The popular story goes that the driver, overtaken by Admiral Morgan’s car, which was making about 105 mph around the Beltway, switched on his lights and siren and came screaming up behind him, muttering, “I don’t care who’s in that car, I’m pulling the crazy sonofabitch over and he’s going to pay the biggest fine. I might even have him jailed for three months.”
When the two cars came to a halt, the policeman took one look at the figure glowering in the back, and the blood drained from his face. He just said swiftly but sheepishly, “Oh. er. good afternoon, sir. I just wondered if you needed an escort.”
The admiral just growled, “Sure, if you can keep up. NOW HIT IT, CHARLIE!” And the big limo hurled gravel as it squealed off the hard shoulder, leaving the cop in a cloud of dust, cursing his bad luck.
Forty-four minutes after Jimmy’s phone call, Admiral Morgan, who had once been the director of the NSA, came thundering into the Ops-2B Building, under escort by two young guards who were both on the verge of nervous breakdowns, so urgent did the Big Man’s mission appear to be.
Which office, sir?
“The goddamned director’s office, of course. Where d’you think I want to go, the mail room?”
One of the guards went white. The other tried to turn away, but he caught the sly wink the admiral gave him. At the hallowed door of the director of the National Security Agency, one of them stepped forward to tap on the door. But the admiral just grabbed the handle and opened it, strode across the room, and sat down hard in the director’s big executive chair, which had once been his.
He always sat there when he visited Admiral Morris. It seemed, in its way, correct for the most respected man who had ever worked in U.S. military intelligence to be sitting right there. Admiral Morris considered it an honor. In lighter moments, even the President of the United States often asked Admiral Morgan if it would be okay for him to sit behind his desk in the Oval Office. It had been a standing joke between them ever since Arnold Morgan had swept him to power two years previously.
The door opened again, and this time Lt. Commander Ramshawe came through. “Admiral Morris has landed, sir,” he said. “He’ll be here in five.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“Arnie, there are twenty-eight thousand people currently employed at this agency. Every last one of ’em knows you’re here.”
“Would that include the guys who bring the coffee?”
“Yessir, it’s on its way, nuclear hot with buckshot the way you like it.”
“Outstanding,” replied the admiral. “Now tell me about the little Arab who caved in under interrogation.”
“Well, it seems the Guantánamo guys got their lead from Reza Aghani, the one who got shot at Logan and went to Bethesda. He knew only a little, and took his orders from Ramon Salman, the Commonwealth Avenue guy who we picked up in New York. That confirmed Hamas.
“And then they went right to work on Salman, broke him down without laying a finger on him, and he confessed he worked for our old friend General Rashood, aka Major Ray Kerman. Once he’d gone that far, he apparently told the guys the precise whereabouts of the general, some side street in Damascus, and I guess that’s what we’re here to discuss.”
“Was that who he called in Damascus, the night before the Logan bomb?”
“Damn right it was. And he admitted it.”
The door opened again, and Admiral Morris walked in followed by the waiter. Admiral Morgan stood up and clasped his hand. “Good to see you, George,” he said, and for a few fleeting moments the ex-nuclear submarine commander from Chevy Chase stood and smiled at the former carrier battle group commander. They were two old warriors, friends for thirty years, patriots, and both still capable of cold fury at any threat to the United States.
“Arnie,” said Admiral Morris, “am I right in thinking we’ve got this Rashood character cornered in Damascus?”
“Well, not quite. But at least we know where he lives, which is a darned sight more than we have ever known before.”
“We don’t want him alive, do we?”
“Hell, no. This is one murdering sonofabitch. He’s blown up power stations, refineries, volcanoes, and god knows how many people. He’s smart, trained, and damned dangerous. Rashood is one of those people you kill, no questions asked. Nothing announced. Nothing admitted. Just get it done.”
“As I recall, Arnie, you’re kind of good at that sort of stuff.”
