“How can you speak of waiting? With all respect, the countdown is ticking to zero, and I have no plan. Neither does Mohammed al-Qassab.”
“But you have achieved so much success and so quickly. Was this not the hand of Allah guiding you?”
“Yes, of course, but those operations were easy compared with what lies ahead,” Yaşar protested.
Abu Nakba held up his hand, silencing the young man. “I have shared little of my personal story with you. As you know, I am an intensely private man. This is for my safety. And the safety of others. But there are some things you should know, Hamdi. My father was a Libyan. An oilman. But a drunk. A wastrel. He betrayed his religion and his family. He drank away all of our money and left my mother and me to the streets, and I hated him for it. My mother, however, I loved with all my heart and soul. She was a girl from Palestine. Ramallah, in fact. Her father came to Tripoli to work in the oil fields, but he died in a drilling explosion. Her mother died a few years later from cancer. So my mother grew up without means. Without education. She had a simple faith, a pure faith. But she had no way to earn a living. And then one night she was murdered by bandits—her throat was slashed—right before my eyes. I was only seven years old. And now I had no hope. No prospects. No future. I was alone. Hungry. Unwanted. Destined to die young and forgotten, full of bitterness and rage. Yet look what Allah has done. Look what he has made me, where I am today.”
Yaşar was quiet, and the old man continued.
“All that I am and have is Allah’s. Was it not he who guided and protected me when I joined the Muslim Brotherhood and fought in Egypt against Sadat and his cronies? Should I not have died in the mountains of Kandahar, fighting the Russians? Or later, in the streets of Mogadishu, fighting the Americans? Or in Fallujah and Mosul? Or in Raqqa and Aleppo? I can claim no credit for whatever successes I have achieved in my life, nor even for surviving as a Palestinian orphan boy to the ripe old age of eighty-three. I live because Allah has chosen me to live, and I serve at his pleasure. He could have taken me from this wretched earth. Instead, he has given me a bold new mission, and to accomplish it, he has given me you.”
“The wind is at your back, my father. Allah’s hand is mightily upon you, like one of the prophets of old. But perhaps I am not looked upon as fondly. Or maybe I was meant to help you get this far, but no further.”
“Nonsense. Put away such foolish talk. Do you really think I could have built Kairos from a forgotten corner of the desert by myself? No, I needed you, so Allah gave you to me. And look what he has done. Just look. We have ninety-seven full-time operatives. A budget of more than $40 million. Three successful operations that have dazzled our investors beyond anything they could have imagined. The Russians think they created us and that they sustain us. So do the Iranians. And the Turks. They all believe they are running us, that we are agents in their employ. They have no idea that they are all pawns in our little game.”
“It hardly seems little anymore,” Yaşar noted.
“That is true. But how could all of this have happened—how could you and I have seen so much favor in just a few short years—unless Allah was smiling upon us both?”
It was quiet for a good long while.
“How, then, shall we read this setback?” Yaşar finally asked.
“What, Clarke canceling his trip?”
“Yes. It changes everything.”
“Relax, my son. Allah will lead us—you must only have faith in the jihad to which we have both been called. In the meantime, you must go to Ankara and hold the hand of the sultan while we await a new door to open.”
57
THE PRESIDENTIAL COMPLEX, ANKARA, TURKEY
“Gentlemen, I present to you His Excellency, President Ahmet Mustafa.”
The protocol officer stood ramrod straight. Hamdi Yaşar immediately rose to his feet. He had arrived from Libya two hours ago, and he and his crew had spent much of that time setting up their cameras, lights, microphones, and the many cables snaking back to the satellite truck parked outside. Now, with less than two minutes to go, the enormous double doors to the ballroom opened, and in walked the twelfth elected leader of the modern Turkish state, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards.
Now seventy, Ahmet Mustafa was a rather tall man with a long, gaunt face, thinning gray hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and large bags under his sad, cold eyes. Tonight, Yaşar noticed, he was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark-maroon tie.
“Hamdi, my friend, what a pleasure to see you again.”
“Mr. President, it is my honor,” said Yaşar. “Thank you for speaking with Al-Sawt.”
“Why not? You know it is my favorite news network.”
“That is very kind, Your Excellency.”
“Give my regards to your managing director—he is a good man.”
“I will—thank you—but now, Your Excellency, we are a bit pressed for time.”
Mustafa took his seat as one of the crew attached a microphone to the lapel of his suit coat. Another fitted him with an IFB earpiece, allowing him to hear both the anchor and the director back in Qatar. A moment later, Yaşar asked for quiet and put on his headphones as a red light atop the main camera lit up.
“Good evening, everyone, and thank you for tuning in to Spotlight, the region’s number one most-watched evening newscast,” Yaşar heard the anchor say in Arabic. “Tonight, amid the continuing news out of London, we are honored to speak with Turkish president Ahmet Mustafa, live from the brand-new presidential complex in Ankara. Mr. President, thank you for joining us tonight.”
“Good to be with you,” Ahmet replied in flawless Arabic, though it was his third language after Turkish and English.
