The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  85

  KAIROS SAFE HOUSE, MOUNT OF OLIVES, EAST JERUSALEM—11 DECEMBER

  Mohammed al-Qassab was growing anxious.

  He’d spent the evening and much of the night so far in the living room, hunched over his notebook computer, scanning the latest headlines in Arabic and English and trying to gather every scrap of information he possibly could on the preparations that were being made for the peace summit. Many of the articles focused on the elaborate security measures being put into place. The Syrian had no doubt these were aimed at Kairos, to dissuade them from trying anything when the summit came to town.

  What especially bothered al-Qassab was how few details the British government was giving out on the investigation back in London. So far as he could tell, not a single arrest had been made. Not a single home or office had been raided. That couldn’t possibly be true. Surely MI5 was tearing up the city to find Kairos operatives and safe houses. But the Brits were being uncharacteristically quiet, forcing the Syrian to ask a series of questions—who was talking? what were they saying? how close were authorities to tracking him down? how much time did he have before he had to run?—for which he simply had no answers.

  Suddenly Haqqani was standing over him, offering him a bowl of something that looked like dog food and smelled indescribably worse. The man said it was lamb curry, his mother’s own recipe. But there was not a chance al-Qassab was going to put something so putrid to his lips.

  The two men were already on each other’s nerves, cooped up in someone else’s house, unable even to step outside for a breath of fresh air for fear of being spotted by a neighbor or an Israeli helicopter or drone. They had gotten into one squabble after another. Most were about petty matters—except one. Haqqani kept demanding to know the plan for getting him out of the country. What was the plan? What was the plan? If Haqqani had said it once, he’d said it a hundred times. Al-Qassab insisted the plan could not be finalized until they understood how the Israelis were going to handle the suicide bombing. Yes, they’d be leaving this safe house for another before the attack. For the rest, Haqqani would have to be patient, would have to trust him. Yet Haqqani persisted.

  Maybe it was this galling lack of trust, not just the revolting food, that turned his stomach, al-Qassab thought. But he said nothing. He simply dismissed the Pakistani and his bowl with a wave and a sneer.

  “What’s your recommendation, Carl?”

  “I agree with Marcus that the threat level is very high, and to be candid, I’d certainly support a decision to abort the trip,” the deputy director of the Secret Service began. “However, if POTUS wants to proceed, it’s certainly doable. But we will need to take some unusual, maybe even unprecedented steps to keep him safe.”

  “Like what?”

  “For starters, we need to severely limit the number of people who have access to him, the PM, and the king, even more than usual. Second, we need to prevent anyone who will be anywhere near POTUS from having a mobile phone. Third, I’d recommend we jam all mobile phone signals within a mile of POTUS’s location.”

  McDermott was jotting down notes, but when he looked back up, he saw Marcus shaking his head. “Agent Ryker, you disagree?”

  “Absolutely—we can’t take away the mobile phones of every reporter, producer, and cameraman. And we certainly can’t jam all mobile calls for a mile out from the president’s location. That would knock out phone service for the entire Old City of Jerusalem, and much of New Jerusalem as well, for two full days. Plus, we’d be interfering with police and other emergency communications systems. If we do attempt to impose such draconian security measures, that will become the story and drown out the message of the trip.”

  The director of the Diplomatic Security Service was the next to weigh in. “Bill, what if you guys lowered the profile on this thing and made it a meeting of foreign ministers rather than heads of state? It would still be a huge news story, but it would dramatically lower the threat profile. The Saudi foreign minister comes to Jerusalem. He and the Israeli foreign minister and Secretary Whitney hammer out the foundation for a future peace treaty. They lay the groundwork for a full-on summit in January. The three principals then meet at Camp David, as the president had originally discussed. It’s a totally secure environment. And it buys us time to hunt down these Kairos operatives and figure out just what we’re really up against.”

  “Believe me, I’d like nothing better,” said McDermott. “But the president feels he’s already too vested in this thing.”

  “Even with two known Kairos operatives in Israel, possibly in Jerusalem, along with undoubtedly many more that we don’t know about?”

  “Look, gentlemen, let me be perfectly clear,” McDermott countered. “The president is going to Jerusalem. Period. End of discussion. I’m looking for recommendations on how to make this thing work, not how to deep-six it. Okay?”

  “What are the Israelis saying?” asked the FBI director.

  Marcus took that one. “They’re worried, but honestly, they don’t want to disappoint the president. And they definitely don’t want to disappoint the Saudis.” Marcus noted that Prime Minister Eitan had ordered all Israeli schools and government facilities in the municipality of Jerusalem to be shut down for the two days of the summit. He was also going to announce the following day that all nonessential businesses in the capital should close for two days, given the enormous number of road closures and the presence of up to fifteen thousand policemen and soldiers the Israelis were planning to deploy.

