Devorah saw him studying the container. “It’s a mezuzah,” she explained, folding her arms. “The parchment is inscribed with a portion of the Scripture.”
Michael nodded slowly as a memory rose in his tired brain. “‘Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates,’” he quoted.
“Exactly.” She smiled in approval. “‘Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads’—that’s why you see men praying with tefillin bound to their arms and foreheads.” She sighed softly. “My people take the Law of Moses quite literally.”
The door opened, and the streetlight gilded Rabbi Cohen’s solemn features. He had a diplomat’s face, Michael thought, almost anything could have been going on behind that facade of patient reserve, but a note of relief echoed in his one-word welcome: “Devorah.”
Her mouth curved with tender affection. “I am well, Abba. I thought you might like to know what happened tonight.”
As calmly as if he were accustomed to receiving visitors at midnight, the rabbi opened the door further and gestured toward the front room. Devorah moved easily through the dark foyer, but Michael paused a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gray streetlight that seeped through the thin curtains at the front window. When he was certain he could move without tripping over furniture, he made his way to the couch.
He heard the creak of the rabbi’s chair and knew the man waited to hear the story. Devorah, who had vanished into the black confines of a wing chair in a shadowed corner of the room, remained silent, waiting for Michael to begin.
Michael told the story in stark and simple terms, offering no details despite Devorah’s broad hints. “By using a special weapon,” he shot a gimlet glance toward Devorah’s chair, “we incapacitated the terrorists. The Parliament leaders have been released unharmed, and the four surviving terrorists are in custody.”
Through the gray gloom Michael saw the rabbi gently stroke his beard. “A great tragedy,” he finally said, a weight of sadness in his deep voice. “The Master of the universe, blessed be he, must grieve when such things occur in his city, on his Shabbat.”
He turned to Devorah. “And your brother? Was he involved in this?” As father and daughter conversed, Michael leaned back on the sofa and reviewed the evening. Terrorism, by definition, was an unpredictable and dangerous business, but several pieces of this scenario did not fit. These particular tangos were either complete idiots or they had missed their mark by a matter of minutes. And why had they attacked a huge building like the Knesset with only eight men? Only professionals would dare assault a high-profile target with such a small team. What had they hoped to accomplish?
Devorah and her father were speaking in Hebrew now, and the melodic lilt of their voices combined with the darkness to increase Michael’s exhaustion. His back ached between his shoulder blades, a sure sign of the tension he’d barely noticed earlier. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, massaging away the weight of leadership.
Samuel Stedman had asked him to investigate an impending threat to Israel’s national security, and Michael couldn’t help but wonder if his investigation and the tangos at the Knesset were somehow linked. The terrorists had been carrying top-of-the-line SMGs made of lignostone, and under their Arab robes they had worn European clothing. The leader had worn a beard, common among the Arabs, but he could have grown one in preparation for this attack. And the Echelon information had contained the word Knesset.
A seam of fatigue opened in Michael’s mind as he tried to fit the pieces together. He shook his head, realizing he needed three things before his brain would function properly—he needed rest, he needed food, and he needed to talk to Daniel Prentice. Wherever Daniel was, he needed to know what had happened tonight. Maybe he could help Michael solve the puzzle.
Two hours later, Michael sat at the desk in his hotel room, his laptop open before him, the screen flickering faintly. Daniel had just sent a long and disturbing report, and Michael’s tired brain was still grappling with the implications.
His mission was about to change, and his relationship with Sergeant Major Cohen would have to change with it. Daniel was suggesting that they strike out in another direction, one quite removed from the safe structure of the Israeli military, and Michael wasn’t sure that Devorah would be willing to go.
But she had followed him into the Knesset and proved herself a capable operator. Perhaps, if he explained the situation clearly, she would follow him to Belgium as well.
Rousing himself from the numbness that weighed him down, Michael keyed in a quick response to Daniel’s latest report:
D.
I’ll talk to the sergeant major soon and will use all the charm in my power to convince her to play along. I’m not sure my charm is what it was twenty years ago, but it will have to do.
I appreciate the update. We’ll make good use of the information.
BTW, if you get a chance, can you locate Thomas Freeman, AkA “Shark” for me? If there’s some way you can say hi for me without revealing my location, I’d appreciate it. I need to ask him something about a night in Desert Storm.
Get some rest, Daniel. You can save the world tomorrow.
M.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Moscow
2400 hours
VLADIMIR GOGOL SWIVELED HIS OFFICE CHAIR AS SOMEONE RAPPED ON THE door. A thrill of anticipation touched his spine as he called out: “Come.”
Petrov entered, his eyes flat and expressionless as he crossed the Oriental carpet that stretched between the double doors and the carved desk. The colonel saluted. “General.”
Vladimir returned the salute, half-wishing his aide were not so intent on formalities. He wanted news, and he wanted it now, but Petrov would observe every jot and tittle of military order.
“What news?” He leaned over the desk and pressed his hand to its flat surface. “Tell me, Colonel—what news have you from Dyakonov?”
Petrov went stiffer, if possible, and seemed to stare at a spot on the wall behind Vladimir’s head. There was a long, brittle silence, then the man finally spoke: “Dyakonov is dead.”
