“Of course, sir.”
Marcus and Tomer turned and stepped out of the room. As they did, Marcus called the war room and briefed Roseboro.
“Yeah, I heard the whole thing,” the deputy director replied.
“How?”
“Agent Stone switched on his radio the moment you walked into the holding room. I heard every word. Everyone in the war room did. You’re insane. You know that, right?”
“Have you got a better option, Carl?”
“No,” Roseboro said. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
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Annie Stewart watched in fascination as the principals discussed Marcus’s plan.
To her astonishment, the one most in favor was the Saudi monarch.
“Mr. President, like I told you, we absolutely must not let ourselves be intimidated by the jihadists,” King Faisal told Clarke. “Too much is at stake, and we must all rise to the challenge. Agent Ryker is correct. It is time for all of us to go outside with courage and determination. We will meet the Grand Mufti. We will shake his hand. We will take the photo in front of the Dome of the Rock. We will give our remarks. And in so doing we will show the entire world that with the able assistance of the American people and government, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and the State of Israel can and will make peace. We can do what all the naysayers think is impossible. We can set a powerful example for the rest of the Arab world, including the Palestinians, and there is no force on the face of this earth that can stop us.”
The Israeli prime minister nodded quietly and offered his hand to the king. The Saudi looked surprised at first, but only for a moment; then he took Eitan’s hand and shook it firmly.
“His Majesty is absolutely right,” Eitan affirmed. “I have full confidence in our combined security forces, and I can’t think of a better way to send a message of peace and regional cooperation to the world than if we go out together right now, or a worse message to send than if we remained in this holding room for a minute longer.”
Clarke broke out into a broad smile and slapped both men on the back. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “Let’s do this thing.”
Secretary Whitney did not look happy, Annie noticed. Even Senator Dayton looked skeptical. But the decision had already been made. Word was radioed to Ryker and Tomer Ben Ami, who were standing outside in the colonnade, surrounded by dozens of agents and special forces operatives, that the principals were ready to proceed. Ryker radioed back that he just needed a moment to brief all the forces on the plaza on the exact plan and the precise rules of engagement.
“Get ready to switch the video feed back on,” Marcus told Roseboro by radio.
As he walked outside, scanning for Mashrawi, Marcus could hear Roseboro relaying the message to the control room—a satellite TV truck parked just inside St. Stephen’s Gate to the Old City, also known as Lions’ Gate.
When they reached the Dome of the Rock, Marcus asked a staffer from the White House advance team for a roll of duct tape. Then he counted off thirty yards from the front door of the dome, ripped off two long pieces of tape, and created an X on the stone plaza. Shifting rightward, he did it again and again until there were eight Xs marked in equidistant intervals around the octagonal building.
As Marcus did this, Tomer repositioned Secret Service and Shin Bet agents and Saudi Royal Guards, backing most of them far away from the Dome. At Marcus’s insistence, Tomer placed no agents in the corridor between the entrance to the Dome of the Rock and the risers where three remotely controlled broadcast television cameras stood on tripods. Marcus wanted nothing to obstruct the TV cameras’ view. He also wanted to lure Mashrawi out into the open.
Then Marcus ordered each pair of sharpshooters and spotters to fixate on one of the eight gates that provided access to the plaza in front of the Dome of the Rock. He ordered an additional team of sharpshooters to keep a close eye on the front doors to the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Two final teams were to play free safety, as it were, watching for anything the others might miss.
From their vantage points on the roofs of the mosque, the administrative offices, and various other buildings, the shooters and spotters could plainly see the duct-tape Xs. Over his wrist-mounted radio, Marcus told them that if Mashrawi appeared, they were not to shoot him unless given a direct order by himself or Tomer or unless Mashrawi began rushing the principals and crossed the perimeter marked by the Xs. Marcus required each man to verbally acknowledge that he had both heard and would comply with these new rules of engagement. They all did.
Marcus then asked several Saudi agents—all Muslims—to enter the Noble Sanctuary and guard the entrance from the inside, just in case Mashrawi had hidden himself indoors. Finally, Tomer radioed the guards at each of the eight entrances—inside and outside—to leave their posts and reassemble under the colonnade by the administrative offices. This effectively left all the gates open to Mashrawi. It was an enormous risk, but Tomer and Roseboro had reluctantly agreed to it.
Once this was done, Marcus took one last look around the plaza.
“We good?” he asked.
“I can’t think of anything else,” said Tomer.
“Then let’s go—it’s showtime.”
117
Marcus walked to the door of the dome and stood to its right.
Tomer took up his post to the left of the door.
This gave them a 180-degree view of everything in front of the entrance, including the risers and the cameras. Everything behind the dome was being covered by snipers and other agents.
“Carl, restart the live video feed,” Marcus said into his wrist-mounted radio.
Ten seconds later, Roseboro radioed back to say it had been done. “Smile, Marcus,” he said. “You’re being broadcast to the entire world.”
