Still, at Marcus’s insistence, they entered through the back and took a service elevator so as not to be spotted by anyone else in the hotel. They huddled in the senator’s suite, divvying up assignments. Senator Dayton called Bill McDermott on a secure satphone to brief him on the day’s events. Once McDermott was up to speed, he patched the senator through to a very happy President Clarke.
Pete, meanwhile, called the head of the Diplomatic Security Service, followed immediately by Carl Roseboro, deputy director of the Secret Service. He not only briefed them on the plan but requested that they reassemble the original advance team and put them on the next plane to Tel Aviv, followed by a larger team within the next twenty-four hours.
As he looked out over the twinkling lights of the Old City and the Mount of Olives, Marcus called Langley and asked to be put through to Richard Stephens. Two minutes later he was walking the CIA director through the plan. In two weeks—on Wednesday, December 17—the president of the United States and the king of Saudi Arabia would arrive at Ben Gurion International Airport, Marcus explained. They would both land in the morning, within minutes of each other. Israeli fighter jets would escort both planes in. Israeli airspace would be closed to all other flights for twenty-four hours, and Patriot and Iron Dome antimissile and antirocket batteries would be set up around the airport, just in case.
The Israeli prime minister would host a massive welcome ceremony for POTUS and the king. They would have to hold it indoors, probably in an El Al hangar, due to the winter rains. The Israeli president, members of the cabinet, members of the Knesset—Israel’s parliament—foreign ambassadors, business leaders, religious leaders, and other VIPs would all be on hand, as would a seventy-two-member Israeli honor guard, just as when Sadat visited. The arrival would be covered by local and foreign media and broadcast live around the world.
Moving each entourage to Jerusalem would have to be discussed at length. Marcus said he and the advance team had drafted a plan using helicopters and motorcades, and they would prepare for both. The final call would be made at the last minute by U.S., Israeli, and Saudi security officials on the ground, based on weather and real-time threat conditions.
Marcus then explained that POTUS, the king, and the PM would visit the Dome of the Rock, and the king would take time to pray in the Al-Aqsa Mosque after their meeting with the Grand Mufti on the Temple Mount. All three principals also wanted to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum and memorial. That night, the prime minister would host a state dinner in honor of the king and the president.
The Saudi delegation would then RON—rest overnight—at the Waldorf in Jerusalem. In fact, the Saudis were planning to rent out the entire hotel for three days prior and one day after their departure to do security sweeps and bring in the king’s favorite foods and drinks, linens, china, and cutlery. The president and the American delegation would take over the entirety of the famed five-star King David Hotel. All credentialed media would be housed at the David Citadel Hotel.
On the following day—Thursday, December 18—the prime minister wanted to host a working breakfast for the president and the king at his official residence. The three heads of state would get to know each other better and discuss the broad contours of a peace treaty, though both Faisal and Eitan asked the Americans to understand that this could only be a preliminary step. They could not possibly hammer out a final treaty so quickly, though both men said they would very much like to visit Camp David and hold further discussions there, as President Clarke had originally offered the Israelis and Palestinians.
The president, then the king, and finally the prime minister would address the Knesset, with gallery seating available by invitation only to foreign ambassadors to Israel. Finally, Marcus noted, there would be an elaborate departure ceremony at the airport, and both the Saudi and American leaders and their delegations would be wheels up no later than 3 p.m.
Director Stephens asked dozens of questions. The two men spoke for more than an hour. When they were finished, the director had only one more question. “What do you guys need from me to make this work?”
“Figure out who’s running Kairos, and do whatever is necessary to take him down.”
69
THE KING DAVID HOTEL, JERUSALEM—4 DECEMBER
Marcus had no idea what time it was.
He could hear his phone ringing, but he’d been in such a deep sleep, he couldn’t remember where it was or even where he was. The room was pitch-black, and when he rolled out of bed, he walked right into a wall. The phone was still ringing, and given that he’d been in a different room every couple of days for the last few weeks, he couldn’t remember the layout of this particular hotel room.
He groped for a light switch, finally found one, remembered his phone was charging in the bathroom, stumbled over an ottoman, and got there too late. The screen indicated the missed call was from Kailea. He splashed some warm water on his face, toweled off, and returned the call. It was 4:22 in Jerusalem. That meant it was 2:22 in the morning in London.
“We know what kind of bomb it was,” Kailea said immediately upon answering.
“Okay, what?”
“It was a suicide bomber, but not the typical kind. Ever hear of a BCB?”
“PCP?”
“No, BCB.”
“Kailea, it’s the middle of the night and I’m in no mood to play games. What in the world are you talking about?”
“BCB stands for a body cavity bomb,” Kailea explained. “MI5 and the FBI have now determined conclusively that the explosives were surgically implanted inside the bomber. Not the camera. Not the tripods. They were implanted inside the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The one impersonating Meryl Sullivan.”
“The BBC reporter.”
“Right.”
