“You understand, taking Hadi is a last resort. I’m going to need you to hold off as long as possible before making the grab. Give our people time.”
Time to come up with an alternative. Time to gather the intelligence they so desperately needed, some other way—he didn’t know how.
And knowing. . .that wasn’t the job of him or his team. Their role in all of this confined to this moment, this road.
Just another cog in the machine that stood watch over the Jewish state. The final cog, he realized grimly, hearing the door open behind him—glancing back to see Tzipporah emerge into the night, her face shrouded, like his, by a keffiyeh. A Kalashnikov assault rifle in her hands.
They were always the last resort.
11:58 P.M.
The Fatah compound
Palestine, Umar Hadi thought, staring out the second-story window into the night—out over the compound’s wall over the flat, open fields stretching toward the lights of Beit Hanun to the northwest, visible in the faint moonlight.
It reminded him of home, growing up along the banks of the Tigris. The son of a farmer. Impossible even for himself to conceive then what he would become.
The things he would do.
“Colonel Hadi, the car has arrived,” he heard a voice from behind him announce, turning to see one of Mahmoud Damra’s subordinates standing in the doorway of the room. A heavy weight seeming to descend upon his shoulders in that moment.
The knowledge of his duty. Ever the burden of the soldier.
Mahmoud Damra was waiting without, near the vehicle. Flanked by his bodyguards as Hadi stepped from the door—his eyes searching the Palestinian’s face.
“Is everything as I requested?”
A nod served as his reply, Damra’s look telling more plainly than words what he thought of the precautions the Iraqi had insisted upon. His opinion of this kind of ruse.
But it didn’t really matter what he thought.
“All right,” Hadi replied, nodding slowly as he stared at the vehicle, its driver obscured by tinted windows—the darkness of the night. “Time we set this in motion.”
12:01 A.M., January 2nd
South of Haifa
The Crown Victoria’s lights went dark as Lay pushed open his door and stepped out onto the rain-slick concrete, staring at the building looming large in the darkness before him, a forest of antennas and large aerials sprouting from its roof.
The regional headquarters of a nascent American telecommunications corporation out of San Francisco. A company which functioned, in its nearly non-existent day-to-day operations, as a wholly owned subsidiary of Fort Meade.
He had known of the listening station’s existence ever since it had come first on-line two years before, but he’d never once set foot on the premises—although the signals intelligence garnered from the intercepts processed by the building had doubtless crossed his desk more than once.
The wall between agencies as high as it ever had been, he grimaced, forcing those thoughts away with an effort. One of these days, it was going to cost them dearly.
But not this night. Not if he had anything to say about it.
An armed security officer—an ex-military type with a Beretta 92 holstered in the waistband of his Levis—ushered Lay inside, escorting him down a long hallway and into a large room sub-divided into cubicles. Men and women in attire that would have passed muster at the offices of the corporation this building was supposed to belong to, hunched over computers. Headphones almost universally covering their ears.
The throaty hum of circulation fans vibrating the walls, the lights themselves lowered in an effort to keep the electronics cool.
“Mr. Lay,” he heard someone say, turning to see a black man perhaps a few years his junior standing there a few feet away, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up beyond his elbows. He made no motion to extend his hand. “Josiah Galvin, the duty officer in charge of this station. I was told to expect your arrival.”
He clearly was even less happy with the CIA officer’s presence than Lay was to be here, but no matter. “Where are your people at with the intercepts?”
“Still filtering through archives of recorded audio from the last week. It’s going to take time.”
The one thing they didn’t have. But there was no help for it.
“Narrow the search parameters to conversations between Damra and the Palestinian upper echelon—the people he discussed Hadi’s arrival with—if you haven’t already,” Lay instructed, shrugging off his windbreaker and dropping it unceremoniously over a nearby office chair. “We’ll work from there. Put every Arabic-speaker you have on it.”
“We’re dealing with more threats than just yours here tonight. Our allies were bombed not forty miles south of this building just a matter of a few hours ago,” Warren responded coolly, his dark eyes locking with Lay’s. “On whose authority?”
“Mine.”
12:08 A.M.
The Gaza Strip
And there it was. Headlights flashing briefly across the flat open fields toward them, a car just visible exiting through the compound’s gates. Dust kicking up into the night, a haze in the moonlight.
“Netzach-1, we have movement,” Ariel announced, keying his radio’s microphone. “I say again, we have movement from the target location. They’re on their way out.”
“Copy that, Keilah,” Silbermann’s gruff voice acknowledged over his earpiece. The Duvdevan unit staged another seven kilometers down the road, lying in ambush. “We’ll wait for your order.”
The plan was straightforward—allow Hadi’s vehicle to pass their first position, then use the Duvdevan team to cut him off further down the road. Block the car, distract his driver.
Ram into him from behind with the reinforced bumper of the Kidon SUV, force him off the road.
Take out his guards, take him before anyone could react. A simple enough plan.
