No one nodded. No one even spoke a word. Yet there was no doubt they had all received and accepted the message.
Then Ansari uttered his final request, and there was a fire in the man’s eyes that Entezam had not seen in months. “Children, listen—listen to my voice. The desert sands are now slipping through my fingers. Soon I will face the Day of Judgment, where my good deeds must outweigh my sins. So as my third request, I ask you to grant me a gift I can take with me when I go to face Allah. Avenge for me the blood of Alireza al-Zanjani, our beloved son, who gave his life for our cause. Give no rest to those responsible for his murder. Send them to the fires of hell—and for the sake of Allah, do it soon, while I still can hear of it and smile.
“My final request, my sons, is this: do whatever is necessary to kill the Israeli prime minister and the American president. Kill Reuven Eitan and Andrew Clarke.”
12
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.—17 NOVEMBER
“Gentlemen, POTUS will see you now.”
At precisely 7 a.m. local time, President Clarke’s executive secretary nodded toward the open door. The Secret Service agent standing post stepped aside, and four men rose from antique chairs and headed into the Oval Office.
Richard Stephens, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, entered first. Almost sixty-five, the former three-term senior senator from Arizona had served for almost a decade as chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Along the way, he had emerged as the widely respected dean of the U.S. intel community even though he was technically outranked by the director of national intelligence. The DNI, however, was not present that morning. He was traveling with Secretary of State Margaret Whitney on a five-country trip through Belgium, the Baltics, and Germany, still trying to calm Washington’s NATO allies after the crisis the Kremlin had sparked just two months earlier.
Behind Stephens was Lieutenant General Barry Evans, the president’s national security advisor. Now sixty-two, the retired Army three-star had first made a name for himself helping Norman Schwarzkopf plan and execute the liberation of Kuwait. From there, Evans had gone on to run U.S. Special Operations Command and later served as deputy commander of Central Command. Bitter at not receiving his fourth star, he’d retired and become a military analyst for FoxNews and written two military thrillers. The first had done quite well. It had even been optioned by Hollywood, though it had not yet been produced.
Bill McDermott entered next. The forty-six-year-old deputy national security advisor was a former Marine. He’d enlisted after finishing Yale and served three tours of duty in Afghanistan and two in Iraq. For a time he’d commanded the unit Marcus Ryker and Pete Hwang had served in. Upon returning to civilian life, McDermott had gone back to school, earned an MBA from Wharton and a master’s in national security studies from Georgetown, before making a killing on Wall Street. Only then had he let himself be drafted back into government service.
Marcus was the last man in and the youngest of the four. The last time he’d been in the Oval Office, he’d been serving on the Presidential Protective Detail. Coming back stirred up memories he didn’t care to revisit. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never return. Now, once again, events had changed everything.
The president was sitting behind the Resolute desk, absorbed in the Wall Street Journal. The four men walked over to the couches in the center of the room and waited. A moment later, Clarke removed his reading glasses, came around the desk, motioned for them to take their seats, and took his own by the fireplace. A steward entered through a side door and served coffee.
“Agent Ryker, America owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude,” Clarke began. “Again.”
“Well, it wasn’t just me, sir,” Marcus demurred. “Kailea Curtis did an incredible job. Just wish we’d gotten there sooner.”
“A whole lot more people would have died if you two hadn’t gotten there when you did. But let me extend my condolences to you on the loss of your pastor. From what I understand, you two were very close.”
“We were, Mr. President. Thank you.”
“I tried to call his widow . . .”
“Maya,” Marcus offered.
“Right, well, I called her last night, but they said she was still in surgery.”
“I just came from the hospital, sir,” Marcus noted. “She’s under heavy sedation.”
“When will the memorial service be?”
“Probably Saturday, but I think Maya will have to make that call.”
“I’d like to attend.”
“That would mean a great deal to everyone, Mr. President.”
Clarke then turned to his national security advisor. “Where are we with the latest casualty count?” he asked.
