Executive Power (26 page)

B
en Freidman sat on the porch of the house sipping a glass of water and looking out at the rolling terrain under the moonlit evening sky. He desperately wanted a drink, but one had not been offered to him. It had been a very long day trying to manage the situation in Hebron. There were people in his government who didn't appreciate the victory he had achieved. They were weaklings. Men and women who didn't have the stomach to fight for the preservation of Israel.

The man he was waiting to see had the determination, though. The ranch in the Jordan Valley belonged to Prime Minister David Goldberg. Goldberg, the head of the conservative Likud Party, had been elected by an overwhelming majority of the Israeli people despite the fact that his party held only a handful of seats in the 120-member Knesset. That had been two years ago, when the people had seen how duplicitous the Palestinians were. The Israelis extended the olive branch and Yasser Arafat took it from them and slapped them in the face. He used the new Palestinian Authority to secure his hold over the Palestinian people and bring in weapons and explosives to help wage an even bloodier war against the Jews, all the while he feigned a lack of control over the so-called martyr brigades.

Goldberg had been swept into office as a hard-liner who would crack down on the Palestinian terror groups and restore some security to the country. Unfortunately things had not gone as planned. They were up against a new form of terror. One that so far they had been unable to stop. The steady stream of homicide bombers had crippled Israel's fragile economy and frayed the nerves of even some of the stoutest patriots. The martyr brigades needed to be stopped, and Ben Freidman was willing to be every bit as ruthless as the enemy to get the job done.

He was worried about his old friend and current prime minister, though. There had been signs lately that Goldberg was beginning to crack under the pressure. His cabinet was filled with backstabbers and even his own party was asking if the old general had what it took to deal with the crisis. And then on top of that the damn Americans were giving him orders to back down.

Freidman had seen it all before. He understood the visceral hatred the Arabs felt toward him and his country. In Freidman's mind it was based on jealousy. The Arabs and their closed patriarchal society couldn't handle being bested by the Jews. The Palestinians had held on to this land for thousands of years and had done nothing to improve it. The Jews came back to their homeland and in one generation turned much of the arid landscape into plentiful farms and orchards. They had tried to negotiate a fair peace, but the Arabs would have none of it. There would always be a large and influential segment of the Palestinian people who would never be satisfied until Israel ceased to exist. It was Freidman's job to make sure that never happened.

This was the important mission of Freidman's life. It was his vocation to make sure Israel survived, and he was willing to go to great lengths to ensure success. Doing it alone, though, was not possible. He needed help. He needed allies who would pacify the bleeding hearts in his country, those naive imbeciles who actually believed that peace was worth risking the entire security of a nation, of a people who had narrowly avoided extinction.

He needed lobbyists in America to lean on the right people. People who could get to other people who controlled the lifeblood of politics: money. People who could deliver the three states that every presidential hopeful wanted: New York, Florida and the crown jewel, California. He needed America's support more than ever and he would work diligently to make sure it was there when the time came.

Right now, though, the thing he needed most was a strong prime minister who would stay the course. He'd seen signs lately that his old friend was losing his stomach for the fight. This could not be allowed to happen. Prime Minister Goldberg needed to hold true to his commitment and stave off another attack from the liberals.

David Goldberg stepped onto the porch holding two bottles of Goldstar beer. He handed one to Freidman and apologized for making him wait. Even though Freidman would have preferred a stiff drink, he took the beer and watched his friend take a seat in the rocking chair next to him.

On the face of it, Goldberg was the most unlikely hawk you would ever meet. His plump fleshy appearance made him appear too soft for a war hero. He had a mane of white hair, which framed a tan face and heavy jowls. He was a large man, but not muscular and it was easy to see him as the grown-up version of the pudgy kid in school who was always picked on. This was a mistake. The man's temper and valor were legendary. Never one to shy away from a fight, Goldberg had the disposition of a bull. He had distinguished himself many times on the battlefield, and for that at least, he had the respect of his countrymen. Unfortunately, though, his valor did not indefinitely guarantee their support.

Goldberg took a swig of beer and said, “Ben, you have created quite a stir.”

Freidman listened to a dog barking in the distance and said, “Don't I always?”

“Yes, you do, but these are delicate times.”

Freidman already disliked the tone of their conversation. “When haven't they been?”

The prime minister disagreed by shaking his head. “We have never seen the international pressure we see now.”

“Forgive me for being so blunt, David, but the international community can kiss my ass.”

“Believe me, I share your feelings, but we cannot ignore them. What you did last night is causing me problems.”

Freidman looked away from his old friend and took a drink from his beer. “David, you asked me to hit back, and did I ever find a way to hit back. It will take them years to recover from this.”