Marcus did not smile. Through his Ray-Ban sunglasses, he tensed, waiting for Mashrawi to emerge, even as the White House press secretary stepped up to the bulletproof podium positioned in front of the magnificent gold dome and spoke into the bank of microphones.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States, Andrew Clarke, and his esteemed partners for peace, the prime minister of the State of Israel, Reuven Eitan, and His Majesty, King Faisal Mohammed Al Saud of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”
The several dozen staffers who had not, in the end, been ordered to evacuate applauded loudly from somewhere off to Marcus’s left, near the Al-Aqsa Mosque.
“They are joined by His Excellency, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Amin al-Azzam; the U.S. secretary of state, Margaret Whitney; and the senior United States senator from the state of Iowa, Robert Dayton.”
“Start the music,” the director of the White House advance team said over the radio.
A moment later, a band and honor guard comprised of U.S., Israeli, and Saudi military musicians entered the plaza and began to play the Saudi national anthem.
From his right, Marcus could now see the six principals emerging from their holding room, strolling down the colonnade and smiling and waving to their staff and to the cameras as they approached their positions. Marcus, however, ignored them all. He was certain Mashrawi was coming. But when? And from which direction?
“Hatikvah,” the Israeli national anthem, was the next to play, followed by “The Star-Spangled Banner.” As the anthems played, each leader took his or her assigned spot behind the podium. Their bodyguards stepped aside, three to the right and three to the left, out of the view of the cameras and careful not to obscure Marcus’s or Tomer’s views.
President Clarke strode to the podium, cleared his throat, and spoke first. His remarks were brief. Two minutes, if that. He heralded the historic nature of the day, thanked the Israelis for hosting the peace summit and the Saudi king for his “courageous decision” to come and “break ancient taboos” and pursue a “new birth of peace and freedom” for Arabs and Jews and “all the people of the Middle East.”
Prime Minister Eitan was next. Given the extremely sensitive nature of an Israeli Jewis
h prime minister speaking on the Temple Mount at all, much less in front of one of the most revered sites in all of Islam, he wisely kept his remarks even more brief. He simply thanked the president and the king for their “bold pursuit of peace” and welcomed both to “the Holy City,” noting that “nowhere on earth are religious freedom and tolerance more revered or enjoyed than here in Jerusalem, beloved to followers of our three great monotheistic faiths.”
King Faisal Mohammed spoke last. He stooped as he stood before the podium and with tears in his eyes spoke the longest. He thanked “Allah, the beneficent, for granting me this dream of my entire life, to come to al-Quds and stand where Muhammad—peace be upon him—and Jesus and so many of the great prophets once stood.” He described how much he looked forward to praying in the sacred Al-Aqsa Mosque. He thanked the president and the prime minister for their gracious hospitality.
And then Hussam Mashrawi stepped onto the plaza.
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Marcus didn’t see him first.
One of the spotters did, informing the team over the radio. Mashrawi was emerging from behind them, through an entrance known appropriately as the Gate of Darkness, located on the north side of the plaza. The spotter explained he was dressed in his clerical robes, did not have a security lanyard around his neck, and was walking with a slight limp.
The king, unaware of what was happening, continued to speak.
The spotter provided continuous updates to Marcus, Tomer, and the rest of the security teams as Mashrawi approached from the back side of the dome. He walked slowly and maintained the same steady pace, making no sudden moves.
When he came around the left side of the shrine, Marcus finally saw him. The two men stared at each other as Mashrawi passed by a grove of olive trees. He was still about a football field away, and Marcus ordered everyone to hold all radio traffic.
The king, looking directly into the main television camera, still didn’t know Mashrawi was approaching. But there was a buzz coming from the staffers, some of whom were beginning to move back toward the presumed safety of the mosque.
“Shooters, mark your target, but hold your fire,” Marcus said into his wrist-mounted microphone. “And watch for a diversion.”
The satphone rang.
President Mustafa answered it immediately.
“Are you watching?” asked Yaşar.
“Of course,” the Turkish president replied, sitting transfixed by the image on the screen on the side wall of his office.
“Do you see the man coming into view right now on the far right side of the screen?” Yaşar asked.
“The cleric, in the robes?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about him?”
“That’s our man.”
“Stand by—something is happening,” said one of the Al-Sawt anchors.
“If you’re just joining us, King Faisal of Saudi Arabia has been speaking in front of the Dome of the Rock for the last several minutes,” said his colleague. “But just now the king has stopped speaking. It’s not entirely clear why he—”
“Wait,” noted the first anchor. “Someone’s approaching.”
“Who is that? A security man?”
“No, no, it’s a cleric of some kind.”
“Let’s see if we can get a close-up of the man who has just stopped the king’s speech in midsentence.”
Yasmine Mashrawi gasped.
“Hey, that’s your husband,” the shoemaker said.
The chief of the Royal Guards took a step toward the king.
Marcus saw the motion out of the corner of his eye yet never took his focus off Mashrawi, who he estimated was now no more than a few yards away from one of the Xs on the pavement.
“Your Majesty, welcome to al-Quds,” shouted a beaming if somewhat–glassy-eyed Mashrawi. “What a joy and an honor to have you here, to have all of you here, in one beautiful and sacred place.”
At this, Marcus stepped directly into Mashrawi’s path, between the approaching cleric and the Saudi king. He shouted to the man to stop right where he was.