Time to execute it. Ariel took a final look through his binoculars before hoisting himself into the passenger seat of the SUV, glancing over to where Ze’ev sat behind the wheel. The older man’s face shrouded in shadow, his eyes impassive.
“Let’s do this.”
12:11 A.M.
The NSA listening station
Haifa, Israel
It had been less than ten minutes since he had walked through the doors of the station, David Lay thought. Far too soon to expect results from anything short of a miracle, and he no longer believed in those.
If he ever had.
He took off his headphones, staring at the opposite wall. It seemed hard to believe that this had all started this very morning—waking up from a drug-induced stupor to the sight of Avi ben Shoham’s face. The first domino, tumbling down in what had become a cascade. Unstoppable as a mountain avalanche.
And he wasn’t helping—his own Arabic just barely passable enough to facilitate conversations on the street. Nowhere near the fluency needed to help process the kind of audio they were sifting through.
He put a hand on the edge of the metal desk, pushing himself aright. Feeling suddenly dizzy, a lingering after-effect of the drugs and lack of sleep.
A water-cooler stood in one corner of the room and he made his way over to it, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he filled the paper cup. He glimpsed the NSA duty officer making his way over and turned to meet him, willing the momentary weakness to go away.
“Anything?” he asked, taking a sip of the water. Coffee would have been more welcome.
Galvin shook his head. “Nothing yet. I’ve tasked everyone I can spare, but I can’t guarantee—”
A shout from the far corner of the room cut him off, an analyst waving his hand over the border of one of the cubicles. “Galvin, over here! I think we may have found something.”
12:13 A.M.
The Gaza Strip
“We are maintaining visual on target vehicle, Netzach-1. He’s turning south, on the road toward you. Should reach your position in the next few minutes.”
> Everything going according to plan, Ariel thought, his eyes focused on the tail-lights of the moving car maybe five hundred meters ahead of their blacked-out SUV. Almost too according to plan, his palm slick with sweat where it met the wooden grip of the Kalashnikov assault rifle lying across his lap.
It made him nervous.
“What are your orders, Keilah?” Silbermann asked, the tension only too audible in the Duvdevan officer’s voice. Impatience. “Do you want us to intercept?”
Ariel grimaced, staring into the night ahead, feeling their own vehicle surge into the turn as Ze’ev tapped the accelerator. Staying just close enough to maintain a following position, just far enough not to be made.
They could close the distance in a heartbeat once Silbermann’s vehicles blocked the road, but that decision was going to have to be made and made soon. Shoham’s words echoing tortuously again and again through his mind.
“Maintain your position.”
12:15 A.M.
The NSA listening station
Haifa, Israel
“. . .we were searching for keywords, ‘Iraq’ or ‘Iraqi’ being one of them. And that’s how we got this.”
“And what did we get, precisely?” David Lay demanded, trying unsuccessfully to keep the impatience out of his voice.
“It’s Mahmoud Damra,” the analyst replied, glancing at Lay before returning his attention to his own boss, “on the phone with another a man whose voice we’ve not yet been able to identify. But the call Damra received was placed from Arafat’s personal compound in Gaza City. He makes a passing reference to the upcoming summit in Taba, to which his friend replies with something about the ‘judgment of God.’ Whatever that is supposed to mean.”
A cold chill seemed to crawl slowly up the former station chief’s spine, a premonition of danger. “And?”
“And then a few minutes later, Damra references Iraq—an upcoming meet in the Anbar Governate, out in the desert. A dozen kilometers, give or take, from the al-Karameh border crossing with Jordan. He didn’t give an exact date, but it sounded as though it’s about a week away.”
“That’s it.” Got you, Lay thought, unable to keep from feeling a sense of triumph, quickly replaced by gnawing fear as the analyst continued.
“There’s a reference to the passage of trucks back across the Jordanian border,” the man said, his brow furrowing, “and Damra’s contact mentions artillery shells.”
Lay shook his head. That didn't make any sense. None of this made any sense. Palestinian fighters had never had any problem getting their hands on rockets and mortars in plenty over the years.
Getting more wouldn't require machinations of this scale. No. . .something was wrong.
“Is that all there is?”
“We're still working to translate the rest of the call. We—”
The man's voice broke off as one of his colleagues reached over to grip his arm. Headphones still covering the analyst's ears, his face suddenly pale in the glow of the computer screens surrounding them in the darkness of the room.
“Kimiayi,” he said, looking up at Lay—the blood draining from the station chief's own face as he heard the Arabic. Every fear confirmed in that moment. And more. “They're talking about chemical weapons.”
12:19 A.M.
The Gaza Strip
“We're inbound on your location, Netzach-1,” Ariel said, keying his mike as he shifted position in his seat, making it easier to bring his weapon to bear. “No more than two minutes out.”
A moment's silence, and then a burst of static in his ear as Silbermann's voice came over the radio network. “And your orders, Keilah? I say again, what are your orders?”
Indecision. It was death in a field operation, and yet he felt himself hesitate, the lights of the vehicle ahead of them drifting in and out of focus. Remembering Shoham's final orders. The look on the general's face when he'd given them, so clear in his mind's eye. “Give us time.”
