“And what is that move?”
“That’s the question we’re all here to answer, isn’t it?” Wexler answered.
“Thank you, Dr. Wexler,” Westbrooke said as Wexler took his seat. Westbrooke finished jotting down a note and looked up from the yellow legal pad in front of him. “So how should the president respond?” he asked the group.
“We send in saboteurs to shut down their operations, like we should have ten years ago,” Cole Dumfries, the leather-faced former naval officer-turned-former director of operations at the Central Intelligence Agency said. “If not their people, then ours. I don’t care if it’s DoD or CIA, but we need people on the ground to put a hard stop on their development.”
“That wasn’t a viable option in 2005, Admiral, and it’s even less so today,” Wexler said from the corner of the table. “Iran’s operations are too dispersed, and frankly, we don’t even know the locations of all their facilities.”
“I’m just saying that our little Stuxnet computer games didn’t work, so if we’re serious about stopping the sons-o’-bitches for good, we need a kinetic response that will set them back a quarter century.”
“What about recruiting some martyrdom-seekers for the job?” Kelly Hunt from the U.S. Agency for International Development, or USAID, chimed in. She was new to the group, brought in for her overseas connections, and because she was the granddaughter of the late Ambassador Adolphus L. Hunt, III, one of The Council’s founding members. “Maybe some people from al Nusrah or the Khorasan Group that we’ve helped arm in Syria.”
“It’s unlikely any of them would abandon their fight against Assad. At least there they have a chance at victory,” Wexler said. “Even jihadis do a cost-benefit analysis before agreeing to blow themselves up.”
“And trying to find takers among the Iranian population is even more of a stretch than recruiting Syrian jihadis,” Cyrus Shirazi, the four-time Democratic congressman from California’s 42nd District added. “An Iranian bomb is a source of nationalistic pride that will likely strengthen popular support for the Khamenei regime. Even the moderates want to see Iran as the regional hegemon and a leader on the world stage. Let’s face it, having a nuclear arsenal will make people pay attention, and right now, Iran sees this as its best bet for stopping the bully-tactics it feels the West—in particular the U.S.—has been using for decades. By and large, the Iranian people support that view.”
“But we can’t just do nothing,” Dumfries said. “That would almost guarantee Dr. Wexler’s timeline holds true.”
There was about a minute of silence as people searched for an alternative. Finally, Westbrooke posed the only option he could think of. “Then we continue the Mossad operations. Maybe expand the target list to include members of the Majlis or any of those IRGC bastards. Somebody the Iranians wouldn’t expect us to hit.”
More muted talking.
“Mossad isn’t having an easy time of it right now, in case nobody noticed,” Air Force General Christopher Maxwell of U.S. Strategic Command said. “Hitting their parliament members or Guard Corps commanders will mean more security barriers, not less. I like Cole’s option. We should dump the Israelis, send in a bunch of snake-eaters, and take care of this ourselves.”
“Maybe they’re just having a run of bad luck,” Westbrooke offered.
“Yes and no.”
Heads turned to the back of the room where Colonel Tim Jankowski was seated. Though dressed in a navy blue blazer and pressed khaki pants, there was no mistaking his affiliation. The high-and-tight gave that away. Jankowski was one of the rising stars of The Council, if not the United States Marine Corps. A member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Intelligence Directorate, commonly referred to as the J2, Jankowski had distinguished himself in both Iraq and Afghanistan. But his unapologetic brashness that made him a popular and effective field commander was viewed by much of the JCS brass as borderline insubordination. He was not afraid to speak his mind and call out his superiors—civilian or military—if he felt their actions would harm his beloved Corps or the country he was awarded a Navy Cross and three Purple Hearts defending.
“The Israelis think there might be a leak,” Jankowski said.
“A leak?” Westbrooke asked.
“Of the operational details of the assassinations. Israel doesn’t know how much the Iranians are getting, but it’s at least the target names and locations of the planned attacks.”
“And the leaks are coming from the Israeli side?”