“It’s okay,” Mashrawi shouted back. “It’s me, Agent Ryker. It’s Hussam.”
Marcus had not drawn his weapon yet. But Tomer now came up beside him, ready to draw his. Mashrawi kept walking. Not quickly. He still made no sudden movement. He simply continued walking toward them at precisely the same speed.
“Dr. Mashrawi, this is your last chance,” Marcus shouted at the top of his lungs. “Stop right where you are. Do not approach another foot.”
“I don’t understand,” said the shoemaker. “Why are they telling him to stop?”
“Don’t they know who he is?” asked the man’s wife.
Yasmine, too, was confused. Just then, however, she remembered the phone in her hand, looked down at it, and flipped it open. As she did, she tried to remember precisely what her husband had told her. Was she to call him the moment she saw him on television or only when Hussam was in the same shot as the president, the king, and the prime minister? She rested her finger over the 5 button and looked back up at the screen.
Was it time? she wondered. Was this the moment?
119
Mashrawi didn’t stop.
The man was steadily approaching the X. Any closer and a sniper was going to take him out. Marcus suddenly wondered if he had calculated enough distance. What if the bomb the Pakistani had implanted in this man was more powerful than the one in London? Could it kill them all, even from there?
“Snipers, hold your fire,” Marcus ordered over his radio. “I’ve got this.”
“I don’t understand,” Mashrawi shouted. “Whatever is the problem, Agent Ryker? You know me. You vetted me. You invited me to be here today.”
As Marcus tried to figure how best to respond, knowing his every move was being broadcast to the world, Mashrawi kept talking.
“I apologize—to all of you—for being late. But as you know, Agent Ryker, I have not been myself since my dental surgery on Wednesday. I have been on heavy painkillers, and they have been hard on my stomach and my heart.”
Mashrawi crossed the X and kept coming. Five feet closer. Ten feet. At fifteen feet, Marcus drew his weapon and aimed it at the man’s forehead. Tomer did the same. And Mashrawi suddenly stopped.
“You didn’t have dental surgery, Dr. Mashrawi,” Marcus shouted back.
“What are you talking about? Of course I did. Ask my dentist. He removed one of my wisdom teeth, and he did an emergency root canal.”
It was a bizarre conversation to be having on live television, especially given the high-powered people behind him and all those watching in capitals around the globe. But Marcus continued.
“Is Daoud Husseini your dentist?”
“Yes, that’s him. Call him. Ask him. He will verify everything.”
“I don’t need to call him.”
“Why not?”
“I just came from his office—he’s dead.”
Mashrawi looked shocked. Marcus couldn’t tell if the reaction was genuine or feigned, but it struck him as genuine.
“Your friend Mohammed al-Qassab shot him in the head,” Marcus continued.
“Who?”
“Your Kairos handler.”
“My what? What in the world are you talking about, Agent Ryker? What nonsense is this?”
Marcus ignored the question. “Dr. Haqqani is also dead.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Yes, you do. He’s the man who performed your surgery. The man who implanted a bomb inside your chest cavity. The bomb you came here today to detonate.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Agent Ryker. I have come to do no such thing. Now please, put that gun away and let us continue this historic event. You’re embarrassing yourself and your country.”
“It’s over, Hussam,” Marcus replied. “Al-Qassab told me everything. I arrested him thirty minutes ago. It’s time to surrender before anyone gets hurt.”
Mashrawi’s expression sudd
enly changed. He looked like a caged animal. He scanned the crowd. He spotted the sharpshooters with their rifles pointed at him. He saw other agents now with weapons drawn. And he turned to the cameras.
“It is all lies,” he shouted. “Everything this man says, it’s all lies.”
Then he appealed to the Saudi king.
“Your Majesty, this is the persecution we have suffered as devout Muslims, as good Arabs, as faithful Palestinians. Don’t believe these men. They are liars. They don’t want you to make peace. They want to foment war between us, a religious war that will rage for a thousand years.”
Mashrawi began to move again. He began to walk forward. Again Marcus shouted at him to stop immediately or he would be shot dead.
“Do you see this, Your Majesty? Do you hear them, the unbelievers trampling on our holy grounds? I am not a suicide bomber. I am not a terrorist.”
Marcus took three steps forward and then stopped. “Then prove it, Dr. Mashrawi—to me, the king, and the entire world, right now.”
“Just tell me how, Agent Ryker. Nothing would make me happier than to prove you wrong, to humiliate you before the entire world. Do you think I’m wearing a suicide vest under these robes? Is that what you think?”
“Take off your robe,” Marcus shouted.
Mashrawi did. “See, Agent Ryker—no vest.”
“Take off your shirt,” Marcus replied.
Mashrawi stood there for a moment, defiant. But then, to Marcus’s surprise, he unbuttoned his light-blue oxford dress shirt and threw it to the ground. Now he was standing only in a white T-shirt and a pair of tan khaki pants.
“What should I do now, Agent Ryker?” the cleric sneered. “Shall I strip naked for you, for the whole world? Is this how Muslims are to be treated here on our sacred space? Is this what the American peace plan means for Palestinians? More humiliation, more degradation?”
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 35