“To begin,” the anchor continued, “four senior American diplomats are dead in three separate attacks, along with scores of other casualties. What is your reaction to these terrorist attacks?”
“It is a shock to everyone, really,” the president replied. “I knew General Evans well, though not the others so much. And I must say, we had many disagreements on policy. As your viewers know, I strongly oppose President Clarke’s so-called peace plan. I oppose his administration’s utter disregard for the suffering of the Palestinian people, his insensitivity to the dreams and aspirations of the Muslim world, and his blind subservience to the Zionist cause, no matter how egregious Israel’s crimes. But that is a discussion for another time. This is a very sad day for the victims’ families and friends.”
Yaşar was at once intrigued and impressed with the Turkish leader. The man could somehow signal his devotion to the masses of Islamists around the world whom he considered his spiritual and ideological base while simultaneously sounding sympathetic to the American families who had lost loved ones in attacks he had helped fund. Yet all the while he was not actually denouncing such acts of terrorism much less calling for the perpetrators to be brought to justice. Abu Nakba was right—the man possessed a rare gift that needed to be both cultivated and flattered.
“Less than an hour ago, Mr. President, a communiqué was issued from a new organization based in Athens, taking responsibility for the attacks,” said the anchor. “The group is calling itself Kairos. What can you tell us about this group, and will the government of Turkey invoke Article 5 against Kairos, given that two fellow NATO allies—the U.S. and the U.K.—were attacked today?”
“Well, let’s slow down there a bit—it is far too premature to be assigning blame or talking about invoking Article 5,” Mustafa said. “No one in our region wants another war. Let’s see how this all plays out and where the investigations lead.”
“And Kairos?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of such an organization,” Mustafa said. “It’s all very new to me—I really couldn’t say.”
“Fair enough. One last question, Mr. President.”
“Of course.”
“Would you care to comment more specifically on the new peace plan the White House is planning to unveil next month and
on which these American diplomats were focused?”
“Well, to be clear, I have not yet seen or read the plan, nor been briefed on it directly by the Americans. But I was the first person that my great friend Palestinian Authority president Ismail Ziad called before he held his press conference the other night. He told me why he and his government had no choice but to oppose the plan, and I find myself agreeing with their decision. What President Clarke and his team are preparing to lay out to the world amounts to a declaration of war against the Palestinian people and their leaders and should be vigorously opposed by every Muslim nation and the entire world with every tool at our disposal and every fiber of our being.”
58
“Strong words tonight from Turkish president Ahmet Mustafa,” said the anchor.
The red light went off. The live feed was cut, and Hamdi Yaşar stood and helped the president remove his microphone and earpiece.
“Hamdi, might I have a word in private before you go?” Mustafa whispered.
“Why, of course.”
“Good—come with me.”
Yaşar told his crew he would be back shortly. As they began to pack up their equipment, he walked with the Turkish leader and his bodyguards out of the ballroom and down a long hallway. Taking a left, they entered not the president’s formal office but a more intimate adjacent study. Mustafa asked Yaşar to make himself comfortable and for his aides to give them some privacy.
“How did you think that went?” the president asked when they were alone.
“I couldn’t have asked for better,” Yaşar replied. “I didn’t expect you to blast the White House plan as a ‘declaration of war’ on the Palestinian people. But that will surely be the headline.”
“It wasn’t too much?”
“Not at all—it was perfect, Your Excellency. The Zionists, the Egyptians, the Jordanians—even the Gulf states—are tripping over themselves to denounce these attacks in the harshest possible language. Meanwhile Tehran is silent. Moscow is cagey. But step by step, you are becoming the voice of every Muslim man, woman, and child who is incensed by American imperialism, furious with Zionist occupation, horrified by the cowardice of the Arab leaders, and crying out for bold, courageous leadership.”
“I want you to know, Hamdi, that your advice, along with that of Abu Nakba, has been most welcome. How is our friend the sheikh?”
“He is well, and he is most grateful for your vote of confidence in him,” Yaşar lied. “He is forever in your debt.”
“Our investment is finally paying dividends,” Mustafa said, taking a deep breath and leaning back in his chair. “Now, how are plans coming for the next news story?”
“It’s difficult to say, Your Excellency,” Yaşar conceded. “It is not easy to kill an American president. It has happened only a few times in history.”
“Are you saying you cannot do it?”
“I’m saying it hasn’t been done since 1963—and never in this century. It will take a great deal of planning—meticulous planning—and such things take time.”
“On the contrary, you must move quickly, with something far grander. This is how you will attract recruits and money and headlines and glory for Allah.”
“With respect, Your Excellency, this week’s actions have made things more difficult.”
“How dare you say that—how can you have so little faith in this cause?” Mustafa suddenly fumed. “Yesterday no one had ever heard of Kairos. Today we have captured the attention of the entire world.”
“This is my point exactly,” Yaşar said. “Abu Nakba, as you well know, was opposed to issuing the communiqué and telling the world our name. But you insisted. And you are the money. You are the grand strategist. So he humbly assented. But now you have captured the full attention of the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the United States Secret Service, the Diplomatic Security Service, MI5, MI6, Interpol, the Mossad, the Shin Bet, and the list goes on. It took months for us to plan these attacks, and we had the luxury of not being known, much less hunted. Now everything has changed.”
