He had done the right thing—not the easy thing, but the right thing—and inside he was calm.
It would be a very long time before he would see her again. The world would be different. So would Luke. So would Alicia. Everything would have changed.
Chapter Thirty
The timing of the attacks had to be precisely coordinated and extremely compressed. Like an enormous tsunami that would crash over the land, the attacks had to be unexpected and devastating, with no chance of turning them back. The destruction had to be wide and deep, completely demoralizing and debilitating in every way. And they had to create a sense of passing, as if the old world was gone, leaving normal life shattered like broken glass on the floor.
They had to leave the world utterly breathless, with no chance to respond, no chance to think or debate or wonder or prod. This wasn’t a military battle, King Abdullah knew that, it was a battle of wills, a test of resolve. So there was no desire on his part for measured escalation, no strategy of attacking, then sitting back and weighing the response, attacking and negotiating, trying to score a political point. Indeed, just the opposite. The entire purpose of the plan was to create a sense of complete vertigo, overwhelming devastation, as if things had immediately and irreparably spun out of control. At the end of the day (and a day was all it would take) his plan had to shatter the old preconditions, leaving no sense of proportion at all.
It had to be quick: BANG! BANG! BANG! and then it was through.
Then would come the opportunity to rewrite the rules.
Then would come the opportunity to reorder the world.
* * *
The first attack would never have been successful but for the fact that the enemies of Israel knew a secret that no one else knew.
And though the terrorists had long been aware of the quirk in the aircraft hangar construction, they had waited, ever patient, for the right time to hit. With such an ace up their sleeves, they had been willing to delay, willing to stay at the table and keep their hand in the game until the stakes were the highest and they could win the whole thing.
So the attacks had been in the planning for just over nine years. Logistics, munitions, communications, materials, recruitment, decoys, reconnaissance, explosives, and hardware—the list of technical specialists involved in the planning was very long indeed. And though almost a hundred men had been involved in the preparations at one time or another, only a handful ever knew all the details.
Unlike the Israeli military, that had to rely on its superior technology and advanced weapons to protect its lands, the Islamists kept it simple and did it the old-fashioned way. Nothing new. Nothing fancy. A simple and straightforward plan.
All they needed was a man who was willing to die (there were many) and a single opportunity to fire. Then great patience. And a rifle. And just a tiny bit of luck.
Ben Gurion International Airport
Tel Aviv, Israel
The Israeli prime minister’s aircraft touched down at nineteen minutes past four on a hot afternoon. The aircraft, one of five different, unmarked airplanes the prime minister used for his out-of-country travels, was a small corporate twin-engine jet with civilian markings and an untraceable tail number. It touched down on the thousand-foot marking on runway 08, the sun at its back, decelerated slowly on the twelve-thousand foot runway, then took the high speed taxiway to the right, which led toward a large steel hangar on the west side of the airport. As always, the perimeter around the government hangar had been secured with uniformed soldiers, though there were plainclothes security officers also on patrol. Three black sedans waited in a line in front of the hangar, where the enormous metal doors had been rolled almost shut, leaving room for the automobiles to squeeze through but not so much as to reveal the outlines of the other four Israeli aircraft that were hidden inside: a white G-4, a highly modified Boeing RC-135 provided by the United States government, and two blue and red C-21s with “Mediterranean Airways” painted on their tails. As Talon One, the call sign for the prime minister’s aircraft this day, taxied toward the hangar, the three black vehicles waited until the enormous doors began to roll back, allowing enough space for the aircraft to taxi inside. Following the taxi lines, which changed from yellow to red once inside the threshold of the hangar, the pilot taxied quickly, then cut his engines and switched to auxiliary power, allowing the waiting vehicles to follow the aircraft without fear of having their windows blown out or being rolled over by the jet engine blast. Inside the hangar, the vehicles swung around to the right side of the aircraft, and the hangar doors were rolled shut again to avoid exposing the prime minister to any view from outside the hangar.
Thirty seconds after the aircraft had come to a stop, the cabin door opened and the small, chrome steps extended automatically from the aircraft’s floor. Two security men stepped from the aircraft and moved quickly down the stairs, but the prime minister and his wife did not emerge.
Outside the hangar, the uniformed servicemen moved on patrol. Three sniper teams had been positioned on the roofs of nearby hangars, and a single military helicopter flew slowly overhead. A thousand feet farther out, another security perimeter had been established with motion sensors, infrared detectors, and ultra-sensitive listening devices. Behind an enormous civilian airline hangar on the south end of the runway and hidden behind a row of trees, two Apache attack helicopters were waiting, their rotors spinning, ready to escort the PM’s convoy to Tel Aviv. Each of their munitions winglets was crowded with air-to-ground rockets, and their nose-mounted Gatling guns swung quickly, following the movements of the gunner’s eyes. The single airport road that led to the hangar had been secured. Beyond that, the main airport road was crowded with cars, taxis and buses. Half a dozen unmarked police cars moved through the traffic. Inside each vehicle, police officers watched the other cars carefully through their deeply tinted windows.
