The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  18

  GHAT, LIBYA—18 NOVEMBER

  It was 4 a.m. when the Antonov An-148 touched down.

  The aging Ukrainian passenger plane taxied down the runway, then came to a stop outside the nearly deserted terminal. The pilots shut down the two turbofan jet engines. A ground crew rolled a set of stairs into position. But the plane’s door remained shut until all of the airport’s external lights were also shut down.

  Once the ground crew sped away, a convoy of four SUVs emerged from a dilapidated hangar on the far side of the airfield and roared across the tarmac. Pulling alongside the jet, the drivers cut their headlights, and armed men dressed in black exited their vehicles and took up defensive positions around the motorcade and the plane.

  Only then did the door of the plane open and a single bodyguard emerge. He scanned the scene looking for threats and received the “all clear” message from the team’s sharpshooters positioned on several nearby roofs. Then he headed down the metal stairs. A moment later, General Mahmoud Entezam emerged, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, despite the fact the sun would not be up for several hours. Surrounded by a phalanx of IRGC operatives, Entezam hustled down the stairs and into the second of the four waiting SUVs. The rest of the team followed, and once every door was closed, the headlights of each vehicle flicked back on, and the convoy roared off into the predawn darkness.

  The city of Ghat wasn’t exactly a jewel in the Libyan crown. Situated in the country’s southwestern corner, tucked against the Algerian border, it was once an important stop on the trans-Saharan trade route, the site of a fortress built by Italian fascists during the First World War, and occupied by the French during the Second. But in the modern era, it had long since ceased to be important to anyone but drug runners and terrorists.

  Ghat wasn’t a tourist destination. It was home to no Muslim or Christian holy sites. It had no oil or gas, no precious minerals or other natural resources. And it was hardly suitable for growing cash crops, given its proximity to the world’s largest desert and thus the near-complete absence of rain. Most of the year the city was nothing but a blast furnace, inhospitable to man or beast. Entezam had been told the entire population comprised some twenty-four thousand residents, but that estimate seemed high to him. Ghat, he surmised, was a place you lived only if you couldn’t afford to move or didn’t want it known where you lived.

  The rickety, sunburnt buildings of the airport had been built eighteen kilometers north of the city. But the convoy did not head south. Instead it headed west toward the Algerian border for about twenty minutes until it reached an enormous, walled, and completely desolate compound. Even if it had been daylight, no other houses or structures of any kind would have been visible in any direction. The road to get there wasn’t even paved. Nor were there power lines or telephone poles or gas or water pipes connecting the compound to civilization.

  This was not Entezam’s first visit to Libya. To the contrary, he had invested a great deal of time and an even greater amount of his regime’s money in this post-Gadhafi world of chaos and carnage. Afghanistan had once been the failed state of choice where he could fund, arm, and train jihadist proxy groups to do his bidding without leaving Iranian fingerprints. Then the Americans and NATO had come and fouled it all up. They’d tried to seize control of Syria in a joint venture with the Russians, to mixed results. In the view of the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, however, it was Libya that was now proving the most ideal environment to recruit and deploy warriors for Allah. It was just as failed a state as the others. Lots of weapons. Lots of angry people. No functioning central government. And for the moment at least, no great powers trying to take it over. After Gadhafi’s violent death, NATO hadn’t had the stomach to stay. After the catastrophe in Benghazi and the murder of their ambassador, the Americans had effectively bugged out, as well. The Russians, the Chinese, and the Turks were certainly looking for ways to seize Libya’s significant oil reserves. But that kept them operating in Tripoli, mostly. Rarely did Russian intelligence operatives—much less politicians or businessmen—venture outside the capital. Nor did almost anyone else, for that matter. That left the playing field almost entirely to Iran, and nothing could have suited Entezam better.

  As the massive steel gates of the compound opened, the convoy turned off the dusty dirt road onto a beautiful paved driveway. They followed it, snaking through the sprawling complex until they arrived at a four-story villa painted a pale yellow. Parked out front were two armored personnel carriers, each fitted with a .50-caliber machine gun that was manned and ready to engage. On the roof, Entezam could see snipers eyeing them warily. On the balconies of each level, men stood guard with AK-47s. There were manned guard towers in every corner of the compound, and while Entezam could not see any attack dogs, he could hear German shepherds barking out back.

  As the motorcade came to a stop, the Iranians exited their vehicles and set up a perimeter. Once this was done, Entezam’s personal bodyguard got out of the front passenger seat of the SUV, scanned the environment, then entered a code into the handle of the rear passenger-side door. Entezam heard the click of the lock disengaging. The moment his bodyguard yanked open the heavy, armor-plated door, the general stepped out in the moonlight and was whisked inside.

  The Iranian and his detail entered a spacious elevator and emerged on the top floor. They were led into a dining room far more elegant than might have been expected in the otherwise-spartan facilities. There was a long, antique mahogany table surrounded by a dozen ornately carved wooden chairs. Overhead was a crystal chandelier. Under their feet was a thick Persian carpet.

