The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  “Come on, we can't talk here. I live just a block away,” he whispered to Skillings, pointing up the street Arabs call Al-Wad and Jews refer to as Haggai.

  “I know.”

  Shin Bet Sector HQ

  44 Patriarchate Street

  Armenian Quarter, Old City of Jerusalem

  Saturday, 7 March 1998

  0735 Hours, Local

  Police Sergeant Ephraim Lev was bored. He had been on duty since midnight, staring at the three banks of television monitors mounted on racks above the duty officer's console. The screen of each monitor carried four different images, transmitted by security cameras mounted on buildings, utility poles, and rooftops throughout this sector of the Old City—all part of the most sophisticated integrated law enforcement, security, and intelligence system in the world.

  As Sergeant Lev drank his fifth cup of coffee on this watch, more than a hundred cameras fed images into this command center. The digital signals had been multiplexed into video distribution amplifiersand sorted by subsectors within the fifteen city blocks that were his area of responsibility. With the use of a device that looked much like a TV remote, he could transfer any of the images to a thirty-six-inch Sony flat screen monitor and zoom in on any scene that he deemed in need of closer scrutiny. A few strokes on the computer keyboard in front of him would instantly record any of the images onto a DVD disc, information then sent to the Shin Bet headquarters on Helini Hamalka Street, about a kilometer outside the ancient walls of the Old City.

  Sergeant Lev stood up, stretched, and glanced at the digital clock mounted on the console. The twenty-six-year-old Israeli Defense Forces veteran was looking forward to going off duty in less than half an hour. It had been a quiet night, one of the most tranquil since the Intifada had started again in February. Ever since the rock throwing, looting, and tire burning had begun, he had been wondering about his decision two years ago to join the police after six years in the IDF. He had considered making a career in the army, but his wife had convinced him that the Shin Bet offered less danger to the father of two young children.

  Perhaps she was right about this job's safety, he mused. At 0700 he had made an entry in the duty officer's computerized log that the Israeli government curfew was working—at least in his sector, the Arab quarter. Shortly after dawn, when it was legal to be outdoors, he had seen a handful of Arab shopkeepers moving down the streets and alleys, but there was no sign of any angry Palestinian youth or adult organizers exhorting violence or setting up street barricades as was common in what the Arabs called the “occupied territories.”

  As Ephraim Lev prepared to brief the sergeant who would relieve him, an electronic ping came from the monitor console; he looked upto see a red border flashing on one of the four images labeled Haggai 65A, B, C, D. He grabbed the remote and pushed a button. Instantly, the image from camera Haggai B appeared on the Sony preview screen mounted beneath the banks of smaller monitors.

  The Israeli police sergeant watched as two men in Western dress, one Caucasian and one black, strode away together from a coffee house in the Arab quarter. He noted that the Caucasian carried a paper-wrapped package and that the black male balanced a traditional Arab coffee tray. As the two men walked out of the frame, he switched the image on the preview monitor to camera Haggai 65C, covering the intersection of Via Dolorosa and Haggai Street. In more tranquil times, this corner would be crowded with Christian pilgrims and tourists. But the new Palestinian Intifada had scared off all but the most devout. On this early Sabbath morning, the crossing was empty as the bearded man led the way toward an ornate, three-story limestone villa at 35 Via Dolorosa. The house occupied almost half a city block.

  As the two walked toward the stone steps at the front of the building, the police officer noted that they were striding together in step and not conversing. “Ah...what do we have here?” he muttered to himself. He sat down at the computer keyboard, activated the recording program, and zoomed in on the pair as they paused outside the arched stone entrance of the structure.

  A kilometer away, at Shin Bet headquarters, a spinning DVD disk quietly documented the image of the bearded man and the black man with the military bearing as they arrived at a heavy oak door. To the right of the portal was a polished brass plaque. The high-resolution camera, Haggai 65E, mounted in what looked like a water cistern onthe roof of the residence across the street, dutifully zoomed in on the words engraved on the plaque: Hospice of Saint Patrick.

