The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning we’ve got a nationwide manhunt under way, but you’ve asked us not to give the names or photos of Haqqani and al-Qassab to the media, so we haven’t,” the Mossad director said. “But to be honest, that’s severely limiting the number of eyes we have looking.”

  “If we release that information, we’ll have a panic on our hands,” the prime minister said, stirring in some cream and sugar and taking a seat at the small, round conference table in the corner of his office. “If there’s a panic, the king will cancel. So will the president. We’ll be embarrassed. And the summit will be ruined. You want that to be Israel’s image to the world, right at the moment of the greatest diplomatic breakthrough of the century?”

  “Ruvi, with respect, we have less than two days before President Clarke and King Faisal arrive, and we have at least one bomber out there whose identity we simply do not know. If either one of these men—or God forbid, both—are killed on our watch—”

  Eitan suddenly looked up from his coffee and interrupted his colleague. “What do you mean, ‘at least’?”

  “Just what I said—the presence of both al-Qassab and Haqqani in the country strongly suggests Kairos is planning a suicide bombing. But Haqqani has already been here for over a week. Who knows how many surgeries he’s performed?”

  “You think there could be more than one bomber?”

  “I cannot rule it out.”

  Eitan sighed and set his cup back on its saucer. “What would you have me do, Asher? I cannot cancel the summit—not now.”

  “I have not asked you to.”

  “Then what?”

  “Let me put out a bulletin—two names, two pictures, no mention of Kairos, just say they are persons of interest, wanted for questioning for something, for a visa violation, anything; it doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t that just alert Haqqani and al-Qassab that we’re onto them? Doesn’t that just drive them underground?”

  “It’s a possibility, but we’re running out of options. The chances we find al-Qassab, even with the public’s help, are minimal. The man is a professional. He’s been hiding all his life. But Haqqani is another story. Agent Ryker thinks we can flush him out into the open, and I agree. But only if we act now.”

  The prime minister rubbed his eyes, then crossed his legs and smoothed out the creases on his suit pants. “Fine, Asher—as you’ve requested, I’m going to announce the closure of Judea and Samaria, effective immediately and through the end of the summit. No Palestinians come in or out of the territories. No work permits. No tourists. Nothing. Not until two hours after the summit ends and Air Force One is wheels up. Simultaneously, I’m going to shut down the border crossings with Jordan and Egypt until Sunday at 9 a.m. As I do this, you can put out a bulletin on Haqqani immediately—as a ‘person of interest, wanted for questioning’—but only on him. Not al-Qassab. Not yet. And let’s see what your team can do.”

  91

  16 DECEMBER—27 HOURS BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  Hussam Mashrawi woke up early, determined to follow his normal routine.

  He showered and dressed and made the kids’ lunches, then straightened up around the apartment. But on this day, rather than slip out the door quietly, he stepped back into the bedroom before leaving for morning prayers and sat down on the bed.

  “Yasmine, are you awake?”

  She was not, but she smiled at the sound of his voice, yawned, and rolled over to greet him with a kiss.

  “Yasmine, sweetheart, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

  Though groggy, she nodded and took his hand.

  “Tomorrow, as you know, is going to be a very important day, and security is going to be very tight, and all the schools are going to be closed,” he began. “So this is what I need you to do. Are you listening? Look at me, sweetheart.”

  Yasmine had drifted off, but at this she roused herself and sat up in the bed.

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Good. Now, when you get up and dressed, I want you to take the children to your sister’s, okay?”

  “In Abu Ghosh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because something very special is going to happen tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve arranged it so that you have an opportunity to join me at the VIP reception for King Faisal, President Clarke, and the prime minister.”

  At this, Yasmine brightened. “You did?”

  “Of course.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I love you, and I want you to be at my side on this historic occasion.”

  “But I thought you despised Prime Minister Eitan.”

  “This is history in the making. I’m going to be at the vortex of it all. And it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  Yasmine smiled sleepily and then hugged and kissed him. “You are so thoughtful, Hussam,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome—now there is something else you must do.”

  “Anything.”

  “Beginning today, no one can bring a mobile phone up to the Haram al-Sharif.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who knows for sure? Something about security. Anyway, I actually bought a new phone the other day, and I’m giving it to you.”

  He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and set it in her hands. “Don’t lose this.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I have to leave early tomorrow morning to get in place before the leaders arrive at the mosque. When you get up, I want you to put on your finest dress and your favorite veil. Then I want you to walk to Ahmed the shoemaker’s shop—you know the one?”

  “Near the monastery?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to be close to the entrance to the Haram al-Sharif so you can get to my side quickly as it begins. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Ahmed and his wife will be expecting you. You can watch all the live coverage on Al-Sawt with them; just don’t tell them why you’re there. Bring several pairs of shoes that need to be repaired. That’s what I told them you would be doing, but I also said you don’t want to miss any of the coverage.”

  Yasmine nodded again.

  “Now listen closely—this is very important—when you see me and your father meeting with the king and the president and the prime minister, at that very moment, I want you to turn on the phone and hit number five on the speed dial.”

