“We’re on that, too. The Brits are raiding all of their apartments as we speak.”
“Great work. I’ve got to go, but keep me posted.”
The president’s speech was under way.
Typically, Ahmet Mustafa would be sound asleep at such an early hour.
The Turkish president loved to sleep late, rising around 9 a.m. and sometimes as late as 9:30. He usually joined his wife for a sumptuous breakfast at ten sharp each day, except Fridays, and rarely came to the office before noon. He was always back in his living quarters by six in the evening, unless he was traveling or hosting a foreign visitor for a state dinner. And he was in bed, lights out, no later than ten every night, without fail, wherever he happened to be in the world.
Hamdi Yaşar, therefore, was stunned to see Mustafa’s private number show up on his caller ID. Sitting in the control room at Al-Sawt’s main studios, he took the call and stepped out into the hallway. “Mr. President, is everything all right?” he asked as he headed back to his office. “It’s a bit early for you.”
“Are you watching this?” Mustafa replied, ignoring the question.
“The speech? Of course. What else?”
“Did you know this was coming?” Mustafa pressed. “Clarke, Eitan, and Al Saud together, in al-Quds next week?”
“We got an advance text of the speech, yes,” Yaşar replied cautiously, suddenly realizing that the Turkish leader had accidentally called him on his work mobile phone, not his private satellite phone.
“Do you understand the implications of this—how huge this is?”
“It’s a very big story, I agree, and our network would love to get your reaction to the speech on the record, but not right now,” Yaşar said, desperately hoping Mustafa would not say anything incriminating on an open line. “May I send a crew later today once the Ankara bureau opens?”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Yes, yes, that would be fine—I would like to comment more extensively. But for now, I’d just like to ask: Your network will be covering this peace summit from all angles, correct? This may prove to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I would hate to see it missed.”
Yaşar started breathing again, relieved the Turkish leader had remembered the conversation was likely being recorded by the NSA, Israel’s Unit 8200, and myriad other foreign intelligence agencies. But his message—however shrouded in euphemism—was crystal clear. Mustafa wanted Kairos to send its best assassin to Jerusalem.
Yaşar wanted to tell him that their best was already there, but that would have to wait for their next face-to-face meeting.
75
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, RAMALLAH, PALESTINIAN AUTHORITY
Ismail Ziad was apoplectic.
The longer he watched Clarke’s speech, the more enraged he became. At one point, he threw a shoe at the TV set. A moment later, he picked up the phone on his desk and heaved it across the room, narrowly missing an aide who had just entered the office but hitting a mirror and smashing it to pieces.
“Get me al-Azzam,” the Palestinian leader shouted. “Now!”
With Ziad’s primary phone no longer functioning, the aide pulled out his own mobile phone, dialed the Grand Mufti’s number from the phone’s contact list, and waited until the old man answered. “Your Excellency, I have President Ziad on the line for you.” Then he handed the phone over to his boss.
“Amin, are you there?”
“I am, Mr. President.”
“Are you watching this travesty?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but I—”
“Blasphemy, I tell you—this is blasphemy against our people and against our holy city,” the Palestinian president raged, cutting off the Grand Mufti in midsentence. “And you must stop it, Amin—you must never let this thing come to pass.”
Prince Abdullah was still at his desk.
A bank of TV monitors on the far wall of his office showed President Clarke delivering his address on six different networks, but all were on mute. The chief of Saudi intelligence had already read an advance text of the speech that CIA director Stephens had sent him hours before. Right now he had more important matters on his mind.
Summoning his chief of staff, the prince demanded to know if they’d heard from their source in Tehran. He did not use the man’s name. But the aide was one of the few people in the kingdom who knew exactly to whom his boss was referring—Dr. Haydar Abbasi, ostensibly the director of the Iranian space agency, though he was more precisely the head of Iran’s ballistic missile program.
“No, Your Highness,” the aide replied. “I’m afraid not.”
“Do we even know if he’s still alive?”
“Well, there was an item about him in the paper two days ago.”
“Saying what?”
“It was small, just a picture and a caption, really. He welcomed a delegation from Moscow to discuss plans for a joint exploratory mission to Mars.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“You have been so busy preparing for His Majesty’s trip to al-Quds, I didn’t think it necessary.”
The prince stood, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and took a swig of water from a bottle on his desk. “Fine, but we need more from him, and quickly. Can we contact him?”
“No, Your Highness—he was adamant from the outset that he will contact us, and we must never try to reach him.”
Just then, the phone rang. The chief of staff answered it, then asked the caller to hold. He hit the Mute button and turned to the prince. “It’s the American.”
“Dayton?”
“No, Ryker.”
“The DSS agent?”
“Yes, and he says it’s urgent.”
General Entezam had never seen Hossein Ansari so ill.
Even in the short time since their last meeting, the spiritual leader of the Iranian Revolution had lost weight. The man was emaciated. His skin was jaundiced. He could not get out of bed and could barely keep down a spoonful of broth.
