by Tom Clancy
They were outfitted in fatigues of an urban-camouflage pattern, a curious design of black, white, and several shades of gray that allowed them to blend in with the stones and whitewashed stucco of Jerusalem in a way that was eerily effective, especially at night. Their boots were the same, not the spit-shined elegance of parade soldiers. The helmets were Kevlar, covered with cloth of the same pattern. Over the fatigues went camouflaged flak jackets of American design that merely seemed to increase the physical bulk of the soldiers. Over the flak jackets came the web gear. Each man always carried four fragmentation grenades and two smokes, plus a one-liter canteen, first-aid packet, and ammo pouches for a light total load-out of about twelve kilos.
They traveled about the city in teams of five, one noncom and four privates per team, and twelve teams to each duty section. Each man carried a SIG assault rifle, two of which had grenade launchers slung underneath the barrel. The sergeant also carried a pistol, and two men in each team carried radios. The teams on patrol were in constant radio contact and regularly practiced mutual-support maneuvers.
Half of each duty section walked, while the other half moved about slowly and menacingly in American-built HMMWVs. Essentially an oversized jeep, each “hummer” had at least a pintle-mounted machine gun, and some had six-barreled mini-guns plus Kevlar armor to protect the crews against the casual enemy. At the commanding note of their horns, everyone cleared a path.
At the command post were several armored fighting vehicles—English—built armored cars that could just barely navigate the streets of the ancient city. Always on duty at the post was a platoon-sized unit commanded by a captain. This was the emergency-response team. They were armed with heavy weapons, like the Swedish Carl Gustav M-2 recoilless, just the right thing for knocking a hole in any building. Supporting them was an engineer section with copious quantities of high explosives; the “sappers” ostentatiously practiced by knocking down those settlements which Israel had agreed to abandon. In fact, the entire regiment practiced its combat skills at those sites, and people were allowed to observe from a few hundred meters away in what was rapidly becoming a genuine tourist attraction. Already, Arab merchants were producing T-shirts with logos like ROBOSOLDIER! for anyone who cared to buy them. The commercial sense of the merchants was not unrewarded.
The Swiss Guards did not smile, nor did they speak to the casual interrogator, a facility that came easily to them. Journalists were encouraged to meet with the commanding officer, Colonel Jacques Schwindler, and were occasionally allowed to speak with lower ranks in barracks or at training exercises, but never on the street. Some contact with the locals was inevitable, of course. The soldiers were learning rudimentary Arabic, and English sufficed for everyone else. They occasionally issued traffic citations, though this was mainly a function of the local civil police force that was still forming up—with support from the Israelis who were phasing out of the function. More rarely a Swiss Guard would step into a street fight or other disturbance. Most often the mere sight of a five-man team would reduce people to respectful silence and docile civility. The mission of the Swiss was intimidation, and it didn’t require many days for people to appreciate how good they were at it. At the same time, their operations depended most of all on something other than the physical.
On the right shoulder of each uniform was a patch. It was in the shape of a shield. The centerpiece was the white cross on red background of the Swiss, to demonstrate the origin of the soldiers. Around it were the Star and Crescent of Islam, the six-pointed Judaic Star of David, and the Christian Cross. There were three versions of the patch, so that each religious emblem had an equal chance of being on top. It was publicly known that the patches were distributed at random, and the symbology indicated that the Swiss flag protected them all equally.
The soldiers deferred always to religious leaders. Colonel Schwindler met daily with the religious troika which governed the city. It was believed that they alone made policy, but Schwindler was a clever, thoughtful man whose suggestions from the first had carried great weight with the Imam, the Rabbi, and the Patriarch. Schwindler had also traveled to the capitals of every Middle East nation. The Swiss had chosen well—he’d been known as the best colonel in their army. An honest and scrupulously fair man, he’d acquired an enviable reputation. Already on his office wall was a gold-mounted sword, a present from the King of Saudi Arabia. A stallion of equal magnificence was quartered at the Guard force encampment. Schwindler didn’t know how to ride.
It was up to the troika to run the city. They had proven to be even more effective than anyone had dared to hope. Chosen for their piety and scholarship, each soon impressed the others. It had been agreed upon at once that each week there would be a public prayer service particular to one of the represented religions, and that each would attend, not actually participating, but demonstrating the respect that was at the foundation of their collective purpose. Originally suggested by the Imam, it had unexpectedly proven to be the most effective method of tempering their internal disagreements and also setting the example for the citizens of the city in their care. This was not to say that there were not disagreements. But those were invariably difficulties between two of the members, and in such cases the uninvolved third would mediate. It was in the interests of all to reach a peaceful and reasonable settlement. “The Lord God”—a phrase each of the three could use without prejudice—required their goodwill, and after a few initial teething problems, that goodwill prevailed. Over coffee, after concluding one dispute over scheduling access to one shrine or another, the Greek Patriarch noted with a chuckle that perhaps this was the first miracle he had ever witnessed. No, the Rabbi had replied, it was no miracle that men of God should have the conviction to obey their own religious principles. All at once? the Imam had asked with a smile, perhaps not a miracle, but certainly it had required over a millennium to achieve. Let us not begin a new dispute, the Greek had said with a rumbling laugh, over the settlement of another—now if you can only help me find a way to deal with my fellow Christians!