“It took you months and many millions—my millions—because you had to recruit and train and build and deploy a team from nothing,” the Turkish leader pushed back. “It always takes longer to lay the foundation of a great building. But once that foundation is in place, the rest of the structure goes up very quickly.”
Yaşar fought to steady his breathing and his voice. His mission was not to rebuke this man but to hold his hand and keep the money flowing.
“That is true, Your Excellency,” he said softly. “Forgive me for my lapse of faith. It was only temporary, I assure you.”
“Let us hope so, Hamdi,” said Mustafa. “I have a great deal riding on you.”
59
LINCOLN FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH, WASHINGTON, D.C.—30 NOVEMBER
It was the first time Marcus had set foot in the building in two weeks.
He had missed all of the memorial services for those killed in the shooting on the sixteenth, having been overseas or in Colorado, and he regretted this, given all that his church family had done to support him when Elena and Lars had died. Still, after what Maya had said to him, it was probably better that he had stayed away for a bit. He hoped that with the passage of some time, Maya would reconsider. He could bear her reproach if he had to, but he certainly didn’t want to. He looked for her as he arrived at the service but didn’t see her. It was possible, he thought, that she was still in the hospital or recovering at home. It felt odd not knowing or being able to ask her directly.
He headed for a pew in the back, thinking about Elena and Lars, and soon found himself recalling the conversation he’d had with Oleg the other night and the pointed question the Russian had asked him.
“Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”
At first, Marcus had been angry at his friend for even broaching a subject so personal and so painful. He realized Oleg was lonely and missing his own wife and son back in Russia, yet the question was insensitive and over the line. Still, he’d promised to answer any question Oleg asked.
“No,” Marcus had finally said. “That door is shut to me. Elena was the only girl I have ever loved. I gave her my heart—forever—and that was that. It’s not possible to find a woman who could ever come close to her, so getting married isn’t worth thinking about. Period. End of story.”
Oleg had been skeptical at first. He had pressed Marcus with many follow-up questions. But in the end he had accepted Marcus’s answer, however reluctantly.
Yet on the plane back to Washington, Marcus had become increasingly uncomfortable with what he had said. By the time he’d landed at Reagan, he’d been forced to admit, if only to himself, that the issue wasn’t so cut-and-dried. Merely contemplating the concept of remarrying seemed like a betrayal of Elena. He felt guilty even thinking about it, much less discussing it. Yet he knew in principle it was not wrong.
Weren’t the Scriptures clear? Wasn’t a man whose wife had died free to marry again? One was not wed forever, after all, only “till death do us part.” Wasn’t that the vow he and Elena had taken so many years before? And hadn’t God himself said, “It is not good for man to be alone”?
There were times since Elena’s death that the loneliness he felt was nearly unbearable. And he was still a young man. It was possible he could live another forty or fifty years. Was he really going to rule out the possibility that the Lord could bring a godly woman into his heart that he could love and cherish for the second half of his life?
Yes, he conceded, it was possible. He could never replace Elena. Nor would he want to. But that didn’t mean God couldn’t or wouldn’t provide someone new, someone different, to fill the wrenching void in his heart.
And yet how could he ever marry again if it meant putting his new wife—whoever she might be—at risk because of the life he led? Was that fair to any woman? And if he gave up this life and career to be with her, to care for her and keep her safe, what then would he do? C
ould he ever be happy in a job less interesting, where the stakes were so much lower?
The worship band began to play, and this snapped Marcus back to the present. He noticed the sanctuary was standing room only, and he was struck by all the media covering the service. A gaggle of reporters and a bank of video cameras mounted on tripods were set up in the back. Marcus couldn’t help but think of Commander Massoud, killed in 2001 by a bomb hidden inside a TV camera. There were no magnetometers or X-ray machines screening people coming into the church. Could what had just happened in London happen here?
A new private security company had been hired by the church to keep everyone safe. Marcus had counted no fewer than a dozen uniformed and armed guards on the premises that morning, including two standing outside the front door and two in the vestibule, and there were likely others he was not seeing. In addition to the rent-a-cops, the D.C. Metro Police had positioned two squad cars out front and two near the parking lot in back. One officer was directing traffic, and several others were gathered on the front steps, keeping an eye on everyone coming in and serving, Marcus hoped, as a deterrent.
As he found a seat, his phone buzzed. It was Kailea, calling from London.
“Hey,” he said in a whisper.
“Hey, old man,” she replied. “Am I catching you at a bad time? What, are you at a bingo parlor or something?”
Marcus smiled, glad to hear she was regaining her strength and sense of humor.
“Hey, young lady, I’m fine. How about you?”
“They just released me from the hospital—Geoff, too.”
“So you’re coming back?”
“No, that’s why I’m calling.”
“Why—what’s up?”
“The director wants us to help with the investigation.”
“You sure you’re up for it?”
“Honestly? No. But that’s the job, right?”
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 18