Entezam had come to the residence to watch Clarke’s speech with the Supreme Leader and to brief him on his latest conversation with Abu Nakba. But as he sat alone by the man’s bedside, he knew it was not to be. Silently he prayed that Allah would have mercy on this giant he held so dear.
The man had accomplished so much in his lifetime. Now, in his final weeks of life, all Ansari wanted was to see vengeance exacted against the Americans and the Israelis for killing Alireza al-Zanjani and foiling his plans for Iran to have the Bomb. And all Entezam wanted was to share with Ansari the extraordinary news that Kairos, one of their most important proxies, would soon take out not only Clarke and Eitan but the Saudi monarch as well.
Privately, the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps wished he could do the deed himself. What he would have given to actually be in the city of al-Quds, on the Haram al-Sharif, the very martyr chosen to go to paradise and send these three devils straight to the fires of hell. He did not know the name of the one who actually had been chosen. Abu Nakba had been vague with the details, not even indicating whether the assassin would be a man or a woman. Yet rather than take offense at Abu Nakba’s refusal to entrust him with the details of the very operation he was bankrolling, much less feed on the jealousy he felt toward the shahid or shahida preparing for glory, Entezam vowed to pray for this brave soul three times a day until the operation was complete. Whoever they were, they would need Allah’s strength to overcome all the cunning traps of Satan.
“Help me,” wheezed Ansari, his raspy, thin voice barely audible. “A basin—bring it quickly.”
Entezam stood back up and looked around the room for something suitable. The best he could find on short notice was a wastebasket. He grabbed it and brought it to Ansari, asking if this was what he wanted.
But the Supreme Leader never replied. Instead, he began to cough and then choke and then to vomit his own blood.
76
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
Prince Abdullah picked up the phone.
“Ag
ent Ryker, to what do I owe this honor?”
“Prince Abdullah, I’m sorry for calling so early and breaking the chain of command.”
“Not at all. We owe you a great debt. You may call me anytime.”
“You’re most kind,” Marcus said, then got to the point. “We’ve identified the bombers in London. They were Chechens, a brother and sister: Maxim and Amina Sheripov. I’m hoping you could run their names through your system and let me know whatever you can find on them.”
“Absolutely. What else?”
“Have you ever heard of a BCB?”
“A body cavity bomb?” the prince asked.
“Exactly,” said a surprised Marcus. “So MI5 and the FBI are now convinced that Amina Sheripov was the bomber and that Maxim pulled the trigger, as it were.”
“And someone surgically implanted the bomb inside Amina?”
“Correct.”
“Who?”
“A Pakistani by the name of Dr. Ali Haqqani.”
“One q or two?”
“Two, we think. Would you run his name as well?”
“Of course.”
“We can’t say whether that’s his real name or an alias, but that’s the name he was using in London. MI5 and the FBI are tearing apart the medical clinic where he worked. We already have security footage from inside the clinic proving the Sheripovs came there and interacted with Haqqani.”
“But you don’t have him?”
“No. We’re about to put out a warrant for his arrest.”
“Don’t—not yet,” said the prince.
“Why not?”
“There’s no way he’s using the same name,” said Rashid. “And you’ll never find him in the U.K. He’s gone. The question is what alias he’s using now. If you put out an APB on him, the media will broadcast it across the world, and he’ll go to ground. We don’t have time for that. We need him in the open. We need him moving. That’s the only way we’ll spot him.”
“The feeling here is different,” Marcus said. “The more people who see his face, the more tips we’ll get that can lead us to him.”
“You’ll be flooded with false leads. Again, we don’t have time for that.”
“Well, it’s going to happen within the hour. The only way to stop it is if the king calls the president. I’m not sure that’s the right call, but it’s up to you.”
“Listen, there’s something I need to tell you, Agent Ryker.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you ever heard the name Abdullah Hassan Tali al-Asiri?”
“No—why?”
“Of course not,” said the prince. “It’s highly classified here in the kingdom. But I’m telling you so you understand how serious this threat is.”
“Go on.”
“Al-Asiri was a Saudi national. A terrorist. A member of al Qaeda. A real monster. Anyway, we were hunting him. You Americans were hunting him too. Turns out, he was hiding in the caves of Yemen. But in August of 2009, al-Asiri contacts Saudi intelligence. Says he wants to come in. Wants to see his family. Wants asylum in return for the names and exact locations of scores of other al Qaeda operatives. The man in my job at the time was Prince Mohammed bin Nayef. He’s thrilled about the chance to bring in al-Asiri, so he approves the plan. But at the last minute, al-Asiri adds a condition.”
“What?”
“He says he’s filled with remorse and wants to repent to Nayef in person. Nayef agrees. He even sends his private jet to Yemen to bring al-Asiri back. They meet in the prince’s home in Jeddah, on the Red Sea. Al-Asiri passes through two metal detectors. He’s frisked—thoroughly—by the prince’s security detail. He’s declared clean, so he’s brought to meet with the prince, face-to-face. That’s when it happens.”
“What happens?”
“Al-Asiri explodes right there in the parlor.”
“A body cavity bomb.”