  Roseboro pointed out that Patriot antimissile batteries were being set up around Jerusalem, as were Iron Dome anti-rocket batteries. Anti-drone snipers were being set up on the Mount of Olives, Mount Scopus, and the roofs of the Leonardo Plaza Hotel, the Knesset, and the King David Hotel. Army checkpoints would go up forty-eight hours before the summit on every road into the city. The IDF would be stopping every car, scanning every ID, checking for weapons, sweeping for explosives, and keeping a close eye out for Haqqani and al-Qassab.

  “How long until the background checks are done for everyone working at each of the sites that POTUS will visit?” McDermott asked.

  “Close of business on Sunday,” said the Secret Service director. “That should still give us and the Shin Bet forty-eight hours to perform additional checks on anyone we have concerns about.”

  “What about the Saudis? How are they feeling?” asked the FBI director. “Richard, when was the last time you talked to Prince Abdullah?”

  “Just this morning,” Stephens replied. “We’re doing a daily call now to keep each other up-to-date on all the latest developments.”

  “Are they nervous?”

  “From the questions the prince is asking, yes, I’d say they are.”

  “But they’re not talking about canceling or at least rescheduling?”

  “Not a chance,” Stephens said. “For them it’s a shame-honor thing. The prince says they war-gamed this thing extensively before they reached out to POTUS. They know what they’re up against, but they’re committed. They gave the president and the Israelis their word that they’re coming. To back out now, especially in light of a threat by the Iranians or their proxies, would be unthinkable. The prince told me, in confidence, that he has recommended against the trip, at least for now. But the king is determined to come to Jerusalem, come what may.”

  86

  THE OLD CITY, JERUSALEM—12 DECEMBER

  The knock at the door startled her.

  It wasn’t yet seven in the morning, and Yasmine couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a visitor so early. She was covered with flour and pancake batter as she prepared breakfast for her children. But Hussam was still sound asleep on the couch and probably couldn’t have gotten to his feet even if he had been awake. Grabbing a dish towel to wipe her face and hands and try to look somewhat presentable, she made her way to the door, peeked past the hand-sewn curtains covering the peephole, and unbolted the lock.

  “Daddy,” she exclaimed, “what are yo
u doing here?”

  The Grand Mufti stood outside surrounded by a half-dozen bodyguards. He was smiling and carrying an armful of freshly baked pita bread and chocolate pastries for the kids. “I brought you these, my love, and wanted to see your patient before I head to the mosque,” he replied as he stepped out of the cold hallway and into the warm apartment. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course, of course; come in,” Yasmine said, taking the baked goods in her arms. “I didn’t expect to see you on such a big day.”

  “It is a big day—we may have a quarter of a million pious souls coming to pray today,” said al-Azzam. “But you and the kiddies come first.”

  Yasmine set the bread on the kitchen table, then hugged and kissed her father. She invited the security detail in for coffee, but they demurred and said they would wait outside. Even her father said he could only stay for a few minutes.

  “Honey, sweetheart, hey, look—Daddy came to say hi,” Yasmine said, kneeling down beside her husband and rousing him.

  Hussam Mashrawi blinked hard, looked around the room, and tried, with much difficulty, to pull himself up to a sitting position. Both sides of his face remained swollen, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He did look like he’d been beaten up, and as he came to, Yasmine went to get his medicine and a fresh ice pack.

  “How are you, my son?” al-Azzam asked, standing over him.

  “Fine, I’ll be fine,” Mashrawi replied. “Forgive me, I’ll . . .”

  “No, no, don’t be silly,” said al-Azzam. “Rest up. We need you at full strength next week when the president and king come to visit.”

  “But tomorrow is the big day,” Mashrawi protested. “We have so many coming for Friday prayers. I must be there to help.”

  The Grand Mufti and his daughter looked at each other, perplexed.

  “What day do you think it is, sweetheart?” Yasmine asked.

  “Thursday. Why?” her husband replied.

  Yasmine shook her head. “It’s Friday,” she said.

  “But my surgery was Wednesday.”

  “And you’ve been sleeping ever since.”

  “You’re saying I missed an entire day?”

  Yasmine nodded, as did her father.

  “All because of a root canal?” Mashrawi said, his thoughts still foggy.

  “Well, you had to have a wisdom tooth removed, too, and the drugs they gave you knocked you out pretty good.”

  “But still,” said an increasingly agitated Mashrawi. “I shouldn’t have had to . . .”

  “Had to what?” Yasmine asked.

  But her husband said nothing more. He had simply stopped speaking in midsentence and now had a distant, troubled expression on his face.

  “What is it?” al-Azzam asked.

  “Nothing,” Mashrawi said.

  “What’s wrong?” al-Azzam pressed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Never mind,” Mashrawi stammered. “I just need to use the washroom. Please excuse me.”

  Yasmine and her father offered their assistance, but Mashrawi waved them off. He got to his feet with considerable difficulty, steadying himself at one point by putting his hand on the back of a chair and then against a wall.

  “Do you think I should call a doctor?” al-Azzam asked his daughter. “This doesn’t seem right, does it?”

  “Not for a bit of dental work, no,” Yasmine said as her youngest began to cry and she scooped her up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “But you’ve got to go. You’ve got such a big day. I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  Hussam Mashrawi stumbled into the restroom and locked the door behind him.

