Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen England

  Shoham watched as Gerstman spread his hands, shaking his head. “Unclear, at best, but I think we have to assume that they mean to launch an attack on the summit—with a chemical weapon.”

  Killing American, Israeli, and Palestinian diplomats, all together. It was the kind of ruthless treachery Damra had always been known for.

  “Have we heard anything from our other sources?” Halevy went on, seeming to digest that assessment. “Any other chatter, any details of exactly how this attack might be executed?”

  “Nothing.” The lack of chatter was itself worrisome, an indication of just how closely this plan was being held to the vest.

  “Then we can’t let it proceed that far,” the Mossad director said, a note of finality in his voice. “The site of the exchange itself, have we been able to determine it?”

  “The hand-off will take in the desert of Anbar,” Shoham responded, “just across the border from Jordan, on the night of the 8th. The exact spot was not given in the course of the call—at least not the portion we received from the Americans—but we believe we’ve worked it out. It’s just off a mining road roughly fifteen kilometers southeast of the border crossing, one of the few transit points through the region that could support this kind of movement.”

  “And they’re going to bring it back across the border—through Jordan—into the Palestinian Authority?”

  “Yes.”

  The Mossad director shook his head, swearing softly beneath his breath. Seemingly overcome by the insanity of it all. As were they all. “Can we get a team on the ground? Hit them at the rendezvous point, take it out before these chemical weapons can even leave Iraqi soil.”

  “We possess the capability, Efraim,” Gerstman answered, moving in before Shoham could respond, “but the risks of such a course of action. . .”

  His voice trailed off as he leaned back in his chair at the conference table, the implication of what he was saying only too clear. Long odds. “We might be better off reaching out to the Jordanians,” he continued after a moment. “Seek their cooperation, have them stop the trucks as they cross the border.”

  Halevy just looked at him. “All these years, Eli. . .have we learned nothing? If the security of the Jewish state is to be assured, we can depend only upon ourselves to do it. There is no one coming to save us, no one who can be entrusted with our defense. There is only us—and we will have to be enough. Have your people put together a team. Take these weapons out of play.”

  “There is one problem, Efraim,” Shoham said slowly, choosing his words with care. “The meeting point. . .it’s within the southern NFZ.”

  The no-fly zone.

  Gerstman’s head came up from the papers before him, alarm spreading across his face. “Then any air operations. . .”

  “Would have to be cleared in advance by NATO authority.” Shoham nodded. “Or else we run the risk of being blown out of the sky by our ‘allies.’”

  Silence fell over the room, the only sound that of the clock ticking on the wall. Rhythmic, unnaturally loud in the stillness. Then Halevy looked over, meeting Shoham’s eyes.

  “Get David Lay on the phone.”

  Episode III

  4:49 P.M. Eastern European Time, January 7th, 2001

  Over the Eastern Mediterranean

  Going into battle. It was an old familiar feeling, Ariel thought, ducking his head as he returned to his seat, the vibration of the Beechcraft King Air’s twin turboprops filling the plane’s cabin, their sound dampened by the insulation of the fuselage.

  Rays of the late afternoon sun entering through the windows, casting eerie shadows across his face.

  To war, once again. As he had so many times through the years, carrying the fight to the enemies of Israel across the Middle East. And Europe. First as a member of Sayeret Duvdevan, then these last few years with the Mossad. Fighting the enemies of his nation. Fighting and killing them, for that was what he was. An assassin.

  “We’ll be entering Turkish airspace in five minutes,” he said, looking over into the dark eyes of the older man seated across the aircraft aisle from him. “Barring delays, we should be on the ground in fifteen.”

  A nod served as his only reply as he took his seat, glancing around at the faces of the rest of his Kidon team. They all knew the truth.

  Getting on the ground. . .that was only the beginning.

  5:03 P.M. Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  The roar of a fighter jet passing by overhead washed over David Lay as the CIA officer walked out across the runway of the air base, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up past the elbow, worn blue Levis completing the informality of his attire. Might as well enjoy the Middle East while he could—it was bound to be snowing back in Virginia by the time he got home. Whenever that was.

  He felt the turbulence buffet his dark hair as he glanced up and back over his right shoulder just in time to see the familiar shape of an RAF Jaguar flash past, outlined against the darkening sky. Circling around to the north as the strike fighter prepared to come in for a landing.

  Part of the NATO force deployed to Incirlik as part of Operation Northern Watch, enforcing the “no-fly zone” over the north of Saddam’s Iraq.

  And that was why they were here, after all—his gaze falling upon the unmarked black Beechcraft light transport which had just landed not fifty meters away, its propellers still turning as it taxied to a stop. The no-fly zones.

  Just another in a long chain of events which had led them to this place, he thought—his face darkening as he reflected on the role he himself had played in them.

  A part he’d thought was behind him. Over and done with. But the Agency. . .they’d had other ideas.

  The door of the Beechcraft was already down on the tarmac as he circled around the tail of the plane, a man in a suit emerging from its darkened interior.

