Neil took her hand. “You still scare me,” he said.
“Only when you really make me angry,” she laughed. “But you know, Neil, you are so determined now, so focused and single-minded, but you don’t remember that you weren’t always like that. How many summers did you spend backpacking through Europe, going anywhere but home? You stayed away from West Texas like everyone there had the plague. You wanted to see everything that was out there, to experience the world. That’s how Luke is, Neil, but it’s not a bad way to be. Even after we were married, we were pretty free spirits, you know. Do you remember what we did for our honeymoon?”
Brighton smiled as he thought. “Wasn’t that great!” he said.
“Yes, it was the most, how would you say, entertaining two weeks that we’ve ever had. And now Luke wants to go roam through the Alps for a while. I say we let him. Besides, we couldn’t stop him. He will do what he wants.”
Brighton nodded while he thought, picking up the lemon in his water and sucking it between his teeth. “I just hope—” he said softly.
“Luke will be OK. He has a good heart. He cares more about other people than anyone I know. He isn’t focused right now, but he’s still young. This thing with Alicia has really strung him out. I say let’s let him stretch his wings for a few weeks.”
Brighton nodded and relaxed. He trusted her intuition more than he trusted anything. “All right, then,” he told her. “I guess it would be OK.”
Sara squeezed his fingers lightly, and then pulled back her hand. “I’m really, really glad that we could have lunch,” she said. “I appreciate you getting away from the White House. I know how difficult it is.”
“Sara,” he answered, “I would rather be here with you than anywhere in the world. I am busy right now, but someday things will be better, I promise. One day I’ll retire and then we’ll have lots of time to spend together. After a while, you’ll be so sick of having me around that you’ll beg me to leave.”
“I think not,” Sara answered, “but it will be fun to see.”
The two were silent for a moment. Brighton took a huge bite of his sandwich while Sara poked at her fish.
“Neil, I’ve got to ask you a question,” she said.
Brighton stopped chewing. There was something serious in her voice. She looked up at him. “Were you ever going to tell me about Sam’s picture in the papers? Or were you going to always try to hide it from me?”
Brighton swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight.
Sara watched him struggle, and then continued. “I know you were only trying to protect me, but it really doesn’t help. I mean, if one of the largest papers in the country has a story about my son, alleging that he and some other U.S. soldiers were involved in some atrocities, don’t you think that I’d like to know that? And I’d like to hear it from you, not my neighbor, and certainly not from the peace activist, military-hating, goober of a Greenpeace feminist who lives down the street.”
Brighton swallowed again. He didn’t know what to say. “The story wasn’t true,” he mumbled very feebly.
“Of course. I know that. Everyone knew.”
“I thought—I was worried—I just wanted to—”
“Protect me. That’s very sweet, dear, but I’m a big girl now. I can take it. I take things like that better than you do. So don’t ever do it again.”
She smiled at him sweetly, but then cocked her head to the side. That was his signal to say “I’m sorry,” and he quickly fell into line. She was right. He was wrong. It had been a dumb thing to do. It belittled her strength and courage, and though his heart was in the right place, it had been a mistake. “I’m sorry,” he told her humbly. And he meant every word.
“That’s OK, Neil,” she said. She smiled at him brightly. “This is very good,” she said as she took a bite of her fish.
Ben Gurion International Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel
It was a single shot to the head. The prime minister’s brains exploded out of his skull. He hit the floor in a heap, his knees buckling mid-step.
His wife screamed in terror as she fell to his side. And though his arms and legs twitched and jerked, she knew he was dead.
The young Palestinian followed his instructions perfectly.
“Do not get caught!” they had told him. “Do not be taken alive. Do you understand us, Imir, you are not coming home! No man can resist them; they will force you to talk. So do not let them take you! You must follow the plan!”
Reaching to his side, the young Palestinian felt the beveled grip of the small handgun stuffed in the holster at his hip. He pulled it out, shoved it to his temple, and pulled the trigger one last time.
But before he squeezed the trigger, a final thought rolled through his head, “If I cannot go home, I shall go to Allah instead.”
The two shots, less than three seconds apart, reverberated through the enormous hangar like rolling claps of thunder through the air. The echoes bounced off the metal walls, making it impossible to detect from which direction the shots had emanated. As the prime minister mortally fell to the floor, the security men sprang into action. Weapons extended from their bodies and steadied in their hands, they contracted the circle, closing in on their charge. Machine guns appeared out of nowhere. Shouts and screams filled the air. The security men moved constantly, their eyes searching, ready to shoot instantly. The prime minister’s terrified wife fell at his side, her voice choking on a scream. Two of the bodyguards fell on top of her, driving her to the floor, the guards placing their bodies between the woman and the shots. Another guard fell on the prime minister to protect him as well, but he quickly saw and knew he was lying on a dead man.
Another body fell from the rafters with a sickening thud. Sirens wailed from outside the hangar, and the doors rolled open again. Security men began to swarm through the hangar, seeming to emerge from everywhere, armed with machine guns and rocket launchers, grenades, shotguns, and radios.
