up. I don’t want you getting fired for lack of production value in your first week on the job.”
Casey left Susan and walked to his own workspace a few rows down. After the talks in Ankara started, Doc Borglund hired Casey right away. He was assigned to Jim Shelton’s cell, but as a general analyst, he worked between cells. He was already proving to be an effective ambassador to get the most out of the other groups when the issues crossed the artificial geographic boundaries established at IWG. It had only been a few days, but Casey had a feeling he was going to like working there.
Even if it was New York.
Chapter 43
Persian Gulf
“Eagle Base, this is Talon One. Talon Flight feet wet in two minutes.”
“Roger, two minutes.”
Major Aaron Ben-Gilad glanced right to catch the thumbs-up signal being given by his wingman. There would be no other radio communication for the next twenty-three minutes. He returned his focus forward and smile
d under his oxygen mask. The chosen call signs for the operation still amused him even in H-hour. Very American, he thought.
The Israeli Air Force officer knew he was about to make history. For better or for worse. A pre-emptive strike by Israel against its enemies was not without precedent. They had done it in 1967 when Egypt tried to rally the entire Arab populace against his father’s generation, and Israel had come out on top. They struck a nuclear site in Iraq and were thanked for it, and again in Syria without much protest. The difference this time was that the repercussions would be much greater. No one would be able to turn a blind eye.
The world wanted Israel to stop Iran from becoming a nuclear power, whether their leaders voiced it or not. This operation was proof in itself. It had been planned for years, but the day of execution was not set until ten days before. Access to Jordanian and Saudi Arabian airspace made it possible. Major Ben-Gilad never thought he would tank off of a Saudi re-fuelling plane, but without it, his flight of six Boeing F-15E Strike Eagles would never reach their intended target.
He checked his navigation computer. On track. There was a narrow corridor where a backroom deal allowed them to slip into the American-controlled airspace over the Persian Gulf on their way to Iran and the uranium enrichment plant at Natanz.
In less than half an hour, the world would change.
It had already changed.
About the Author
Matthew M. Frick is an active duty naval officer who has lived overseas and traveled extensively throughout the Middle East and Europe. His writings have been referenced in journals, theses, and other media in over five different countries, including India, Russia, and Iran (translated into Farsi and located on the official Majlis website). A native of Stone Mountain, Georgia, he currently lives near Washington, D.C., with his wife, two children, and a bluetick coonhound.
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