  Entezam was shown a seat near the far end of the table. He sat down and set a small file folder on the table while the guards—both the Iranians and the Libyans—took up their positions around the room. Then an aide rang a small silver bell.

  The elderly man who entered through a side door did not look like a killer. But Entezam had no doubt he was.

  19

  The IRGC chief stood out of respect.

  He had heard a great deal about this man. They had exchanged numerous coded messages. This, however, was their first time to meet in person.

  The jihadist’s long, flowing hair was entirely gray, almost silver, as was his beard. He was stooped and walked with a simple wooden cane. He wore leather sandals and a white tunic covered by a classic Libyan robe known as the jard. As it was nearing winter, this one was made of wool, not cotton, and it was brown instead of white, as was standard in the blistering heat of the rest of the year.

  “Commander, welcome,” the old man said in almost-flawless Farsi.

  “Abu Nakba, it is my honor,” Entezam replied.

  They embraced and kissed one another on both cheeks.

  “Come, my friend, rest your weary feet,” the elderly Libyan said as he was helped by aides into a chair—not at the end of the table, as Entezam had expected, but directly across from him. “Are you thirsty from your long journey? Of course you are. Let us have tea.”

  “You are most kind,” said the Iranian, retaking his seat once his host was settled. “I see that you received the gift. I am glad it arrived safely.” Entezam’s eyes turned to the carpet with its rich greens, royal blues, deep burgundies, and wisps of lavender.

  “Ah, yes. It arrived last week, and it is most lovely. I am humbled by your generosity.”

  “Please, my friend, I neither want your credit nor deserve it,” Entezam clarified. “The carpet was entirely the gift of the Supreme Leader. It is a family heirloom which has adorned his estate for more than six centuries.”

  “Then I am touched all the more,” came the reply. “Please assure the ayatollah that I am his most humble servant. I hope to one day tell him in person.”

  Entezam was careful to maintain his composure as a young servant poured both men piping hot mint tea. He was still reeling from the news that Hossein Ansari, the leader of the Islamic Revolution in Iran for nearly four decades, had only weeks to live.
He could, of course, say nothing of this, not even to an ally as highly regarded as Abu Nakba. The condition of Ansari’s health was one of his government’s most closely guarded secrets. The truth would be known soon enough. Until then, there was much work to be done, all of which required every actor to believe that the absolute power of the Supreme Leader was absolute indeed.

  “Inshallah,” Entezam said, looking his host in the eye and smiling.

  “Inshallah,” the old man replied. “Now, my friend, how can I be of service? The impression I received from your request for a personal meeting was of a sense of urgency. I trust everything is well?”

  “It is indeed,” Entezam lied. “But yes, I have come with a very urgent request, one that His Holiness asked me to deliver to you face-to-face.”

  “Your servant is listening,” Abu Nakba said, setting down his tea and leaning in.

  “First of all, the Supreme Leader asked me to convey his gratitude and congratulations for the success of your first operation,” Entezam said. “The attacks inside the church in Washington and the assassination of the American deputy secretary of state were most impressive and generated tremendous headlines around the world and great fear among the American people. That said, we also wish to express our condolences at the death of one of your operatives and the capture of the other.”

  “The price of jihad,” Abu Nakba replied without emotion.

  “Should we be concerned that your man will talk?”

  “Eventually they all talk,” the Libyan conceded. “But there is not much he can say. Neither of the men we sent knew anything about Kairos or about me. They’re not Libyans and have never been here to the compound. They were contract killers, pure and simple. I am not worried, nor should the Supreme Leader be.”

  “He will be pleased to hear this, as am I,” Entezam said. “In light of this success, the Supreme Leader has commanded me to inform you that he is ready to dramatically expand his support for you and your community, providing you with the funds and the arms you need, on the terms your deputy expressed to me when I met with him last month in Rome. That said, His Holiness has two names that he needs added to the list.”

  “More names?” the old man asked. “How senior?”

  “Quite.”

  “I need not remind you that the list you gave us is already quite complicated,” the Libyan replied. “And you of all people know that we are still a very young organization, still recruiting good people, still building our assets, still positioning them in a most careful manner.”

  “And yet you have just proven your capabilities.”

  “The Washington operation went well, I grant you,” the old man acknowledged. “But remember, this was a soft target. The deputy secretary had no security detail. That will not be the case with the rest of the names on the Supreme Leader’s list. Each is more challenging than the one before.”

  “We are fully aware of the risks. But let me be clear: these two are personal. And thus, we are prepared to double your fee if you achieve success in the next thirty days.”

  “Thirty days?” asked a stunned Abu Nakba. “Why so quickly?”

  Entezam remained silent.

  “Such haste could put at risk all that I have built.”

  “Only if you fail,” Entezam said. “If you succeed, trust me when I tell you that you will be rewarded beyond your wildest expectations.”

  The two men stared at one another.