“Precisely,” said the prince. “It turns out al-Asiri had inserted the bomb in his—forgive me—his rectum. Most of the explosive force was focused downward. It created a huge crater in the floor. We found one of the man’s arms in the ceiling. But Nayef, praise Allah, was not badly injured. Shaken, as it were, but not stirred.”
“I’ve never heard that story.”
“Few have. It was embarrassing to the Saudi intelligence and security services that we’d been duped by al-Asiri. Moreover, we wanted al Qaeda to think we still had him, that we’d detected his bomb and defused it. But you can understand why your news will be so disturbing to His Majesty the king, especially on the eve of the most politically difficult trip of his life. He’s under enormous pressure not to go to Jerusalem, not to meet the Israelis. And this isn’t going to help.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of such news.”
“Better now than later.”
“True, which means I have to give the photo to the Israelis. We may not have a real name yet, but the Israelis have state-of-the-art facial recognition software. If Haqqani tries to enter Israel, you and I will both know why. We can keep it out of the media for now, but we need the Israelis to stop and interrogate him so he can lead us to the rest of Kairos.”
“Very well,” said the prince. “I will speak to the king. You must call Asher Gilad right now. Do you have his private number?”
“I do.”
“Good—I’ll call you the minute we run these names.”
77
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
“Hello? Who is this?”
It was clear to Marcus that he’d just woken up the head of the Israeli Mossad. But it could not be helped.
“Mr. Gilad, I’m sorry to wake you, but this is Agent Marcus Ryker. We met at the dinner with the prime minister the other day.”
“What time is it?”
“4:36, sir.”
“This had better be important, Ryker,” Gilad growled.
“It is, sir. The FBI and MI5 have figured out the identity of the man responsible for the bombing in London, or at least intimately involved in its planning.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Haqqani. I’m texting you his photo and details as we speak. We need to know whatever you have in your files on this guy. And we need you to put your people on the highest alert.”
“Why?”
“We have reason to believe, sir, that Haqqani may be coming to Israel.”
Hussam Mashrawi felt a sense of déjà vu.
Slipping out of bed as quietly as he could, he washed and dressed and put on his overcoat and slipped out the front door before the sun came up. It was not raining now, but it had been all night, and the stone sidewalks were slick. Still, Mashrawi moved as quickly as he could down the nearly empty alleyways, past the shuttered shops, cafés, restaurants, and hostels. As he approached the Monastery of the Flagellation, he saw a lone light on in a room above the shoemaker’s shop. That was the signal.
Knocking twice, he entered quickly when the door was unlocked for him. He’d been told to call his handler at precisely six o’clock that morning. The clock on the wall told him he was three minutes early, and he breathed a sigh of relief. That would be just enough time to open the wall safe and—
Mashrawi’s heart nearly stopped. As he entered the tiny room in the back of the flat so cluttered with books and old newspapers and smelling of stale cigarettes, someone was waiting for him. “Who are you?” he asked, trembling.
“Dr. Mashrawi, what an honor to finally meet you.”
Mashrawi said nothing, though he slowly began backing away from the shadowy figure sitting in the chair at the antique desk.
“There is no need to be alarmed,” the man said with a slight British accent. “The man you hoped to speak with sent me. He asked me to speak to you in person because the assignment he has for you is of the utmost importance, and no detail can be left to chance.”
“How do I know that—?”
“That what? That I’m truly sent from Kairos?”
Mashrawi gasped. He’d never used th
e word, not even on a secure call.
“Who else could I be, the Shin Bet?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then I’d be torturing you, not talking to you.”
Asher Gilad finally called Marcus back.
“Are you somewhere you can talk privately?” the Mossad chief asked.
The speech was over. The party was over. The members of the advance team had all gone back to their rooms for a few hours of shut-eye. Marcus was alone in his hotel suite, trying to get some sleep himself. Now he switched on a lamp and sat up in bed. “Yeah, what have you got?”
“It’s too late,” Gilad said.
“Too late for what?”
“I passed on the photo you sent me to the Shin Bet and airport security services.”
“And?”
“I’m afraid Haqqani’s already in the country.”
Stunned, Marcus was suddenly completely awake.
“Ryker, you there?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here.”
“Apparently Haqqani entered Israel on Saturday via a flight from Spain. He used an alias—Mohammed Peshawar—but photos never lie. It’s him.”
“Please tell me you have some idea where he is.”
“None whatsoever. We know he went to Jerusalem. One of our surveillance cameras picked him up getting into a cab. My men have tracked down the driver, showed him the picture. He says the man wanted to be taken to the American Colony Hotel and paid in cash. But the manager of the hotel says he has no reservation for a Haqqani or a Peshawar. We’ve run the CCTV footage and come up empty.”
“So all you know for sure is he came to Jerusalem and vanished?” Marcus asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
Marcus felt ill, but there was no time to slow down. He had calls to make.
The man in the shadows leaned forward so Mashrawi could see his face.
“My name is Mohammed al-Qassab. I am the director of operations for Kairos, and Father has sent me to ask for your help.”
Mashrawi said nothing.
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 24