  “Avi,” Lay began, extending his hand as he advanced, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines, “welcome to Incirlik.”

  “David,” the Israeli general replied simply, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. A faint chill audible in his voice, something more than his customary reserve. He didn’t take Lay’s hand.

  All right. So that’s how it was going to be.

  Lay withdrew his hand after an awkward moment—forcing a grim, unfelt smile to his lips. His relationship with Avi ben Shoham had always been strained throughout his years as Station Chief Tel Aviv, their respective positions in the CIA and Israeli Mossad enforcing a healthy degree of professional distrust.

  But these last few months—well, perhaps it was unreasonable to expect someone to still trust you after you’d deceived them. And that’s exactly what he had done, lying to his counterparts in Israeli intelligence—covering up, deliberately leading them away from their target. Until the whole house of cards came tumbling down about them.

  That he had done it all on orders from his superiors—a directive emanating directly from Langley’s seventh floor—didn’t really matter in the end. Not when it came to trust.

  He looked past the Israeli’s shoulder to see more Mossad personnel disembarking from the transport—a young man who couldn’t have been far out of his early twenties leading the way.

  Something strangely familiar about his eyes as they fell on Lay, the eyes of a man who had already seen far too much. A man old before his time.

  And then it hit him. Galilee. His meeting with Shoham only a few nights before, passing over the ECHELON files on Umar Hadi. It was him—the man standing under the eaves of the boathouse on the shores of the sea. Standing guard.

  Movement caught his attention and he glanced up to see a young woman in nondescript military fatigues descending from the plane behind an older man. Her hair pulled back into a tight bun, revealing the face of the girl from the bar on New Year’s Eve.

  The girl who had tried to seduce him. No doubt on Shoham’s orders.

  And just like that. . .the band’s back together, Lay thought,
a wry grimace twisting at the corners of his mouth. The realities of the intelligence game. Enemies one day, allies the next. The day after that?

  God only knew. And like any intelligence collector worth his salt, the Almighty could be stingy about sharing.

  “If your people want to go ahead and secure their equipment, Avi,” he began, forcing himself to refocus on the present—the road that lay ahead of them both, “I can show you to the operations tent.”

  6:47 P.M. Arabia Time

  Tikrit, Iraq

  “General Siddiqi is waiting for you.”

  The soldier’s words, ringing again and again in Umar Hadi’s ears as the Iraqi lieutenant colonel made his way down the ornately appointed halls of the presidential palace, his every footstep echoing off the walls of the corridor—a rhythmic, purposeful sound.

  He had been to the compound in Tikrit only a few times in the course of his military career, and now—as ever—he found himself well-nigh overwhelmed by the opulence of the place.

  It was like being transported back in time. The kings of Babylon. Reigning over the known world from beside the banks of the Tigris.

  Perhaps that was how Saddam envisioned himself, in truth. Perhaps. . .well, even having such thoughts was to place oneself in danger, Hadi thought, finding the visage of the dictator himself staring down upon him from a painting hung upon the wall as he passed through a doorway and into the large atrium beyond.

  And all the more reason why he had found the general’s choice of meeting place disconcerting. Like placing one’s head in the maw of a lion.

  6:03 P.M. Eastern European Time

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  “. . .second detachment will arrive from Tel Aviv in the morning, before dawn. A unit from the Duvdevan.”

  “Sayeret Duvdevan?” David Lay asked, looking sharply up from the maps spread over the large table in the middle of the operations tent which had been requisitioned for their purposes in Hodja Village, the tent city which had sprung up around Incirlik to house NATO personnel supporting Northern Watch. Its USAF personnel finding themselves temporarily evicted to make room for the needs of their mission. “I thought you used them for more. . .’domestic’ operations, Avi.”

  Raids into the Palestinian Authority, to be more specific, Lay thought.

  The kind of missions that the US State Department had been lodging complaints about for the entirety of his time in the region, claiming that such actions were “unwarranted” and detrimental to the peace process. Whether they were or not, well that was an issue so far above his paygrade as to not even merit consideration.

  The “peace process” wasn’t looking healthy of late for reasons that had little to do with the Israelis, and that brought them back around to where they were this night. Implementing measures that would have been considered unthinkable not five months before.

  Desperate times.

  “That is our normal practice,” the Israeli said deliberately, meeting Lay’s gaze, “but as Ariel can explain, we used these men in the aborted interdiction of Umar Hadi a few nights ago in Gaza, and they were briefed on the situation at that time. We share your concern for keeping the knowledge of this. . .’sale’ of chemical weapons to the Palestinian Authority as tightly controlled as possible, David.”

  Good. Because if they didn’t, things could easily. . .he didn’t finish the thought, the arrival of another American in the operations tent distracting him in that moment.

  He was dressed casually, in civilian clothes like Lay, his appearance nondescript—but there was something about him that was different. Something of suppressed violence lurking behind those coal-black eyes.

