The Jericho Pact

by Rachel Lee

  Miriam turned to face her. “Is your biological clock ticking?” As she had hoped, Renate smiled.

  “No. I never wanted children, for some reason. But I had other dreams.” She sighed and puffed on her cigarette again. “This is not a job for a woman,” she said finally. “No.”

  Their eyes met, and understanding passed between them.

  “But it’s our job, anyway,” Renate said. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out beneath her heel. “You cannot come on this mission, Miriam. You understand why.”

  Miriam nodded reluctantly. “If the Director of National Intelligence for the U.S. were to be found to have participated in a military operation on foreign soil…”

  “The consequences would not bear thinking of. Come, we must prepare.”

  Ahmed Ahsami and Sheik al-Hazeer watched the flat screen TV in the sheik’s opulent Rome hotel suite. Ahmed felt penned in, watched at every moment, first by Abdul and now by the sheik. Why was he suddenly so distrusted? Why had al-Hazeer come to Rome? He seemed to have nothing of import to convey. Certainly he had not summoned Ahmed simply to watch TV with him.

  Had al-Hazeer in some way changed Saif’s original agenda without telling him? Ahmed began to fear this was so. Consequently, he had only half his attention on the unfolding events in Europe near Strasbourg. The other half was focused squarely on the sheik, who nibbled on dates and sipped expensive bottled water from France.

  “This Soult,” al-Hazeer remarked. “I do not like this man.”

  “I don’t, either.” Ahmed tried again. “We should be offering all those Muslims homes in Arab countries.”

  Al-Hazeer frowned. “Too many of them are Shi’a, the curse of the Arab lands. Let them stay.”

  Ahmed, too, had grown up in a strict Sunni faith, but education had tempered that. Since living in the United States and Europe for his undergraduate and graduate degrees, he had decided the conflict between Sunni and Shi’a was hardly any different than the conflict between Catholics and Protestants, and they all managed to live together.

  But the most fundamentalist of the Sunni populations believed the Shi’a weren’t even Muslim. Wahhabist Sunni clerics tried to block the Shi’a from making the Haj, the required pilgrimage to Mecca. In a region comprised of near theocratic dictatorships, the Shi’a had no voice in government save in Iran and Iraq, despite being nearly half of the population in the Middle East. And as if by a cruel twist of Allah’s will, the Shi’a were a majority wherever there was oil: in Iran, Iraq, Bahrain and eastern Saudi Arabia. Political power commensurate with their population would put the Shi’a in control of the world’s oil supply.

  Ahmed rubbed his chin and studied al-Hazeer. “So you would let our fellow Arabs die because many are Shi’a?”

  Al-Hazeer frowned at him. “Heretics who spit in their food. What is wrong with you, Ahmed? You know they are an abomination before Allah.”

  Ahmed nodded, though he did not agree. “But still, they are our people.”

  Al-Hazeer shrugged. “We would be better off without them. All of them.”

  The way he said that chilled Ahmed’s spine. After what he considered to be a safe amount of time, he rose. “I must get back, if you want me to keep control of our part of the operation away from the Europeans.”

  Al-Hazeer waved him away without even looking at him. That as much as anything solidified Ahmed’s sense of foreboding.

  Al-Hazeer’s voice stopped him at the door. “Do not get too close to these Europeans, my friend. They are tools, nothing more.”

  Renate pointed to a series of pictures, maps and diagrams that she had taped to one wall. The room above the restaurant—Office 119’s temporary headquarters—was tightly packed with Office 119 personnel, operatives from Saif Alsharaawi and the American special ops team that had been sent to lend their expertise.

  Renate’s finger tapped the map, drawing everyone’s attention. “Colonel Hector Vasquez has an office in the Parliament building, but we can’t get in there. Not in strength, anyway. The entire complex is crawling with French and European security right now, and they’re on high alert. But here—” she pointed to the map of Strasbourg “—is his apartment on Rue Twinger. We take him there.”

