“So sorry to be late, old boy,” said Giles. It was nine minutes after the hour.
“Not at all,” Maxim replied. “Everything okay?”
“Just a last-minute call from the office. Again, so sorry. Couldn’t be helped.”
“Broadcasting House?”
“Yes, and a big tip if you can get us there by eight, Maxim.”
“I’ll do my best.” Maxim pulled onto Fulham Palace Road. With the rain and the rush hour, he doubted they could make it to BBC headquarters before a quarter past eight, at best. But he certainly didn’t let on to the fact.
“The tabloids are saying the queen is hosting some of the Grammy winners for tea this afternoon,” Maxim said as he used an old cloth to wipe condensation from the inside of his windshield. “Will you be covering all the festivities, ma’am?”
“That’s a different team,” Meryl replied, her head buried in her phone.
“I thought you covered politics.”
“The royals aren’t considered political.”
“I can never get used to your system,” Maxim confessed. “Where I’m from, if we had a royal family, they would be nothing if not political.”
“Well, let’s not get started on the differences between Grozny and Whitehall.”
“Indeed—so, anything fun on the docket today?”
This one was directed at Meryl’s husband, but just then Giles’s phone rang and he took the call.
Meryl sighed and set her own phone down. “I’m afraid not, Maxim. We need a nasty election or a good scandal. Of course, the Americans are getting ready to roll out their big Middle East peace plan. That could get spicy.”
“You think they still will, after all those attacks?”
“Well, their national security advisor is crisscrossing the region as we speak. He’s coming here to brief the PM sometime next week.”
“Quite right—what’s the bloke’s name again?”
“Barry Evans.”
“And he’s coming here?” Maxim asked, doing his best to bait the hook.
“That’s what I’m told.”
“When?”
“Not sure,” Meryl confessed. “But I’m having drinks tonight with a senior aide to the foreign secretary. Hopefully I can pry something out of him.”
Maxim said nothing.
39
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
The advance team landed at 4:41 p.m. and came straight to the embassy.
At six thirty, Marcus and Kailea met them on the upper parking deck and led them inside the compound to a conference room just down the hall from the ambassador’s office, where they had a working dinner of sandwiches, chips, and a variety of cold soft drinks.
To Marcus’s relief, the group was headed by a consummate professional. At fifty-one, Carl Roseboro was the deputy director of the United States Secret Service. A twenty-five-year veteran of the agency, he was also the organization’s highest-ranking African American. Roseboro would be responsible for all the security arrangements for POTUS’s visit to the Holy Land, from his arrival and departure through Ben Gurion International Airport, to his ground transportation, to his overnight accommodations and food and beverage services, to his meetings with the Israeli and Palestinian leaders. He would also, of course, be in charge of designing the plan to protect POTUS during his big speech on the Temple Mount. There was no one Marcus trusted more to protect the president than Roseboro, and he was grateful for the chance to reconnect with the man personally. The last time they’d seen each other was at Lincoln Park Baptist Church during the memorial service for Elena and Lars.
Marcus and Kailea would essentially be assisting Roseboro on all the security planning and arrangements while also keeping an eye out for any specific needs or concerns that Secretary of State Whitney and National Security Advisor Evans might have, since these two were also coming and fell under the responsibility of the Diplomatic Security Service.
The rest of the team members were mostly new to Marcus. But they seemed to know what they were doing, and he liked them from the moment they all met. Among them were the director of the White House Office of Presidential Advance, a rep from the White House Press Office, and another guy Marcus knew.
Noah Daniels, thirty-four, ostensibly worked as a staffer from the White House Communications office. He was responsible for ensuring that the president and his senior aides had safe and secure phone lines and data links back to the White House, the Pentagon, and all intelligence and other national security offices. In truth, however, Noah worked for the CIA. That’s where Marcus had met him and been told that there was no system he couldn’t hack or crash. Marcus saw a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes when they shook hands. For the time being, however, they acted as if they were meeting for the first time.
The group spent much of the evening discussing the latest intel from the Saudis. Yet no one was talking about why the president’s trip should be scrapped. Not even Roseboro.
Why not? Marcus wondered. Had the man lost his mind? Or was he just waiting for the right moment to tell the bigwigs in Washington that the idea of bringing POTUS to Jerusalem in this threat-filled environment was certifiable?
Marcus had known and admired this man for years. Today he couldn’t read him. But rather than speak up, he decided the best course of action was to sleep on his fears and see what tomorrow held.
40
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL—22 NOVEMBER
Two Suburbans departed from the U.S. Embassy just before 9 a.m.
They left the Jewish suburb of Arnona on the capital’s south side, working their way through morning traffic. Passing the Yes Planet movie theater complex, the mixed Jewish-Arab neighborhood known as Abu Tor, and then Mount Zion, they slowly approached the Old City. Pulling off of Ma’ale HaShalom Street, they took a right, and soon the armor-plated SUVs drove through the stone archway known as the Dung Gate, making their way up Batei Mahase Street. At 9:21 they stopped just before the entrance to the Western Wall Plaza and the covered wooden walkway visitors took up to the Temple Mount. The American advance team exited the vehicles and stretched their legs and were met immediately by their Israeli escort.