“Hold where you are,” he responded grimly, hearing a string of curses explode in his ear.
“If we’re going to be effective, we have to move now, Keilah,” his old Duvdevan comrade insisted angrily. “Requesting authorization to engage.”
“Request denied,” he responded, shaking his head as the radio fell silent once more. This wasn’t making it any easier.
Ariel caught a glimpse of Ze’ev’s face out of the corner of his eye. His expression sphinx-like, betraying not the slightest reaction to the soldier’s outburst. Or his own decision.
The former Shayetet-13 operator might have argued him to the death during the planning of a mission—but he was too professional to second-guess him now.
“He’s right, you know that,” he heard Tzipporah say from behind him, giving voice to his self-doubt.
I know, he thought, cursing silently. Feeling the weight of responsibility bearing down more heavily upon him as the road flashed by. The SUV already accelerating as Ze’ev gently increased the pressure of his foot on the gas, preparing to ram.
Every passing second bringing them closer to the moment of final decision. Give us time.
Time they no longer had, his earpiece crackling with static once more. Silbermann’s voice, once again. “I have visual on the target vehicle, Keilah. They’re less than a klick out and closing. We have to do this now.”
12:21 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“My God. . .” Avi ben Shoham breathed, uncharacteristically taken off guard. His mind still struggling to process Lay’s words. The enormity of what they portended. “Are you certain?”
“Our best intelligence would indicate that—”
“No,” Shoham hissed, cutting his CIA counterpart off, “you’re not listening to me, David. I have men in the field, and with every moment that passes, our odds of having chosen an irrevocable course increase exponentially. So I don’t need to hear what your ‘best intelligence’ indicates. You’ve been in this game for a long time, you’re a professional. I need to tell me what you believe. Is your intel rock-solid? Is this real?”
There was a long, painful moment of silence from the other end of the line. Almost impossible to know whether the American was weighing out the truth. . .or coming up with his best lie. Then, finally:
“It is.”
The Gaza Strip
This wasn’t like him. He knew the order he needed to give, the order he had to give—and yet somehow he found himself incapable of giving it. Unable to escape the feeling that to do so would be making a terrible mistake.
“Stand down,” he said instead, the words coming out with the force of an explosion. “Do not, I say again, do not cut them off.”
“That wasn’t the plan, Keilah,” he heard his old friend respond, the tension all too audible in the man’s voice. “We have to—”
“Those are your orders, colonel,” he responded, more firmly this time. “Stand down. Take up a following position behind us, prepare for the hand-off.”
Silence fell over the line once more, the only sound in Ariel’s ears that of their vehicle’s engine as they continued to roll south, lights out—maintaining their distance. Even as the Duvdevan vehicles moved into position behind them. A dark oppressive silence, his own doubts weighing down upon him.
Another twenty kilometers to the border with Egypt—with three vehicles, they shouldn’t have a problem staying on him, even at night. Could even yet take him down, if it came to that.
But it wouldn’t be nearly as easy as it could have been. Nearly as bloodless. He was gambling with the lives of his team.
His radio crackled once more with static and he felt himself brace for the sound of Silbermann’s voice.
“All elements,” he heard, startled to hear the voice of Avi ben Shoham instead, “stand down. You are not, repeat, are not to interdict the target vehicle. Break contact and return to base immediately.”
12:53 A.M.
The Fatah compound
“Our men re
port that they arrived at the border safely,” Mahmoud Damra said, a satisfied smile creasing his lips as he rose from the table. “No one followed them, no one tried to stop them. No sign of the Jews whatsoever. See, what did I tell you? You worry too much.”
Perhaps, Hadi thought. Perhaps he was paranoid, but it was hard not to be—not with the stakes this high for all of them.
It was at his insistence that they’d sent the decoy vehicle out ahead, hoping to draw out Mossad—provoke them into action if they indeed did lie in wait.
And nothing. It still did little to ease the nagging unrest in the back of his mind, the prickle of danger which had saved him so many times during the war. That something was wrong, that the slightest misstep could end in his death.
“Then I’ll be leaving here in a few hours,” he said finally, forcing a smile to his own face. A mask for all that lay beneath. “It’s time for me to be returning to Baghdad.”
“And may you know a safe return to your homeland, Colonel,” Damra said, taking a step into him, his dark eyes hard in the light of the lamp on the table. He seized the lieutenant colonel’s hand, drawing him into a close embrace. “For all that you have done for Palestine.”
Hadi nodded, gazing expressionlessly into Damra’s eyes. Palestine. The ideal to which every Arab paid token obeisance. A façade. . .for so much else. But he was a soldier, and he would do his duty.
“For Palestine.”
4:07 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“The audio is genuine,” Eli Gerstman announced, closing the folder before him. “It’s Damra. . .we’ve verified his voice.”
“And the references to the summit at Taba?” Halevy asked, glancing from one man to the other. Still in his shirtsleeves, his customary suit having been left behind when he’d been roused from his bed.
Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy Page 16