  Renate and Jefe had spent the past six hours making contact with an asset in Strasbourg and convincing the man—a mid-level administrator in the European Union—that this was more important than whatever Jules Soult had his office working on at the moment. Jefe had finally turned the screws on the man, threatening to expose the second mistress the man was keeping. His wife might not have minded the first mistress, but one of those two women would certainly mind the third.

  The man had relented, developing a sudden stomach virus that gave him a reason to leave his office and spend the day chasing down the information that Renate was now presenting to Miriam and the Americans.

  “You made arrangements for helicopters, yes?” Renate asked Miriam.

  “Yes,” Miriam said. “They’re UH-60s…Black Hawks.”

  “Do they have the range to make the trip?” Jefe asked. “We’re not going to be able to refuel in France.”

  “We won’t need to,” Miriam said. “We fly Rome to Aviano and refuel the birds there. Then through the Alpine passes to Mulhouse, south of Freiberg. That will be our P-N-R. After that, it’s a half-hour hop to Strasbourg.”

  “P-N-R?” Renate asked.

  “Point of no return,” Miriam explained. “We’ll need two birds for the mission. One for the insertion team at Rue Twinger, and a second to drop Steve and Miguel at the Parc de l’Orangerie and then cover the extraction at the primary target. We’re leaving with three, but things can go wrong. Mulhouse is our P-N-R. If there’s a problem, that’s our last chance to abort.”

  “Flight times?” Renate asked.

  Miriam looked down at a page of notes. “Two hours to Aviano. Two and a half to Mulhouse. Then a half hour into Strasbourg.”

  “Six hours, including refueling,” Renate said, adding the numbers in her head.

  “No, that included refueling times,” Miriam said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t make that clear. Five hours total.”

  Renate nodded and looked at her watch. Twenty-two hours left of the twenty-four that Herr Bundeskanzler Müller had finally promised to President Rice. “We must work fast. I want to be in the air in two hours.”

  “Agreed,” Miriam said. “Tell us more about the flat on Rue Twinger.”

  “It’s a second-floor flat,” Renate said, pointing to a poorly composed photograph. Their asset had obviously been in a hurry and was not an expert photographer. “The one on the right—here.”

  “That’s the third floor,” one of the Americans said.

  Renate looked at him, confused, until Jefe spoke. “In Europe, there’s the ground floor, then the first floor and so on.”

  “Ahh,” the man said. “Understood.”

  “The roof is flat and mostly clear,” Renate said. “You can rappel onto it, yes?”

  “We can fast rope onto a kitchen table if we have to,” the man, obviously the leader of the special ops team, said. “But it would be nice if we weren’t trying to dodge power lines on the way down. We need a photo of the roof.”

  “I don’t have one,” Renate said.

  “We need one by the time we get to Mulhouse,” the man said. “That’s go-no-go intel.”

  “What Major Conrad means,” Miriam said, “is that they need to know what the roof looks like, so they can make their final briefing. They don’t want to be landing on the wrong roof, and, as he said, they don’t want to be swinging around between power lines. Without that intel, we’ll be forced to abort at Mulhouse.”

  “We’ll get it,” Jefe said.

  “What about extraction?” Conrad asked, stepping up to the map. “We can fast rope in, but we can’t fast rope out. That street looks awfully narrow. What about here, at this intersection?”

  Renate looked where the tip of his finger was resting. There was a lar
ge open area where Rue Daniel Hilz, Rue Trubner and Rue Massenet merged. It was less than one hundred meters from the target building. “Yes, that is good.”

  “Yes,” Conrad agreed.

  He looked at the photos and maps for a moment, as if calculating times and distances, the very same thing Renate was doing.

  “Ten minutes on the ground?” Renate asked.

  “I make it twelve,” Conrad replied. “One minute from insertion until entry. Two minutes to subdue Vasquez. Six minutes for the document team to grab his computer’s hard drive, cell phone and desk files while we’re getting him to the extraction point. Two minutes for them to meet us at the birds and load up. We’ll be skids up within sixty seconds after that.”