Vladimir sat still, breathing in shallow, quick gasps. The man couldn’t be dead. Dyakonov was the best; he and his team had been training for months. They had practiced the assault on a scale model of the Knesset; Vladimir himself had visited the place, noting that the spetsnaz captain had correctly located every doorway, every window, even noting the electrical outlets on the walls.
His gaze rose and locked on Petrov’s, then focused with deadly intensity. “How?”
A scarlet flush rose on the colonel’s cheekbones. “A series of mistakes. The assembly dismissed early, and many of the government members left before Dyakonov’s people were in position. We might have still inflicted extensive damage, for the Israelis were operating by the book, but an American intruded. A captain named Michael Reed placed a series of calls, and soon a helicopter with other American special warfare operators arrived on the scene. They inserted from the rooftop and somehow managed to creep up behind Dyakonov.”
Vladimir uttered a curse. Romulus had promised that the Americans would not interfere. As influential and powerful as the European Union president was, apparently not even he could control the situation in Israel.
Seething with anger and humiliation, Vladimir ran his hand over his head, then let his palm rest at the back of his neck. It could have been over in a day, on a lucky Friday the thirteenth, but again fate had intervened. Israel had more lives than a cursed cat.
He drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the anger that shook him. If not today, he would destroy Israel tomorrow. In the interim, he would continue to seek out their cursed kind in Russia. He would find them, put them on trial for wrongs committed by them and their ancestors, and put an end to the blighted race that had troubled the earth since the dawn of time.
He glanced up at Petrov. “Survivors?”
“Four, sir. All prisoners of the Israelis.�
��
Vladimir drew a deep breath, then exhaled it in an audible rush. “Such a waste. So much money spent on their training, so many hours of work.”
Petrov said nothing, but his eyes darkened with resignation.
“Write their families.” Vladimir waved the unpleasant matter away. “Tell them that these men gave their lives in defense of glorious Mother Russia. And enclose a check for ten thousand rubles—one check for each family.”
Petrov inclined his head without speaking.
“That is all, Colonel.”
When Petrov had left the room, Vladimir shook his head in dismay and stared down at his empty desk top. Such a waste. He had been waiting here for news, hoping to fly to Alanna on the wings of rejoicing, but he could not see Alanna tonight. Not in this mood. Not with the stench of despair clinging to his uniform like smoke.
An unpleasant business, this. The mole, of course, would see to it that the four prisoners never talked. Sometime within the next twenty-four hours he would make his way into the secure facility where the others were kept, and he would quietly administer the red suicide pills. Willingly or unwillingly, the four survivors would die for the glory of Mother Russia.
He made mental note to remind Petrov of another important matter. The colonel would have to dispatch another check, this one to a Swiss bank where it would be deposited into the account of Lt. Gabriel Mofaz. The mousy little officer wasn’t worth his weight in weeds, but he would be paid . . . until the Jewish problem was forever settled.
Vladimir stood, then walked across the room to the tall window. Snow had begun to fall; it now blew across the courtyard, moving in long, dusty lines, creeping up to the edges of the pavement.
How he hated snow. He had hated its milky whiteness ever since the day he walked into the hospital morgue and found himself searching through photographs of unknown women who had been dumped at the hospital and forgotten. Though he couldn’t feel the chill of their flesh, their faded lips told him they were as cold as the snow outside, as dead as the stiff-legged dog he had seen lying in a gutter on a Moscow street.
The old feelings of grief and hate surfaced into his consciousness, pulling at him like a powerful undertow that drew him under against his will. He clenched his fists, then shoved them into his trouser pockets and trembled until the storm of hate blew past.
Vladimir closed his eyes, his mind burning with the memory of his mother’s pale, sensitive face, framed by soft blonde hair and lit by eyes as blue as the sky.
“I will avenge you, Mama.” He cleared his throat of rumbling phlegm, then pressed his forehead to the window and felt the sting of its icy touch. “Every Jew in the world will pay for what he did to you, for what they did to Mother Russia. All the Jews will pay . . . for all the mothers who have suffered.”
The only answer was the mournful call of the winter wind across the courtyard, as lonely as the cry of a lost and wandering spirit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jerusalem
0900 hours
Sunday, October 15
DEVORAH LET THE SABBATH PASS WITHOUT SEEING OR CALLING MICHAEL REED. They both needed time to rest, she realized, and she had promised herself she’d spend the Sabbath with her father as a sort of penance for breaking the Sabbath Friday night. Though he no longer openly chided her for placing her career above her calling as a Jewish woman, she saw rebuke in his eyes every time she appeared in uniform. When she was eighteen and freshly graduated from her year of seminary, he approved of her desire to defend her country. When she chose to make a career out of military service, however, he quietly withdrew his approval. Orthodox Jewish women, he told her, ought to marry and raise children to the glory of the Master of the universe. They were not meant to kill and desecrate the Sabbath.
On Sunday morning, she slipped into her uniform, grabbed a quick breakfast, then drove to the Mount Zion Hotel. When Reed did not answer his phone, she left a message at the desk, explaining that she would meet him at noon to discuss his plans for the coming week.
