“We are continuing to thoroughly investigate it, but yes, at this point I do. The Jihad Brigade has less than two hundred known devotees—and all live inside Palestine, around which, as you know, Israel keeps a tight noose. None of the major terrorist organizations—Hamas, even ISIS—is known to be affiliated with it, and Aziz’s religious teachings are so extreme that even the most radical clerics reject him. A psychological profile has established that Aziz has narcissistic personality disorder and ultra-grandiosity, both of which are evident in his new message.”
Whittington paused. “Mr. President, you might feel more at ease if we go through our analysis of his threat frame by frame.”
Aziz’s video appeared on a large wall monitor. Whittington played a snippet.
“In this part Aziz mentions the Khaybar Flag, a clear sign of his delusional thinking. It’s a reference to the year 628, when Muhammad attacked a Jewish stronghold in the Khaybar Oasis. The Jews there were better trained and better outfitted. Although the Jews were vastly outnumbered, they were able to defeat their attackers. According to the story, Muhammad announced that God would choose a new military leader and guarantee him victory. Muhammad’s greatest soldiers lined up, thinking they would be selected to carry the Khaybar Flag, but God directed Muhammad to give it to an unknown soldier named Ali. He had no military training, but he defeated the Jews because he loved God, obeyed God, and was eager to die for God.”
Whittington looked from the monitor at the president.
“Mr. President, is there a better example of his narcissism and delusions of grandeur? Aziz is declaring himself God’s chosen one and implying through the Khaybar Flag story that all other terrorist groups have failed at defeating us. He’s promoting the idea that he alone can defeat God’s enemies. And there were other religious references.”
President Fitzgerald said, “Sodom and Gomorrah. Noah.”
“Again, using religion to puff himself up. Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed by fire and brimstone. The ‘deluge,’ as he called it, refers to Noah’s flood. Both reinforce the belief that God has chosen him to bring about the destruction of the infidels. He mentioned the ‘martyrs who toppled their towers’—an obvious reference to nine-eleven and the Twin Towers—suggesting that he will follow their lead. He adds that his attack against us will come ‘from the ocean’ or rise from the sea.”
“I could discount all of this as the rantings of a religious zealot,” the president said, “except for one troubling fact.”
“Yes, sir, what is that?”
“Radi’s letter. Radi warned us that the Iranians had manufactured a nuclear bomb, and planned to attack us with it, carried in a submarine. To my ears, that sounds exactly what Aziz is now threatening to do.”
“Sir, the Jihad Brigade has no wealth nor benefactors. Its members are young, impoverished Palestinians.”
“Have you considered that the Iranians might have simply given Aziz a nuclear bomb?”
“Let’s assume they actually have made a nuclear bomb, even though there is no credible evidence supporting this. The Iranians are Shi’a, or Shi’ite Muslims. The Jihad Brigade and Aziz are Sunni. Our analysts doubt that Iran would trust Sunni Muslims with a nuclear bomb. In addition, our predictive analytics show that if the Iranians had successfully developed a bomb, their first target would be Israel.”
Whittington wasn’t done. “We also have to ask ourselves, where would a largely insignificant, fledgling Palestinian cell with no funds obtain a submarine from a foreign military and find a crew? Even the Iranians don’t have a submarine capable of making a transatlantic voyage—especially without being detected.”
“You said in our last briefing that the Israelis had reported seeing a rogue submarine in the Mediterranean.”
“Yes, an old Soviet submarine from the Cold War. But even if that submarine exists, our navy has not reported any such submarine approaching or entering our waters.”
The president rocked back in his seat, thought for a moment. “Aziz uploaded schematics. Showed a photo of an actual bomb.”
“Yes, sir,” Whittington said, fast-forwarding the video to the schematics. “The Israelis have confirmed that these are Iranian plans, but they could have come from any source on the internet. There also is a problem with the bomb in his video. It is the type made to be dropped out of an airplane, not shot through a torpedo tube or launched from a submarine.”
“What if he is using something other than a submarine?”