  “That close to the European Parliament complex,” Renate said, shaking her head. This was the same area of the city where they had worked before. It looked larger on the photos than it was on the ground. “Twelve minutes…”

  “Yes, we’ll get resistance,” Conrad said.

  Resistance. Such a sanitary term for French police and European security agents rushing to the deafening thwap-thwap-thwap of American helicopters in the streets of Strasbourg, the rotor wash throwing up debris and tearing off roof shingles, door gunners ready to lay down a deadly hail of lead from miniguns.

  “The second bird should be a distraction,” Renate said, thinking aloud. “After they drop Steve and Miguel, they’ll stay here at the park. Close enough to cover the action at Rue Twinger if needed, but in clear view of the Parliament building.” She tapped the map. “They’ll go here, to the park, to what they can see. Our primary team will be five blocks away. By the time they figure out there’s another bird in the area, the primary bird will be on the way out.”

  “So we shouldn’t have to do any shooting?” Miriam asked, thinking of the repercussions if they did.

  “Not if everything goes right, Ma’am,” Major Conrad said. He shrugged. “But life being what it is…”

  “Something will go wrong,” Renate said, nodding.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Conrad said.

  Something always did. The question was not whether but what and when. And when it did, would they incite the very conflagration they were trying to prevent?

  “These guys are the best in the world at what they do, Renate,” Miriam said, as if reading her thoughts. “And we have very tight rules of engagement.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Major Conrad said to Renate. “We’re not cowboys. None of us wants to shoot anyone.”

  “I understand,” Renate said. “But I’m still going to worry until we’re back in Germany.”

  “So will I,” Miriam said. She turned to Steve. “You have somewhere you need to be, and not much time.”

  Steve nodded, rising from his chair. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Don’t be late,” Renate said.

  She wasn’t entirely comfortable running two separate, concurrent operations. She was even less comfortable not knowing what Steve and Miguel were going to do. But Miriam kept Steve’s confidences as tightly as she herself kept Lawton’s.

  She looked at the maps on the wall, and the complex series of lines and arrows detailing the operations.

  Oh, yes, she thought. Something would go wrong.

  Walking back from al-Hazeer’s hotel, Ahmed was stopped by Hassan ibn Hassan, the doctor he had put to work helping the relocated Muslims. The man was clearly full of fury and in no mood to be deterred by mere words.

  Ahmed smothered a sigh. “What is wrong, brother?”

  “They are moving us.”

  Ahmed froze, astonished. “You are already in a zone.”

  “There are too many of us, they say. So I and my family must once again move, this time taking a train to Fiorenza tomorrow. They are madmen! And my son Ali is so angry right now I fear he will think about doing something he should not.”

  “I will speak to someone,” Ahmed said, though he was not certain to whom. “I will do something.”

  “You can do nothing,” Hassan said bitterly. “I demanded an explanation, and they tell me only that Rome is too crowded. Too crowded! I have lived here all my life. Of course, it is only too crowded for the Shi’a.”

  So that was it, Ahmed thought. The Shi’a community within the protection zone was being broken up and sent to various other cities. In Fiorenza the Hassan family would know no one. They would truly be alone. Ahmed wondered if al-Hazeer or men like him were behind this move to break up anything resembling community among the Shi’a.

  He drew a deep breath, and reminded himself that matters could be worse. Far worse. He had seen the news out of Strasbourg before he had set out that morning. Yes, matters could be far worse.

  He clasped Hassan’s shoulder, more worried than he wanted the man to know. “Go, my brother. Go as they tell you. Tell Ali that I will need his help in coming days, so he must be patient. Tell him to do nothing stupid. I will need him very much.” It was not true, but he would think of something.

  Hassan nodded. “Thank you, brother.” His voice still trembled with anger. “I cannot go home until I am calm. I will walk around, yes?”

  “Yes. And I’ll find a way to fix this. In sh’Allah.”

  “In sh’Allah.”

  He watched Hassan stride away, then turned to go to the restaurant. Matters were growing worse by the second.