“They don’t know that either,” Jankowski said.
“Christ,” Maxwell muttered. “So we really are out of options.” He turned in his chair to face Jankowski. “What about Turnstile? Is that still on?”
Jankowski slowly nodded. “Turnstile is still on.”
“But how do we know that program isn’t compromised, too?” Maxwell asked.
“We don’t.”
Maxwell shook his head and grinned disgustedly. “You fuckers in J2 don’t know much, do you, son?”
“We know what we don’t know, General,” Jankowski said. He looked at Maxwell’s personal assistant, making it obvious enough for the general to notice. “We even know things you don’t know we know...sir.”
Westbrooke noticed Maxwell’s face flush red, and he stepped in before things quickly got out of control. “Alright, gentlemen.” He focused on Jankowski. “The first Turnstile operation is set for Tuesday, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, assuming all goes as planned, I guess we’ll find out one way or another if Turnstile is compromised. In the meantime, we need to check our own people—anyone outside of this room who has anything to do with the intel-sharing or logistics support, or anyone who’s even heard of Quick Note or Mossad’s involvement in it. If the leak is on our side, we need to stop it now. We are out of time, ladies and gentlemen.”
The buzzing of conversation picked up again as people stood to leave. Parker leaned over as he stood. “What is Turnstile?”
“Hell if I know,” Walter Korzen said while he buttoned his coat. “Those fucking ops guys love to keep everyone else guessing. Even here.” Walt picked up his briefcase and was gone.
Parker looked around the room, wondering who else was in the dark about Turnstile. He also wondered if anyone there was leaking information about Quick Note to the Iranians. His eyes stopped on Cyrus Shirazi. I wonder if Westbrooke’s Golden Boy knows what Turnstile is.
The thought quickly vanished as Maxwell’s assistant walked into view. She said something to Shirazi, and both of them laughed. After a kiss on the congressman’s cheek, she deftly moved through the crowd to catch the general as he departed. Parker watched Shirazi shake his head, still smiling.
Parker scowled. Golden Boy.
Chapter 14
Casey passed through the large rounded portico of the Holocaust Memorial Museum a block from the green expanse of the National Mall. It was late morning on Sunday, and a slow trickle of tourists came and went, though nowhere near the number that would flock to the area in six months as parents hauled their kids on summer vacation to the nation’s capital. Casey shook off the cold as he entered the building, grateful for the modern convenience of central heating in January. He looked up at the monstrous skylight and then to the red brick “buildings” on either side of the large open area that was nothing like what he expected after seeing the ubiquitous D.C.-gray facade that was the front of the museum on 14th Street SW. There was a somberness to the room that made what few patrons there were speak in whispers as they made their way to the long staircases at the far end or to any of the other exhibit entrances.
“Follow me.”
Casey jumped, startled as Lev Cohen passed briskly to Casey’s left and headed for an exit halfway down the room’s right side. Cohen was a full four strides ahead of Casey before the younger man stepped in that direction and had to jog to catch the door. Casey caught his breath as the two men made their way to what Casey figured was the second basement level, though he
didn’t see any signs to back up that assessment.
They entered into a long hallway with doors on each side. Casey tried to determine which direction they were headed relative to the museum entrance, but he gave up when Cohen entered a door two-thirds of the way down. At least he knows where we’re going, Casey thought. Two more turns and they were in a darkened part of the larger room, only a small telescoping table lamp providing any light beyond what bled in through the open doorway. A small man with sporadic wisps of white hair hunched over the illuminated table and motioned with an outstetched hand for the two intruders to wait until he was finished. Casey almost laughed at the scene he was sure he’d seen in dozens of B-grade action and mystery movies on Netflix.
The old man put down his pencil and moved a book to a curling corner of the parchment he was laboring over. He looked up and pivoted the table lamp to get a better look at the two men who interrupted his work. His face went from tired inspection to bright cordiality. “Levi. It is good to see you my friend,” he beamed with outstretched arms. He and Cohen embraced briefly, and he looked at Casey. “And who did you bring with you?” he asked, still smiling but with a narrowing of eyes behind thick glasses.