“Bringing it through one of our ports on a cargo ship?” Whittington suggested.
“Exactly. I have been trying to get Congress to fund better border security, and it is refusing.”
“Assuming Aziz somehow obtained a bomb, it would be a valid concern. As you know, Mr. President, we have something like twelve million shipping containers entering our ports every year, and Congress’s refusal to back your plans does put us in jeopardy. But only if Aziz has secured a nuclear weapon. And that is a big if.”
“He’s given us a six-day deadline,” Fitzgerald said. “If all of this is bluster, why would he put a firm deadline on it?”
“Because he’s completely delusional. He wants to spark fear and cause panic. It’s quite possible he has simply convinced himself that God will provide him with a bomb in six days. Once the deadline passes, there’s a good chance he will announce that Allah told him not to use the bomb. Who understands the words of a madman? Sir, you appointed me to take charge of the CIA because you needed someone there with a steady hand and calm head. We’ll keep investigating his threat, but based on our data and analysis, we believe Aziz is a grandiose loudmouth, not a serious player.”
“Just to be safe,” Fitzgerald said, “I don’t want anything larger than a minnow getting near our coasts without us knowing about it. And get back on the phone and talk to the Israelis.”
The president started to stand but paused midway up from his chair. “Where are Garrett and Mayberry? They’re the ones who told us about Radi’s letter.”
“They’re still in Europe, chasing after the Palestinian who they believe is responsible for Radi’s murder. I received a call from the British Home Office about the two of them being involved in an incident in London.”
“An incident?”
“They were unharmed, but a car they were riding in was attacked by a sniper.”
“Is any of that linked to Aziz?”
“Sir, in my opinion, they are on a wild-goose chase.”
Ten minutes later, as Whittington was leaving the White House, his private cell phone rang. The caller ID showed the number as that of Robert Calhoun at the Washington Interceptor.
Whittington ignored it.
Thirty-Five
Neither Garrett nor Mayberry had been to the pristine Mediterranean coastal city of Tel Aviv on the outskirts of an ancient Arab city called Jaffa that, over time, had been overwhelmed by two aliyahs—waves of Zionist immigrants.
As the private jet circled, both gazed down on Tel Aviv’s White City, more than four thousand sleek, blindingly white buildings designed in the 1930s by German Jewish Bauhaus architects fleeing Nazi persecution.
“The world calls Tel Aviv an international party city,” Esther commented. “I call it a jewel in the hand of God.”
Sparkling beneath the aircraft’s wings was a crystalline blue sea and flawless white beach leading to a metropolitan area dotted by sand-colored ancient homes mixed with skyscrapers of steel and glass.
An SUV emerged from a private aircraft hangar to meet them, and when they sat in its back seat, Esther produced two hoods.
“Put these over your heads,” she said.
“You’re joking,” Mayberry replied.
“We do not advertise our headquarters like your highway signs directing motorists to Langley.”
Despite the SUV’s air-conditioning, Garrett and Mayberry quickly began perspiring under the heavy masks. Mayberry shut her eyes rather than stare into the black fabric. She tried to ignore the ner
ve pain in her hand, which was slightly better after the acupuncture treatment but still throbbing. Neither bothered speaking, afraid their breath would be contained in the hoods, making the heat against their faces worse.
After a half hour, the SUV slowed. They could hear a metal door opening and shutting behind them.
“You can remove the masks now,” Esther said.
Garrett wiped his forehead. Mayberry brushed her damp hair in place. The SUV continued down the ramps of a multistory underground parking garage until it reached its bottom level. Esther directed them through a steel door guarded by two soldiers who checked her ID. The hallway they entered was empty, and completely silent. Neon lights. Commercial-grade gray floor tiles. Gray-painted walls. After several turns, the glass walls of an executive office suite appeared in front of them, an oasis of color in the otherwise dull grayness of the hallway with its plush light-blue carpeting, red leather chairs, and green ferns. The white-and-blue Flag of Zion hung on a pole near a large emblem of Israel—a menorah between two olive branches—on the wall.