Part of her hoped he had seen enough. One air base was much like another; and the terrorist incident at the Knesset had demonstrated the extent of IDF counterterrorist abilities—as well as their shortcomings. She suspected that he might ask her to remain silent about the thermal gun he had used to disarm the terrorists, but she couldn’t make that promise. He had used those weapons with the full knowledge that he was taking a security risk.
She walked out of the hotel and drove to the base at Lod, then reported to her commander’s office. A message had been waiting on her answering machine when she returned to her apartment Saturday evening, and she hadn’t been surprised to hear that she was expected to report to the CO’s office early on Sunday morning. Only respect for her father and his position had prevented them from asking her to report on the Sabbath.
The corporal on duty escorted her into a room where her captain waited at a laminated table strewn with foam coffee cups and printed reports. She saluted, then relaxed when he invited her to take a seat at the table. The other officer present, Lieutenant Shiff, looked up and gave her a wary smile as she approached.
“This is just a routine inquiry,” the captain said, uncapping his pen. “We are pleased with the outcome of the Knesset situation, of course. We only want to understand exactly what transpired.”
Devorah glanced up at the large mirror behind the two men. It was a one-way mirror, of course, and though she couldn’t see who sat behind it, she had a feeling that the intelligence officials in the opposite room were much less relaxed than the two men conducting this after action review.
“I’ve already spoken to Lieutenants Shiff and Mofaz,” the captain gestured to the officer at his side, “and their reports have been entered into the record. Now I would like to hear your version of the story.”
Devorah drew a deep breath and wiped her palms on her skirt. “Where shall I begin?”
The captain gave her a brittle smile. “At the beginning, Sergeant Major.”
And so she told of receiving the emergency page at the synagogue, of leaving the service with Captain Reed and her brother. Of telling Asher to report to his base, of Captain Reed’s insistence that he might be of service.
“Did Captain Reed seem surprised by the emergency alert?”
“Of course. Although I think he was almost relieved to be excused from the synagogue. He seemed a little lost in the Sukkot service.”
Apparently the captain did not find her comment amusing. Without smiling, he urged her to continue.
“At the scene, I reported to the command post. I was ordered to see that Captain Reed remained safely away from danger.”
“Yet an hour later Reed was in the thick of the trouble.”
“He insisted, sir.” She directed her gaze to the lieutenant at the captain’s side. “He pushed his way into the command vehicle and convinced Lieutenant Shiff that he could help. He implied that he would contact the prime minister directly if we did not allow him to participate in the rescue.”
The captain thumped the end of his pen on his tablet. “Go on.”
Devorah lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Everything happened quickly after that. Our people planned a shock attack, but Captain Reed insisted that we give him until 2245 before sending in our CT team. He insisted he could resolve the situation with few casualties, while our people estimated a thirty percent loss.” She nodded toward Shiff. “It is my opinion, sir, that our leadership acted prudently. Captain Reed did keep his word.”
“Did he seem unwilling to let you and your men join the team as well?”
Devorah considered the question for a moment, then shook her head. “He resisted the idea, but only for a moment. He seemed to understand that it was a delicate situation. Four SEALs arrived from Team Three, and I recommended two of my best sharpshooters to complete the team. Reed wanted to send in eight operators.”
“Did Captain Reed explain his plan before execution?”
Devorah suppressed a
smile. This is what they really wanted to know. The long preamble served no other purpose than to warm her up to the important information—they wanted to know how Michael Reed operated and how much information he had shared with her. “Not really, sir. He seemed to be operating on a need-to-know basis. We were dealing with severe time constraints.”
The captain eyed her with a calculating expression. “Do you feel that Captain Reed endangered your life at any moment?”
“No, sir, I do not. I felt as safe as one can feel in such an unpredictable situation. The terrorists never even knew we were outside the government room until we had incapacitated all but one.”
The captain squinted slightly as his jaw moved to the side. “The means of this incapacitation—had you ever seen one of these ‘thermal guns’ before?”
“No, sir.”
“Did Reed explain the weapon to you—either before or after the incident?”
“Not really, sir. The effects were obvious. When we entered the room, the targeted individuals were unconscious, soaked in sweat, and pale. The weapon obviously disrupted their bodily functions.”
Despite his efforts to appear nonchalant, the captain’s bright eyes betrayed his eagerness. “Would you be able to draw a detailed picture of this weapon?”
“No, sir. We were wearing NV goggles, and I was busy setting charges to blow a mouse hole. Before and after the weapons’ use, the SEAL team operators kept the guns in a covered sling. I did not have an opportunity to examine them.”
The captain looked down and scratched a few notes on his tablet, then squinted up at her again. “One other thing, Sergeant Major—in the command post, Captain Reed remarked that he believed the tangos were carrying unique weapons. Did he discuss the significance of those weapons with you?”
“He pointed out that ordinary SMGs would have been intercepted at the metal detectors. He also said that the Russians have been working with a new substance of compressed wood—lignostone, he called it. He was surprised that Arabs would possess such weapons.”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 20