The Devils Light

by Richard North Patterson

  Grey smiled a little. “Precisely that.”

  “Which, at best, suggests a massive failure of imagination. I dearly hope I’m wrong. But if I’m right, we’ll see what they say after al Qaeda destroys Israel’s center of industry and commerce, wipes out its electrical grid, levels its major airport, ruins its sources of coal-based power, and kills ten percent of its population. Except that they won’t live to say it.” Brooke softened his tone. “But even if you managed to survive, and the center of your bite-sized country was a nuclear desert, what would you do? Take out a building permit?”

  Grey regarded him gravely. “The survivors will be angry people with nuclear weapons. Backed by the sympathy of the world.”

  “The kind of sympathy you feel at a funeral,” Brooke rejoined, “which would last about as long. Then what? A country of psychologically damaged people without a future, staring at the ashes of their dream. Would you stay, Carter? Would you ask Anne to stay, or anyone you loved? Would you want your children and grandchildren to even breathe that air? In two years Israel will become a Masada state, populated by a cadre of religious fanatics prepared to watch their families die rather than yield an inch of their atomic wasteland.” Pausing, Brooke thought of Anit—already vanished from his life, perhaps about to vanish from this world. “The result would be unspeakably sad—the end of Israel as we know it. It’s Bin Laden’s last and only chance to destroy an entire nation, the act of a vengeful Islamic God in a nuclear age.”

  Grey’s eyes were as bleak as Brooke’s words. “A Masada state,” he finally said, “could respond with a nuclear attack.”

  “Oh,” Brooke retorted glumly, “Bin Laden knew that, too.”

  Grey sipped his whisky, contemplating the amber liquid that remained. “It’s part of Bin Laden’s modus operandi, to be sure. Before he pulled off 9/11, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed wanted al Qaeda operatives to recruit pilots from the Royal Saudi Air Force, who would then fly their own aircraft to bomb the Israeli city of Elad. His idea was to incite an Israeli counterattack on the Saudis, pitting two American allies against each other in an all-out war.” Grey put down his glass. “Fortunately, we captured him before he could bring this masterstroke to fruition.”

  “But his concept is timeless.” Pausing, Brooke drained his martini. “Two questions, Carter—either of which answers the other. If Israel responds with a nuclear strike, who would they target? And who did Bin Laden despise almost as much as America and Israel?”

  Absorbing this, Grey’s face betrayed his interest. “Iran, of course. And Hezbollah. They’re both Shia, and they’ve both eclipsed Bin Laden as symbols for Muslims who despise the West.” Grey considered this, then said, “So you think Israel would go after the Iranians.”

  “Quite possibly. They can’t bomb al Qaeda—it has no known location. But the Iranians do, and the Israeli right is fixated on Ahmadinejad. They might lash out like a wounded beast.” Brooke smiled without humor. “We’re the prime example of how this works—after all, we pretended that Saddam had his fingerprints on 9/11 so we could invade Iraq. Would Israel be more judicious after suffering an atomic holocaust? Maybe so. But I think whoever planned this imagines the Israelis handing al Qaeda a bonus. The nuclear destruction of Tehran.”

  Grey hunched in the chair, closing his eyes. For a long time, Brooke thought he was warding off pain. Then he opened his eyes again. “No matter what outsiders think,” he began, “the CIA tends to be more rigorous than any other agency of government. There’s room to make your case. But you’ll have to prevail against some very smart people—some in the Outfit, some not—who believe in their own judgment as much as you do in yours. Not to mention all the others so frightened by the image of a mushroom cloud over Washington that they’ll refuse to listen. You’ll need a first-rate analyst to back you, and friends in very high places.”

  “Not Alex Coll.”

  “Then it had better be Brustein and Azzolino. If need be, they can get past Coll to the president.” Grey paused for emphasis. “What you’ve got is a theoretical case. Now you need to enter the mind of your operative. When you’re done, I want you to tell me how he gets this bomb to Tel Aviv.”

  “Through Lebanon—”

  “I’m not asking for directions,” Grey interrupted curtly. “You need to figure out exactly how he does this, from beginning to end, until Brustein and Azzolino can believe it—and do that quickly. We don’t have much time.”

