The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Taking a deep breath, he powered up the phone. A moment later, it buzzed. A single text message was waiting for him. His hands trembled as he opened it.

  Wire sent. Documents being prepared. Get to a secure location. Check back when you get there.

  Haqqani found himself torn by conflicting emotions. His most trusted friend was moving heaven and earth to help him. But was it already too late?

  94

  2 HOURS BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  Hussam Mashrawi didn’t need the alarm on his phone.

  He’d been awake for hours.

  Now, hearing the muezzin call the faithful to prayer, he slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. He changed his bandages and performed his daily ritual wash. Then he dressed in the formal clerical robes of his office, went out into the living room, bowed down on the carpet facing Mecca, and said his morning prayers. The day was here. All his preparations had come down to this, and he had never felt more alive.

  By force of habit, he stepped into the back bedroom to kiss each of his beautiful girls and his precious son as they slept, but of course they were not there. Surprised with himself for forgetting that they were staying with Yasmine’s sister, he returned to the master bedroom and gave his wife a kiss and stroked her hair as she awoke. Then he set the mobile phone on the nightstand beside her and reviewed the plan with her one more time. What she would wear. The shoes she would bring to the cobbler. The moment she should call him. The speed-dial number she should press.

  “Number five,” she said, smiling. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget.”

  Kissing her one last time, Mashrawi exited his front door. The clouds were thick and foreboding, but it was not raining. The December air was chilly but fresh, with a stiff wind coming from the west. Mashrawi strolled down the narrow alleyways for the final time with a deep feeling of serenity. He was not nervous. He did not fear pain or death. Rather, he found himself almost giddy at the prospect of becoming a shahid and entering paradise. He would miss Yasmine and the children. But they would be well taken care of. Of this he had no doubt. Abu Nakba was many things, Mashrawi knew, but above all he was a man of his word.

  Reaching the checkpoint, he showed the Israeli soldiers and American Secret Service agents his ID and the VIP lanyard around his neck. They scrutinized both and asked him many questions. But in the end, just as Agent Ryker had promised, they let him pass. His stomach tightened as he stepped through the magnetometer. But when no alarms went off, he relaxed again, smiled to himself, and headed onto the Haram al-Sharif to pray in the mosque and make his final preparations.

  This was it, he realized, hardly believing it had been so easy.

  1 HOUR BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  Marcus and Kailea stopped at the checkpoint and showed their IDs.

  A moment later, they drove through the Jaffa Gate, found a spot near Christ Church, and parked their embassy sedan on the curb, careful to place their special permit on the dashboard so it wouldn’t be towed by the Israeli police.

  Roseboro—working out of the war room at the embassy—had assigned them to serve as “free safeties.” They did not have protective responsibilities for a specific leader or site. Rather, they had the freedom to go anywhere and quadruple-check any site they believed warranted it. This hadn’t set well with Kailea. She wanted to be on Secretary Whitney’s detail, but Geoff Stone had gotten that assignment instead. So she and Marcus headed into the shuk, then to the Christian Quarter and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher for a final walk-through of the fourth-century structure.

  Kailea was finished with trying to engage Marcus in personal conversation, though she was more curious than ever as to who this guy was and what made him tick. An agnostic herself, the daughter of staunch atheists, she was now in the “Holy City” for the first time in her life. She knew Marcus was a devout, if tight-lipped, Christian. But though this was the ideal place to ask him why he believed what he believed, it was hardly the time. There was far too much radio traffic coming through their earpieces from agents on-site at Ben Gurion and along the motorcade route. There were still no leads on Haqqani or al-Qassab, and everyone was on the highest possible alert.

  Upon entering the mammoth, ancient cathedral, the two agents met with the Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, and Armenian Apostolic priests who served as its caretakers. They chatted with the American and Israeli agents stationed throughout the facility, while saying nothing to the reporters and TV crews that were pre-positioned there. They strolled through the shadowy corridors, past the priceless artwork and empty tomb, breathing the incense and watching for anything out of place.