The security measures around the prime minister of Israel were extraordinary even during the most peaceful times—and things were not peaceful now. The Israeli security operations were operating in DEFPOS (Defensive Posture) Two, the second highest state of alert. The security apparatus protecting the state of Israel had heard enough rumors and seen enough message traffic to have their ears to the wall. Over the past week it had only gotten worse. They had seen too many suspicious travelers moving in and out of Gaza and picked up enough troubling information from Iran and Saudi Arabia not to be on an increased state of alert.
Although they had their suspicions, they didn’t know exactly what the threat might be. But they had learned from experience it was best to be prepared. So the chief of security had ordered additional precautions, demanding extra layers of security to be added to an already impenetrable security machine.
* * *
Because the aircraft hangar had originally been designed and built for civilian purposes and only later converted for use as the prime minister’s official hangar, it had not been constructed with security as the primary concern. And though the hangar had been modified and upgraded by the Israeli Secret Police (the agency responsible for protecting the PM and other government leaders), there remained tiny gaps in the security wall.
One of those gaps was up high in the structural beams of the hangar, the huge steel girders that provided the skeleton structure the sheet-metal coverings were fastened to. Deep behind the girders above the hangar’s rolling doors, four of the crossbeams joined together and formed a tiny crawl space: fourteen inches wide, six feet long, and twelve inches high.
This was the little secret that the terrorists knew.
Though the entire building was always searched multiple times before the PM ever arrived in the hangar, none of these patrols climbed up to the rafters to check the girders above. And because these security patrols were always initiated five days before the PM was scheduled to use the hangar, any other time the hangar was more or less accessible to the airport at large. So if a man were to arrive before the regular security patrols had begun, and if he w
ere extraordinarily patient, he could conceal himself in the dead space of these girders, making it impossible for him to be seen from the ground. Then, once the security patrols had begun, if he remained in a prone position, the thick steel beams would protect him from both the infrared scanners and the motion detectors that were used to sweep through the hangar every two hours or so. If he were very quiet, he might even avoid the sensitive listening devices that were planted throughout the hangar but only turned on once the PM was inbound.
* * *
The assassin had been waiting in the rafters of the hangar for almost eight days, hidden above the section of crossbeams almost directly above the hangar doors. He had not eaten in two days now, and his water was gone. The batteries on his radio had grown so weak as to make it completely unreadable, so he had taken out his tiny earpiece and let it fall to the metal beside his shoulder. It didn’t really matter. There was no one left to talk to anymore. He had received the final instructions, and his commander had long ago slipped away.
Eight days before, under cover of night, the assassin had infiltrated the prime minister’s hangar. Because the Israeli leader hadn’t been expected for more than a week, the security forces were on their lowest state of alert. Once inside the hangar, he’d used a small crossbow to shoot a thin rappeling rope over the crossbeams above the hangar floor, pulled himself up, secured the rope, then hidden in the tiny crawl space directly above the rolling doors. There he had waited. He had enough water for a week, enough food for five days, a radio so he would know when the prime minister was expected to arrive, and a high-powered rifle to kill him when he did.
Now, after all of that time lying on the hard metal, his muscles were cramping miserably, leaving his body to hurt all the way to his bones. He was exhausted and weary in his body and soul. The yellow pills he took to keep him constipated had tied his stomach in knots, and the little plastic bags he had filled with his urine were beginning to leak.
Worse, though, was the problem of having far too much time to think. Too much time to lie there and consider his standing in the next world. Too much time to stare up at the girders and wonder what he’d been taught.
It was difficult to consider murder-suicide for eight days without slipping into a funk. And the pain of lying on the steel girders, wallowing in his own sweat and urine, only added to the blackness and the ache in his bones.
But the painkillers helped, and the Valium seemed to mellow the fear in his head.
And now it was almost over.
He lay there and listened to the aircraft’s jet engines spool down and the hangar doors begin to roll closed. His heart skipped a beat when he heard the voices below.
His muscles were so cramped from lying on the metal that he didn’t know if he could stand or even push himself to his knees. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to. From where he lay, he had a perfect angle on the prime minister’s jet. All he had to do was lift his head half an inch above the girders.
Despite the pain and depression, the assassin was ready to complete the mission he’d spent years training for. He was in extraordinary physical shape, knew how to operate and repair his own radio, could take apart and reassemble his collapsible rifle in less than fifty seconds (fifty-two seconds in the dark), and could pull himself up a sixty-foot rope with just his hands and his feet. Most important, he was an expert marksman who could shoot a bullet through the face on a twenty-dollar bill at three hundred feet.
Now, after years of training, his mission was here.
The PM would be emerging from the aircraft any moment now.
The Palestinian adjusted his weight to his side, his muscles and joints screaming with every move. He was so hot and dehydrated that his vision was blurred. But he saw well enough. And the target was so close.
Peering over the metal crossbeam, he had a clear view of the door to the prime minister’s jet. It was forty feet below him and thirty feet to his right. It would be like shooting a pig with a shotgun from three feet away. He wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t miss. Not from this range.
