As the BMW turned left onto Agron Street, Rosenfeld checked his watch. He was looking forward to a temporary distraction from his duties as prime minister, having decided to join his children for lunch at Sandrino’s, just inside the ramparts of the Old City. As his face brightened with the thought of seeing his twin daughters, he couldn’t help but think how much they resembled Hannah and how much she would have enjoyed watching them grow up.
It had been three years since Hannah died, killed indiscriminately by a rocket launched from Gaza. He should have spent more time with Sarah and Rachel after Hannah’s death, but his duties as prime minister consumed him. He poured his efforts into retaliation against the Palestinians who murdered his children’s mother, hoping the justice he wrought would lessen the sorrow of their loss. But he realized too late that what his daughters needed most wasn’t revenge, but simply him. Now he scheduled time in his busy week for his children, attending their school activities and dropping in on them when he could. He looked forward to enjoying the simple and satisfying role of father this afternoon, temporarily setting aside the complicated and frustrating role of prime minister.
* * *
Just inside the Jaffa Gate of the original walled city of Jerusalem, sixteen-year-old Khalid Abdulla stepped off a Number 20 bus onto the busy sidewalk, his six-year journey almost complete. As he walked east along David Street, pedestrians passing by failed to register the rage smoldering inside the young man, noticing instead his polite smile. Nor did they note his lean build as they hurried by, because today he carried thirty extra pounds of weight under his loose-fitting jacket.
After a short walk down David Street, Abdulla stopped just inside one of the street-side cafés, his attention drawn toward two girls sitting at a table near the front of the restaurant, each girl wearing her long black hair draped over the front of her left shoulder. One of the girls looked at him and smiled, the radiant stare of her large brown eyes soon joined by her twin sister’s. For just a moment, Abdulla forgot why he’d come, mesmerized by the girls’ beauty. But then his hatred broke the spell, pulling his thoughts six years into the past.
Abdulla was only ten when he heard the gut-wrenching scream from the adjoining room, a mother’s unmistakable wail of grief and unspeakable loss. Moments later, his mother swept him into her arms, her damp face pressed against his, whispering the words that ignited his hatred. His only brother was dead, killed by Israeli soldiers forcing their way into Gaza, their tanks crushing everything in their path. As she pulled away, she appeared older; frail and broken. Abdulla wiped his mother’s tears from his cheek, and with them, his childhood. His purpose in life, and death, for that matter, had crystallized that instant.
* * *
Sitting at a table near the front of the café, Sarah followed her sister’s eyes across the crowded restaurant. She knew before she turned her head what had caught her sibling’s attention. Rachel’s widening eyes, the faint blushing of her cheeks, her lips parting into an inviting smile—she’d spotted an attractive boy. It had never seemed unusual to Sarah that they could read the subtle changes in each other’s facial expressions and mannerisms, communicating without uttering a word.
One glance at her sister at the end of the school day could tell Sarah many things; that Rachel had done well on her math test, that she’d spoken with Amir after English class, and that he had finally asked her out. Yet they talked incessantly, rattling on about how their day had gone, filling in the missing details. From the moment Sarah woke until her thoughts faded to dreams, she was never far from Rachel. God had designed them that way, she had concluded, connected to each other by an invisible, inseparable bond.
Off from school for the Lag Ba’Omer holiday, Sarah and Rachel had ventured into the Old City, shopping in the upscale stores along David Street, eventually arriving at Sandrino’s. Unlike most adolescents, who shied away from being seen with their parents in public, Sarah and Rachel looked forward to the occasional lunchtime rendezvous with their father. To others, he was the prime minister, but to them, he was simply abi, the Hebrew word for father. When translated to English, Sarah knew it meant “the one who gives strength to the family.” Now that the dark days following their mother’s death had passed, he was there for them, giving them strength when they missed their mother the most.