A male receptionist seated in the outer office buzzed them through the thick glass and nodded at Esther as he raised his desk phone, motioning for them to take seats. Seconds later, he announced, “You can go inside now. The director will join you soon.”
The adjoining conference room was decorated with more light-blue carpeting, light-gray walls, and an oblong mahogany table with twelve black vinyl swivel chairs. On a side table coffee, water, and pastries were set out with china cups and plates bearing the Mossad’s official seal—a menorah with a verse from Proverbs: where there is no wise direction, a nation falls; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.
Garrett had just taken a bite of rugelach, filled with apricot, when Big Jules joined them. The director’s navy tie hung loose. He wore no suit jacket, and his pressed white shirt was badly wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up. His white hair was matted, and there was white stubble on his chin. It looked like he had worked all night without changing his clothing.
“Tell me about London,” Big Jules demanded. “How did someone get to Zharkov?”
“It was the Roc, sir,” Esther said. “We know he was in London.”
“A camera caught him coming in and out of a building the sniper used to fire at us,” Mayberry volunteered. “Too many cameras along that busy street for him to avoid. He was trying to disguise his appearance, but it was him. You could see his scar.”
“How about outside Zharkov’s mansion? Photos?”
“No,” said Esther, “but who else could have pulled this off? We know he’s done it before.”
“What are you talking about?” Garrett asked.
Esther glanced at Big Jules, waiting to see if he would explain.
“One of our own,” Big Jules said. “A major general was killed in his house despite alarms and a top security team. We never knew how the Roc got inside, but it was the Roc. It’s one of the justifications we used to convince the Americans to go after him with a drone strike.”
Big Jules stood. He moved to a whiteboard and used a marker to write three names: Zharkov, Kardar, and the Roc. He preferred using a board he could erase. No electronic footprint. “Tell me about Zharkov’s body,” he said to Esther.
“Zharkov was in his safe room. His arms and legs were—”
“Bound to a chair,” Big Jules said. “I already know this from your verbal report during your flight here. Tell me about the cuts to Zharkov’s chest. How many were there?”
“Six. All rectangular. About one centimeter wide and two centimeters long. And a final fatal puncture wound to his heart.”
“What you described is identical to how our major general was tortured and murdered. Now, I need you to look at some old photos.”
Big Jules nodded to a nearby aide, who distributed them. They showed a twentysomething soldier whose hands were strung above his head by a rope attached to a ceiling beam. His olive-drab Israeli military shirt had been ripped open, exposing a blood-smeared chest. Rectangular pieces of skin had been cut away, discarded on the floor.
“This young man was captured when the Roc was still associated with Hamas. Do the cuts resemble what you saw in London?”
Esther stared at the man’s face. He was a fellow soldier. Someone who mattered. She wanted to remember him. She examined the wounds on his chest.
“Yes, these are identical to the cuts I observed on Zharkov.”
“You’re absolutely positive?”
“Yes,” she said, raising her eyes from the gruesome photos.
“Putting his surgical skills to work inflicting pain,” Garrett said. “If you know that’s how the Roc murdered the general and that soldier, then he was definitely the one who murdered Zharkov.”
Big Jules drew a line on the whiteboard, linking the Roc with Zharkov. “There’s our first solid connection.” He let his marker stay pressed under Zharkov’s name. “Our people have learned that Zharkov purchased a Romeo-class submarine from a Russian scrapyard.”
“That explains the submarine our navy kept seeing,” Esther said.
“The only item left is the bomb,” Garrett added. “The Brits showed us photos of General Kardar visiting Zharkov’s mansion the night before he was murdered.”
Big Jules traced a line from Zharkov to General Kardar on the whiteboard.
“Not yet a smoking gun,” Mayberry volunteered, “but proof that the general and Zharkov had a relationship.”
“The only line missing on your diagram now is one linking General Kardar to the Roc,” Garrett noted, “and that seems like an easy connection. The Roc killed my neighbor, and two other Iranians tried to kill me. I’d bet my last penny that General Kardar sent them.”
