Shakedown

by Newt Gingrich

  He raised his Heckler & Koch G36C rifle and hollered, “They’ve got pistols!”

  Evans took an immediate step back.

  “Everyone needs to stay calm,” Garrett said, lifting his arms.

  Evans’s men disarmed them.

  “You still expect me to believe you was just on a holiday?” Evans asked. Over his shoulder, Garrett noticed another figure approaching them, with two large men. Clearly his bodyguards.

  “Emory Wilson from the Home Office,” the newcomer announced. One of the bodyguards flashed credentials. “You and your men may step down now.”

  Without waiting for Evans to respond, Wilson said, “You must be the Israeli, and the two of you the Americans. Please be good enough to follow me.”

  “Wait!” Evans stammered.

  “No,” Wilson said, “there will be no waiting. This is now a Home Office matter. Don’t make me call your better.”

  Evans stepped out of the way, letting them pass.

  Two Jaguar sedans were outside. Within moments, they’d reached 2 Marsham Street, headquarters of the Home Office, a rectangular modern structure protected by metal shutters, concrete sidewalk barriers, and security cameras. Architectural color came from a horizontal stained glass overhang with red, blue, green, and yellow squares. Garrett thought it the most hideous government building he’d ever seen.

  Wilson led them into a spacious conference room and motioned for them to sit around a table there. Before he could speak, Esther declared, “I expect you to honor my diplomatic immunity. I demand you release me immediately.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told you are a cultural attaché,” he said, not hiding the skepticism in his tone. “I’m certain someone from your embassy will be joining us shortly.” Turning to Garrett and Mayberry, he said, “I’ve read about you chaps in a not-so-complimentary American newspaper article, and also had a chat with the French about what happened in Paris. For a couple reportedly being on a holiday, you’ve gotten yourselves into quite a few sticky wickets. A high-speed chase in Italy. A shooting in Paris. Tangling with an international terrorist named Saeedi Bashar whose daughter was fatally shot by Mr. Garrett in the Paris underground. Tell me, is this how you spend all of your holidays?”

  One of Wilson’s assistants entered with a packet.

  “As I’m certain you are aware,” Wilson continued, “London has one of the most comprehensive surveillance camera systems in the world. As many as a half million cameras in our city.” He removed several photos and showed them. “Let’s begin with today’s attack. This man was spotted entering the building where the shots came from, and also leaving it after the shooting. Do you recognize him?”

  Garrett and Mayberry scanned the images. Esther refused, staring straight ahead. Although the man in the pictures was wearing dark glasses and a hat, a jagged scar was visible on his neck.

  “Well?” Wilson asked.

  Neither one of them answered.

  “Do you recognize this bloke?” Wilson asked, sliding several more photos across the table. They showed Iranian general Kardar entering and leaving Zharkov’s mansion two nights earlier.

  Again, no response.

  “I take it from your silence,” Wilson said, “you have no idea what business an Iranian general was conducting with Mr. Zharkov so late at night?”

  Garrett shrugged. “You’ll need to ask them.”

  Wilson pulled additional pictures from the file and tossed them on the table: Esther, Garrett, Mayberry, and their Mossad driver visiting Zharkov’s mansion earlier in the day, before they were attacked by a sniper.

  “What was the purpose of your visit this morning?”

  “We didn’t see Zharkov,” Mayberry volunteered.

  “Yes, I am aware,” Wilson said. “We checked with his staff this morning and were told that Mr. Zharkov left London last night. Which invites the question, why did you go there this morning, if not to see him?”

  Silence.

  Wilson produced a final batch of photos. These showed Esther and Garrett coming and going from the mansion on the night she posed as a prostitute.

  “These images are especially intriguing,” Wilson said. “Taken by a camera across the street. They show you arriving, and later, a number of individuals leaving, presumably Zharkov and his wife. What’s missing are photos of you exiting the mansion. How do you explain this?”

  Mayberry glanced at Garrett, who remained stone-faced.

