Predictably, every new peace plan was announced with trumpets and so much fanfare. Yet they were all dead ends, producing nothing but raised expectations, immense frustration, and often more violence, not less. Yet Eitan would once again go through the motions. The United States, after all, was Israel’s most important ally.
Marcus saw the prime minister through the window as the fleet of armor-plated black Suburbans pulled up the curved driveway, blue-and-red lights flashing, American flags fluttering in the morning breeze.
As the convoy pulled to a stop, DSS agents emerged and took up their assigned positions, as Israeli bodyguards maintained a close cordon around the PM. Special Agent-in-Charge Geoff Stone opened the back door of the third vehicle. General Evans climbed out and greeted the Israeli premier with a bear hug. Dr. Susan Davis, closely flanked by Marcus and Kailea, came around from the other side of the Suburban, and Davis was greeted by the prime minister with a kiss to both cheeks.
“I’m so sorry about Janelle,” said Eitan. “I liked her very much, and Tyler . . . well, he was a rock star.”
Evans nodded. So did Davis. But neither said a word. They were still shaken by the events of the last several days, and the fact that as of yet there was no one to blame, no one to go after, made it even worse.
The prime minister quickly ushered the Americans out of the chill and into his official residence. Heading through the vestibule, they entered the formal dining room, where the PM took meals with most foreign dignitaries. There a breakfast of egg-white omelets, grilled asparagus, freshly squeezed Jaffa orange juice, and rich Brazilian coffee awaited.
Eitan and Evans had known each other for most of their professional lives, through countless previous jobs and titles and incomes—and several wives, as well. Their children had grown up knowing each other. Now their grandchildren knew each other too. Eitan considered the national security advisor one of his closest personal friends, and he was not a man who made friends easily. Today, however, they didn’t discuss family. Nor did they eat. They discussed the two attacks in Washington.
Finally Evans shifted gears. “Ruvi, as hard as it is for me to focus on anything but the situation back in D.C., I think it’s probably time for me to share with you the president’s plan.”
“Of course,” said the prime minister. “But first, how is the mayor of Ramallah?”
Judging by his reaction, it was clearly a term Evans had heard before, and not one he liked, Marcus noted.
“You’re referring to President Ziad?” Evans asked.
“President of what, exactly?” Eitan asked.
“Don’t get snarky, Ruvi,” the general replied. “It doesn’t become you.”
“Actually, I’m completely serious. Ismail Ziad is the president of what, precisely? A sovereign state? He could be, but he’s refused every deal we have ever offered him. He’s completely lost control of Gaza to Hamas and done precious little to regain it. His approval rating clocks in at no more than 20 percent. Nearly eight in ten Palestinians want him to step down. He hasn’t held free and fair elections since he came to power almost two decades ago. He has no plans to hold a free and fair election anytime in the foreseeable future. But I’ll give you this: he’s certainly built a lovely palace for himself—one that must have cost an absolute fortune for a regime that claims it doesn’t have enough money to pay its own police officers, firemen, and teachers. So, again, I ask in all seriousness, how exactly is the mayor of Ramallah these days?”
36
Marcus was posted at the far end of the dining room.
Kailea was posted at the other end, near the fireplace. Geoff Stone was standing directly behind the general. Three of the PM’s bodyguards were in the room as well, mirroring the Americans. In sharp contrast to the previous day, however, Marcus felt no significant tension in the room, other than the fact that it was clear neither the general nor Davis were happy with the PM’s characterization of Ziad.
Marcus was intrigued by the Israeli leader and had been in multiple meetings with him during his years in the Secret Service, protecting the previous American president. As a champion of Israeli security, few other Israeli politicians were in Eitan’s league. He had not only served in the IDF, he’d been recruited into Shayetet Shalosh-esray—the Israeli version of the Navy SEALs. Eventually he had served as commander of the elite commando unit, and a decorated one at that. What’s more, he’d served multiple terms as the nation’s prime minister, not to mention stints as foreign minister, intelligence minister, minister of industry and trade, and finance minister before that. He could pick up the phone and get almost any leader in the world on the line because he had worked with them for decades. He knew them. He understood them. And one by one, he was beginning to persuade them that Israel was not one of the problems in the Middle East, but one of the answers.
As a businessman, Eitan had had a storied career in the “start-up nation.” Upon retiring from the IDF, before entering politics, he’d helped launch a tech company that he’d sold a decade later for a cool $400 million. That had helped him become a champion of Israeli commerce and put him in a position to relentlessly hack away at tax, regulatory, and trade barriers in order to maximize growth, particularly in Israel’s high-tech sector. Under his leadership, the economy was now humming along at between 3 and 4 percent growth a year, a good one-third higher than most European countries. Unemployment was below 4 percent every quarter. Inflation was virtually nonexistent.
Of course, not every Israeli felt part of the new economy of which he’d been the architect. There were far too many Arabs, ultra-Orthodox families, and elderly Russians and Holocaust survivors who subsisted at or below the poverty level. Many young couples fought to make ends meet despite double incomes, and saving up enough to buy a first apartment was a pipe dream for all but those who had wealthy parents or grandparents willing to help out in a significant way. But somehow Eitan kept winning one election after another.