  Or perhaps he only saw it because he knew who the man was. More accurately, what he was—having worked with him once before, in Gaza, during the abortive Operation RUMBLEWAY the preceding fall.

  “Avi, I’d like you and your m—personnel,” he amended, catching the eye of the Israeli woman at the end of the table just in time to catch himself, “to meet the man who will be heading up our end of the operation—accompanying your teams on the ground in Iraq and acting as liaison between your people and our planes. Sergeant Michael Black, United States Army.”

  1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, Lay didn’t add, watching his counterpart’s eyes closely. The unit known in popular culture as “Delta Force.”

  Shoham cleared his throat, seeming to choose his words carefully before speaking. “I believe I had made myself clear, David. My men are professionals, but they are trained to operate as a team. Bringing in an outsider, no matter how skilled, threatens that stability. It’s a risk I refuse to accept.”

  “It’s a risk you’ll have to accept if you’re going to have the use of NATO air assets,” Lay replied evenly, not giving an inch, “and we both know that’s the only way we handle this without running the risk of a war. A war none of us can easily afford.”

  He shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans, leaning back against the table as he watched Shoham wrestle with the realities of their situation, that they were going to have to work together once more to get through this.

  Despite all which had gone before, despite the distrust.

  “All right,” the Israeli said finally, trading glances with his people before returning his attention to the Americans, “then tell me, Sergeant. . .’Black’, what is the plan?”

  7:23 P.M. Arabia Time

  The Presidential Palace

  Tikrit, Iraq

  “So, colonel. . .our plan, everything is in place?” He heard Siddiqi ask as he emerged from the doorway into an expansive courtyard, finding the general standing there beneath a looming statue of the Iraqi President—looking out over the blue-green waters of the lagoon to the east of the palace complex. And the Tigris beyond.

  The last few rays of the setting sun glinting off the water.

  “It is,” Umar Hadi responded hesitantly, removing the maroon beret which denoted his service in the Republican Guards as he moved to Siddiqi’s side. Standing there for a long moment of awkward silence in the shadow of Saddam before adding, “The trucks will roll out for Anbar within the next three hours. They are to reach the rally point under the cover of darkness, go to ground for the day.”

  “Good, good,” the general said, a smile crossing his face as he turned to greet Hadi. Seemingly as unconcerned by their surroundings as if he had been sitting in the comfort of his own home.

  Or standing erect in the turret of a T-72 as he had that dark night in Basra as the Iranians broke through their defenses, bullets filling the air around his head. His pistol drawn, as if he could rally the line by nothing more than his own example.

  And rally them Siddiqi had, heedless of his own danger. Holding the sector as many others crumbled around him. He had always seemed possessed by a belief in his own immortality, a quality which made it almost impossible not to be drawn to the man.

  Or aware of the dangers that came with associating oneself with him. Dangers which could never have been more apparent than they were this night.

  “And our friends, the Palestinians?” Siddiqi went on after a moment, seeming to sense Hadi’s discomfort and reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. “You can speak freely, my old friend. We are alone here. . .the President is in Baghdad, and the staff, the guards who remain fear me almost as much as they do him.”

  And would inform on us both in an instant should they chance to hear us speaking, the lieutenant colonel thought, knowing the realities of their situation all too well. Even if Siddiqi somehow felt himself immune.

  “As of last report, they’ve already crossed the border into Jordan. They should make it the rest of the way tomorrow night, arriving at the rendezvous shortly before midnight.”

  “Another day,” the general said, seemingly overcome in the moment. The reality of it all overwhelming him. “Another day, and we shall have played our part in the struggle of God. For Palestine.”

  Hadi nodded, unab
le to suppress the sense of disquiet that still rose within him at the thought of what that “part” would mean. But it was too late for such second thoughts, such doubt. They were committed.

  For Palestine.

  5:43 A.M. Eastern European Time, January 8th

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  Another twenty minutes, Ariel told himself, gazing out through the early morning darkness toward the runway lights. Smoke curling up through the twilight from the cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. And then the rest of their team would be on the ground, the first phase of their mission complete.

  But only the first. So much more to come before the end—whatever that looked like.

  From somewhere off in the distance, he could hear the whine of an incoming jet as he lifted the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag and feeling a sense of calm flood through his body as the nicotine washed over him.

  He couldn’t remember just when he’d first started smoking before operations, but it had to have been during his time with the Duvdevan, long before he’d joined Mossad.

  He’d come home from an op and shove the cigarettes into a drawer, to be forgotten until the next time he found himself preparing to go back into enemy territory. Back into the war.

  But Iraq—this was going to be something different than ever before. The CIA’s plan was bold, audacious, and. . .not theirs, which he knew rankled Shoham as much as it did him, if not more so.

  Finding themselves essentially forced to play by the Agency’s rules after all they had done in France—on Elba—was a bitter pill. But that was how it ever was, dealing with the Americans.

  The new Colossus, he snorted, the thought bitter with irony. Standing astride the globe, attempting to enforce its will—its sense of right—on a world it didn’t even begin to understand.