  Just then, Tomer called from the Shin Bet mobile command center that had been set up in the basement restaurant of the King David Hotel. They hoped he had news, but all he wanted was a status report.

  Air Force One was streaking across the Mediterranean.

  95

  30 MINUTES BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  Ali Haqqani powered up his phone for the second time in four hours.

  His friend had instructed him to get to a secure location to prepare to make his getaway. But where was he supposed to find a secure location—far from al-Qassab—at this hour? The West Bank had been sealed off. Most roads leading in and out of Jerusalem had been closed. Only emergency vehicles and official government vehicles were permitted through the myriad of army and police checkpoints that had been set up. Yet Haqqani knew he could not remain under the same roof as the Syrian and live to see another day.

  Leaving now, he texted his friend. Will call when I arrive.

  Then he shut down the phone, put it in his pocket, and strode to the bedroom door.

  It was time to move.

  Al-Qassab poured himself a cup of coffee and entered the living room.

  He went straight to the chair he had nearly lived in for the past few days, sat down, and powered up the mobile phone the dentist had left for him. Then he dialed the number the dentist had scribbled on a napkin and leaned back in the chair.

  “Yes, hello, can you hear me?” the Syrian said when someone finally answered. “Yes, I can, and there’s been an accident. We need an ambulance—immediately.”

  Haqqani came around the corner. “What are you doing?” the Pakistani asked with alarm.

  “My address? Yes, here it is,” al-Qassab replied in nearly flawless Hebrew, holding up his hand to silence Haqqani and reciting the address to the flat where they were staying, then politely thanking the other person and ending the call.

  “Who were you talking to, Mohammed?” Haqqani demanded. “You know we’re not supposed to make any calls.”

  “It is time, Ali.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time for me to go, to switch locations while I still can.”

  “For you to go?” asked the Pakistani. “What about me?”

  “Where I am going, Ali, you cannot follow.”

  “Enough, Mohammed, enough,” Haqqani fumed. “All this time I have been asking you for the plan to evacuate me, and now it’s clear why. You want to cut me loose and save yourself.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the Syrian replied. “I have a plan for you. It’s simply different than—”

  Suddenly Haqqani pulled a 9mm pistol fitted with a silencer from behind his back and aimed it at the Syrian’s chest.

  “Enough of your lies, Mohammed. You’re jeopardizing all we have worked for, all that Father asked us to do. But no more. I won’t let you destroy this mission.”

  Al-Qassab looked at the pistol, then back at Haqqani’s eyes. The man’s hands were shaking, but his eyes were deadly serious. “Keep your voice down, Ali—someone will hear you.”

  “Shut up, Mohammed. I am done with you. You are a betrayer of the cause, and Allah will punish you for eternity.”

  With that, Haqqani pulled the trigger. But the gun did not fire. He looked down, aimed it again, and again pulled the trigger. Again it did not fire, and the Syrian burst out in l
aughter.

  “Such a fool you are, Ali,” he sneered as he picked up a newspaper on the coffee table beside him, revealing a pile of bullets.

  Haqqani’s eyes went wide.

  “Did you think I didn’t know that you’d brought a gun into the house?” al-Qassab asked. “I’m the director of operations for the world’s greatest terrorist organization. Father did not choose me for my looks. He chose me because I am good at what I do. You should have stuck to medicine, Ali—murder does not become you.”

  “But when . . . ? How . . . ?” the Pakistani stammered, releasing the pistol’s magazine and realizing to his horror that it was empty.

  “You—not I—have betrayed our cause, and for this you will burn forever.”

  The Syrian reached behind him, pulled out his own silenced pistol, and shot Haqqani three times—once in the face and twice in the chest.