“Guess you could say I’ve had my moments. But not for a couple of weeks.” For the second time in a half hour, Admiral Morgan offered a conspiratorial wink, this time at Jimmy Ramshawe, who grinned and shook his head.
It was almost midnight now. Admiral Morris poured the coffee, firing a couple of buckshot sweeteners into his old friend’s cup. Jimmy delivered it to the big desk, and Arnold Morgan said crisply, “Okay, boys, whaddya think, do we shoot him, poison him, blow him up, or bomb the whole street?”
“Why not the whole city?” said Admiral Morris benignly. “Might as well start World War III while we’re at it.”
Arnold Morgan chuckled. “George, I’m more or less serious. It will probably not be that long before the Hamas leaders discover that someone has spilled the beans. Maybe a matter of three or four weeks. At which point, they’re going to move their General Rashood to a very different, much safer place. Maybe even to a different country, but certainly to a different city. Then we’ve lost him again. So we better get moving if we want to take him out.”
“I presume you rule out a full-frontal assault?”
“Christ, yes. We can’t do that, not with the new Middle East peace talks coming up.”
“Then you’re thinking straightforward assassin? CIA or even special forces?”
“Quite honestly, George, I’m not mad about either. First, we don’t really know how much protection Rashood has, how many bodyguards or even military security. And second, it’ll take us a while to find out. And even if we could get a team in place, or even a single sniper, we have no guarantee our man could get away; and if he were caught, there’d be hell to pay.”
“How about a bomb?” said Jimmy.
“Well, that’s a possibility. But we got so much trouble in the Middle East, it would probably turn out to be a bigger risk than the president would be prepared to take. Can you imagine the uproar if we either got caught, or somehow got the blame?”
“I could imagine it very easily,” interjected George Morris. “The liberal press would crucify us, behaving like gangsters, bullies, murderers, and Christ knows what else — reverting to the standards of our enemies and all that.”
“Don’t remind me, George,” replied Admiral Morgan. “But these things have to be considered. And in the end, we might have to get someone else to do it for us.”
“What? Go in and assassinate General Rashood? And then be prepared to take the rap for it if necessary?”
“There’s only one group who would fill those boots,” said Jimmy. “And that’s the Mossad.”
“My own thoughts precisely,” said Arnold Morgan. “Remember, Israel wants General Rashood dead worse than we do.”
“Remind me?” said Admiral Morris.
“Well, for a start, in the original battle in Hebron, he turned traitor against the Israeli forces, which counts as high treason and is punishable by execution. Then he masterminded those two huge bank robberies in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, Christmas ’bout eight years ago. what was it? A hundred million minimum?
“Four months later, he led an assault force on the Nimrod Jail and released just about every one of Israel’s major political prisoners, killing almost the entire prison staff while he was at it. A couple of years ago, the Mossad thought they had him trapped in some restaurant in France. But Rashood turned the tables on the Mossad hitmen and killed them both. And the Israelis, as we know, never forgive.”
“Are they still looking for him?” asked George Morris.
“They never forgive, or give up,” replied Admiral Morgan. “Guess th
at’s why they’re still breathing as a nation. They’re still looking for him, all right, but no one ever told me they came even close to finding him. Rashood’s probably the most dangerous and clever opponent the West has had since bin Laden retired.”
“I don’t think we’d even need to ask the Mossad to help us,” said Jimmy. “Just tell ’em where he is. Assure them of the validity of our sources, and they’ll be grateful. We can probably leave the rest to them.”
“They might not acknowledge we’re asking for a favor,” said Arnold. “But they’ll sure as hell know why we’re telling them.”
“Do we need to involve the government and the president and everyone else?” asked Admiral Morris.
“Hell, no,” said Arnold. “This will be just a friendly chat between intelligence agencies. My view is the less said, the better. Until one day we get a call from an informer letting us know the archterrorist General Rashood has been killed by a bomb in Damascus.”
“How do you know it’ll be a bomb?”
“It just happens to be the Mossad’s preferred method of operating. Less risk of missing the target, and the ability to be far away when the timing device explodes.”