  As the two men entered the doorway and disappeared from view, Sergeant Ephraim Lev made a computer entry that appeared on the DVD immediately over the date/time code: “Military men? Whose? What are they up to?” Then, another entry for the next watch officer: “Retrieve stored images from Haggai A, B, C, and D to determine if recognition signals are used. What is in the package being carried by the white male?”

  Hospice of St. Patrick

  35 Via Dolorosa

  Old City of Jerusalem

  Saturday, 7 March 1998

  0745 Hours, Local

  When the outer door closed behind them, Newman and Skillings were in an enclosed entryway, about ten feet square. The only other access was a locked heavy steel security gate. Above the gate, Skillings could see the probing eye of a fixed video camera, along with a button and speaker box mounted on the stone wall beside it. A sign in English, Arabic, and Hebrew instructed visitors to press the buzzer to announce themselves for admission. The two men had not exchanged a word since leaving the coffee shop, and now Newman pushed the button and said into the speaker box, “Isa, open the door please...it's me, John.”

  Immediately there was a loud, buzzing clatter as someone, somewhere inside the building, activated the electronic gate lock. The heavy barrier groaned on its hinges as Newman opened it, motioning for Skillings to follow. Once they were through, the gate clanged noisily back into its secure, locked position behind them.

  As they climbed the dozen stone steps, polished by decades of people ascending and descending, Newman put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Skillings nodded and looked at his surroundings. Flower boxes adorned the walls beyond sturdy, polished brass handrails. The building was obviously well maintained and meticulously cared for. Compared to the street they had just left, it was an oasis.

  On the main upper floor there was a small, ornate lobby, like that of a small hotel. A young couple, apparently European by their language and dress, stood in front of a chest-high mahogany counter. On the other side of the reception desk, a young man wearing a white shirt with an open collar was speaking with them in German. As the two men walked by, Newman waved and said in English, “Thank you, Isa.”

  “Yes, Mr. Clancy,” the receptionist replied with a smile, then returned his attention to the young couple.

  The two men walked through the lobby and opened a heavy mahogany doorway that led into a grand hallway with a high ceiling. The hallway ran the entire length of the building. Early morning sunlight poured through the tall window on the east end, dappling the long Persian carpet that covered the marble floor.

  When the door closed behind them, Newman led the way into a small parlor on the front side of the building.

  “If you don't mind waiting here, Gunny, I'll go upstairs to our apartment and make sure Rachel's dressed; then we'll have some breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir. Man, oh, man, Colonel, these are nice digs! This sure isn't what I expected.”

  “What did you expect, Sergeant Skillings, our old barracks back at Recon Battalion?”

  “No sir, not exactly. But when General Grisham told me you were living in Jerusalem at the Hospice of Saint Patrick, all I knew about a hospice was the place my Aunt Louise stayed when she was dying of cancer two years ago. But this place looks more like a hotel. A nice one.”

  “You're right, Gunny. I'll show you around later, but it is more like a hotel. I guess you don't know, in Europe and here, a hospice is a place to stay—like a hostel or hotel. This one is a bit different, though. It's more of a
religious retreat center, where Christians—people we used to call pilgrims—can come and spend some time studying, praying, and visiting the holy sites.”

  Newman picked up the coffee tray and the paper-wrapped rolls.

  “I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable. I need to be sure Rachel's ready for an unexpected guest. She was feeding James when I left to get the coffee.”

  “James?”

  “Our son. He's two years and three months old now.”

  “You have been busy, Colonel...congratulations.”

  “Yeah. It's been quite an adventure. Give me two minutes to run upstairs. This room was supposed to be the parlor, but I use it as my office. Feel free to look around, but I wouldn't go out there,” he said, pointing to two double doors that opened onto a patio, furnished with potted palms and flowers, overlooking Al-Wad Street and Via Dolorosa below.

  “Why not, sir?”

