by Vince Flynn
“This goes no further than you. I don’t want you telling the president until I can verify it. We had intelligence that a high-level meeting was taking place last night.”
“How high?”
“I’ll send you the list, but suffice it to say that there were key players from Hamas, the Popular Liberation Committee, Force 17, Islamic Jihad, leaders of the martyr brigades and possibly Mohammed Atwa, the head of Palestinian General Intelligence.”
“You’re serious?” Kennedy acted surprised. “So the story about the bomb-making factory is—”
“True! We did not know it was there. Our rockets set off secondary explosions that were unavoidable.”
Kennedy wondered why it had been such a struggle for Freidman to tell her about the real intent of the operation and why, according to her facts, he was still lying to her about the bomb factory. “When will you have confirmation on who was taken out in the strike?”
“By tomorrow I should have a good idea. I have an asset posing as a cameraman who’s photographing the dead. Those pictures, along with the intercepts we’re picking up, should give us a fairly complete list. Listen now,” said Freidman reasserting control, “I have to go now. If I find anything else out, I’ll let you know.”
“All right.” Before she could say good-bye Freidman was off the line. Kennedy sat there for a moment staring at the handset, trying to separate the fact from the fiction in an effort to discern what the head of Mossad was up to. In the end it could be nothing more than his inability to play things straight. There were plenty of people like him in the business. Never tell the whole story, only parts of it. Or it could be much deeper than that. Kennedy would have to monitor the situation closely.
Turning to her computer she fired off a quick e-mail to Jake Turbes that she wanted him to personally look into the events in Hebron, and do so without the aid of Mossad. She wanted clean untainted facts by which to judge Freidman’s honesty, or more likely lack thereof.
44
Ben Freidman sat on the porch of the house sipping a glass of water and looking out at the rolling terrain under the moonlit evening sky. He desperately wanted a drink, but one had not been offered to him. It had been a very long day trying to manage the situation in Hebron. There were people in his government who didn’t appreciate the victory he had achieved. They were weaklings. Men and women who didn’t have the stomach to fight for the preservation of Israel.
The man he was waiting to see had the determination, though. The ranch in the Jordan Valley belonged to Prime Minister David Goldberg. Goldberg, the head of the conservative Likud Party, had been elected by an overwhelming majority of the Israeli people despite the fact that his party held only a handful of seats in the 120-member Knesset. That had been two years ago, when the people had seen how duplicitous the Palestinians were. The Israelis extended the olive branch and Yasser Arafat took it from them and slapped them in the face. He used the new Palestinian Authority to secure his hold over the Palestinian people and bring in weapons and explosives to help wage an even bloodier war against the Jews, all the while he feigned a lack of control over the so-called martyr brigades.
Goldberg had been swept into office as a hard-liner who would crack down on the Palestinian terror groups and restore some security to the country. Unfortunately things had not gone as planned. They were up against a new form of terror. One that so far they had been unable to stop. The steady stream of homicide bombers had crippled Israel’s fragile economy and frayed the nerves of even some of the stoutest patriots. The martyr brigades needed to be stopped, and Ben Freidman was willing to be every bit as ruthless as the enemy to get the job done.
He was worried about his old friend and current prime minister, though. There had been signs lately that Goldberg was beginning to crack under the pressure. His cabinet was filled with backstabbers and even his own party was asking if the old general had what it took to deal with the crisis. And then on top of that the damn Americans were giving him orders to back down.
Freidman had seen it all before. He understood the visceral hatred the Arabs felt toward him and his country. In Freidman’s mind it was based on jealousy. The Arabs and their closed patriarchal society couldn’t handle being bested by the Jews. The Palestinians had held on to this land for thousands of years and had done nothing to improve it. The Jews came back to their homeland and in one generation turned much of the arid landscape into plentiful farms and orchards. They had tried to negotiate a fair peace, but the Arabs would have none of it. There would always be a large and influential segment of the Palestinian people who would never be satisfied until Israel ceased to exist. It was Freidman’s job to make sure that never happened.
This was the important mission of Freidman’s life. It was his vocation to make sure Israel survived, and he was willing to go to great lengths to ensure success. Doing it alone, though, was not possible. He needed help. He needed allies who would pacify the bleeding hearts in his country, those naive imbeciles who actually believed that peace was worth risking the entire security of a nation, of a people who had narrowly avoided extinction.
He needed lobbyists in America to lean on the right people. People who could get to other people who controlled the lifeblood of politics: money. People who could deliver the three states that every presidential hopeful wanted: New York, Florida and the crown jewel, California. He needed America’s support more than ever and he would work diligently to make sure it was there when the time came.
Right now, though, the thing he needed most was a strong prime minister who would stay the course. He’d seen signs lately that his old friend was losing his stomach for the fight. This could not be allowed to happen. Prime Minister Goldberg needed to hold true to his commitment and stave off another attack from the liberals.