“Nine dead, not counting the shooter,” General Evans said. “Twenty-seven wounded, including six critically, several of whom might not make it.”
Marcus could see the anger in the president’s eyes.
“And to top it all off, we lost Janelle Thomas?” Clarke asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Evans confirmed. “It’s a staggering loss to our team and to me personally, sir. Few people have worked more closely on crafting your Middle East peace plan than Janelle, and she was supposed to fly out with me Tuesday night to help sell it.”
“So what was it?” Clarke asked. “Wrong place, wrong time?”
Evans turned to Marcus. “You were there,” he said. “What’s your take?”
“Mr. President, I believe Deputy Secretary Thomas was the intended target of the attack,” Marcus replied.
“Based on what?”
“Well, sir, it’s now clear these were professional terrorists. The guy I killed was from Qatar. He traveled to Iraq and joined al Qaeda after we liberated the country. Killed a lot of Americans. Then moved to Syria and joined ISIS. Bugged out to Europe just before the Caliphate fell. Apparently spent most of his time in Italy or Greece; then about six months ago he just disappeared off the grid.”
“And the guy you took down in the bell tower?”
“He isn’t talking, but his fingerprints are. Born in Turkey. Joined al Qaeda. Fought in Afghanistan. Later in Iraq. Then joined ISIS in Syria. Best we can tell, that’s where the two met. Then he, too, drops off the grid. We have no idea where he spent the last year, but our operating theory is that they were together for part of that time.”
“And Janelle?” Clarke asked.
“Interviews of surviving witnesses indicate that most of the killings appeared random. The Qatari was spraying machine-gun fire everywhere. But with the deputy secretary, everyone says the guy stopped, studied her carefully, and asked her name. When she gave it, he shot her four times in the chest and once in the head. No one else was singled out like that.”
Thus far, McDermott had just been taking notes. Now he looked up and said, “Since then, sir, the FBI was able to crack his phone. They found emails he’d received from overseas—Greece, actually—with pictures of Janelle, the address of the church, and the starting time of the service.”
The president set down the cup of now-cold coffee in his hands. He hadn’t taken a sip yet, nor was he going to. He turned to the DCI. “Tell me why they went after her.”
“I can’t, Mr. President,” Stephens replied. “Not yet.”
“Is this part of the retaliation you guys have been warning me was coming?”
“Perhaps, but it’s too soon to draw any conclusions.”
“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”
“No, sir.”
“Do we have any evidence the Russians were involved?”
“No.”
“What about the Iranians or the North Koreans?”
Stephens shook his head. So did Evans and McDermott. Marcus had his suspicions, but for the moment he kept those to himself. Looking unconvinced, the president considered their answer as he flipped through the presidential daily brief, the CIA’s morning summary of the highest priority global intelligence.
Then he suddenly turned
and looked up at Marcus again. “You know, Ryker, it wasn’t that long ago I thought you were a traitor.”
“Apparently you weren’t alone,” Marcus replied before completely thinking it through.
“Quite right,” Clarke said. “And now here you are. Guess we owe you an apology as well as our thanks.”
“Not at all. Based on the intel you had at the time, I know my actions looked bad.”
“They did,” Clarke replied. “Very bad.” The president studied Marcus’s face.
“Sir, at the risk of sounding self-serving, may I change the topic?” Marcus asked after an awkward pause.
“It depends,” Clarke said. “What’ve you got?”
“Two things, sir. One, I realize, is above my pay grade, but I’d like to recommend Tyler Reed to be your next deputy secretary of state.”
“Our ambassador to Russia?”
“Yes, sir. With Luganov gone and Petrovsky now in power, a new ambassador to Moscow is probably in order. And I was quite impressed with Reed when I worked with him. He’s smart. Savvy. Cool under pressure. And I think he gets what you’re trying to do, sir. Just a thought, but given how important your peace plan is, I’m thinking you might need to replace Mrs. Thomas rather quickly.”