Marcus knew General Evans held enormous respect for the prime minister and appreciated his gifts more than most in Washington. At the same time, however, the NSA seemed fully cognizant of the man’s shortcomings. Marcus watched the general pick up his cup of tea, take a sip, then set down the china cup on its saucer. He dabbed his mouth with a freshly starched white cloth napkin and set the napkin back on his lap. Only then did he look up and meet Eitan’s eye.
“Ruvi, may I offer you some friendly advice?”
“Of course.”
“This is not a tack I’d recommend you take with President Clarke.”
“Am I wrong?” the PM exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air for effect. “Tell me how I’m wrong about our friend.”
“Let me put it this way, Mr. Prime Minister,” Evans replied. “Most of the governments of the world regard Mr. Ziad as the president of the Palestinian Authority. The U.S. government regards Mr. Ziad as the president of the Palestinian Authority. Most importantly, President Clarke regards Mr. Ziad as the president of the Palestinian Authority. Thus, I will refer to Mr. Ziad as the president of the Palestinian Authority, and for the purposes of our discussions, I recommend that course for you, as well.”
“Fair enough, fair enough,” said Eitan, putting his hands down and pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee. “So, then, in all sincerity, how was your time in Ramallah? I woke up half-expecting to hear the meeting had been canceled.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“All in due time.”
“You might be surprised. This round may be quite different from the past.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
“The meeting actually went quite well.”
“Ziad liked the plan?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” replied the general. “He bristled at first. But over the next few hours, as I walked him through our proposal, I think he came to understand that this really is his best shot—and possibly his last—at creating a better life for his people and going down as his nation’s single most
consequential leader.”
“Barry, come now,” Eitan laughed. “I know you don’t believe that.”
“Actually, I do.”
Eitan laughed again. “No, you don’t. I’ve known you for a very long time, and I assure you, you neither believe that Ziad will take this plan seriously, nor that the time is ripe for a deal.”
“Times are changing, Ruvi. The winds are shifting.”
“Not in Ramallah, my friend,” Eitan insisted. “Ismail Ziad doesn’t want to go down in history as the man who made peace. He wants to be remembered as the man who refused to surrender to the ‘criminal Zionists,’ and you know it. But aside from all that, something quite serious has come up, and we really need to discuss it before we go any further.”
37
U.S. EMBASSY, JERUSALEM
Six hours later, the general was headed to Amman to brief the king.
Marcus and Kailea, however, headed straight back to the embassy. For the next few days, they’d work with the White House advance team, laying the groundwork for the president’s upcoming visit. After that, Kailea would fly to London to link back up with General Evans for the European leg of their trip. Marcus would fly home to Colorado. From the day he’d joined the CIA, he’d requested the opportunity to be home for Thanksgiving. Director Stephens had readily approved the request for two reasons. Ryker certainly needed some R & R after the intensity of the past month. And there wasn’t a snowball’s chance that Stephens was going to let Marcus get anywhere close to Moscow, the last stop on the general’s itinerary.
Each agent headed for a SCIF, a sensitive compartmented information facility. Kailea called DSS headquarters. Marcus dialed the Global Operations Center at Langley, requesting to speak with Stephens.
“I’m afraid the director is on another call, Mr. Ryker,” said the watch commander. “May I put you through to the DDI?”
“Fine, but let the director know I called—it’s urgent.”
“Of course, sir. Standby one.”
Soon, Martha Dell, the deputy director for intelligence, came on the line. “Make it fast, Ryker.”
“Of course—I just got out of a meeting with Prime Minister Eitan,” Marcus began. “He said the Saudis have credible intel that the Iranians have ordered a hit against himself and President Clarke.”
“I’m not sure how credible it is, but yes, we’ve heard,” Dell replied. “The director has been on several calls with the Saudis over the past few hours.”
“And?”
“And Prince Abdullah is telling us the same story he’s telling the Israelis.”
“You sound like you don’t believe him.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but he won’t give us the source, so it’s a bit hard to know how much credibility or weight to give it.”
“The Saudis told Prime Minister Eitan their source was ‘as good as it gets,’ someone very high and deep inside the regime.”
“Yeah, they used the exact same line with us. But he won’t say anything more.”
“You really expect him to?”
“For a threat against the president of the United States? You bet I do.”
“Martha, not to reopen old—or not-so-old—wounds, but as you’ll recall, I didn’t give you guys my source when I told you Luganov was about to invade the Baltics.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Of course,” said Dell. “We didn’t just have your word or your source’s word. We had other intel streaming in—Russian troops massing on the borders of the Baltics and Ukraine, whole divisions being transferred from Russia’s Eastern Military Districts to the Western Districts, radio and telephone and other electronic intercepts backing up what you were saying. Plus we had the photos your source gave you of the war plans.”
“You guys still didn’t believe me.”
“I did, and so did Stephens.”