  “Number five?”

  “Exactly—and you must do it at precisely that moment.”

  “When I see you with Daddy and the leaders?”

  “Correct, and not a moment before and not a moment after.”

  “Yes, of course, but why?”

  “Because that number will put you through to the head of security at the entrance to the Waqf,” Mashrawi lied. “When he answers, you’ll tell him exactly who you are, and he will give you a security code. Write it down so you don’t forget. Then hang up and walk immediately to the entrance. There will be a checkpoint. Give the officers your ID and tell them this code. They will bring you to me in the reception hall, okay?”

  None of it was true, of course. There was no security code. There would be no VIP reception. But Mashrawi had been unable to think of anyone else he could trust to hold on to the phone and make the call at the precise moment. He was certain that al-Qassab held another phone and could, if he needed to, dial the number and trigger the explosion. But what if al-Qassab was distracted or, worse, detained? The leadership of Kairos was counting on Mashrawi himself to be responsible for this operation, and he would not let them down.

  “There’s one final thing,” Mashrawi said.

  “Yes, my love?”

  “You cannot tell anyone what I just told you. Not a soul. Not your sister. Not your mother. Not the children. Not even your father.”
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  “Not Daddy?”

  “He has so much on his mind right at the moment, it would not be good to burden him with anything else. And it will be a surprise for him to see you arrive. Okay?”

  “Yes—he loves surprises.”

  “So I can count on you?”

  Yasmine kissed him gently on the lips. “You can count on me.”

  92

  16 HOURS BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  The sun was setting over Ben Gurion International Airport.

  Kailea brought Marcus another cup of coffee; then they left the main terminal and headed to the hangar. It would be their final walk-through of the welcome ceremony before heading back to Jerusalem for the night. And they still had no leads on Haqqani or al-Qassab.

  It had been another exhausting and infuriating day. They’d met with every agent and officer in charge of each sector, asking them if anything seemed out of place and if there was anything they needed. Everyone seemed confident they’d done all they could, but Kailea could see that Marcus’s stomach was churning, and she certainly understood why. The president of the United States would be in the air in less than five hours, and the advance team was still no closer to ensuring his safety.

  The folks from the White House advance team were still on-site, running through their checklists and making last-minute adjustments. The team from the White House Press Office was doing the same. It all certainly looked impressive. The stage had been built. The podium with the presidential seal had been set in place. A beautiful red carpet had been laid out, and someone was running a vacuum over it one more time. Enormous American, Israeli, and Saudi flags had been ironed and hung from wires attached to crossbeams in the roof. A row of flags on stands lined the back of the stage. Risers for the press corps had been erected, as had a section just for the IDF band and honor guard. Technicians were double-checking the lights and sound system. Around back of the hangar, row upon row of TV satellite trucks were parked and waiting. Each had been thoroughly checked by the Secret Service, DSS, and Shin Bet and then sealed off with eighteen-foot-high chain-link fences topped by razor wire and guarded by an elite Israeli police unit.

  Meanwhile, K-9 units were working up and down the rows of white, wooden folding chairs set for a thousand VIP guests, sniffing for any trace of explosives. At the insistence of Roseboro—and over the vehement objections of the White House and Prime Minister’s Office—the first row of seats had been set back a full thirty feet from the stage in the hopes of minimizing if not completely eliminating the damage that could be done to the principals onstage if a bomber were to detonate in the crowd.

  Kailea was impressed that Roseboro had also won another victory: no phones of any kind would be allowed into the hangar. Advisors to the principals had been informed they would have to leave their phones in their cars. Guests had been emailed they should leave their phones in their cars or at home. Reporters had likewise been emailed that there would be lockers where they could leave their phones before entering the hangar.

  Roseboro had even tried bringing in portable jammers to block all electronic signals coming in or going out of the hangar. Unfortunately, the systems had been so powerful they had interfered not only with the public-address system but with the radios the security officials were using. Thus, much to Roseboro’s frustration, the jammers had, in the last few hours, been removed from the premises and from all the sites POTUS would be visiting.

  As they continued their stroll around the grounds, Kailea noticed the teams of sharpshooters with night vision goggles stationed in every corner of every roof of the terminal and maintenance facilities. She could see hundreds of heavily armed Israeli troops in full combat gear posted around the perimeter fence and Humvees mounted with .50-caliber machine guns driving the service roads on patrol. She could hear helicopters overhead and pictured their pilots and crews using night vision goggles and thermal imaging to scan for threats.

  What she could not hear was the sound of jet engines. For the first time in Israel’s history, all commercial air traffic had been grounded for the two days of the summit and the full day prior. Flights would resume taking off and landing at 6 p.m. on Thursday, but not a moment before.

  Convinced there was nothing more they could do, Kailea radioed back to the DSS command post at the embassy that they were heading “home.” On the drive, Kailea tried to get Marcus’s thoughts off logistics. She asked him how his cracked rib was healing. She asked him about his time with his mom in Colorado. She asked him if he’d found time to read any of his Dostoyevsky novel. But he didn’t bite.