  “The Israeli security cameras.”

  “Do they know who you are?”

  “I don't think so. Do they know who you are?”

  “I hope not.” The Marine gunnery sergeant had been keeping his voice low, imitating his host, but these last words came out in the softest of whispers.

  Shin Bet Sector HQ

  44 Patriarchate Street

  Armenian Quarter, Old City of Jerusalem

  Saturday, 7 March 1998

  0800 Hours, Local

  “The only unusual activity all night long was an apparent meeting between two non-Arabs outside the Café al Rabat Bayram, at 0730 hours. I recorded it and entered it in the log for headquarters.” Sergeant Ephraim Lev was briefing his relief, anxious to get home to his family.

  “Were the images clear enough to get a facial recognition scan?” asked Sergeant Mordecai Miller. Unlike Sergeant Lev, Miller had more than a dozen years of service in the Israeli national police. He knew how things worked and how to work the system to ensure that the things that might get overlooked wouldn't be.

  “I don't know. But I'm pretty sure the still frame where they stopped on the stairs should be good enough.”

  “The stairs? Where did they go?” the older policeman asked.

  “They went into that Christian place—the Saint Patrick Hospice.”

  “The Hospice? That's interesting. Let me see.”

  Sergeant Lev reached for the remote as he had done a half hour before and cued up the feed from the DVD. As they watched, a black man wearing a baseball cap, accompanied by a white male, strode briskly along Haggai Street and up the steps of Hospice of Saint Patrick.

  “I know that white man,” Sergeant Miller said. “He's the director of the place or something...at least he works there. I've seen him in the area.”

  “So then you think that this meeting doesn't mean anything?”

  “I didn't say that. We should still check it out.”

  “Well, I'll let you follow up on it. I'm through with my shift. I'll see you tomorrow,” Lev said, picking up his jacket and walking out the door.

  Hospice of Saint Patrick

  35 Via Dolorosa

  Old City of Jerusalem

  Saturday, 7 March 1998

  0805 Hours, Local

  Instead of sitting down, Skillings looked around a room that would have been gloomy but for the light through the double French doors that his host had declared off limits. The morning sun filtered through the thick foliage of the palms and olive trees outside, giving the walls a warm, golden glow. One long wall of the room was lined with old glass-fronted bookcases. Many of the volumes had German, French, and Spanish titles; some were in English, several were Arabic, and many were Hebrew. Skillings could smell the soft mustiness of old paper, printed pages, and ancient leather covers.

  There was an antique desk near the window, with a computer, circa mid-90s, and a newer laser printer. Across from the desk, balanced on an old piano bench, was a fairly recent photocopier. Otherwise, little in the room would date the place to the late twentieth century. The well-worn desk and chair were generations older than even the ancient GSA-issued wooden desk that Skillings used in his Marine Corps office in America. He ran his hand appreciatively over the smooth, dark, worn wood.

  Beside the desk on the floor were toys—a large ball, a stuffed giraffe, several children's books. Apparently little James was a frequent visitor to his father's office.

  Skillings looked up as Peter Newman came back into the room, carrying a small boy and followed by his wife. “She wouldn't believe me when I told her you were here,” Peter said. “I had to show her.”

  “It's good to see you again, Mrs. Newman,” Skillings said with a huge smile.

  Rachel Newman rushed past her husband. She threw her arms around the big Marine and kissed him on the cheek. “Sergeant Skillings, I can't believe it! It's so good to see you. How did you find us?”

  “Trade secret, ma'am.” Skillings grinned. Rachel Newman hadn't changed much either. She was still pretty, trim, and radiant, Skillings thought. He could tell that her brown hair was longer now, even though she had it pulled back in a ponytail that made her look younger than her thirty-eight years. Her eyes sparkled; none of the stress and fear that formerly lined her face was present. Though she and her husband had been in hiding for three years, their time in Jerusalem had made Rachel seem even more beautiful—maybe it was the gift of motherhood and time spent with her husband.