  “I’ve been patient with you,” Wilson said, intentionally becoming more harsh in his inflection. “Now I must insist. If you continue to not cooperate, I must warn you that the Home Office has considerable discretion when it comes to holding foreigners on suspected terrorism charges. Much like your government, we can make suspects disappear for long periods.” He paused to let his threat sink in. “Now what business did you have with Taras Zharkov?”

  A knock on the conference-room door interrupted them, and a man and woman entered. The woman walked directly to Wilson, bent down, and whispered in his ear. He responded by gathering the photographs from the table, standing, and leaving the room.

  The woman said, “The Home Secretary and Her Majesty must insist that the three of you depart from England within the next twenty-four hours.” She turned and left, leaving the man alone with them.

  “I’m from the Israeli embassy,” he said. “Director Levi sent me. I have cars waiting outside.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Garrett asked.

  “To our embassy. We’ve arranged for your luggage to be delivered there. I’d strongly suggest you accept our invitation, in case the Brits change their mind.”

  Thirty-Three

  “I’m not certain spending the night here is safe,” Mayberry said as their motorcade approached the Israeli embassy and chancery near Kensington Palace Gardens.

  Even though it was after 10:00 p.m., protestors were waving placards.

  stop the massacre! stand up for gaza! free palestine!

  From inside the SUV, they could hear a bullhorn.

  “I see British people from the left, from the right, from across the board demonstrating here,” the speaker proclaimed. “Because this is not a fight between left and right, it’s a fight between right and wrong.”

  Applause. Chants of “Free Gaza!” “Free Palestine!”

  “Britain is a United States stooge, and the United States is an Israeli pawn. We demand a two-state solution. Without it, there can be no peace.”

  An Israeli flag was set on fire, its flames illuminating the angry faces clustered around it.

  “This protest is nothing,” Esther said, “compared to Nakba.”

  “Nak-what-a?” Garrett asked.

  “Nakba commemorates the day when the state of Israel was officially recognized and thousands of Palestinians were displaced,” Mayberry explained.

  “Yes. On Nakba, they turn out in the thousands outside our gates.”

  The Israeli drivers flipped on blue lights and strobes in the convoy’s grillwork. London bobbies on horseback forced an opening through the taunting crowd.

  A security gate—one of two—opened, allowing the three vehicles to enter the fenced grounds. Garrett looked through the window at the red-brick mansion built between 1860 and 1862 for author William Makepeace Thackeray, now provided with blast-proof windows, reinforced walls, and electronic surveillance defenses.

  “Your rooms will be modest—former servant quarters—but adequate for the night,” Esther said. She escorted them through a side door guarded by two embassy security officers. “The London police returned my handgun,” she said. “Sorry, Garrett, but it appears that they kept the one you were using.”

  They followed her up a narrow staircase to the mansion’s top floor. “This will be for you,” she told Garrett, opening a door that he had to duck to pass through. Inside was a twin bed, chair, dresser, and sink, but no closet or windows.

  Esther moved directly across the hall. “This will be yours,” she told Mayberry. Equally Sp
artan.

  “There are bells above the beds,” Esther said, pointing into Mayberry’s room at a silver bell with a cord attached. “The bells were used to summon servants.”

  “And who, exactly, will be summoning me if mine rings?” Garrett asked.

  “There’s a shared toilet at the end of the hall,” Esther replied, ignoring his question.

  “What? No chamber pots? How about something to eat? Possibly a shower?”

  “You can take a shower in the basement men’s locker room. I’ll have the kitchen staff send something up.”

  Garrett nodded toward the security guard stationed in front of the staircase, the only exit from the top floor.

  “We can’t have foreigners wandering around our embassy,” Esther said, “even if they’re friends.”

  “Does your ambassador live here?” Mayberry asked.

  “He has a private residence in St John’s Wood in northwest London. We’re the only ones spending the night.”

  “Which room is yours?” Garrett asked.