David Goldberg stepped onto the porch holding two bottles of Goldstar beer. He handed one to Freidman and apologized for making him wait. Even though Freidman would have preferred a stiff drink, he took the beer and watched his friend take a seat in the rocking chair next to him.
On the face of it, Goldberg was the most unlikely hawk you would ever meet. His plump fleshy appearance made him appear too soft for a war hero. He had a mane of white hair, which framed a tan face and heavy jowls. He was a large man, but not muscular and it was easy to see him as the grown-up version of the pudgy kid in school who was always picked on. This was a mistake. The man’s temper and valor were legendary. Never one to shy away from a fight, Goldberg had the disposition of a bull. He had distinguished himself many times on the battlefield, and for that at least, he had the respect of his countrymen. Unfortunately, though, his valor did not indefinitely guarantee their support.
Goldberg took a swig of beer and said, “Ben, you have created quite a stir.”
Freidman listened to a dog barking in the distance and said, “Don’t I always?”
“Yes, you do, but these are delicate times.”
Freidman already disliked the tone of their conversation. “When haven’t they been?”
The prime minister disagreed by shaking his head. “We have never seen the international pressure we see now.”
“Forgive me for being so blunt, David, but the international community can kiss my ass.”
“Believe me, I share your feelings, but we cannot ignore them. What you did last night is causing me problems.”
Freidman looked away from his old friend and took a drink from his beer. “David, you asked me to hit back, and did I ever find a way to hit back. It will take them years to recover from this.”
The prime minister wasn’t so sure anymore, not since these she-devils started blowing themselves up. More and more Goldberg was starting to think in terms of withdrawal from the West Bank and the occupied territories. There were only two things that prevented him from doing so. The first was the settlements. Thousands of Jews had moved into the areas and would die rather than leave. The second reason he wouldn’t support the withdrawal and recognition of a Palestinian sta
te was that he feared for his life. The man sitting next to him on the porch, along with many others, would have him killed if he were to gamble so recklessly with Israel’s security.
Knowing he had to be careful with how he dealt with Freidman, he said, “The attack was the crowning achievement of your career, Ben.” Goldberg held out his bottle for a toast.
“Thank you.” Freidman clanged his bottle against the prime minister’s and said, “But?”
Goldberg finished his drink and in a confused tone asked, “But what?”
“Don’t protect me, David. Remember I hear everything. I know your cabinet is furious with the number of casualties.”
“They are rarely in agreement on anything.”
“Well, if you’d like me to address them I am more than willing.”
Goldberg considered this for a moment. It wasn’t a bad idea. Ben Friedman could intimidate even the staunchest opponent. “Maybe later, but for now I am more concerned about explaining to the international community how so many innocent civilians died.”
He was tempted to remind him that the Palestinians living in the neighborhood were hardly innocent, but the director general of Mossad decided against it. Goldberg the warrior had transformed into Goldberg the politician. Instead he said, “They are an unfortunate casualty of war.”
“But sixteen Hellfire missiles, Ben. What were you thinking?”
Freidman shrugged. “This was a once in a lifetime chance. I wasn’t about to let a single one of them escape if I could help it.”
“I’ve been told your infiltrator had enough explosives in those cases to take out everyone at the meeting.”
Freidman was more than a little surprised that Goldberg knew about the specifics, but he covered it well. He had intentionally told him little prior to the mission with the tacit understanding that if things went wrong, the prime minister would have deniability. Now someone within his own agency was talking to the prime minister and Freidman would have to find out who.
“David, don’t tell me you’ve lost your stomach for this?”
A scowl formed on Goldberg’s face. “Don’t confuse the issue, Ben. I’m hearing things from other sources. I’m hearing that you went overboard on this thing … that we could have avoided killing all the innocent civilians.”
Freidman stopped rocking and looked harshly at his old friend. “Do me a favor and stop calling them innocent. They have been blowing up women and children for years, and you know as well as I that the only way to make them stop is to hit them harder than they hit us.”
Goldberg wasn’t so sure anymore. When he’d been a young tank commander, he’d thought so. When he’d taken the reins of the country just a few years ago he had thought so, but now, after all the homicide bombs, he was wavering in his conviction. “Ben, these are delicate times. The eyes of the world are upon us.”
Freidman was disgusted by what he was hearing. He was tempted to tell Goldberg to step down if he didn’t have the constitution to see it through. Instead he said, “The eyes of the world have always been on us. It shouldn’t matter any more now than it has in the past. We are not the aggressors here, David, and you know that. They are the ones who have continued to attack us, and both of us have been around long enough to know the only thing they respond to is force.”
“But it has to end at some point. We need to find a way.”
“What?” snapped Freidman. “Do you want to pull out and build your stupid wall? Have you paid no attention to history? All you will be doing is giving them land that they will use to someday attack us from. You will be remembered as the Neville Chamberlain of Israel.”
“I am talking about doing no such thing,” replied a terse Goldberg. “And don’t sit here and lecture me about being Neville Chamberlain, when just last night you killed a hundred innocent women and children. I’ve been briefed by the army, Ben. I know there was no bomb factory. Those people did not need to die.”