  THREE

  That night, twenty-four hours after leaving Dubai, Brooke tried to sleep.

  This proved difficult. Stirring restlessly, he could not shake his conviction that al Qaeda was deluding his country and its people. His ultimate fear—the nuclear destruction of Tel Aviv and its people—filled his imagination with terrible specificity, its face becoming that of Anit Rahal. He wondered if she were there, and why he could not find her. At length, his thoughts turned to a night, ten years before, when Anit was with him still.

  In February, Brooke and Anit had their first dinner with his parents.

  As their cab headed toward Central Park West, Anit seemed distant, gazing silently at the foul winter weather. It did not help her mood that Ariel Sharon had been named prime minister of Israel. At last she turned from the sleet-covered window. “I know why they invited us,” she said. “But from all you say, we’re from completely different worlds. I hope we don’t end up sniffing at each other like strange dogs.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brooke joked. “My father’s like a Saint Bernard. As for my mother, the Doberman, she firmly believes the Holocaust was uncalled for.”

  To Brooke’s relief, Anit mustered a fleeting smile.

  Peter and Isabelle Chandler lived in a commodious penthouse above Central Park. The doorman, knowing Brooke, waved the couple to the elevator.

  On the way to the top, Brooke imagined Anit’s reaction to the man and woman who had raised him. Peter Chandler did, indeed, have the aura of a Saint Bernard turned denizen of Wall Street—a round, pleasant face; gray-flecked brown hair; black, thick glasses; modest jowls to match his paunch. With this came an unruffled air that, at any given moment, could suggest a sound, placid temperament, or complete and utter indifference to what was happening all around him. Brooke, who found his father an enigma, could never quite distinguish his serenity from cluelessness.

  Isabelle Chandler was of a different mettle altogether. Immediately impressive was the blond, imperishable beauty that in Brooke had translated into good looks so strikingly similar that Peter Chandler wryly called himself “biologically irrelevant.” What Brooke did not inherit from his mother was the imperiousness of someone who, privileged at birth, could not imagine being anyone else. In the sixties, at Wellesley, Isabelle had discovered a passion for politics, and issues to inflame her sense of rebellion—Vietnam, civil rights, the environment, abortion, and the enactment of the equal rights amendment. Most, if not all, of these causes had Brooke’s sympathy. But his mother’s politics wearied him; he had never heard her say a surprising thing. And all too often, his mother’s statements were stamped with the imprimatur “as I said to Hillary”—or Mario, or whomever. It was not these worthies’ fault, Brooke knew, that the toils of fund-raising required them to treat Isabelle Chandler’s pronouncements like Einstein’s theories, swelling her self-assurance to steroidal proportions. But the fallout was that he had to listen, knowing that dissent was pointless.

  “What are you smiling about?” Anit asked as the elevator door opened.

  “The human comedy, Chandler-style.” He kissed her forehead. “When all else fails, give yourself up to laughter.”

  Anit mimed a dubious look, and they proceeded to his parents’ door.

  Somewhat to Brooke’s surprise, it was opened by Peter Chandler himself. He gave Brooke a handshake that managed to be ceremonious yet warm, then did the same to Anit. The look he gave her was appreciative of her beauty without any trace of lasciviousness. Watching Anit relax, Brooke appreciated his father’s innate gentility. />
  The former Isabelle Brooke awaited them on the sofa, her elegant pose worthy of the book-jacket photograph of an author of high-society romances. Then she rose briskly, kissing her son on both cheeks and according Anit a limpid handshake and a swift but thorough once-over cooler than her husband’s. It reminded Brooke of her memorable reaction when a girl had made an unsolicited appearance at his sixteenth birthday party. “How lovely to see you, Jennifer,” Isabelle had said in her most arid tone. “Had we only known you were coming, we would have invited you.”

  Now, the greetings performed, Anit and Brooke sat across from his mother while Peter Chandler brought them drinks. Brooke watched Anit absorbing her surroundings—the sleek Art Deco furnishings, the carefully placed antique vases, the panoramic view of the park, its denuded trees skeletal in winter. Then, politely enough, his mother began to quiz Anit about her life, evoking equally polite but sketchy descriptions of her family, her service in the army, her educational pursuits, her sojourn at NYU, and her worries about the political situation in Israel. At this, Isabelle leaned forward, fixing Anit with a look that combined skepticism and concern. “Do you plan on returning?”