“Is that a first, using such a bomb?”
“Actually, they’ve been tried unsuccessfully a number of times in recent years. This was the first time it worked.”
“Why wasn’t the bomb detected by the magnetometer?”
“That’s not clear yet.”
“Meaning what, that someone could enter the White House or Capitol Building later today and blow themselves to smithereens because our people might not be able to detect the bomb inside of them?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s not good.”
“Tell me about it.”
“All right, good work,” Marcus said. “Send me a summary of what you’ve got—”
“Already done.”
“And make sure the Secret Service and all the intel agencies have it.”
“Also done.”
“Good—then learn everything you can about where these bombs have been used, by whom, for what, and most importantly, what doctors in London could have done the surgery to implant this thing.”
“How do you know it was done in London?” asked Kailea.
“I don’t, and if it was done outside London, we may never find the doctor. But if you had a live bomb in you, would you want to travel far to get to your strike point?”
“Probably not.”
“Me neither,” said Marcus. “So it’s someone local. Or was local. They’ve probably left the city by now and possibly the country. But we need to find this guy—”
“Or woman.”
“—or woman, and nab them before they try this thing again.”
Marcus hung up the phone and tried to go back to sleep. But the thought of Kairos striking again, anywhere, at any time, made that impossible. He pulled out his notebook and reviewed his to-do list. He was plowing through it. The problem was, it wasn’t getting any shorter. Just the opposite—for every item he crossed off, he had to add eight or ten more.
Throwing on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, and running shoes, he went over to the wall safe and entered his personal code. He retrieved his Sig Sauer, two spare clips, and his badge and government ID. Then he loade
d the weapon and made sure there was a round in the chamber. He put everything in a fanny pack, strapped it around his waist, and headed out the door.
It was still raining. It was so chilly he could see his breath. He asked the clerk at the desk how far the U.S. Embassy was and learned it was about two miles away. So that’s where he headed. He’d work out at the embassy’s gym for a while, do some target practice on the embassy’s gun range, and then run back to the hotel and get ready for the day.
It wasn’t the temperature that bothered him that morning. It was that more than two weeks had gone by since the first bombing in D.C. Eight days since the bombing in London. And not a single person had been arrested. They didn’t have a single suspect. Meanwhile, the Greeks were tearing their country apart and still hadn’t found any evidence of this shadowy new terror group. Oleg hadn’t uncovered anything particularly useful either. The trail was cold.
70
Returning to the hotel, Marcus ordered room service.
He took a quick shower, shaved, dressed in a suit and tie, and donned his shoulder holster. When the eggs, fruit, and coffee came, he scarfed them down, brushed his teeth, put his Sig Sauer in the holster, attached the magazines and phone to his belt, and slipped his badge and ID in his pocket. Finally he put on his raincoat, grabbed his umbrella, and headed back down to the lobby.
Rather than drive and have to find parking, he asked a bellman to hail him a taxi. When the cab arrived, he told the driver to take him to the gate closest to the Temple Mount. Twenty minutes later, he had cleared security and entered the offices of the Waqf, where he asked a veiled woman if he could see Dr. Mashrawi.
“Do you have an appointment, Agent Ryker?”
“No, but I only need a few minutes of his time.”
“I’m so sorry, but he’s not in, and I don’t expect him for another hour, but . . .”
Just as she said this, however, Hussam Mashrawi came through the door.
“Agent Ryker, I was not expecting you,” said the Palestinian.
“Sorry for the intrusion. Is there a place where we can talk?”
“Of course—right this way.”
They headed to his cramped office, and Marcus waited until he shut the door.
“Is something wrong?” Mashrawi asked.
“No, but what I’m going to tell you is highly confidential,” Marcus said.
“I don’t understand.”
Marcus lowered his voice. “President Clarke is coming after all.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s not going to give the address here. That will be done from the Oval Office on Monday night in prime time. But he has decided to visit the dome and the mosque, along with Prime Minister Eitan and a guest.”
“Who?”
“Again, this is completely confidential.”
“I understand, but who’s the guest?”
“King Faisal Mohammed Al Saud.”
Mashrawi was stunned. “Here? All three of them?”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “So there’s going to be a lot of people coming here soon to make preparations. I’m going to need your help, and not just on all the logistics.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Dr. Mashrawi, I’m trusting you with this information, as sensitive as it is, because you seem like a serious, reasonable man.”
“Thank you,” the Palestinian said hesitantly.
“But I have to trust you with something else, as well.”
“What’s that?”
Marcus paused again. He wished Pete were still with him. He always felt better with Pete at his side, but his best friend had been ordered to accompany Annie and the senator back to Washington.
“To be candid, we’re not convinced we can trust the Grand Mufti,” Marcus said.
Mashrawi looked puzzled. “May I ask why not?”
“Your father-in-law has made a number of inflammatory statements over the years, not just against Israel but against the U.S. and against the president,” Marcus replied. “We’ve done a careful search of the record, and we don’t find any such statements by you. So I’d like to think I can count on you in the days ahead.”