Freidman did not intend for this meeting to head in this direction, but he was not about to back down. “I will admit that some of those deaths are regrettable, but again, only a few. The overwhelming majority of the people who were living on that block were either terrorists or supporters of terrorists. I will lose no sleep over my decision, and I will gladly stand before your cabinet and defend my actions.”
“It is not the cabinet that I am worried about,” snapped Goldberg. “It is the UN, and it is the Americans. If they decide to look into this, and they find out that there was in fact no bomb factory, you will have done us great harm.”
“They will not look into it,” promised an irritated Freidman. “I can handle the Americans. I always have and I always will, and as far as the UN is concerned they are a bunch of impotent dilettantes. A week from now this will all be forgotten.” Freidman took a swig of beer and confidently added, “I can promise you … this will all blow over. Right now, though, we need to stay on the offensive. In the wake of an attack such as last night they will make mistakes. They will seek vengeance and we must be ready to pounce. This is what I propose we do.”
Goldberg rocked in his chair and listened as the head of Mossad laid out his plan for how to keep the various Palestinian groups on the defensive. The prime minister was torn as he listened. The old soldier in him very much wanted to press the advantage, but there was another voice in his head that was preaching caution. It was the voice of a politician who had the support of less than half of his country.
So far the only reason he hadn’t received a vote of no confidence was because there was no clear challenger willing to step into the ring. His opponents were circling, though, and it wouldn’t be long before they pounced. For the time being he would have to keep a close watch on Freidman. If the UN found out what had really happened in Hebron, his cabinet would turn on him in a second, and Israel would once again be forced back to the peace table with weak leadership at the reins of power.
45
It was Sunday night, it was late and Mitch Rapp sat awkwardly behind the wheel of his sedan, his body contorted in such a way as to keep his right butt cheek from touching the seat. Medically speaking, the ass was not a bad spot to be shot; no vital organs, just a lot of muscle and fat. In terms of general comfort, though, it sucked. To the amusement of Coleman and his men, Rapp had flown all the way back from the Philippines either standing or lying on his stomach.
With the mission a complete success, and Rapp’s long-term health not an issue, the men were able to make light of his situation. For the most part Rapp took the ribbing well. The humor was at least a welcome distraction from having to dwell on what awaited him when he got home.
Relationships, he was finding, were tricky things. He’d already learned that often his recollection of what had been said, or promised, varied greatly from his wife’s. He’d been searching his memory for the last day trying to remember if he had ever specifically promised to stay out of situations where he might be shot. Most of these conversations were vague by nature of the secrecy that went along with his job, but he seemed to remember some reassurances he’d made that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. Something told him that she would classify getting shot in the ass as downright moronic.
Ultimately, however, he realized that this legalistic approach, while an inventive defense, was worthless. Nothing specifically had ever been agreed upon or said, but there were clearly expectations in place. Anna was not a judge or jurist, so any case pleaded on the grounds of technicalities would be unwise. She was his wife and no amount of truth or logic would save him from her wrath.
This briefly led him to the conclusion that he would need to stall and fabricate a story. The Anderson family was currently recuperating at the naval hospital in Pearl Harbor. Rapp had told Kennedy that he wanted to stay with the family for a few days and handle their debriefing. He was hoping to stretch the debriefing into a full week of recuperation for his own tender wound. In addition to that, he felt it would be fairly easy to fake a surfing accident on a coral reef.
All he’d need to do was shred a pair of swim trunks and scrape himself up with some coral. It would hurt like hell, but it would pale in comparison to what his wife would do to him if she found out he’d been shot.
Kennedy had dismissed his request immediately, saying that something had happened in Israel, and she needed him back in Washington immediately. A plane would be waiting for him in Pearl Harbor and he wasn’t to waste a minute. Ever since that conversation he’d been struggling to find a way out of an impossible situation. Somewhere over the western United States he’d come to the awful conclusion that he would have to face the wrath of his wife head-on.
This was all new to him, this feeling of dread. Relationships for Rapp had always been fairly uncomplicated. Since the death of his college sweetheart, he had never allowed anyone to get that close to him. Part of it was his job. Intimacy involved honesty, and his job precluded allowing any woman to really know him.
There had been a torrid affair with Donatella Rahn, an Israeli spy, that had lasted on and off for several years. In certain ways Donatella knew him better than anyone. It was a volatile relationship prone to great highs and depressing lows, and in a certain sense they were too much alike to ever marry, although she sure would have liked to have tried.
There had been plenty of other relationships, but never one so serious as to make him want to change. Anna had altered all that. Before her, if someone asked too many questions, or demanded too much of him, he found the nearest exit and never looked back. Relationships had always been easy, because they were always on his terms, and as soon as those terms were challenged or questioned it was over.
Now, everything was different. There was no walking away, no my place and your place, it was now their place. He had married Anna because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She made him want to be a better man, and deep down inside he knew it was for all the right reasons.