  36

  Rome, Italy

  A s if by magic, Nathan Cohen walked up to the Trevi Fountain just as Veltroni and Steve arrived. Veltroni didn’t want to think about what that might mean. In fact, for years now, he’d resolutely avoided thinking about it. This man found him every time Veltroni wanted to see him. That meant a comprehensive body of intelligence that Veltroni found too troubling to ponder.

  “Father Lorenzo,” Cohen said, nodding first to Steve and then Veltroni. “It is good to see you.”

  “I didn’t realize the two of you were acquainted,” Veltroni said.

  “It’s recent,” Cohen said. “When you were worried about him in Guatemala, I checked on him.”

  Steve nodded, but Veltroni thought there was something awkward in his face. There was a connection between Steve and Cohen that Veltroni had not anticipated. Perhaps that was the source of Cohen’s bafflingly complete knowledge of the Stewards? At some level, and to his surprise, Veltroni found that thought comforting. For he could not find it in himself to distrust Steve Lorenzo.

  Steve glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time. I will be leaving in forty minutes to retrieve the codex.”

  “You have found it?” Veltroni asked.

  Steve seemed to fumble for a response. “I have. And, I am sorry to say, I do not feel I can turn it over to the Church. Please do not ask me to explain, Monsignore. I beg you to trust me in this.”

  Veltroni studied Steve’s eyes, then looked over at Cohen. Steve’s face was dark with worry, but the Israeli could have been choosing a loaf of bread at the market for all that his face revealed.

  Veltroni had known this moment would come. Moreover, he knew what decision he had to make. “Steve, you must do what you think is right.”

  “Thank you, Monsignore,” Steve said. “And now you must speak with Mr. Cohen. I must go.”

  “Shalom, my friend,” Cohen said, shaking Steve’s hand.

  “It would be nice to know peace again,” Steve said, sadness in his eyes. Then he turned and embraced Veltroni. “Perhaps one day we will.”

  “You will not be returning to Rome, then,” Veltroni said. It was not a question, for his heavy heart already knew the answer.

  “No, Monsignore,” Steve said. “Not for a time.”

  “Go with God,” Veltroni said.

  “And you, my friend,” Steve said.

  Veltroni drew a ragged breath as Steve strode away. He felt as if he might weep. Once again, his friend was walking into a darkness from which he might not return. Only Cohen’s hand on his shoulder brought Veltroni back to the moment.

  “He is a faithful
servant,” Cohen said.

  Veltroni nodded. “He is too good for this world. I have spent nearly three decades keeping secrets, dealing with the holy and the venal, whispering in the shadows of the saints. But I have known no other man like him.”

  Giuseppe Veltroni lost his struggle against the tears. In his heart, he knew that he would never see Steve Lorenzo again. He had just said his last goodbye to the only son he would ever have.

  He looked at Cohen. “You will keep him safe?”

  Cohen’s lips tightened for a moment. “I wish I could promise that, Monsignore. We must trust He whose hands are greater than our own. In the meantime, there is something you are to ask of me, yes?”

  Veltroni studied Cohen. He knew so little of this man, and yet now he had no choice but to trust him. “Yes, there is. I need to see the Holy Father. Tonight.”

  Cohen’s head tipped for an instant. “And how can I help you with this?”

  “There are many who seek the Holy Father’s ear,” Veltroni said. “And some who would monopolize it. You have a talent for…being where you want to be, when you want to be there. I have need of that talent.”

  He watched as Cohen processed the information behind the words. Finally Cohen nodded. “Yes, Monsignore, I can help you do that. May I ask what you intend?”

  The die was cast. Cardinal Estevan would doubtless remove him when this was over. But he saw no other choice.

  “The Holy Father is a good man,” Veltroni began. “The world needs the voice of a good man.”

  Querbach, Germany

  It was madness, Hans Neufel thought. From his position on the ridge, he could clearly see the French pioneers laying the heavy pontoon bridges across the Kinzig. He had taken their precise coordinates, using his tank’s laser rangefinder. Yet no artillery was falling on the bridge builders. No Typhoons swept in to bomb them. He could only watch them work.

  “Once the bridges are finished, they will pour across the river,” he said.