Outside on the streets, when clerics of one faith encountered those of another, greetings were exchanged to set an example for everyone. The Swiss Guards saluted each in their turn, and when speaking with the most senior, they would remove their glasses or helmets to show public respect.
That was the only humanity the Swiss Guards were allowed to demonstrate. It was said that they didn’t even sweat.
“Scary sons of bitches,” Ryan observed, standing in shirt-sleeves at a corner. American tourists snapped pictures. Jews still looked a touch resentful. Arabs smiled. The Christians who’d largely been driven out of Jerusalem by increasing violence had barely started to return. Everyone got the hell out of their way as the five men moved briskly down the street, not quite marching, their helmeted heads turning left and right. “They really do look like robots.”
“You know,” Avi said, “there hasn’t been a single attack on them since the first week. Not one.”
“I wouldn’t want to fool with them,” Clark observed quietly.
In the first week, as though by Providence, an Arab youth had killed an elderly Israeli woman with a knife—it had been a street robbery rather than a crime with political significance—and had made the mistake of doing so in view of a Swiss private, who’d run him down and subdued him with a martial-arts blow right out of a movie. The Arab in question had been taken to the troika and given the choice of a trial by Israeli or Islamic law. He’d made the mistake of choosing the latter. After a week in an Israeli hospital to allow his injuries to heal, he’d faced a trial in accordance with the word of the Koran, chaired by Imam Ahmed bin Yussif. One day after that, he had been flown to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, driven to a public square, and, after having had time to repent his misdeeds, publicly beheaded with a sword. Ryan wondered how you said pour encourager les autres in Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic. Israelis had been amazed at the speed and severity of justice, but the Muslims had merely shrugged and pointed out that the
Koran had its own stern criminal code, and that it had proven highly effective over the years.
“Your people are still a little unhappy with this, aren’t they?”
Avi frowned. Ryan had faced him with the necessity of expressing his personal opinion or speaking the truth. “They’d feel safer with our paratroops here... man-to-man, Ryan?” Truth won out, as it had to with Avi.
“Sure.” “They’ll learn. It will take a few more weeks, but they will learn. The Arabs like the Swiss, and the key to the peace on this street is how our Arab friends feel. Now, will you tell me something?” Clark’s head moved fractionally at that.
“Maybe,” Ryan answered, looking up the street.
“How much did you have to do with this?”
“Nothing at all,” Jack replied with a neutral coldness that matched the pace of the soldiers. “It was Charlie Alden’s idea, remember? I was just the messenger boy.”
“So Elizabeth Elliot has told everyone.” Avi didn’t have to say any more.
“You wouldn’t have asked the question unless you knew the answer, Avi. So why ask the question?”
“Artfully done.” General Ben Jakob sat down and waved for the waiter. He ordered two beers before speaking again. Clark and the other bodyguard weren’t drinking. “Your President pushed us too hard. Threatening us with withholding our arms....”
“He could have gone a little easier, I suppose, but I do not make policy, Avi. Your people made it happen when they murdered those demonstrators. That reopened a part of our own history that we wish to forget. It neutralized your congressional lobby—a lot of those people were on the other side of our own civil-rights movement, remember. You forced us to move, Avi. You know that. Besides—” Ryan stopped abruptly.
“Yes?”
“Avi, this thing just might work. I mean, look around!” Jack said as the beers arrived. He was thirsty enough that a third of it disappeared in an instant.
“It is a slim possibility,” Ben Jakob admitted.
“You get better intel from Syria than we do,” Ryan pointed out. “I’ve heard that they’ve started saying nice things about the settlement—very quietly, I admit. Am I right?”
“If it’s true.” Avi grunted.
“You know the hard part about ‘peace’ intel?”
Ben Jakob’s eyes were focused on a distant wall as he contemplated—what? “Believing it is possible?”
Jack nodded. “That’s one area where we have the advantage over you guys, my friend. We’ve been through all that.”
“True, but the Soviets never said—proclaimed—for two generations that they wanted to wipe you from the face of the earth. Tell the worthy President Fowler that such concerns are not so easily allayed.”
Jack sighed. “I have. I did. Avi, I’m not your enemy.”
“Neither are you my ally.”
“Allies? We are now, General. The treaties are in force. General, my job is to provide information and analysis to my government. Policy is made by people senior to me, and smarter than me,” Ryan added with deadpan irony.
“Oh? And who might they be?” General Ben Jakob smiled at the younger man. His voice dropped a few octaves. “You’ve been in the trade for what—not even ten years, Jack. The submarine business, what you did in Moscow, the role you played in the last election—”
Ryan tried to control his reaction but failed. “Jesus, Avi!” How the hell did he find that out!
“You cannot take the Lord’s name in vain, Dr. Ryan,” the deputy chief of the Mossad chided. “This is the City of God. Those Swiss chaps might shoot you. Tell the lovely Miss Elliot that if she pushes too hard, we still have friends in your media, and a story such as that ...” Avi smiled.