  Marcus was all business. He wanted her to triple-check that extra supplies of POTUS’s blood type—and the king’s and Secretary Whitney’s—had been delivered to all five of the hospitals that were standing by in case of trouble. She assured him that it had been taken care of, but he made her call Roseboro again just to be sure. Then he insisted she call the officer in charge of the motor pool and make sure tow trucks and plenty of spare tires had been pre-positioned along the motorcade routes just in case. Again she assured him she’d already done it, but that wasn’t good enough for him. So she made the call again. Same answer. Same annoyed tone. But she dutifully conveyed it all to him and chose not to challenge him.

  Technically, of course, Kailea outranked him. She had, after all, been in law enforcement all of her professional life. He’d been on the DSS team for, what, a couple of months? Yet Marcus Ryker was a legend among security professionals in Washington. He’d won the highest awards for courage under fire that could be bestowed upon a special agent of the United States Secret Service. And then there were the rumors of what he’d done in Russia, North Korea, and the East China Sea.

  Kailea still wasn’t sure she believed the stories were true. Not all of them, anyway. Surely some of them, at least, had to have been embellished. But even if only a few were true, she knew she’d been partnered with the most interesting—and certainly the most dedicated—man she had ever met. Marcus was quiet. And there was a sadness to him. But how could there not be? she asked herself as they drove in silence up the Judean hills. After spending a lifetime protecting his country, he’d lost the two great loves of his life. Was it any wonder he was so determined not to lose any more?

  93

  11 HOURS BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  A brutal winter storm was bearing down on the mid-Atlantic states.

  With Marine One grounded due to high winds and snow, President Clarke, Secretary of State Whitney, Senator Dayton, and Annie Stewart traveled by motorcade to Camp Springs, Maryland. When they finally reached the base, the dedicated men and women of the Eighty-Ninth Airlift Wing—also known as the Presidential Airlift Wing—were ready to receive them, but they were already a half hour behind schedule.

  The entourage was quickly loaded onto the gleaming blue, white, and yellow Boeing VC-25A. Moments later, Air Force One taxied out to the flight line, revved up to full power, and hurtled down runway 19R. They immediately hit severe turbulence. The modified military version of a 747 shook violently, and the pilots kept the Fasten Seat Belt sign on long after reaching their cruising altitude.

  The senator gripped Annie’s hand, though he tried not to crush it. Annie just smiled and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the first time. It certainly wasn’t going to be the last. Over their many years of working together, the South Carolina native had become more than a trusted advisor and friend. She’d become a daughter to him. They’d traveled all over the world together, to some of the darkest and most dangerous corners of the planet, and for all the man’s political courage, Annie knew he hated to fly. That hadn’t always been the case. Only since Afghanistan, the day she and Dayton had nearly been shot down by Taliban forces, the day they’d met McDermott, Ryker, Hwang, and Vinetti for the first time, the day those brave young Marines had saved their lives.

  It was surreal to think of how much time had passed since that day, how much had happened in their lives. McDermott, married with three ki
ds, was now the country’s new national security advisor. Vinetti was dead. His beautiful wife, Claire, was a widow trying to raise two kids on her own. Hwang was divorced, wounded and working for DSS. Ryker was . . . Ryker. And what was she? A still-single advisor to a failed presidential candidate? Was that the best she could do? She wondered.

  When the plane finally stopped shaking, Secretary Whitney poked her head in their cabin and invited the senator and Annie to come to the conference room.

  “Robert, Annie, I wanted to take a moment and thank you both,” the president said as they stepped past two Secret Service agents. “If it wasn’t for your efforts, this summit wouldn’t be happening.”

  “Don’t thank us yet, Mr. President,” Dayton demurred. “Not until we all get home in one piece.”

  Clarke laughed. Whitney did not. But both beckoned the two to join them for dinner.

  “Any progress in hunting down Haqqani and al-Qassab?” Annie asked as she took a seat and a steward set an extra place for her.

  “No,” said the president, the smile disappearing from his face. “I’m afraid not.”

  4 HOURS BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  Ali Haqqani turned off the shower and leaned against the tile wall.

  It was 4:36 in the morning. He had barely slept, tossing and turning all night, trying to figure out his next move. Al-Qassab could not be trusted. That much was certain. The Syrian was still refusing to provide him a new identity, much less a plan to escape the country, and Haqqani had lost all hope that he would.

  Pushing the shower curtain aside, he grabbed a towel off a nearby hook and dried himself off. Then he stared in the mirror and cursed himself for being so double-minded. His father would never be so cowardly. Nor would either of his brothers. They were men of conviction, men of action. He needed to be, too, and now more than ever.

  Double-checking the bathroom door to make sure it was really locked, Haqqani reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his mobile phone. Not the satellite phone the Kairos team had given him. That one he’d ditched in the Mediterranean before leaving Mallorca. This was his personal phone, one Kairos couldn’t be monitoring because they had no idea he’d brought it with him.