“Whatever you need, of course, I’m at your service,” Mashrawi said. “But I can assure you, you and your team have misjudged the Grand Mufti.”
“How so?”
“It is true, of course, that he has very strong feelings about Palestine and the occupation and the biased role of successive American governments—not just the current one. He doesn’t deny this. Indeed, he’s quite open about his views. And why shouldn’t he be? He loves his people. He grieves for their suffering. He sees it as his duty to be their voice—not as a politician, mind you, but as a cleric. He sees it as his duty to speak up for the poor and dispossessed, for all those who are suffering injustices at the hands of an occupier. Can you really blame him for this? Can you really hold this against him? Should he remain blind to such crimes, much less mute?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Dr. Mashrawi,” Marcus countered. “The Grand Mufti has every right to say what he wants. My concern is not his political views, per se. I’m here solely to see to the safety and well-being of the president, the prime minister, and the king. Obviously they will be sending representatives to meet with you as well in the coming days. But in light of the recent attacks, it is my job—along with my colleagues—to assess and mitigate risks. We’re concerned that your father-in-law’s views could encourage extremists to feel that they have the moral, even religious, duty to take some sort of hostile action against these leaders when they visit.”
“I believe your concerns are ill-founded.”
“Perhaps, but you’ll forgive me if I inform you that we’ll be taking every precaution to ensure that the visit here goes smoothly and without incident.”
“And I hope you’ll believe me, Agent Ryker, that the Grand Mufti and I want exactly the same thing,” Mashrawi said.
“Then you’ll help me with everything I need?”
“Of course. Do you have a list?”
“I do,” said Marcus, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sheet of paper. “Twenty-three things I’ll need in the next seventy-two hours, beginning with another meeting with the Grand Mufti.”
71
AL-SAWT NETWORK HEADQUARTERS, DOHA, QATAR—5 DECEMBER
Early Friday morning, Hamdi Yaşar received a message he wasn’t sure he believed.
He read it twice, then read it again. From anyone else, he would have dismissed it as preposterous. But this was coming from an impeccable source. Never once had Hussam Mashrawi told him something that hadn’t proven true. Yet how was this possible? Was it a trick? A trap of some kind? Or a gift?
At heart, Hamdi Yaşar was a cynic. He was a journalist, after all, trained not to take things at face value. If something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. Still, as bizarre as this sounded, Mashrawi’s note somehow rang true.
Yaşar read the note again. According to “a senior State Department source” who had ostensibly spoken with Mashrawi, President Clarke was going to give his big speech laying out his peace plan in a prime-time televised address on Monday night, just three days from now. In that speech, he would announce that King Faisal Mohammed Al Saud would join him at a peace summit in Jerusalem on December 17 and 18. The note did not say all the places the president, king, and Israeli premier would visit. Mashrawi could only say that they would definitely be coming to the Haram al-Sharif and that the king wanted to pray in the mosque.
The whole concept was at once so revolting that Yaşar wanted to vomit and so miraculously surreal that he wanted to dance. All three enemies in one place? At one time? And one of his own people was providing them real-time intelligence every step of the way? Assuming for a moment that Mashrawi was telling the truth, such plans might change. The king might get cold feet. Or the Israelis. Or the Americans. But Yaşar knew he had to set the wheels in motion. On the remote chance that this was real—and something i
n his spirit told him it was—Kairos had to be ready.
Heading up to the roof of the studios, where no one could overhear him, Yaşar made three very quick calls. The first was to Abu Nakba, relaying the message word by word, without details or commentary. The second call was to Mohammed al-Qassab, ordering him to get to Tel Aviv immediately and wait for further instructions. The third was to Dr. Ali Haqqani, currently hiding at a resort on the island of Mallorca, also ordering the Pakistani surgeon to get himself to Tel Aviv posthaste without telling a single soul where he was going or how long he would be gone.
United flight 72 nonstop from Washington landed in Tel Aviv at 4:30 p.m.
Stuck in traffic, Marcus pulled the U.S. Embassy’s white Ford Transit 350 van onto the grounds of Ben Gurion International Airport twenty minutes late, but he wasn’t worried—not about this, anyway. The advance team still had to disembark, clear passport control, and wait for their luggage. It would be highly unlikely he’d see them for another forty-five minutes to an hour.
In Colorado, it was nearly eight in the morning. Oleg had better be up and working, Marcus told himself. He pulled the van over to the side of the road, not far from the terminal, put it in park, and switched on his blinkers. Then he pulled out his secure satellite phone and called the Russian to check in. “What’ve you got?” he asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” Oleg replied. “Actually, less than nothing.”
“What does that mean?”
“The Kremlin’s IT folks found the back door I was using and patched it.”
“Can the guys at Langley find a way back in?”
“They’re trying, but they say it’s going to take time.”
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 22