  “Not on this floor. The security officer will know how to reach me. Be ready at five. Director Levi has asked us to fly to Tel Aviv to meet with him. Given your tenuous status with the Brits and your own people, it would be best if you agreed.”

  “I’m going to grab a shower,” Garrett said after Esther left them. “You want to talk about all this when I get back? Hopefully over food.”

  “My hand is killing me. I’m taking my pain pills and getting some rest.”

  “Valerie,” he said softly. “I think we need to talk. Not just about the Roc, but what happened between us in the hotel.”

  He watched her face turning red. “It was a mistake,” she said. “There’s nothing more to say.”

  He started to respond, but stopped himself. Turning, he began walking toward the security guard stationed at the staircase.

  “Knock on my door,” she called after him. “If I’m up to it, I’ll join you for a bite.”

  An escort took Garrett to the basement, where he stripped, spent fifteen minutes alone in the sauna, and lingered another ten in a hot shower before wrapping himself in a white terry-cloth bathrobe that he found next to a stack of towels. His ribs hurt from when he had been thrown across the pub floor. Opening the robe, he checked his torso in a waist-high mirror. Scars from the helicopter crash he’d endured in Africa covered most of his right side. When he twisted, he could see the light-red burns on his left, caused by the Maybach explosion. He closed the robe.

  His escort was waiting outside the lockers to guide him upstairs. Garrett went to tap on Mayberry’s door, but paused when he heard voices inside.

  “Valerie?” he asked. “Mayberry, you okay?”

  The door opened a crack. Esther looked out. “She’s busy right now.” Through the narrow opening, he caught a glimpse of Mayberry in a robe sitting on the edge of her bed with a stranger.

  “What’s going—”

  “It’s okay,” Mayberry called. “He can come in.”

  Esther opened the door wide enough for Garrett to get a good look at the stranger. An older Asian man wearing a white lab coat, closing a case next to the bed.

  “Mr. Wen Ho Lee is the best acupuncturist in London,” Esther explained. “He treats a lot of us, mostly for chronic back pain.”

  “I feel more relaxed,” Mayberry said. “But that could just be exhaustion.”

  “You must wait twenty-four hours,” the acupuncturist announced. “Your back and hand will be much, much better.”

  A kitchen worker appeared in the hallway, carrying a tray with covered dishes.

  “Where should I put this?” he asked.

  “Not in here,” Mayberry said. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Across the hall in my room,” Garrett volunteered, opening his door.

  “I told them to send up three plates,” Esther said. She walked into his room and showed the worker where to put the tray. “I warned the kitchen you were Americans.”

  Esther removed the covers, revealing two hamburgers with fries. “Obviously, these are for you and Mayberry.”

  She uncovered the third. “For me, shawarma.”

  “What the heck is that?”

  “Slow-cooked turkey with hummus, tahini, salad, pickles, and cabbage served on laffa—what you probably call pita bread. For dessert, vanilla ice cream and knafeh.”

  Garrett picked up a box drink on the tray. He couldn’t read the Hebrew label.

  “Shoko b’sakit, which translates as ‘chocolate milk in a bag,’” she said, sitting on the bed’s edge.

  He dragged a chair opposite her and took a bite of his burger. “Why’d you do it? Arrange an acupuncturist for Valerie.”

  “Try some of this.” She tore off a piece of laffa, covered it with shawarma, and held it up to his mouth. He bit into it, but half fell on the floor. She laughed.

  “The acupuncturist?” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “You Americans love pills. A pill for a headache. A pill if you are sad. A pill if you are happy. Pills, pills, pills. The Chinese have been practicing holistic medicine for centuries.”

  “I’m not talking about that. Why did you help her? You’re not friends.”

  “Perhaps we are becoming friends.”

  “No emotional attachments, remember?”

  “You were listening to our conversation on the train. Pretending to be asleep.” She took another quick bite and then stood to leave. “The ice cream and sweets are all yours, but if you’re smart, you will share them with her.”