Less than fifty seconds after the first shot had been fired, an ambulance screeched through the half-closed hangar doors, retrieved the prime minister’s body, and then screeched out again. Another ambulance followed, but this one was a decoy that would take another road. Both of the ambulances were escorted by dozens of wailing sirens and police, some on motorcycles, some in cars. The prime minister’s wife was shoved into one of the waiting sedans, which made its way to the hospital by yet a third route.
Twelve minutes after being shot, the prime minister of Israel’s body arrived at Tel Aviv’s closest hospital.
Union Station, Washington, D.C.
General Brighton’s cell phone went off, then his emergency beeper. Sara hesitated, mid-bite, as he punched a small button to quiet his beeper and flipped open his cell. “Brighton,” he answered in a no-nonsense voice.
He listened a moment, his face growing tight. “Are you certain?” he demanded, then listened again. “How long ago did it happen?” He looked at his watch. “Do they know who did it?” he asked. Then he gritted his teeth. “All right,” he said grimly. “You know what to do. Tell Grison I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep the recall going. Get everyone in. No, no, no, don’t send an escort, I’ll catch a cab instead. Be there in five minutes. Keep this line open and call if you get any word.”
The general flipped the phone shut, pushed back his chair, and stood. His face was ashen and though he was looking right at her, Sara knew he didn’t see her anymore. “What’s going on?” she asked timidly. She recognized that look, and it scared her now.
“Let’s go,” Brighton answered.
“What is it?” she said.
Her husband dropped a couple of bills on the table, took her by the hand, and pulled. “You had Ammon drop you off, right?” he asked her.
She nodded as they ran.
“OK. Take the Metro home and turn on the television. It should be on the news by then.”
“Neil, you’re scaring me,” she told him.
He pulled hard on her hand. “It’s OK,”
he answered.
Then he came to a sudden stop beside her.
He knew. He didn’t know how he knew, it didn’t make any sense, but he knew that it had started. The final war was here. He shivered and looked at his wife, staring into her eyes. “Go home,” he said simply. “Don’t worry. It’s OK. Everything will turn out all right. If I come home, it will be late, but I’ll call when I can.”
They had stopped at the bottom of the winding marble stairs that led down from the Americana Restaurant. He had to go right to the street. She had to go left to the Metro station. He turned and started walking, then came back to her. He held her shoulders tightly, looking into her eyes. “I love you,” he told her.
“I know you do,” she said.
Brighton kissed her and then turned and ran through the enormous brass doors that led out to the street. A small taxi turnout had been built in front of the station and he ran immediately to the front of the line. Two older men, both of them foreigners, were climbing into the first cab, but Brighton held their door open and bent down to them. “I must have this cab,” he said.
The two men scoffed at him. “Get lost,” one of them said, his English halting but self-assured.
“Please, I work for the White House. There is a problem. I really need this cab.”
The foreigner took in Brighton’s uniform and scoffed again. “Are you military?” he asked.
Brighton nodded eagerly.
“Then forget you,” the other sneered, and both of them laughed. One of the foreigners slapped the Plexiglas. “Let’s go!” he said.
The cabbie looked back and frowned. He was a huge black man with arms as thick as tree limbs and he didn’t look happy. He glared at Brighton’s uniform and then scowled at the men. “Get out,” he told them in a heavy Jamaican accent.
The two men glared back at him. They didn’t move, but they cursed bitterly.
Brighton reached into the cab and grabbed one of the men by his shirt, pulling him out of the cab and onto the street. The other man cried out, then rolled out of the other side of the cab. Brighton fell in and pulled both doors closed, and the cabbie turned around again. “Stupid French,” he muttered. “For one thing, they never tip. And their wives don’t even shave their legs.”
Brighton almost laughed. “Get me to the White House,” he said.
The cabbie looked surprised. “The White House. OK. You look like you’re in a hurry, mon.”
“You’ve got no idea, friend.”
“This some kind of national emergency?”
“You got it.”
“Cool, mon,” the cabbie smiled as he turned around and dropped his foot on the gas. “No worries,” he called back over his shoulder as he accelerated away. He started honking his horn to clear traffic before he even hit the main street. Brighton held on to the armrest as the cab sped along. The Jamaican screamed through the first red light, his horn blaring all the while. He bobbed, weaved and cut through traffic, driving like a madman.
Six minutes later they came to the White House. Brighton slapped him on the shoulder, threw some money in the front seat, then jumped out and ran.
Tel Aviv, Israel
The surgeons, the best in the world, worked frantically to save what was left of the prime minister’s brain. The surgery was chaotic, desperate, delicate, painstaking and frustratingly slow. But when it was over, they had failed. There was simply nothing else they could do.
The respirator breathed for him. The artificial heart pumped his blood through his veins. The electroencephalographic machines looked for brain activity, but there was nothing there.
The truth was the prime minister had died the moment the bullet had passed through his skull. Now there was no heartbeat, no breath, no life left in him at all.
The spirit had departed his body, leaving lifeless flesh and still blood.
Both of the surgeons recognized it. They had grown sensitive to the subtle changes that take place in the body when there is no more life there. So, though they fought frantically, in the end they knew they would fail.