Tonight would be one of those times, as they gathered with their aunts, uncles, and cousins to celebrate the end of the plague that had killed Rabbi Akiva and twenty-four thousand of his students. Aaron would be there, an attractive boy not unlike the teenager standing just inside the café entrance. There was something about the strange boy who stared at them, a dark brooding in his eyes that captured Sarah’s attention. He had suffered a terrible loss, she could tell, the type of loss shared by many in Israel, for who had not lost a friend or a loved one in the bitter and pointless conflict between Jews and Arabs?
The boy’s eyes left the two girls, scanning the restaurant, evidently searching for a table. Sarah considered asking him to join them. After all, there were two empty chairs at their table and he was rather attractive. But she thought better of it. Rachel didn’t need any encouragement; she went through boyfriends like fashion accessories, and it seemed the boy across the café had suffered enough heartache. She noticed Rachel was about to rise and ask him over. A hand on her forearm and a quick look convinced her otherwise.
* * *
Abdulla turned away from the two girls; they were Jews, after all, and therefore their beauty should hold no appeal. Besides, his attraction to the twins would be irrelevant in a few minutes. Abdulla made his way to the back of the café, where, standing against the wall, the effect would be magnified. He stopped, turned around, then reached into his jacket pocket, his fingers sliding through the slit in the pocket lining.
* * *
Sitting at a table near the back of the café, Katherine Jankowski fed her six-month-old son as she waited for her antipasto to arrive. Matthew, strapped into a high chair, was waving his hands in the jerky and uncoordinated way infants do when they’re excited, his eyes locked onto the spoonful of pureed carrots his mother was pushing toward his open mouth. Katherine would normally have been accompanied by her friend Alanah, but as Shabbat gave way to Lag Ba’Omer, Alanah had joined the half million Jews who make the pilgrimage each year to Mount Meron in northern Israel. Katherine’s husband, Jonathan, had graciously volunteered to fill in during Alanah’s absence, but he was running late, which was not an unusual occurrence.
As the waitress dropped off the antipasto, a teenager passed by Katherine’s table. She watched him stop at the back wall and turn around and reach into his jacket pocket, searching for something. He surveyed the café in an odd way, and his thin face was somehow incommensurate with his girth. Her subconscious hammered at her, warning her that she was missing something important. As she studied the young man, searching for a clue to the uneasy feeling, he looked up toward the restaurant ceiling, his face radiating utter joy and contentment. His hand stopped fidgeting, evidently finding what he searched for. Katherine’s eyes widened as the pieces fell into place.
She reached for her son.
But it was already too late.
* * *
A bright orange flash illuminated the windows of Rosenfeld’s BMW. A second later, he lurched forward against his seat belt as the sedan screeched to a halt. Rosenfeld peered through the side window in an attempt to obtain a clear view of what had happened. Pedestrians were running toward and past his car, away from a mass of black smoke that spiraled upward less than a block away. Climbing out of the sedan, Rosenfeld strained his eyes to identify the location of the blast. He spotted the sign marking the restaurant Bellaroma. And there was the Essex. But he was looking for Sandrino’s, which was between the two.
Rosenfeld pushed past his security detail, jogging toward the source of the chaos, dodging the men and women fleeing in the opposite direction. An explosion had destroyed one of the cafés. Rosenfeld’s pace increased as his des
peration mounted, and he soon found himself in a full sprint toward the carnage a hundred feet ahead, his security detail matching his pace. A moment later, he spotted the shattered red-and-green Sandrino’s sign on the ground.
The sidewalk and street were littered with broken glass, splintered wood, and the twisted metal remnants of tables and chairs; fires burned inside the destroyed café. The shrieks of terrified onlookers gave way to the cries of the wounded—screams of agony mingled with low, muffled moans. Somewhere among the carnage—God, please spare their lives—were his two daughters. Rosenfeld reached the first woman lying unconscious on the pavement. His pulse pounded as he turned over the teenage girl, relief coursing through his body as he stared at a stranger’s face. He hurried to the next body a few feet away, then the next.