Tomer Ben Ami had spent nearly thirty years working for the Shin Bet, the Israeli security agency roughly equivalent to the American FBI, and was now the agency’s number-two man, responsible for the protection of visiting foreign dignitaries. A sabra, or native-born Israeli, he was fluent in English, though his accent was thick.
Marcus was the first to shake his hand and appreciated his firm grip and thick, calloused hands. He’d read the highly classified version of Tomer’s bio, a version to which he and Roseboro alone had been privy. Thus he knew something even Kailea did not. During his years in the IDF, Tomer had begun as a sniper and later was recruited into an elite but highly secretive unit known as Kidon. There, he had been directly involved in the targeted killings of some of the most dangerous terrorists Israel had ever faced. When he’d joined the Shin Bet, he’d shifted roles. No longer was he pulling triggers. Now he was tracking terrorist targets in Judea and Samaria—the territories more commonly known around the world as the West Bank—and relaying the hard, actionable intelligence that he and his team developed to younger men who arrested or eliminated the targets. It was no wonder, Marcus thought, that Tomer’s superiors had eventually shifted him into VIP protection. The man thought like a killer and thus could anticipate and thwart a killer’s every move. Who better to help keep the Israeli prime minister and the American president alive as serious new threats were rising?
With Tomer setting the pace, the group pushed to the front of a long line of tourists. They showed their government IDs and badges to the Israeli soldiers running the security checkpoint, then walked through the metal detectors and set them off over and over again. They didn’t stop, however, to remove any of their sidearms, ammunition, radios, mobile phones, or keys. Instead, they headed up the wooden walkway, cleared a second security checkpoint, and soon stepped through a st
one archway that Tomer said was the Mughrabi Gate, or the “Gate of the Moroccans.”
Suddenly Marcus found himself walking on the Temple Mount for the first time in his life.
As an evangelical who read the Bible every morning when he woke up and every night before he went to sleep—or tried to, anyway—he found the experience far more moving than he’d ever expected. It was overwhelming to think that King David and Solomon had once walked across these very stones. So had Jesus and the apostles. The first and second temples had once stood on this very site, and one day a third temple would as well. This was the very mountain that God had said he had chosen for himself, to set his name there, to send forth his Word into all the world. Even for someone as scarred and jaded as Marcus had become in his line of work, there was something almost electric about walking on these stones. It was nearly too much to take in.
No longer, of course, was this a sacred Jewish site alone. For the past fourteen centuries, it had been controlled by Muslims. Tomer warned the group not to pray, not to pull out a Bible, not to do anything overtly religious. None of that was permitted by the Islamic police that patrolled the grounds.
Straight ahead of them stood the Dome of the Rock with its dazzling octagonal structure and gleaming gold-plated roof. To their right was the famed Al-Aqsa Mosque, the third-holiest mosque for the world’s 1.8 billion Muslims. Marcus knew the mosque was first built in the late seventh century and had been destroyed repeatedly by earthquakes but always rebuilt bigger and grander. Now there it stood, right before them. Marcus couldn’t help but be impressed by the architecture of both structures and by the sheer weight of the history their walls had witnessed.
Such emotions turned out to be short-lived. Marcus suddenly felt his phone vibrate and was surprised to see a text message from Oleg Kraskin.
I need to talk to you—in person, not over the phone, it read. It’s urgent. How fast can you get here?
Just then, their Arab host approached and introduced himself. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Dr. Hussam Mashrawi—I am the executive director of the Islamic Waqf, and it’s my honor to welcome you to the Haram al-Sharif.” Mashrawi smiled broadly as he shook everyone’s hands. “Today I will be your guide, and I will be your point man as we prepare for the president’s visit. As we begin, let me say on behalf of the Grand Mufti and the rest of my colleagues that we extend our deepest condolences for all that has happened in Washington.”
Roseboro thanked the man for his concerns, and Mashrawi continued.
“Now, as you know, there is a great deal of concern among Palestinians about the peace plan your president is about to unveil, whether it will be fair and provide justice for our people. But none of us believes violence is the answer. All of us here in the Waqf condemn terrorism in all its forms. And I want to assure you personally that I am not a political person. My sole concern is the care and operation of this sacred site.”
Most of the group nodded their appreciation. Then a veiled woman at Mashrawi’s side handed each person a three-ring binder. Marcus casually flipped through his and found it filled with details about the site.
“The Waqf is an Islamic charitable trust,” Mashrawi continued. “Under the peace treaty between the Kingdom of Jordan and the State of Israel that was signed in 1994, the Waqf is responsible for administering this site, but this is not a new role for us. To the contrary, it is a role that we have been playing since the year 1187, and it is one we take very seriously. Please be assured, therefore, that I will endeavor to make your visit, and the president’s, as safe and smooth as I possibly can. In a moment, I will take you on an initial walk-through of the site. But before we start, are there any questions?”
Everyone was silent. But not Marcus. “I have one,” he said.
“Of course. And you are?”
“Special Agent Marcus Ryker, Diplomatic Security Service.”
“Yes, Agent Ryker. What can I do for you?”