  Switching on the light, he looked at his face in the mirror as he steadied himself against the vanity. He could hear his wife and father-in-law talking about him. The last thing he could afford was the two of them worrying about him and insisting that a doctor come to their apartment and examine him. That was out of the question.

  But how had he missed an entire day? He’d readily agreed to the dental surgery. Anything to throw family and friends off the scent of what he was really about to do. But no one had said the pain medication would knock him out so badly. Yet he couldn’t imagine not taking it.

  Mashrawi unbuttoned and removed the dress shirt he’d fallen asleep in almost forty-eight hours earlier. Then, with excruciating pain, he removed his undershirt to expose the large bandage that had been taped to his chest. Willing himself to ignore the nearly blinding agony, he pulled up the tape and looked under the bandage.

  The scar was at least six inches long and a vivid red. They’d told him he’d be on his feet the following day, functioning like normal within another day or two after that and certainly able to go back to work. They’d said the incision would be tender to the touch and that he might feel pain when he breathed but that with some prescription medication and a bit of discipline he’d be fine, that no one would be the wiser. Further, they’d told him the explosive device now inside his chest could not be detected by metal detectors or bomb-sniffing dogs or any other external technology, only by a millimeter wave or MRI machine that had never and would never be deployed by the United States Secret Service.

  Yet so much of what they’d told him was wrong, Mashrawi now realized. What else were they wrong about?

  87

  DOHA, QATAR—13 DECEMBER

  Hamdi Yaşar sat on his balcony, enjoying the sun coming up over the Gulf.

  The temperature was a comfortable seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, and there was a gentle breeze coming from the east. Yaşar’s wife and children were still sleeping. Normally, he’d already be in the Al-Sawt studios by now. But he found himself fielding too many calls from Abu Nakba and his inner circle to take all of them at the office. For much of the night he’d been briefing his superiors on the latest details. Now he was tired but perhaps more peaceful and content than he’d ever felt in his life. It was happening, all of it, and he was at the vortex, and he could hardly believe the good fortune Allah had bestowed upon him.

  Yaşar missed the hustle and bustle and oriental mystique of Istanbul, the city of his youth. He longed to move his family back home to Turkey, and he sensed the time to make that shift was rapidly approaching. President Mustafa had been dropping none-too-subtle hints that as useful as it was for Yaşar to serve Abu Nakba and help build Kairos from an unknown entity into the world’s most fearsome terrorist organization, perhaps it was time for him to come work for the next sultan and actually help build the Caliphate. Yaşar could think of nothing better. That was his dream. He had been made compelling offers by the emir of Qatar, by the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, even—albeit indirectly—by the Kremlin. Men of wealth and power, men he greatly respected, not only saw but valued and coveted his skills, his connections, and the strategic guidance he quietly gave them all under the cover of being a senior producer for one of the Arab world’s leading satellite news networks. But Mustafa was the man he respected most, and to serve as the Turkish president’s consigliere, particularly at such a time as this, was as intriguing as it was intoxicating.

  Yaşar sipped a chilled glass of pulpy orange juice he had just squeezed himself and marveled at the commanding view of Doha before him. He loved the newness of it all. Qatar itself hadn’t even been born as an independent nation-state until 1971. The capital as a city dated back to the 1820s, but even by the 1920s it was little more than a scattering of mud-and-brick homes. The discovery of oil, of course, had changed everything. The Arab oil embargo against the Americans changed it even more. As the price of oil had soared, so had Qatar’s wealth, and people streamed in from all over the region and all over the globe to make their fortunes.

  By the fifties, the sleepy city’s population had swelled to fourteen thousand. By the seventies, it had mushroomed to more than eighty thousand. Today, Doha was home to m
ore than a million people. With more people came more construction. With such little land, the population couldn’t spread out, so it shot upward. Out of the sands rose spectacular towers of steel and glass. All of it was impressive, a testament to man’s engineering genius.

  Yet none of it was enough to hold Hamdi Yaşar. When his operation in Jerusalem triumphed, he would be in a position to demand almost anything of the Turkish leader. Perhaps consigliere would not be enough, he mused. Why should he not be the nation’s second in command, effectively the crown prince and thus the sultan’s heir apparent?

  His satellite phone rang. Yaşar set down his crystal glass and picked up the phone from the table beside him.

  “It’s me,” said al-Qassab.

  “Trouble?” Yaşar asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Then what? I thought we’d agreed not to talk unless there was an emergency.”

  “There is a topic we’ve not discussed, and I need your advice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The crew,” al-Qassab replied. “How shall I compensate them when they are finished with their work?”

  Yaşar considered the question carefully. Kairos’s director of operations could only be referring to one person—Dr. Ali Haqqani. And he could only be asking one question. Was he supposed to kill Haqqani now that the man had finished operating on Hussam Mashrawi? Once the surgeon made sure Mashrawi was healthy enough to carry out his mission four days hence, would he be expendable? Or was al-Qassab supposed to help Haqqani slip safely out of Israel to perform future surgeries for Kairos?