“This is Casey Shenk. He has agreed to help us.”
“Help us?” Casey asked.
Cohen motioned to the old man. “Josef Kronfeld is an old family friend.”
“Not that old,” Josef said with a wink as he shook Casey’s hand. Casey’s eyes moved to the blurred tattoo on Josef’s forearm—numbers indicating the man had been in one of the Nazi death camps in World War II.
Josef noticed Casey’s gaze. “I was six years old when the Americans liberated Buchenwald,” he said. “My mother took me to America after the war, and I have been here ever since.” He inhaled deeply. “My father was not so lucky. He was killed when a group of the prisoners resisted our Nazi captors as they tried to exterminate as many of us as they could before evacuating.”
“I’m sorry,” Casey almost whispered.
“Do not be sorry, Mr. Shenk. I am alive, you are alive, Levi here is alive. Life is a gift we must celebrate every day. We should never forget the courage and sacrifice of those who came before us and who stood up to evil and allowed us to live. Our celebration is a tribute to them.”
Casey nodded, humbled by Josef’s optimism. He looked at Cohen, then back at Josef. “So you are a curator here?”
“Among other things,” he said, winking again. “Please. Follow me.”
Josef gathered his cane from a stool by the table and switched off the lamp. Cohen and Casey followed him to a smaller adjacent room. Josef turned on an overhead light and sat in an oversized leather armchair in front of a gray metal desk piled high with papers. The contrast of luxury and utility seemed perfectly normal to Josef and Cohen, so Casey kept the observation to himself.
Josef produced a key from his pants pocket and unlocked a large file drawer at the bottom of the desk. He flipped through a few visible tabs and removed a worn, brown leather portfolio secured with a dirty rubber band. He handed it to Cohen.
“Davood Raad is slippery outside of his public speaking engagements,” Josef said as Cohen leafed through the papers in the portfolio. “He rarely keeps to any discernible office hours, either.”
Casey began to understand. Cohen was using Josef Kronfeld to watch Raad. Or rather, to find out who Raad was getting information from. He didn’t see how a 76-year-old man, by Casey’s estimation, could be expected to trail someone alone, so he assumed there must be others doing the surveillance work.
Cohen held up a tri-fold pamphlet printed on pale green paper. “Significance?” he asked.
Josef looked closer. “Ah, yes. The Islamic Community Center in Manassas. One of the suburbs in Virginia. Very nice people, the Manassas Muslim Association. I cannot say the same for some of the other groups here in America. You see, the attitude is very different away from New York or Minneapolis.”
“That’s nice, Josef, but why is this in with the other papers you handed me?”
“You asked us to follow Raad. We followed him,” Josef said. “He went there to sign books two weeks ago. He has not been there since.”
“Any other book signings?” Cohen asked.
“Two, aside from his lectures. It is all in there,” Josef said, sounding slightly irritated. “If we had been given more time, perhaps we could have found more useful information.”
Cohen straightened the papers in the portfolio and replaced the rubber band. He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Josef. I will take this information and see what I can come up with. Your help on such short notice is a testament to your dedication to the protection of Israel.”
“Not just Israel, my friend. The world. If Iran develops a nuclear weapon, it is not only Israel or the Jewish people who will be in danger, but all of mankind. Because if Iran launches one, there will be retaliation, and events will cascade such that the loss of life will make this...,” Josef motioned to the museum above them and by inference the holocaust itself, “...merely a shadow of the horrors that will follow.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Cohen said. He shook Josef’s hand. “The next time I see you, old friend, I pray it is under less somber circumstances.”
“You think he’s right?” Casey asked as they ascended the staircase from the basement. “I mean, about armageddon if Iran gets the bomb.”