  Thirty-Four

  “Why does God stand by the Palestinian people?” Fathi Aziz asked in a freshly uploaded video. “Why does God stand by the brothers of the Jihad Brigade? Because we welcome martyrdom, this is why he stands by us.” Subtitles ran across the bottom of the screen. He spoke in a confident and calm voice. “Remember in the battle for the Khaybar, the Prophet handed the Flag to the one who had earned the right to bear it. This man won victory not by military strength but because he believed. He did not fear death, and those who try to frighten us with death merely hand us badges of honor.”

  The CIA analyst in Langley responsible for monitoring and analyzing Aziz’s statement was only half paying attention when a coworker entered with coffee.

  “This one saying anything new?” the coworker asked.

  “Just a bunch of SJB,” the analyst replied. “Standard jihadist bullshit.”

  “Heed my words,” Aziz continued. “You followers of Satan and infidels. God sent the prophet Noah to warn his people. Even his own wife and son laughed at him. They disregarded his warnings. God sent the deluge and drowned them and the people.”

  “Sounds like he’s taking a page from a Southern Baptist televangelist,” the coworker quipped.

  The camera closed in on Aziz’s face. His eyes narrowed. “God has given me the Flag from Khaybar.” His voice changed, becoming more intense. More deliberate. “God has given me a nuclear bomb to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. He will honor the martyrs who toppled their towers. From the ocean, the Great Satan’s destruction will come.”

  Aziz hesitated. Raised a forefinger and pointed directly into the camera lens.

  “You have six days, America, before death will visit your shores.”

  Schematics of a nuclear bomb appeared on the screen, and still photos of what appeared to be a finished bomb with the obligatory words “Death to America!” painted on its silver exterior.

  Aziz reappeared. “Here are our demands. Your Zionist puppets must leave the West Bank, East Jerusalem, the Gaza Strip, the Golan Heights, and the Sinai Peninsula. All Jewish settlements must be abandoned. The West must recognize Palestine as a sovereign state and end all financial and military support for the Jews. In six days, this must be done if you wish to escape nuclear annihilation.”

  A black-and-white video appeared. The Nevada desert. A bright light and mushroom cloud. Footage uploaded from the famous 1964 “Daisy” attack ad of a nuclear bomb test that so terr
ified Americans that they voted against Republican presidential hopeful Barry Goldwater.

  Such a blatant threat about a nuclear attack was not SJB.

  The analyst grabbed his desk phone. He needed to warn his superiors about the video so they could decide whether or not to remove it. His call and their decision would come too late. Within minutes, social media was spreading Aziz’s threat. The New York Times, the Washington Post, and other major newspapers posted news bulletins on their sites. Facebook began spreading stories about an imminent nuclear attack.

  President Fitzgerald summoned Director Whittington to the John F. Kennedy Conference Room, better known as the White House Situation Room, in the West Wing.

  “Talk to me,” President Fitzgerald said impatiently. “Does this psychopath have a nuclear bomb?”

  “According to our technical analysis, we believe there is a less than four percent chance that he does. We have reviewed all phone traffic in the region and found none between Aziz and his people that would suggest they have obtained such a device. A computer inventory of known weaponry has found that all known nuclear devices are fully accounted for, and as you are aware, we keep in close contact with our allies about possibly lost or stolen bombs. Even Russia has assured us that none is missing.

  “Mr. President,” Whittington continued in a reassuring voice, “Aziz is the same jihadist who announced that his Jihad Brigade had successfully assassinated Director Levi in Italy at his niece’s wedding, and we know Levi is alive and well. Consequently, we have a high degree of confidence that his threat is simply bluster.”

  “Someone did try to kill Julian Levi,” the president said.

  “Yes, sir, but we question whether Aziz and his organization had anything to do with that attempt. We’ve expended considerable time and resources investigating Aziz, and he is known as a bragger. Logic dictates that he would have known that Levi was still alive if he’d sent someone to kill him and that assassin failed.”

  “You’re telling me this video is a huge hoax.”