“And the second matter?” the president asked, noncommittal.
“Well, sir, I need to recommend you give your speech unveiling your peace plan from here in the Oval Office, not from Jerusalem, and certainly not on the Temple Mount.”
“Hold it right there, Agent Ryker. That’s way outside your mandate,” the CIA director admonished his newest hire.
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t believe it is,” Marcus replied. “You guys hired me to counter the blowback we all knew was coming after our recent operations against North Korea and Iran. Let’s be clear: that blowback started yesterday, and it’s going to get worse. Mr. President, I respect your commitment to forging Mideast peace, and your plan deserves a hearing, but strictly from a security perspective, the idea of putting you in Jerusalem right now is a mistake.”
“Noted,” Clarke said with an edge of irritation. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Agent Ryker, you’re dismissed.”
13
When Marcus was gone, Clarke turned to Stephens.
“Not exactly a wallflower, is he?” the president asked.
“No, sir,” said Stephens.
McDermott had to agree. Marcus had never been shy about speaking his mind.
“But he’s right about Reed,” General Evans interjected. “Bill and I discussed him last night on a secure call to Berlin with Secretary Whitney. We all think he’d be ideal.”
The president looked to McDermott. “Meg’s already on board?”
“One hundred percent,” McDermott said. “And she recommends we move fast.”
“How fast?”
“She’d like to order Reed back to Washington immediately and make a formal announcement in the next few days.”
“Why the rush?”
“She believes it would send a strong message that you won’t be intimidated by terrorists or let your agenda be derailed.”
“And you agree?”
“I do, sir.”
“Any red flags?” Clarke asked the CIA director.
Stephens shook his head. “None. Reed was thoroughly vetted before being sent to Russia, and he’s performed ably every day since.”
“Fine. Get him and his family on a plane pronto,” Clarke said.
“Will do, sir,” Evans responded. “Now can we talk about your speech?”
“Forget it,” Clarke said. “I’m going to Jerusalem, and that’s final.”
“Sir, Ryker does have a point,” Evans noted.
“I don’t want to hear it, Barry. You guys do your jobs and I’ll be just fine,” Clarke pushed back. “You leave for the region tomorrow night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jerusalem first?”
“Actually, I go to Ramallah first, then double back and meet with the Israelis.”
“Then what?”
“Amman, Manama, Doha, Abu Dhabi, Muscat, Riyadh, and Cairo—followed by London, Paris, and Moscow.”
“Twelve cities in ten days? Goodness,” said Clarke. “You’re certainly working awfully hard for a peace plan you don’t really believe in.”
McDermott was stunned by how cold the comment was.
“I do believe in it, sir,” Evans said calmly.
“No, you don’t, Barry, and you haven’t from the beginning.”
“With respect, sir, I believe the plan is not only impressive but historic.”
“And yet . . . ?”
McDermott shifted in his seat. He’d spent hours discussing the general’s deep concerns with him, even encouraging Evans to be more forthcoming with the president about those concerns. But this hardly seemed the time or the place. Shouldn’t the president discuss this with General Evans one-on-one?
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” asked the general, ever the military man.
“Come on, Barry—just say what you have to say,” the president ordered.
“Sir, my team and I drafted this plan, just as you asked. But I’ve maintained from the beginning that the timing is wrong. Neither the Israelis nor the Palestinian leadership are ready to make peace. But honestly, it’s not the Israelis I’m most worried about at the moment. It’s the Palestinians.”
“Why?”
“Because they have no interest in coming back to the negotiating table right now. And frankly, to Ryker’s point, I’m worried we could see an explosion of new terrorism, perhaps even another Palestinian intifada.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Barry. This is precisely the moment to unveil this plan. The Russians, North Koreans, and Iranians are back on their heels. The Gulf States are warming toward Israel. The Israelis know I love them and won’t let any harm come to them. And the Palestinian regime is weak and divided and desperate to give something concrete to their people. That’s why we need to go on offense—now. So I don’t want to hear any more of this talk about changing venues. I’m going to Jerusalem. And that’s final.”