Then up ahead, there was someone who could be his daughter; long, straight black hair, the lavender sweater he’d bought each of them for their last birthday. As Rosenfeld turned over the fourth body, his blood chilled in his veins. A young girl looked up at him, recognition in her eyes as she stared at her father. She was still alive, but …
Rosenfeld fell to his knees, drawing his daughter onto his lap, resting her shoulders on his thighs and her head in the crook of his arm. He knew she was his daughter by the sweater she wore, the topaz ring on her finger. But her face was too mangled for him to determine which of his daughters he held. She lifted her hand, her blood-smeared fingers caressing the side of his face as if to comfort him, to help assuage the grief that would soon overwhelm him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Only the horrid gurgling of air pushing past fluid, until she finally closed her mouth, forcing the blood out and down the side of her face. She kept her eyes focused on his, and Rosenfeld watched as the illumination within her beautiful brown eyes faded, until the light was extinguished altogether and her hand fell to the ground.
A strange hush fell on the scene of devastation. It took a moment for Rosenfeld to realize his mind was selectively filtering the sounds, letting through only those that seemed to matter. A man sobbed as he knelt in the middle of the street, stroking the cheek of a woman who lay beside him, her eyes open and unblinking, staring at the cloudless sky. Nearby, a woman on her hands and knees retched noisily, her vomit splattering against the curb. Slowly, the low moans of the injured could be heard all around him, and then, faintly in the background, the high-pitched sirens of approaching ambulances grew gradually louder until the full terror registered in his ears.
Rocking his daughter in his arms, Rosenfeld searched for her sister, finally locating her ten feet away. Rachel lay on her stomach with her head turned to the side, her eyes frozen open in death’s stare, her face surrounded by a crimson pool spreading slowly across the gray pavement. Dragging Sarah over to her sister, Rosenfeld clutched both daughters tightly against his chest, attempting to squeeze the pain from his body. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps; there was no air. The curb and stores along the road began to tilt, slowly at first, then at an increasing rate as the world, it seemed, spun out of control.
Worst of all was the guilt. It swirled around him, threatening to consume him in a maelstrom. The small, seemingly inconsequential failings first—if only he hadn’t arranged to meet his children for lunch today—then the larger, more complex issues: if only he had dealt with the Arabs more effectively, more harshly. But in the end, all that mattered was that it was his fault. He had failed, both as a father and as prime minister. He had failed Hannah three years ago, and now his children. Looking around at the dead and dying, he realized he had failed them all.
Kneeling in the middle of the street, his face turned up toward the godless sky, tears streaming down his face, he could not escape it. Like a black plague devouring everything in its path, his guilt consumed him.
7
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
A morbid quiet had descended upon the PMO building. The staff spoke softly among themselves, their voices falling silent in the vicinity of the prime minister’s office. Standing alone in front of Rosenfeld’s door, Kogen knocked softly, waiting for a response that never came. Opening the door slightly, he peered into the dimly lit office, illuminated by a small lamp on the credenza behind the prime minister. Rosenfeld was sitting at his desk, his shirt collar unfastened, his tie on the floor beside him. Although his features were shrouded in shadow, Kogen could see the hatred burning in the older man’s eyes.
Two hours earlier, the scene at the PMO building had been frantic once staffers realized the bombing had occurred at the prime minister’s lunchtime destination. A few minutes later, Rosenfeld’s security detail had called in, relaying his safety. The relief was short-lived, however, when they remembered Rosenfeld’s daughters were meeting their father for lunch. Soon, their worst fears were confirmed.
Rosenfeld returned to the PMO building an hour later, trudging through the Aquarium toward his office. The front of his white shirt was stained dark red, the side of his face coated with a thin sheen of dried blood. Kogen had stood at the forefront of Rosenfeld’s staff. But like the rest, he could find no words to express his sorrow. Rosenfeld hadn’t given them the chance, his eyes avoiding theirs as he made his way past them. But now, as Kogen looked into the prime minister’s eyes, it was easy to see—as well as understand—that something had changed.