  Five minutes later, a Magen David Adom ambulance—one painted to look just like those used by Israeli Jews, not Palestinian Arabs—pulled up out front. One of the paramedics came to the door carrying a large case. Al-Qassab let the man in, took the case from him, and stepped into the restroom. He quickly undressed and threw his clothes into a nearly full laundry basket. He opened the case, removed a Magen David Adom uniform, and put it on. Then he placed his weapon, a collection of mobile phones, and his satellite phone in the case, closed it, and carried it out the front door and into the back of the ambulance.

  A moment later they were gone, lights flashing and siren blaring, heading for the Old City.

  96

  15 MINUTES BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  Oleg Kraskin snapped awake.

  After operating on fewer than three hours’ sleep for each of the last six nights, the Raven hadn’t realized that he had drifted off. But a series of audible pings on his computer got his attention.

  Trying desperately to shake off the fatigue and refocus on his work, Oleg opened the two alerts on his computer screen. He read them both, then read them a second time. Confused, he looked at the time stamp on each and suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Fully awake now, he grabbed his satellite phone and pressed speed-dial one.

  “Yes?” came the familiar voice at the other end.

  “It’s me. I’ve got something.”

  “What is it?”

  “NSA just picked up a hit on one of Ali Haqqani’s known phone numbers.”

  “Where?”

  “An apartment complex on the Mount of Olives.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “I’m sure it’s his phone,” Oleg said.

  “Do you have the coordinates?”

  “I’m sending them to your phone right now.”

  Oleg could hear Marcus relaying the information to someone—Kailea Curtis, he assumed—and trying to figure out the fastest way to get there.

  “How many pings did you get?” Marcus asked.

  “Two.”

  “In a row?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” Marcus pressed.

  “Da, I’m here.”

  “Were the two hits back-to-back?”

  “No, they weren’t,” Oleg confessed. “I’m so sorry, Marcus. I fell asleep at the desk. One came in hours ago, the other just twenty minutes ago.”

  Marcus ended the call and sprinted back through the Christian Quarter.

  Kailea was right behind him.

  When they got to the Jaffa Gate, Marcus tossed her the keys and ordered her to drive while he called Tomer. New to the city and still unfamiliar with the roads, Kailea put the address the Raven had just sent them into Waze, then gunned the engine, did a K-turn, and roared back through the gate and down the ramp. At the light, the GPS app told her to turn south on Hebron Road. She did, making an illegal left turn on HaMefaked Street. As they sped around the south side of Mount Zion, Marcus finally reached the Shin Bet officer and told him where they were headed.

  “I’m on my way,” said Tomer. “What’s your ETA?”

  “Waze says nine minutes.”

  “With all the checkpoints, it’s going to take me almost twenty,” said Tomer. “But hang tight and don’t go in until I get there.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marcus assured him. “We’ll be careful.”

  “I’m serious, Ryker. The place could be booby-trapped. I’ll dispatch a bomb squad and a tactical unit from police headquarters. They’re right on Mount Scopus, not far away. And I’ll call in air support as well, in case Haqqani makes a run for it. But do not go in until I arrive.”

  “I’ll keep you posted—gotta go,” Marcus said, refusing to assure the Israeli that he’d wait for backup.

  Kailea zigzagged up the mountain. She took a sharp right onto Gey Bin Hinom Street, then a left on Ma’alot Ir David Street. Soon they turned right onto Derech HaOfel, then right onto El-Mansuriya Street. Two minutes later they arrived. Kailea jumped the curb and slammed on the brakes. Marcus bolted out the passenger side and drew his weapon, telling Kailea to stay behind the wheel with the engine running.

  Every instinct in his body was urging him to rush the building and kick in the front door, but Tomer’s warning echoed in his ears. This wasn’t his country or his show. Fortunately, four police cruisers and a tactical unit came roaring down the street. A moment later, the bomb squad was there as well, and though Marcus couldn’t see them yet, he could already hear a pair of police helicopters approaching from the south.

  Marcus speed-dialed Tomer as the Israeli units surrounded the house.