14
CORNER OF SEVENTEENTH STREET AND PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Marcus climbed into the passenger side of a black Chevy Impala.
“Where to, chief?” Kailea asked from behind the wheel of the government sedan.
“DSS headquarters.”
Kailea nodded. They pulled away from the curb and drove in silence for a few minutes, weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic, until she asked, “How’d it go in there?”
“POTUS still wants to go to Jerusalem.”
“And you think that’s crazy.”
“He’s the president, not me.”
“So we’re still heading out tomorrow night with Evans?”
“Apparently.”
“And yet we missed all of yesterday’s briefings.”
It was true. They had an enormous amount of material to absorb and internalize, and barely thirty-six hours to do it in. They had spent most of the previous day at the crime scene, interviewing witnesses and being interviewed themselves, not just by D.C. detectives but by the FBI and the investigators from DSS’s department of internal affairs. Only well after nightfall had they had time to get a quick bite to eat, then head to George Washington University Hospital to see how Maya Emerson was doing. But Carter’s widow had just gotten out of surgery and had still been in recovery. There was no way they were going to be able to see or talk with her that night. So Marcus had insisted that they visit everyone who had been wounded at the church and taken to G.W. Some were still in surgery themselves or under heavy sedation. One patient they were able to see was nine-year-old Marcy, grieving her grandfather and waiting for word on Maya. Marcus held the sobbing girl for more than an hour before returning her to the care of Carter’s secretary.
Then there were those who had succumbed to their injuries. Marcus and Kailea had sat with their husbands and
wives, children and grandchildren, cousins and friends and neighbors. They’d apologized for not being able to do more. It was nearly two in the morning when Marcus, drained and exhausted, had gotten back to his apartment.
When they arrived at DSS headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, Kailea parked in a reserved space. The two cleared security and found a glum-looking Pete Hwang waiting for them in the lobby. Pete was not flying with them to Israel the following night. Instead, he was scheduled for another surgery on his wounded arm. After that, he’d be assigned to the DSS operations center, he said. In the meantime, he was supposed to get up to speed with the rest of them.
“Haven’t spent this much time in hospitals since I left medicine,” he said without humor as he led them to a conference room where they joined the rest of the detail. The three of them sat together. Marcus and Kailea were singled out by the director, who praised their heroism and led the team in a standing ovation. Then the briefing got started.
“Hey, will you do me a favor? Take good notes,” Marcus whispered to his best friend as the group took a deep dive into logistics for the London leg of the trip. “I need a moment.”
Marcus excused himself and found a men’s room down the hall. He washed his hands thoroughly and splashed warm water on his forehead, cheeks, and neck, then dried himself off with several paper towels and looked at himself in the mirror. Though he was tired, his eyes were no longer bloodshot, as they’d been the night he’d jumped out of the G4 over St. Petersburg. He was sleeping well these days, eating better, working out, and overall feeling far healthier than he had in years. He ran his hand through his sandy-blond hair. It was short again, the way he liked it, though not nearly as short as the buzz cut he’d gotten at boot camp on Parris Island.
His rugged, chiseled face—the gift of his father’s Dutch DNA—was freshly shaved, though the scars he’d acquired over the past several weeks were clearly visible, reminders of his violent reentry into the service of the U.S. government. One ran just above his right eyebrow. Another ran down the left side of his face, near his jawline. Two more crossed his neck. There were days he wondered if he should grow a beard. That would cover all but the scar over his eye. Elena had always hated beards. So had his mother and his then-mother-in-law. He’d never been sure he’d look good with one anyway, so there had been no percentage in offending the three most important women in his life. On the other hand, he hadn’t had these scars when Elena was still alive. But he had no idea if DSS agents were allowed to grow beards, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking around. All the men back in that conference room were clean-shaven. Why rock the boat so soon after climbing aboard?
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 5