“How do we start?” asked Admiral Morris.
“That part’s easy,” replied Arnold. At which point he picked up the telephone on the big desk and said sharply, “Get me the Israeli embassy, would you. right away.”
Moments later the call went through, and Admiral Morgan ordered whoever was at the other end, “Put me through to the ambassador, would you?”
Sir, I would need to know the nature of your call before I am permitted to do that.
“I’m not at all used to explaining things,” replied Arnold, curtly. “Just tell Ambassador Gavron to return my call immediately. That’s Admiral Arnold Morgan. I’m in the director’s office at the National Security Agency, Fort Meade. And tell him to look sharp about it.”
Crash. Down phone. The young Israeli girl on the line at the embassy instantly realized that in her experience no one had ever passed on a message like that to Ambassador Gavron, and she knew the name Arnold Morgan. Precisely twenty-three seconds later, the phone rang in George Morris’s office.
And the other two heard Arnold say cheerfully, “Hello, David. Yes, I appreciate you tried to look sharp about it!” And they watched the great man chuckle at the minor explosion he had put under the switchboard at the Israeli embassy. At least, it was minor compared to the one he was planning for Bab Touma Street, Damascus.
“Urgent? Hell, no. I just decided it was too long since I’d seen you, and I’d made a highly classified decision to buy you dinner — tomorrow night?
“. What d’you mean, only if Kathy comes? I know she’s better-looking than I am. of course we’re going somewhere halfway decent. I’ll get a table at Matisse. And, no. That does not mean I must have an ulterior motive. Seven-thirty. See you then.”
Admiral Morgan had just reentered, in his customary rambunctious manner, the life of one of the Mossad’s most revered former commanders. Which, happily, always amused the life out of the battle-scarred Israeli general.
David Gavron was a true sabra, an Israeli of the blood, and a patriot from his bootstraps to the jagged scar that was slashed like forked lightning across the left side of his face. He was six feet tall, lean, upright, very obviously ex-military, with a fair, freckled complexion, deeply tanned, with piercing blue eyes.
His sandy-colored hair, receding, still seemed bleached from the Sinai Desert, where, thirty-nine years ago, as a young tank commander, he had fought a desperate battle for his own life and for that of his country.
The bitterness of the Yom Kippur War remained for years in the hearts of the Israeli army commanders; but, for some, there burned a flame of pure fire that would never die. David Gavron was one of those.
On that most terrible day, October 8, 1973, Captain Gavron was twenty-six. And he was caught up in the frenzied rush to join General Abraham “Bren” Adan’s tank division. He was alongside the general as they charged out into the desert to face the massed ranks of Egypt’s well-prepared troops sweeping across the canal.
The Egyptians had slammed into the Israeli defenses while the entire nation was at prayer. When the two armies finally came face-to-face in the Sinai, General Adan was still unprepared. He was stunned by the suddenness of the attack, and every advantage was with the invaders. The Egyptian troops, backed up by literally hundreds of tanks, dug in, calmly, to await the hopelessly outnumbered Israelis.
General Adan and his men attacked with stupendous courage, and for a half hour it looked as if the Egyptians might lose their nerve and retreat. But in the end, their superior numbers held sway, and after four hours the bloodstained, battered Israeli armored division was forced back.
Hundreds had died. David Gavron was wounded, shot as he tried to drag an injured man from his burning tank. Then he was blown twenty feet forward by an exploding shell that seared the entire left side of his face. At that point, Israel’s fate hung in the balance. They were temporarily saved only by the gallantry of their teenage infantrymen, who fought and died by the hundreds trying to hold the Egyptians back until reinforcements arrived.
For a while, the Sinai was the Somme with sun and sand. But finally, assisted by Captain Gavron, General Adan re-formed his front line and once more they rolled forward into the teeth of the Egyptian attack.
David Gavron, his arm bandaged, his face burned, fought only thirty yards from “Bren” Adan. To this day he is still haunted by the memory of that moment when “Bren” raised his right fist and bellowed the motto of his embattled army—Follow me! It was, he says, the sheer nobility of the man.