  “Of whom, then, are we speaking?” the old man finally asked. “Who exactly is the leader of the Revolution so keen on dispatching from this life to the next?”

  Entezam slid the folder in front of him across the table and lowered his voice.

  “The prime minister of Israel and the president of the United States.”

  20

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  Ambassador Tyler Reed boarded the Lufthansa flight just before 9 a.m.

  With him were his wife and two daughters. Unfortunately, there were no direct flights from the Russian capital back to the American one. They’d have to route through Frankfurt.

  Reed had no idea why he’d been asked to return to Washington on such short notice, nor why he’d been ordered to bring his family. The girls were giggling with excitement at the prospect that their father might be getting a new assignment, one that would finally liberate them from such a cold and dreary and dangerous city so far from family and friends. Reed’s wife was even more excited than the girls. To her, there was something frighteningly sinister about Moscow to which she’d never been able—or willing—to acclimate.

  Still, Reed had made it very clear he didn’t want them speculating in public. They lived in a fishbowl. People were watching them. They would find out what was happening soon enough. Meanwhile, he told them to watch a few movies, read a few books, and keep their mouths shut.

  Marcus’s alarm went off precisely at 4 a.m.

  He rolled out of bed, made coffee, and did his devotions. Then he threw on some sweats and headed out for his daily five-mile run.

  It was ugly out. Fall had beaten a hasty retreat. Winter was coming with a vengeance. It was pouring, and temperatures across the capital region were dropping fast. By nightfall, this would all be snow, Marcus knew, and the streets and sidewalks would be sheets of black ice. He got back to the apartment chilled to the bone and indulged himself with a long, hot shower just to jack his body temperature back up to normal. Then he made himself a plate of eggs and more coffee.

  Kailea Curtis picked him up at six. They planned to drive across the Potomac to DSS headquarters in Arlington, heading first to the gym to work out, then down to the gun range. Afterward, they would tackle the daunting stack of work ahead of them before they were wheels up. Despite the busy schedule, Marcus asked if they could stop at the hospital to check on Maya on their way to the office. Kailea made a show of checking her watch, but some things were more important than briefing books.

  Marcus was pleased to find a spot to park right across from the hospital’s main entrance. He invited his partner to join him, but Kailea begged off. She had calls to return. Snagging a gift bag off the backseat, Marcus exited the Impala, pulled up the collar of his jacket, trying in vain to protect himself from the elements, and dashed across the street. Inside, he rode an elevator up to the fifth floor, then checked in at the nurses’ station.

  “How is she?” Marcus said to the head nurse, who recognized him immediately both from his several visits and from his picture being all over the front page of the papers.

  “Awake, but not exactly in the mood for visitors.”

  “I won’t be long,” Marcus promised, then headed down the hall to Maya’s room and knocked twice.

  “Hey,” Marcus whispered after poking his head inside. “Thought you might like some company.”

  The drapes of the private room were shut, and the lights were dim. Pulling from the gift bag an aqua tin of Royal Blend tea from Fortnum & Mason in London, her favorite, he set it on the nightstand next to her. Maya was awake, though hooked up to oxygen, an IV, a heart sensor, and all manner of other devices and monitors, but she did not smile. Nor did she say thank you.

  “This ain’t a good time,” she said, her voice weak and raspy.

  “I just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

  “It would be best if you left.”

  “Left? Why?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Maya?”

  “Ain’t it obvious?” she finally said, her eyes moist and red. “Ever since you entered our lives, you’ve brought us nothin’ but heartbreak. Carter and I welcomed you into our church. Into our home. We loved you like a son. And this is how you repay us?”

  Marcus was floored.

  “Son, ain’t you never thought of anyone but yourself?” she continued. “You ever once think about how much danger you put everyone in who gets near you?”

  And she was not finished.

  “Your wife, Elena. Your son, Lars. Nick. And now Carter, not to ment
ion all the others on Sunday. How many more, son? How many family and friends must die before you give up this ridiculous life and start thinkin’ about others instead of yourself?”

  Marcus was dumbfounded, unsure how to respond or if he even should. What hurt most was that Maya didn’t seem to be saying any of this in anger but rather in profound disappointment. Stung, he looked down and stared at the floor for the better part of a minute. When he looked up, Maya’s eyes were shut. She had turned away from him, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Maya,” he said at last. “I never meant to . . .”

  But his voice trailed off.

  Maya refused to open her eyes or even acknowledge that she’d heard him. Twice more he started to speak, then stopped himself. In the end, he just turned and left the room as quietly as he had come.

  21

  “Well, that was quick,” Kailea said when he got back to the car.

  She said it in a lighthearted way, but he didn’t respond. When she started the engine, he made no move to put his seat belt on. He just sat there, staring out the rain-streaked window.

  “What happened in there?” Kailea asked.

  Again, Marcus didn’t respond.

  “You okay?” she pressed. “Is she okay? Did something happen?”

  “Just drive,” Marcus finally said.