  “When did you get here?” Rachel asked him.

  “I arrived last night at Ben Gurion Airport on a flight from Turkey. I napped for a few hours and then woke up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at three-thirty this morning. So I watched TV—everything has Hebrew and Arabic subtitles, you know—then I got up. I even already worked out in the hotel's exercise room and swam a few laps before it was light outside! So I went back to my room, showered and changed,got a taxi, and had it drop me off at the Damascus Gate. I had your address and knew that you—I mean John and Sarah Clancy—were both living here, so I was conducting my own little recon of the area when I saw your husband walk into the coffee shop. I just waited in the shadows until he came out.”

  “Well, I've just made some breakfast. Peter brought the coffee and rolls, right?” Her husband nodded. “Come and join us; then you and Peter can talk,” Rachel said, hooking an arm in the sergeant's. “You can tell us everything that's happened since we last saw you.”

  “Yeah,” the big Marine said. “And maybe you two will be kind enough to fill me in on how you fared after I dropped you at the airport after that awful night in Larnaca three years ago.”

  Rachel glanced at her husband, standing by the doorway holding their son. He shrugged and she said, “I think that's the least we can do for the man who saved our lives.”

  The breakfast dishes had been cleared, and Rachel sat across the kitchen table from Skillings while her husband read to their son in his bedroom. Sunlight bathed the kitchen table and the cup of tea she had wrapped her hands around.

  “Amos, you're the first person I've talked to about all this besides Peter. You know that, don't you?”

  “If you say so, ma'am. If you want, I can talk to the colonel—”

  “No, he said it was OK. I just don't want little James to hear any of this. Obviously, he's still too young to understand about his father being a fugitive; but, even as young as he is, he might sense something was wrong if he heard us talking.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Newman. I sure hope that someday, someone will tell that little boy what a hero his daddy really is.”

  “Maybe you can do that for him...someday.”

  “Maybe, but that's not going to be for awhile. There's an awful lot of stuff to sort out. For now, why don't you fill me in on how you two came to be running this bed and breakfast in the Old City of Jerusalem?”

  She smiled for the first time in several minutes and said, “I will...but first, tell me what you found out about that man who tried to kill me in that shop in Larnaca, Cyprus…you know, the one near where Bill Goode's sloop Pescador wa
s berthed.”

  “Well, ma'am, as it turns out, that guy wasn't trying to kill you. He was trying to kidnap you, to use you as leverage to get to Colonel Newman. Our boys got that much out of him before the Brits took him into custody and kept him in the British base hospital. He wouldn't talk during their questioning, but we sent his prints and photo to the FBI and Interpol and found out he had been a KGB security officer, probably working freelance, and most likely hired by the people who were after your husband. Unfortunately, nobody could prove any of that. They had local police bring assault and attempted kidnapping charges, but without you there to testify, the case never came to trial. We had no evidence that he was connected with whoever planted the bomb on the Pescador either, so they had to let him go. Last I heard, he'd disappeared from the island.”

  “How about that Russian general at the UN and the fellow at the White House who was Peter's boss, before ...” her voice trailed off.

  “Komulakov and Harrod?”

  “Yes, I remember reading in the Jerusalem Post shortly after we arrived here that Harrod had resigned as National Security Advisor andgone back to teach at Harvard. But I never saw anything about the Russian.”

  “That's about all I know, ma'am,” Skillings said, “except that General Komulakov still seems to be in the espionage business, even though the Russians are supposedly our new best friends.”

  “But isn't the Russian the one behind all that happened to Peter—and the bomb that blew up the Pescador? Isn't he the reason why we're still in hiding? Why isn't he on Wanted posters, like my husband?”

  “I don't know, Mrs. Newman,” Skillings said, looking her straight in the eye. “What I do know is that there are still people out there who want your husband dead, and until we deal with that, both of you—and your son—are in danger. That's one of the reasons General Grisham sent me here. He's concerned you may still be in jeopardy.”