No one who was there would ever forget that roar of anger and leadership, as the guns of the Israeli tanks once more opened fire. No one heard it louder than David Gavron, as his tank rumbled forward, and there, to his starboard side, was General “Bren,” right fist still clenched, at the head of his battered division, pounding toward the heart of Egypt’s Second Army.
The Israelis opened fire. They threw everything they had at the Egyptians, whose commanders finally lost their nerve completely and gave in. Nine days later, General Adan, with the always-faithful Captain Gavron, drove on and crossed the Suez Canal, and proceeded to smash the hell out of Egypt’s Third Army, before leaving it isolated in the desert.
Decorated for gallantry beyond the call of duty, David Gavron was promoted to become one of the youngest colonels ever to serve in the Israeli Army. He was groomed for many years to take up his position as head of the Mossad.
For all of their lives, the legendary General Adan and the subsequent prime minister, General Arik Sharon, would regard David Gavron as perhaps their most trusted friend.
Arnold Morgan knew every line of the above. He did not expect the ambassador to regard Ravi Rashood as anything less than a reptile that must be beheaded at any cost. David regarded any enemy of Israel in that light, as indeed Admiral Morgan did enemies of the United States. They were two military leaders who, through no fault of their own, considered their nation’s problems to be theirs to rectify. They were born that way.
The plush Matisse restaurant tonight would not be an ideal place for any terrorist to look for mercy. Especially if he happened to be General Ravi Rashood. Admiral Morgan anticipated having the upper hand, since he alone could tell the Israeli ambassador the whereabouts of the Hamas military leader.
Geographically, the restaurant was perfectly positioned, just about midway between the Morgans’ home at the edge of Chevy Chase Village, and the Israeli embassy, which was situated three miles north of downtown D.C. off Connecticut Avenue. The other attraction of Matisse was that it was generally regarded as among the top five restaurants in the Washington area, a favorite haunt of presidents and senators.
With its superb design inspired by Henri Matisse’s work, its gleaming white tablecloths, and French Mediterranean cooking, the restaurant felt no obligation even to put prices on its me
nu. The introduction of crude commercial considerations would doubtless have caused the head chef to have a nervous breakdown.
Arnold Morgan lived only a mile away, and he was a regular. For this night, he chose a corner banquette in the cozy back dining room, with its cheerful limestone fireplace. It was automatically assumed that a member of the proprietor’s family, the lovely young Deanna, would serve the table personally.
Admiral Morgan arrived first with his wife, Kathy. His driver, Charlie, dropped them right outside the door on Wisconsin Avenue, and they stepped out into a biting January wind gusting out of the northwest. As soon as they were seated, the admiral ordered a bottle of supreme white burgundy, his favorite Meursault, Premier Crus Perrières 2004, made by the maestro Jean-Marc Roulot at his small domaine off the main road through to Puligny.
He was certain this would please General Gavron, who, despite hardly touching alcohol while he was involved in the Mossad, these days had mellowed and hugely enjoyed a glass of what Arnold described as snorto-de-luxe.
This was plainly a phrase more befitting the torpedo room of a nuclear submarine than the fabled small chateaux of the Côte d’Or in central France. But it did not disguise the admiral’s knowledge and enjoyment of great French wine, and tonight was an occasion to be savored.
If it were successful, the admiral’s selections ought to be paid for by a nationwide donation drive of pure gratitude by the American people.
In the absence of that, Arnold would probably toss the check at the Oval Office for a refund. As for charging one dollar for his time and skill, the admiral would have had the same stunned reaction as the Matisse head chef if anyone happened to mention money.
At 7:42 P.M., Ambassador Gavron’s driver dropped him off outside the door. He arrived at the admiral’s table dressed in a dark blue lightweight suit, with a white shirt and a blue silk Israeli Navy tie. He leaned over to kiss Kathy’s hand and then shook the hand of Arnold Morgan.
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