Two hours after his hurried arrival at the hospital, the president of Israel spoke with the surgeons. He asked a few questions, nodding while he listened to the answers.
Walking to a chaotic reception area, he announced to the world that the prime minister was dead.
Jerusalem, Israel
The Knesset met in an emergency session before the sun had gone down. Outside the red limestone building in the center of the government complex at Gavet Ram, eighty thousand demonstrators had already gathered, a number that was growing by ten thousand every hour. Pockets of rioters had mixed with the crowd, and the Home Front Command had been called to help with crowd control. Although the city was technically in a lockdown, with curfew and travel restrictions imposed, it was impossible to know that from the size of the crowd. The mass of people was growing every minute in both numbers and rage, the Israelis’ emotions boiling like water.
Opposite the entrance to the Knesset building was an enormous menorah, symbol of the state of Israel. More than twelve feet wide and fifteen feet high, the sculptured menorah was carved with twenty-nine scenes depicting significant events in Israel’s history: the ancient prophets, the Ten Commandments, Ruth the Moabite, Spanish Jewry, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, creation of the modern nation-state. As the mass of mourning and bitter people gathered around the large sculpture, they sensed they would soon add another monumental scene to the carvings on the Menorah’s side. The history of their nation had been altered this day.
The crowd swarmed through the square, some chanting, and some singing. A few prayed, but most cursed, pumping their fists in the air.
At 9:15 A.M., not long after the sun went down, the meeting inside the Knesset was ready to begin. Only ninety-three of the one hundred twenty members were present, but it was a quorum, and the president stood at the podium and brought his gavel down. The dark wooden desks were positioned in a U-shape around him and the large chamber was noisy, the legislators talking and shouting and moving around. The president gaveled again, and the noise began to subside, though many still whispered in harsh, angry tones. The mood of the members matched perfectly the mood of the crowd on the street. Rage and resentment. A demand to do something now!
At 9:20 A.M., the emergency session of the Knesset was finally brought to order. The Knesset settled down to business.
At 9:38 A.M., a powerful explosion ripped through the room.
*******
It had taken more than three years for the bombs to be slipped into place inside the Knesset building. Piece by piece, pound by pound, the powerful C-4 plastic explosive had been smuggled into the building by a single maintenance worker, an immigrant Russian Jew who valued the money more than his adopted home. In order to avoid detection, the explosives had been molded into various forms: plastic milk bottles, fake bananas, radios, cell phones, books, the heels on his shoes, combs, CD cases—dozens of deceptions were required to gather enough explosives to make the nineteen high-power bombs. Once inside the building, the former Russian munitions expert had hidden the powerful explosives inside small metal drums filled with mineral oil to avoid detection from bomb-sniffing dogs, then hidden the drums inside the ceiling air vents. The last thing he did before hiding the bombs was to attach the remote-controlled, long-life RD-182 detonators.
At 9:38 A.M., the detonation signal had been sent from a small transmitter outside the government square, bringing the ceiling on the Knesset building down.
Smoke, fire, dirt, and debris filled the night air. The explosions were so powerful, and so brilliantly placed, that the entire roof collapsed, along with two outer walls. Nineteen powerful fireballs rose and merged together into one puffy, black ball, the outer edges illuminated by the heat of the core. The smoke rose, then drifted east, carried by the Mediterranean wind.
The explosions enveloped the crowd in a wave of smoke and heat. Those nearest the building were blown to the ground, pieces of broken tile and m
ortar piercing their skin and tearing their clothes. Everyone felt the heat, but no one was burned, for the police had kept the angry crowd a safe distance away. The debris began to rain down on the people: chunks of sandstone and rebar, cement smeared in blood, pieces of human skin and hair. As the explosions rocked the air, eighty thousand people turned as one, watching the building come down.
The crowd stood in horror, their disbelief so complete that not one of them spoke. A silent hush fell upon them as the sounds of wailing sirens filled the air.
The crumbled building was on fire, the smoke black and thick. The crowd remained in a stupor of horror and awe. Then the moans could be heard from the wounded, their voices drifting through the flames to lift over the silent crowd.
TWELVE
Headquarters, Israeli Defense Center, twelve kilometers west of Jerusalem, Israel
The senior Israeli military leadership had been evacuated to the underground bunker, a facility hardened against nuclear devices, cut deep into the granite that had been exposed by ten thousand years of wind and rainwater washing toward the Soreq River.
The Israeli Central Command Center seemed to cycle through moments of chaos, energy and uneasy silence. Three dozen officers manned their posts, taking in messages, coordinating rescue attempts, securing borders, and placing their military forces on alert. Outside the hidden facility, a dozen military helicopters circled in the air, ready for the orders to fly to Jerusalem and evacuate key members of the government to the underground capital.
Everyone knew things were different now. Israel wasn’t just responding to another terrorist attack. They were going to war.
Inside the CCC, the commanding general, Marshal Malka, watched the updates with a face of stone. He moved slowly and spoke in a calm voice, always in perfect control. While confusion and fear boiled around him, he was completely composed.
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