Cohen stopped, almost sending Casey tumbling down a flight. “Josef Kronfeld has seen evil firsthand,” Cohen said. “Not the sort of evil you, or even I, have seen, but pure, unfeeling, burning evil where children and innocent people were herded like cattle into sealed rooms, where their last breaths were of blistering, choking poison. Their bodies were bulldozed into open pits they dug themseves just hours earlier, their corpses covered in lime to mask the stench of decaying flesh as newly arrived trucks offloaded their passengers, some knowing what fate ultimately awaited them—others with no idea.
“That same evil is back again. In Syria. In Iraq. In Sudan. Only this time the victims are hacked to death, beheaded, drowned, or burned alive. So if you ask me do I think Josef Kronfeld is right, that armageddon is coming...I say it is. Will it be a total nuclear war as Josef sees it? No. I don’t believe so. But you can believe this, Mr. Shenk, if Iran develops an operational nuclear weapon, it is only a matter of time before all of its proxies have one as well.
“The West thinks Hizballah and Hamas fighting the Islamic State of Iraq and al Sham is a good thing. But how much good are they doing? How will Baghdadi’s legions be defeated? Not by Iran’s terrorist puppets, and not by occasional American air strikes supporting the weak Iraqi military and security forces. And when Hizballah’s forces are near depletion, and Lebanon is next to fall, do you think Iran will hesitate to save its most lethal and most loyal proxy by using a nuclear weapon?”
“No?”
“No. It will not,” Cohen said. “The fight against ISIS will not end nicely. And the Middle East will be a different place for decades to come. But if Iran introduces a nuclear bomb into the equation, the region will be uninhabitable, and entire generations will be lost outright. That is why we must find Raad’s agent. Unless we stop the leak, Iran will continue its progress toward a nuclear weapon unopposed, and that armageddon scenario will be more likely than you think.”
Whatever doubts Casey had about helping Cohen were gone. Not once did Cohen mention the inevitable destruction of Israel or even a nuclear counterstrike by Israel should Iran strike first. Cohen was talking about the destuction of the entire Middle East—Arabs and Israelis; Christians, Muslims, and Jews. There were no selfish motives evident in Cohen’s mission. He was there to save lives—by taking lives, to be sure—but to save them, nonetheless. His job was to ultimately protect the innocent who had no say in the matter by stopping those who did.
“So what’s our next move?” Casey asked.
Cohen held up the portfolio. “Let’s find out who’s b
een talking to Raad.”
Chapter 15
Scott Parker and Leo Ambrosi were already seated in the White House situation room when the president’s chief of staff, Kurt Vanek, came in, followed by Adam Miller and a squat, slightly overweight man with brown hair, graying at the temples. Parker stood to shake hands with the new Israeli ambassador to the United States, Moshe Safran, after Ambrosi made the requisite introductions. Parker took Miller’s hand and smiled. “Adam,” he said, seeing a thinly veiled look of surprise and annoyance in Miller’s eyes at Parker’s presence in the meeting.
“Scott,” Miller replied as everyone took a seat.
No one sat at the head of the table, customarily reserved for the president. It was his situation room, after all. Instead, the two Israeli officials sat across from the three Americans as if preparing for diplomatic negotiations rather than an orientation for the new ambassador. Despite the official schedule title, the meeting was exactly that—a negotiation.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me on your sabbath, Mr. Vanek and Mr. Ambrosi,” Ambassador Safran said with a slight British accent that left no doubt where he had learned to speak English. He nodded to Parker, nonverbally acknowledging his “sacrifice,” as well.
“We all understand the gravity of this meeting, Mr. Ambassador,” Vanek said. “It is important that our two countries maintain solidarity as we figure out how best to respond to the recent event in Iran.”
“The State of Israel agrees it would be desirable for our two nations to act in concert on this matter, but my leadership feels the current U.S. administration is not taking the threat of a nuclear-armed Iran seriously,” Safran said. “The support we have received from America for our current operations is appreciated and invaluable, yet as we all witnessed over the past week, it is not enough. Iran will continue to make progress towards developing a nuclear weapon at an ever-increasing pace unless more concrete measures are taken to stop it.”
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