  In her perplexity, Anit smiled. “Of course. Israel is my home.”

  Isabelle glanced at Peter for reinforcement. “What I meant was should you go back? Considering the danger.”

  “But there’s never been a time when there wasn’t danger, Mrs. Chandler. It’s just a matter of degree. What feels more important is that my country is in danger.”

  “‘Isabelle,’ please,” Brooke’s mother said airily. “Your attitude is very admirable, of course. But I worry about the nature of your enemies, seething with resentment of your manifestly superior culture. Especially given the daunting numbers at which they reproduce.”

  Anit sipped her Chardonnay. “There are many concerns,” she answered. “But I think most Palestinians would be content to live a normal life. Part of the burden of making peace falls on us. More hope for the average Palestinian means more security for Israel.”

  Isabelle gave a vehement shake of the head. “It strikes me that your enemies are a different species altogether, with very different values and no respect for life. These suicide bombers exemplify all one needs to know.”

  Brooke glanced at his father for clues, as he sometimes did during his mother’s remarks on the state of the world. Often, as now, he wondered whether Peter’s blank expression suggested situational absentmindedness, or the stoic suffering of a martyr nailed to the cross. Despairing of his help, Brooke told Anit drily, “I’ve spared my mother any disquisitions on the Arab mind. She’s far too well informed.”

  Peter betrayed what might have been a smile. Then, to Brooke’s surprise, he placed a hand on his wife’s knee. “I thought that’s what we pay tuition for, Isabelle—so that our son can know more about the Middle East than we do. Though not quite as much as someone who lives there.”

  After a moment, Isabelle had the grace to smile. “I don’t lack for opinions,” she told Anit. “But I pride myself on keeping up with important issues. One thing that disturbs me is that Israel’s location is so dreadful. I wonder if some of the original alternatives, like Uganda, would have been safer.”

  “Perhaps not,” Anit said mildly. “It seems there were people there as well.”

  “True, though locating Israel in Uganda would have spared us Idi Amin. It’s just that starting a new country for the Jewish people is a remarkable undertaking—even under the best of circumstances. And the neighborhood your Zionist forefathers chose is a bad one.” Isabelle spread her arms in a gesture of helplessness. “As matters stand, you’re surrounded by enemies. Surely you worry they’ll get their hands on nuclear weapons.”

  Anit regarded her steadily. “It’s a worry, yes. In the hands of a country like Iran, it might move them to further encourage terrorists like Hezbollah. Nor can you assure that any country with a bomb will be rational.” Pausing, she turned to Peter Chandler. “When it comes to nuclear weapons, what scares me more are nonstate actors. It’s easier for them to strike, and harder for us to find them.”

  Peter nodded. “I think of the people who attacked the USS Cole. There seem to be a lot of young men in autocracies like Saudi Arabia who are turning to radical ideas and religious extremism. Sunnis and fundamentalism strike me as a bad combination. I’d hate to see such people with nuclear missiles, or the components of a dirty bomb.”

  Anit’s look of surprise mirrored Brooke’s. “I agree,” she said. “But most people here don’t know that Sunnis are different from Shia.”

  “I’m one of them,” Isabelle said bluntly. “They’re all terrible characters, oppressive to women. By our value system, is there any difference that matters?”

  A bell rang, the announcement of the dinner prepared by the Chandlers’ personal chef, breaking the conversation. In Brooke’s mind, this mercy was compounded by the courteous way in which his father shepherded Anit to the dining room.

  The first course was sautéed calamari on spinach—organic, at Isabelle’s insistence. In the candlelit room, Peter sat across from Anit; Brooke from his mother.

  “We were speaking of Middle Eastern culture,” Peter said to Anit. “I, for one, know little about it. But I do have the sense that the countries in the region were carved out by colonials, like Winston Churchill, and don’t much correspond to how their people see themselves. Am I off-track?”