“Would you show us the exact spot where the king was assassinated?”
41
Kailea thought Mashrawi looked stung by the question.
His eyes narrowed. His smile dampened, though only for a moment. “Well, it didn’t take long to bring up our worst moment, now did it?” he replied.
“I mean no disrespect, Dr. Mashrawi,” Marcus assured him. “But we’re not here as tourists. At least one world leader has been assassinated on this site. It’s our job to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Of course. And unfortunately, it is true. His Majesty King Abdullah I—the man who served as the first ruler of Transjordan and soon thereafter as the first monarch of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan—was tragically murdered here, on this mountain, on July 20, 1951. However, I cannot show you the exact spot, nor take you on a tour of the mosque or the Dome of the Rock. Not right now. Trust me, you will have access to everything. But you have to understand, these two facilities are usually off-limits to non-Muslims. So we have to do things in as low-key a manner as possible. The last thing we want to do is draw the attention of the locals or the press.”
Mashrawi explained they would come back later that night, when the entire plaza was closed to visitors and thus deserted. From 10 p.m. until 4 a.m., they would walk through both sacred structures and discuss anything and everything they desired. For now, however, he led them to a conference room in the offices of the Waqf and introduced them to the Grand Mufti.
“Welcome to al-Quds,” said Amin al-Azzam, using the Arabic word for Jerusalem. “Dr. Mashrawi and I are humbled by your visit, and we stand ready to help you in any way we can. I trust he has expressed my profound regret at the murder of so many Americans, including members of your government, at the hands of terrorists in recent days. We are praying to Allah for the speedy recovery of all the survivors and for the comfort of all the families and friends of the deceased. We know what it means to suffer such great loss, and it pains us to see others go through what we have.”
The Grand Mufti then apologized that there had been a scheduling confusion and that he was supposed to leave at that very moment for Ramallah to meet with the president of the Palestinian Authority. But he invited them all to dine with him at his home the following night and promised they could talk late into the night on whatever topics they wished.
“That is very kind,” said Deputy Director Roseboro. “We look forward to that.”
Everyone around the table smiled and nodded. Everyone, that is, except Marcus, who now cleared his throat and inquired as to whether he could ask one quick question. “I understand that you’re pressed for time, but this will only take a moment,” Marcus promised.
“Of course,” said al-Azzam. “What is your question?”
Kailea braced for impact. She didn’t know exactly what was coming, but she could see anger in her partner’s eyes.
“Over the past few days, I’ve been reading your sermons, interviews you’ve given to the media, articles you have written, and so forth,” Marcus explained. “And I have to admit, I’m concerned by your history of denouncing Israeli prime ministers as ‘brutal and bloodthirsty occupiers.’ You have repeatedly attacked American Jewish and evangelical leaders and their support of Israel as the ‘racist rantings of ultra-wealthy imperialists and colonialists.’ And you’ve had no shortage of criticism of our current president as ‘thoroughly anti-Palestinian’ and a ‘cancer on the international body politic that must be eradicated if there will ever be peace.’”
It was as if the wind had been sucked from the room. Even though it was all true, was this the place of a DSS agent, Kailea wondered, particularly one who had been on the job for less than a month?
“In other words, you have a history of stoking anti-American and anti-Israeli sentiments while refusing to denounce the actions of Palestinian suicide bombers, rocket attacks against Israeli civilians, and other forms of Palestinian violence over the years,” Marcus added, deepening Kailea’s anxieties. “My question is, in light of your deep-seated hostility a
nd support for violence to achieve Palestinian objectives, is there a reason we should not be concerned for the safety of our president if he were to visit here in the next few weeks?”
Kailea wasn’t the only one to visibly stiffen, though Tomer seemed nonplussed. Roseboro looked furious. So did Dr. Mashrawi, the director of the Waqf. To Kailea’s surprise, however, the Grand Mufti himself did not seem bothered. He rather welcomed the question.
“I appreciate your candor, Agent Ryker,” al-Azzam said softly. “I make no apology for my displeasure with Israel’s military occupation of my people’s land. And I would be less than honest with you if I said I haven’t been deeply concerned by President Clarke’s attitude and actions toward my people and their aspirations.”
It occurred to Kailea that Marcus had not introduced himself to the Grand Mufti. None of them had. So she found it curious that al-Azzam already knew who Marcus was.
“That said, I am choosing to keep an open mind about the president’s plan until I have read it thoroughly and can judge it for myself,” the Grand Mufti continued. “Many of my friends and colleagues have chosen a different path. They have already concluded that they cannot trust your president. They are highly cynical about his motives, and they cannot begin to imagine that he will bring justice to the plight we have suffered under the occupation for so many decades. Perhaps I am in the minority when I say I hope your president proves us all wrong and truly offers us a peaceful way out of this painful and perennial conflict. At present, I am no fan of your president. But in the hopes of a better future, I will welcome him and afford him the respect that he and his office demand.”
The room was silent, but for an unanswered phone ringing in a nearby office. All eyes shifted back to Marcus, who finally nodded and conveyed his appreciation to the Grand Mufti for providing a reply.
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 13