“Not the president. Not General Evans. Not Bill McDermott. Not at first, especially not given all the disinformation Luganov was pumping out,” Marcus noted. “It took days to get the president to take the threat seriously and even more time to start acting. That was time we didn’t have. And even once U.S. forces started flowing into Poland and then the Baltics, Luganov wasn’t persuaded to cancel his plans. In fact, he was preparing to accelerate them. If the Raven hadn’t acted, it’s very likely Luganov would be sitting in control of one, two, or possibly three NATO countries right now.”
“What are you saying, Marcus, that someone needs to take out another world leader?” Dell asked, her tone thick with derision.
“Of course not,” Marcus countered. “I’m saying the best way to make sure another world leader—our own, not to mention Eitan—isn’t assassinated next would be to encourage him to give this speech from the Oval Office, not from the epicenter of the most explosive region on the planet.”
“Marcus, let me remind you that you’re not in Jerusalem to make policy. You’re there to make sure that when your commander in chief arrives there next month, nothing—and I mean nothing—goes wrong.”
“Why are you so quick to rule out what the Saudis are telling us, especially in light of all that’s happened back in D.C. in recent days?”
“Do I really have to remind you how sullied Riyadh’s reputation has become in this city?” Dell asked. “Trust in the Saudis on Capitol Hill is at or near record lows. I haven’t seen it this bad since 9/11. The king is an enfeebled dinosaur who’s long past his prime. The crown prince is dangerously young and inexperienced. Some of my analysts describe him as a ‘wrecking ball.’ Others say he’s ‘as reckless as he is ruthless.’ I had lunch last week with one prominent senator, whose name you’d recognize, who told me the crown prince is ‘a madman who shouldn’t be anywhere near the reins of power.’”
“Martha, I’m fully aware of the serious mistakes the Saudis have made in recent years in Turkey, Yemen, Lebanon—believe me, I get it,” Marcus pushed back. “But do I really have to remind you how helpful Riyadh’s intel was when I was hunting those North Korean warheads? Without the Saudis, we may very well have missed that oil tanker, and those warheads could be sitting right now atop a new breed of long-range Iranian missiles capable of hitting the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.”
“Enough, Ryker. Let me handle the Saudis and their intel. Just do your job and let me do mine.”
38
LONDON, ENGLAND—21 NOVEMBER
They were late, and they were never late.
Maxim Sheripov resisted the impulse to lay on the horn. There was no point annoying the neighbors at this early hour. Whatever was slowing down the couple, impatience wasn’t going to make them move any faster. Besides, they were valuable customers. More valuable than they knew.
The husband was one of the assignment editors on the news desk at the British Broadcasting Corporation. The wife was one of the BBC’s top political reporters, typically covering Parliament but occasionally the goings-on in the prime minister’s office as well. Both on their second marriages, they had good incomes, no children, and could have easily afforded one of those car services that would pick them up in a Mercedes or even a Bentley. But Maxim had them pegged as the types who wanted to feel like they were in touch with the average working bloke. Just as likely, they had been born to families with very little money and couldn’t imagine wasting resources on such frivolity. Whatever their reasons, the couple took his hackney carriage to work every morning, and quite often back home in the evenings too, though their return trips were far less predictable, given the variations in the news cycles.
He still remembered the day he’d received their names. His handler had been insistent that Maxim not rush things. Under no circumstances could it look like Maxim was pursuing this couple. To the contrary, he had to make them come to him. That’s how trust would be established.
Finding the couple’s home address had taken less than five minutes on the Internet. Meeting them in such a way that seemed innocent and casual had t
aken a bit longer, but it hadn’t really been difficult. Maxim had simply begun to frequent their neighborhood pub. On some evenings, he’d stop in for a pint of beer. On others, he’d order dinner. Nothing fancy. Fish-and-chips or shepherd’s pie. Some evenings he’d arrive around six. Other nights he’d come in between seven and seven thirty. Every few days, he’d come by closer to nine. He’d chat up the locals, tell jokes, play darts, and tip generously. In time, he began to win one client after another. It was an upscale neighborhood. Most of the folks in the pub were lawyers or accountants or somehow involved in financial services or the media. When someone had too much to drink, he’d even give them a ride home for free.
One summer night, the pub’s owner, by then a pal, had introduced him to the Sullivans and talked him up as the best driver in the city. Every few days after that, Maxim would run into the couple again. He’d say hi, ask if they had a light, ask if they could pass the ketchup, whatever. They were friendly people, classic extroverts. They had interesting jobs, and they loved to talk about the people they met and the stories they covered. It wasn’t long before they made Maxim an offer that he would never have refused. Yes, he would handle their morning commute, at a discount because they were “genuinely nice chaps,” and he grew quite adept at feigning total fascination over every name they dropped and every tale they spun as he drove them to the BBC’s main studios.
Finally the bright-red door opened and Giles Sullivan emerged. He opened a large golf umbrella and held it for his wife, Meryl, as she locked the door behind her. They hustled down the steps and into his cab.
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