When the two security men emerged from the aircraft, the shooter had already positioned his weapon over the edge of the beam. He steadied the barrel on the metal rafter, then placed his finger on the trigger, feeling the pressure of the metal against his skin.
Four days before the Israeli prime minister had been scheduled to return from his two-week trip overseas, the aircraft hangar had been swarmed with regular security patrols. Two days before his arrival, security agents had taken control of the hangar from the officers and mechanics whose job it was to maintain the prime minister’s jets. Beginning twelve hours before the prime minister had been scheduled to arrive, the hangar was swept with regular security patrols using IR detectors and explosive sniffing dogs.
This was the easy part for the security team. Out of all the possible locations the PM could be hit, inside his own hangar seemed the least likely of all. So the Secret Service men relaxed just a little as the aircraft taxied in.
The Israeli prime minister stepped to the open aircraft door. He was old now, and not as agile as he used to be, so he held the handrail carefully as he descended the narrow stairs. His wife was walking behind him, her hand on his shoulders to help steady him. Four feet below him, two dark-suited men waited. They faced away from the steps, their backs to him. A half-dozen other agents formed a circle around the jet. The rear door swung open in the third black sedan, and one of the agents at the bottom of the stairs turned around. The prime minister reached the cement floor and started walking, his wife at his side. It was only twenty feet to the waiting vehicle. The security forces closed in around him as he walked to the jet.
After more than two weeks touring through Europe, the prime minister was exceptionally happy to be back in his country again. He always felt safe here. And this was his home. He took a deep breath, smelling the tang of salt in the air, then glanced at his wife and smiled happily.
The prime minister of Israel received death threats almost every day. He’d been living under the constant threat of assassination for almost five years. Before that, as an army and intelligence officer, he’d lived through combat and covert missions, including the bloody 1967 Six-Day War. Through it all, it had never occurred to him even once that he would not die from old age.
But the Palestinian watching from above him knew he had just drawn his last breath.
Union Station
Washington, D.C.
Union Station was always crowded with travelers and tourists as well as locals who worked in the District, mostly on Capitol Hill. The station was a large and beautiful building, built on three levels, with a classical stone and pillar entrance, dozens of restaurants, a movie theater, and a shopping center as well. The Amtrak station fed the busy eastern corridor between Boston, New York, and D.C., and the Metro provided easy access for those who commuted to work.
And though Union Station was a standard tourist location, it was popular with the locals as well. A couple of the restaurants were very good, and it was close enough to the Capitol and the congressional office buildings that it was an easy walk for lunch.
Neil Brighton and his guest sat at a small table in the third level of the Americana restaurant. Their table, very private, was positioned in a small alcove looking over the main floor, surrounded by potted flowers and plants. Brighton was wearing a blue Air Force shirt, with his pilot’s wings on his chest and two stars on his shoulders, but not his formal blue overcoat. Sara was wearing a blue dress with white pearls. She looked younger than he did, he knew that, but he had grown used to the fact. “Is this your wife or your daughter?” How many times had he heard that line before? But he didn’t mind—in fact, it only made him more proud of his wife. He had wondered all his life why she had agreed to marry him, and the marvel of her enduring beauty only made him love her more.
So he gazed at his wife, her blonde hair and white smile, and wished once again that he could go home with her. They could sit in the backy
ard by the pool and absorb the afternoon sun. She could talk. He would listen. That was all he wanted to do. He didn’t want to think, solve any problems, or make any decisions right now. What would he give to go home, throw on some shorts and sandals, squeeze some lemonade, and just sit and not have to think? What would he give to lie in the sun, close his eyes, and just listen to her voice? What would he give to spend an afternoon just watching the sun in her hair?
How much had he given up already? How much had his family sacrificed?
Sara stared at him and he forced a smile. But she didn’t buy it. She knew that he was concerned. She picked at her salad, piercing a marble-size tomato and placing it in her mouth. “You look tired,” she said.
He nodded. He knew that. And he felt worse than he looked.
“I got an email from Sam this morning,” he said, not wanting to talk about himself.
“Good. How is he? Anything new?”
Brighton thought of the Cherokees, knowing he couldn’t say anything. “He’s fine,” he answered simply. “He didn’t say much. You know, he’s a man of few words.”
Sara didn’t say anything, but her face lighted up. Any mention of her three sons always made her smile.
She picked another tomato, then said, “I was talking with Ammon this morning. Did you know Luke is planning on going to Europe after Christmas? He wants to go see some of his old friends from Germany during the break.”
Brighton’s forehead scrunched. “Is Ammon going with him?” he asked.
Sara shook her head. “He doesn’t think that he can afford it—”
“But Luke thinks that he can!”
“Neil, you know how he is.”
“He’s supposed to be saving his money for his mission.”
“He says he’s got it figured out. He can use some of our frequent flyer miles and stay with his friends. He told me it wouldn’t cost him more than a couple days skiing, which is what Ammon plans to do.”
The Great and Terrible Page 79