  Smiling, Anit shook her head. “Not at all. Traditionally, Arabs have viewed themselves through the prism of family, then clan, then tribe—and only after that, whatever nation-state they find themselves in.” Anit adjusted her gaze to include Isabelle. “As Brooke could tell you, their social bonds are very tight, in contrast to Americans. The role of women is, as you say, subordinate—a terrible waste of human potential. But there are lovely aspects to their culture, including their sense of hospitality. When Arabs invite you to spend time with them, they feel a deep responsibility for your comfort and well-being. And Islam as generally practiced does not inspire violence.”

  “What about this Sunni–Shia business?” Isabelle inquired. “Is there any difference?”

  Anit turned to Brooke, inviting him to answer. “Not to the West,” he told his mother. “When Churchill started carving up the Middle East with a straight razor, he blithely asked an aide whether the leader he planned to install in Baghdad was a Sunni with Shiite sympathies or vice versa—he could never keep them straight. But to the two branches of Islam it matters profoundly.

  “With the death of Mohammed, his followers couldn’t agree on his successor. Those who became the Sunnis chose Abu Bakr, the Prophet’s advisor, to be caliph—the leader of a Muslim state. The dissenters selected Mohammed’s cousin and son-in-law, Ali, to become what the Shia call the imam.” Brooke turned to his father. “The hatred between them dates back to the seventh century, when Ali’s son Hussein had the third Sunni caliph murdered. In turn, the Sunnis killed Hussein—”

  “That was thirteen hundred years ago,” Isabelle interjected with rhetorical astonishment. “Why on earth are they killing each other now?”

  “Because the violence and estrangement have only deepened.” Brooke glanced toward Peter. “Dad mentioned Sunni fundamentalists. The enemies of Israel include the Iranians and the Lebanese group Hezbollah. Both are Shia—dangerous, to be sure, but also rational. But ninety percent of Muslims are Sunnis. At their most extreme, Sunni fundamentalists imagine destroying ‘the unbelievers’—including the West—in order to restore a mystic vision of the caliphate—”

  “Magical thinking,” Isabelle said with a wave of the hand. “Fit only for children and the insane.”

  “So one might argue. But the group responsible for the Cole attack, al Qaeda, imagines that very thing. And their leader, Osama Bin Laden, is neither a child nor insane.” Pausing, Brooke regarded his mother with deep seriousness. “People with strong belief systems try to create their own reality. Sometimes they succeed.”

 
; Isabelle accorded Anit a look of fresh concern. “As I said at the beginning, Anit, all this seems to have profound implications for your country. In their own minds, the Palestinians are displaced.”

  Anit shrugged. “In the Middle East, Isabelle, displacement is common. Fights over water; the Ottomans’ moving people here or there; genocide against the Armenians; the British cramming tribes into artificial countries. All that’s different here is that Arabs were displaced by Jews. We’re a determined people, but Arabs are a patient one.”

  “So they have a different sense of time?” Peter asked her.

  “Very much so,” Anit replied. “To the leaders of Hezbollah and Hamas—and al Qaeda—a few hundred years are nothing. All we can do is endure.”

  Her words induced a moment of silence. Then Isabelle said, “Thank God we’re in America, land of the impatient. Our Supreme Court may have given us Bush, but in four years he’ll be an accident in America’s rearview mirror.”

  “Are you that sure?” Brooke asked.

  “Absolutely,” Isabelle rejoined. “He’s Dan Quayle in waiting. In the meantime, with luck, the janissaries of the right will have him too tied up protecting frozen embryos to do any real damage. And he seems to have no taste for foreign adventures.”

  Looking at Anit, Peter Chandler seemed to register her mood. “For my part,” he told her gently, “I hope he’ll revive Clinton’s efforts at achieving a genuine peace.”

  Anit smiled at him. “Thank you,” she answered. “I pray for that.”

  Brooke’s father raised his wineglass. “Then let’s drink to peace,” he said.

  They did, Isabelle stealing a glance at Brooke as he touched his glass to Anit’s.

  In the taxi home, Anit rested her head on Brooke’s shoulder. “So?” he asked.

  Anit hesitated. “It was fine,” she answered. “Your mother is much as you described her, but she means no harm. The one who surprised me was your father. Beneath that pleasant surface, he takes in more than he lets on. And you may be more your father’s son than you believe.”