Big Jules drew a line tying Kardar to the Roc. All three men were now joined in a triangle.
“That must be why the Roc was in London,” Mayberry said, looking at the diagram. “Kardar sent for him to kill Zharkov, and while he was doing that, he spotted Esther and Garrett and decided to stick around the next day to attack us.”
“Attack you,” Esther said to Garrett. “You’re the one who fatally shot his daughter.”
Big Jules drew a large question mark on the whiteboard. “Why would General Kardar want Zharkov eliminated?”
“He must not have needed him anymore,” Garrett replied. “He’d already gotten Zharkov to buy a submarine and a bomb. He was probably tying up loose ends, getting ready to take full control of the attack.”
“He’d only take that risk if the submarine and bomb were in position, or about to be,” Mayberry said.
“While you were flying here from London,” Big Jules said, “Fathi Aziz, the same jihadist who claimed credit for killing me, posted a new threat against the United States. If his demands are not met in six days, he’ll detonate a nuclear bomb.”
“Six days? It must be near our shores. What demands?” Mayberry asked.
Big Jules didn’t answer. Instead, he waved to his aide, who gave each of them close-up photos of the nuclear bomb that Aziz had shown in his video.
“Could be an empty shell,” Garrett said, examining the images.
“The schematics Aziz uploaded came directly from Iranian plans,” Big Jules said. “Another bit of circumstantial evidence.”
Esther pointed her finger at one of the close-ups. “This shows a detonation switch attached to the bomb. It can be exploded remotely by satellite.”
“That’s the answer,” Garrett said. “General Kardar’s motive. He called the Roc to London to kill Zharkov so the only person who knew the remote detonation code would be him.”
“The general meets Zharkov and learns the code,” Mayberry said. “The next night he sends the Roc to kill Zharkov. General Kardar no longer has to worry about him, and is free to pass the code to Aziz. It all fits together.” She paused before saying in a sad voice, “It seems so much more real, now that we know.”
Big Jules continued to stare at the whiteboard. He shook his head. Rubbe
d his chin. Of them, he was the only one whose gut was telling him there was a critical flaw in their detective work. Something wasn’t right. But Big Jules wasn’t certain what it was. Not yet.
He moved from the whiteboard to sit at the table with them. “A team has been working all night on the images Esther recorded in Zharkov’s office. The map showed multiple fingerprints, all of them on a spot off the Virginia coastline, near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. That is where the attack will happen. I will call Director Whittington and brief him. But it would be helpful if you also spoke to him. I have arranged a flight to take both of you back to Washington.”
“What about Esther?” Garrett asked.
“She will find Fathi Aziz and keep him from detonating the bomb. We’ll deal with General Kardar later.”
“What about the Roc?” Mayberry asked. “He’s still out there.”
Esther looked at Garrett. “He’s hunting you.”
They were interrupted by one of Big Jules’s assistants, who whispered in his ear. “I have an important caller waiting,” he announced.
Esther led Garrett and Mayberry from the conference room to a waiting SUV in the garage.
“Good luck finding Aziz,” Mayberry said.
“The Mossad’s arms are long. We have found Nazis and Olympic terrorists. I will find him.” Esther turned to Garrett. “Leich l’shalom.”
“I don’t have any idea what she just said,” Garrett said after Esther left.
“‘Go toward peace,’” Mayberry replied. “At least, that’s what I think she said. Hopefully it wasn’t ‘Leich b’shalom,’ which means ‘Go in peace.’”
“‘Go toward peace’ or ‘Go in peace.’ What’s the difference?”
“‘Leich b’shalom’ is what you say at a funeral to someone who’s dead.”
Thirty-Six
Big Jules Levi went directly from his meeting with Garrett, Mayberry, and Esther into his private office, where Deputy Director Isser Dagan was waiting.
“Everything is prepared for the call,” Dagan said.
Big Jules sat and picked up the receiver. “I’m here.”
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