“Avi, if your people mention that to Liz, she will not know what you are talking about.”
“Rubbish!” General Ben Jakob snorted.
“You have my word on that, sir.”
It was Brigadier Ben Jakob’s turn to be surprised. “That is difficult to believe.”
Jack finished off the beer. “Avi, I’ve said what I can. Has it ever occurred to you that your information may not have come from an entirely reliable source? I will tell you this: I have no personal knowledge of what you alluded to. If there was any kind of deal, I was kept out of it. Okay, I have reason to believe that something may have happened, and I can even speculate what it might have been, but if I ever have to sit in front of a judge and answer questions, all I can say is that I do not know anything. And you, my friend, cannot blackmail someone with something that person doesn’t know about. You’d have to do a pretty good selling job just to convince them that something had happened in the first place.”
“My God, what Moore and Ritter set up really was elegant, wasn’t it?”
Ryan set down his empty glass. “Things like that never happen in real life, General. That’s movie stuff. Look, Avi, maybe that report you have is a little on the thin side. The spectacular ones often are. Reality never quite keeps up with art, after all.” It was a good play. Ryan grinned to carry the point.
“Dr. Ryan, in 1972 the Black September faction of the Palestine Liberation Organization contracted the Japanese Red Army to shoot up Ben Gurion Airport, which they did, killing off mainly American Protestant pilgrims from your island of Puerto Rico. The single terrorist taken alive by our security forces told his interrogators that his dead comrades and their victims would become a constellation of stars in the heavens. In prison he purportedly converted himself to Judaism, and even circumcised himself with his teeth, which speaks volumes for his flexibility,” Brigadier General Avi Ben Jakob added matter-of-factly. “Do not ever tell me that there is something too mad to be true. I have been an intelligence officer for more than twenty years, and the only thing of which I am certain is that I have not yet seen it all.”
“Avi, even I’m not that paranoid.”
“You have never experienced a holocaust, Dr. Ryan.”
“Oh? Cromwell and the Potato Famine don’t count? Get off that horse, General. We’re deploying the U.S. troops here. If it comes to that, there will be American blood on the Negev, or Golan, or whatever.”
“And what if—”
“Avi, you ask what if. If that what-if ever happens, General, I will fly here myself. I used to be a Marine. You know I’ve been shot at before. There will be no second Holocaust. Not while I live. My countrymen will not let it happen ever again. Not my government, Avi, my countrymen. We will not let that happen. If Americans have to die to help protect this country, then Americans will die to do so.”
“You said that to Vietnam.” Clark’s eyes flared at that one, Ben Jakob noticed. “You have something to say?”
“General, I’m no high official, just a grunt with pretensions. But I got more combat time than anybody in this country of yours, and I’m telling you, sir, that what really scares me about this place is how you guys always fuck up the same way we did over there—we learned, you didn’t. And what Dr. Ryan says is right. He’ll come over. So will I, if it comes to that. I’ve killed my share of enemies, too,” Clark told him in a low, quiet voice.
“Another Marine?” Avi asked lightly, though he knew better.
“Close enough,” Clark said. “And I’ve kept current, as they say,” he added with a smile.
“What about your associate?” Avi motioned toward Chavez, who stood casually at the corner, eyeing the street.
“Good as I ever was. So’re those kids in the Cav. But this war talk is all bullshit. You guys both know that. You want security, sir, you settle your domestic problems. Peace will follow that like a rainbow after a storm.”
“Learn from your mistakes....”
“We had a four-thousand-mile buffer to fall back through, General. It isn’t that far from here to the Med. You’d better learn from our mistakes. Good news is, you are better able to make a real peace than we ever were.”
“But to have it imposed—”
“Sir, if it works, you’ll thank us. I
f it doesn’t work, we have a lot of people to stand by you when the crap hits the fan.” Clark noticed that Ding had moved casually from his post across the street, moving aimlessly, it seemed, like a tourist.
“Including you?”
“Bet your ass, General,” Clark replied, alert now, watching the people on the street. What had Chavez spotted? What had he missed?
Who are they? Ghosn wondered. It took a second. Brigadier General Abraham Ben Jakob, Deputy Director of the Mossad, his brain answered after sorting through all the recognition photographs he’d memorized. Talking to an American. I wonder who he is.... Ghosn’s head turned slowly and casually. The American would have several bodyguards ... the one close by was obvious. A very serious fellow that one was, old ... late forties, perhaps. It was the hardness—no, not hardness but alertness. One could control the face but not the eyes—ah, the man put sunglasses back on. More than one. Had to be more than one, plus Israeli security officers. Ghosn knew that he’d let his eyes linger a touch too long, but—
“Oops.” A man had bumped into him, a fraction smaller and slighter than Ghosn. Dark complexion, possibly even a brother Arab, but he’d spoken in English. Contact was broken before Ghosn had time to realize that he’d been quickly and expertly frisked. “Sorry.” The man moved off. Ghosn didn’t know, wasn’t sure if it had been what it seemed to be or if he’d just been checked out by an Israeli, American, or other security officer. Well, he wasn’t carrying a weapon, not even a pocketknife, just a shopping bag full of books.