  “We’re here—all of us—how close are you?”

  “I’m still twelve minutes out,” he said.

  “We can’t wait,” Marcus said. “We’re going in.”

  Marcus hung up and gave the Israeli commander the order to move. Marcus wasn’t sure why the man listened to him, but he did. The Israeli commandos simultaneously burst into the first-floor dental offices from the front, back, and side doors, then—encountering no initial resistance—sent bomb-sniffing robots in ahead of them. Marcus knew it was better than risking the lives of human officers, but it was also taking precious time they did not have.

  97

  10 MINUTES BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

  The Israeli ambulance had been Hamdi Yaşar’s idea.

  And it was a stroke of genius.

  Not a single nonemergency vehicle was on the streets of Jerusalem, and as al-Qassab worked the radio in Hebrew, they were waved through every checkpoint until they pulled up to the Damascus Gate and screeched to a halt.

  In his Magen David Adom uniform, al-Qassab jumped out of the ambulance with one of the Kairos paramedics. Grabbing cases of medical equipment, they ran down the steps to the gate, approached the IDF soldiers manning the checkpoint, showed their fake IDs, and cursed in Hebrew that they had a heart attack patient they had to get to. The young soldiers quickly stepped aside, and al-Qassab and his colleague sprinted into the Muslim Quarter. They raced down a labyrinth of empty alleyways until they reached the Old City branch of their man’s dental practice.

  Bursting through the front door, al-Qassab drew the silenced Glock and signaled for his colleague to wait by the front door. He worked his way down the main hallway, checking each examining room one by one. Finally he found the dentist and his assistants all laughing and talking and sipping tea in a back office.

  They looked up in shock to see al-Qassab, but their shock didn’t last long. The Syrian raised his weapon and double-tapped each one to the forehead. Checking to make certain they were all dead, and satisfied that they were, al-Qassab called for the paramedic waiting by the front door to come to the back office and help him. The moment he arrived, the Syrian double-tapped him, as well. Then he took the man’s radio and held down the Talk button.

  “Patient stabilized,” he told the ambulance driver in Hebrew. “But we’re going to be longer than expected. Return to base, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Affirmative,” the driver ra
dioed back.

  Al-Qassab returned to the front desk. He pulled a piece of paper out of the printer and rifled through the desk drawers until he found a Sharpie. He wrote, CLOSED UNTIL AFTER THE SUMMIT in Arabic, taped the sign to the front window, locked the door, and pulled down the shades. When he was done, he stashed the cases of medical equipment in one of the examining rooms, stopping only to withdraw his collection of mobile and satellite phones and ammunition. These he stuffed in a backpack along with a spare set of clothes, then found the staircase and headed up to the two-level private apartment above the clinic.

  The dentist was in his midthirties and married with a couple of kids. That much al-Qassab had learned from Hamdi Yaşar as they’d planned this mission. The family had been sent away. That was ideal, as it gave him the privacy he’d now need, along with a well-stocked refrigerator, running water, and a television on which he could watch the arrival of the president and king, which al-Qassab suddenly realized was happening right then.

  98

  BEN GURION INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TEL AVIV

  Annie Stewart couldn’t believe they were already on the ground.

  It had been the smoothest touchdown she had ever experienced, and the most restful flight, after all the initial turbulence. It was her first trip on Air Force One, and she felt just a pang of regret that the senator wasn’t going to run after all.

  Pete Hwang sat in the DSS operations center, watching the live coverage.

  Even as he texted and radioed steady updates to DSS agents in Israel, it was hard not to watch Air Force One come to a full stop outside the designated hangar without a stab of envy. But for his wounded arm, he would be there too, with his best friend, right in the thick of it. Yet as the door opened and the stairway was rolled into place and the IDF military band began to play “Hail to the Chief” and a smiling and waving POTUS emerged on a cloudy but dry day to roars of applause, Pete was five thousand miles away missing it all.