Kogen stepped inside Rosenfeld’s office, closing the door quietly behind him. The Mossad had done its work quickly and had determined who was responsible. Who would be held accountable, however, was the more important question.
“Prime Minister.”
Rosenfeld stared across the room, giving no indication he noticed his presence.
“Levi.”
The older man’s eyes drifted toward him.
“I offer my deepest sympathy for your loss. Both of your daughters…”
Rosenfeld’s eyes fell away.
“We know who is responsible.” Kogen paused, waiting for a response before continuing.
Rosenfeld’s gaze shot toward him, his eyes displaying a clarity they lacked just seconds before. “Who?”
“We were able to trace the path of the suicide bomber using the security cameras along David Street, tracking him back to a Number 20 bus, then farther back to the Central Bus Station, where a car dropped him off.”
“Who is responsible?” Rosenfeld repeated, his rising impatience evident in the tone of his voice.
“The driver of the vehicle is Issa Nidal, a high-ranking member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades.”
“Hamas?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Rosenfeld jerked forward in his seat, startling Kogen. The prime minister spoke in a low voice, hatred dripping from his words. “I want this man and every Hamas leader eliminated by week’s end. Every one of them dead. Is that clear?”
Kogen nodded slowly. “Yes, Prime Minister. We’re already coordinating with Defense.”
Rosenfeld slumped into his chair, the fire extinguished from his eyes as quickly as it ignited. “Anything else?”
Kogen hesitated. He had no doubt Israel would track down and eliminate Nidal and his leaders, perhaps not by the end of the week, but eventually. But attacking Hamas was like scraping away the pus from a gangrenous limb. Iran was the sickness, and Hamas and its attacks on Israel only the putrid symptoms. Kogen knew, just as Rosenfeld did, that Hamas’s campaign of terror was financed by Iran, and the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades received their training and weapons directly from Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Iran was intent on destroying Israel, and there was no doubt their nuclear weapon, if assembled, would somehow be used against Israel. The Iranian weapon assembly complex must be destroyed—that much was clear—and the Mossad had carefully crafted an opportunity.
However, the operation they had nurtured for years was on the verge of discovery. Kogen’s contacts in the United States had determined a White House intern had sent a cryptic e-mail to the president’s national security adviser. If she were to obtain and decrypt the inform
ation the intern had collected, the operation would be exposed and their opportunity lost. The plan could still succeed, but only if they acted quickly. And now, with the blood of his children staining the prime minister’s clothes, there would be no better opportunity to obtain his permission.
With only a twinge of guilt, Kogen pressed forward. “We must discuss what I proposed last night. There’s a possibility the operation has been compromised.”
“It’s no longer an option?”
“It is still viable, but we must initiate the plan now, before it is exposed. There’s increased risk with executing early, but we’ve incorporated safeguards that will counter that risk. The operation will succeed. But you must decide.”
“How long do I have?”
“You must decide today, Prime Minister. You must decide now.”
“What are the details of this operation?”
“With all due respect, I think it’s best you not know the specifics. But I can assure you it will be impossible to trace the genesis of America’s attack back to Israel.” Kogen approached Rosenfeld, stopping at the edge of his desk. “But I must make one thing clear, Levi. Once we execute, there is nothing we, or the Americans, can do to stop it.”
After a moment, Rosenfeld leaned forward, hatred smoldering in his eyes again. “They have taken everything from me, Barak. I will not let another suffer as I do at the hands of this evil. I will no longer do nothing as our people bury their husbands, wives, and children.” Rosenfeld continued, his voice flat, surprising Kogen with its sudden lack of emotion. “I will approve the operation.”
The Trident Deception Page 5