The prime minister wasn't so sure anymore, not since these she-devils started blowing themselves up. More and more Goldberg was starting to think in terms of withdrawal from the West Bank and the occupied territories. There were only two things that prevented him from doing so. The first was the settlements. Thousands of Jews had moved into the areas and would die rather than leave. The second reason he wouldn't support the withdrawal and recognition of a Palestinian state was that he feared for his life. The man sitting next to him on the porch, along with many others, would have him killed if he were to gamble so recklessly with Israel's security.

Knowing he had to be careful with how he dealt with Freidman, he said, “The attack was the crowning achievement of your career, Ben.” Goldberg held out his bottle for a toast.

“Thank you.” Freidman clanged his bottle against the prime minister's and said, “But?”

Goldberg finished his drink and in a confused tone asked, “But what?”

“Don't protect me, David. Remember I hear everything. I know your cabinet is furious with the number of casualties.”

“They are rarely in agreement on anything.”

“Well, if you'd like me to address them I am more than willing.”

Goldberg considered this for a moment. It wasn't a bad idea. Ben Friedman could intimidate even the staunchest opponent. “Maybe later, but for now I am more concerned about explaining to the international community how so many innocent civilians died.”

He was tempted to remind him that the Palestinians living in the neighborhood were hardly innocent, but the director general of Mossad decided against it. Goldberg the warrior had transformed into Goldberg the politician. Instead he said, “They are an unfortunate casualty of war.”

“But sixteen Hellfire missiles, Ben. What were you thinking?”

Freidman shrugged. “This was a once in a lifetime chance. I wasn't about to let a single one of them escape if I could help it.”

“I've been told your infiltrator had enough explosives in those cases to take out everyone at the meeting.”

Freidman was more than a little surprised that Goldberg knew about the specifics, but he covered it well. He had intentionally told him little prior to the mission with the tacit understanding that if things went wrong, the prime minister would have deniability. Now someone within his own agency was talking to the prime minister and Freidman would have to find out who.

“David, don't tell me you've lost your stomach for this?”

A scowl formed on Goldberg's face. “Don't confuse the issue, Ben. I'm hearing things from other sources. I'm hearing that you went overboard on this thing … that we could have avoided killing all the innocent civilians.”

Freidman stopped rocking and looked harshly at his old friend. “Do me a favor and stop calling them innocent. They have been blowing up women and children for years, and you know as well as I that the only way to make them stop is to hit them harder than they hit us.”

Goldberg wasn't so sure anymore. When he'd been a young tank commander, he'd thought so. When he'd taken the reins of the country just a few years ago he had thought so, but now, after all the homicide bombs, he was wavering in his conviction. “Ben, these are delicate times. The eyes of the world are upon us.”

Freidman was disgusted by what he was hearing. He was tempted to tell Goldberg to step down if he didn't have the constitution to see it through. Instead he said, “The eyes of the world have always been on us. It shouldn't matter any more now than it has in the past. We are not the aggressors here, David, and you know that. They are the ones who have continued to attack us, and both of us have been around long enough to know the only thing they respond to is force.”

“But it has to end at some point. We need to find a way.”

“What?” snapped Freidman. “Do you want to pull out and build your stupid wall? Have you paid no attention to history? All you will be doing is giving them land that they will use to someday attack us from. You will be remembered as the Neville Chamberlain of Israel.”

“I am talking about doing no such thing,” replied a terse Goldberg. “And don't sit here and lecture me about being Neville Chamberlain, when just last night you killed a hundred innocent women and children. I've been briefed by the army, Ben. I know there was no bomb factory. Those people did not need to die.”

Freidman did not intend for this meeting to head in this direction, but he was not about to back down. “I will admit that some of those deaths are regrettable, but again, only a few. The overwhelming majority of the people who were living on that block were either terrorists or supporters of terrorists. I will lose no sleep over my decision, and I will gladly stand before your cabinet and defend my actions.”

“It is not the cabinet that I am worried about,” snapped Goldberg. “It is the UN, and it is the Americans. If they decide to look into this, and they find out that there was in fact no bomb factory, you will have done us great harm.”

“They will not look into it,” promised an irritated Freidman. “I can handle the Americans. I always have and I always will, and as far as the UN is concerned they are a bunch of impotent dilettantes. A week from now this will all be forgotten.” Freidman took a swig of beer and confidently added, “I can promise you … this will all blow over. Right now, though, we need to stay on the offensive. In the wake of an attack such as last night they will make mistakes. They will seek vengeance and we must be ready to pounce. This is what I propose we do.”

Goldberg rocked in his chair and listened as the head of Mossad laid out his plan for how to keep the various Palestinian groups on the defensive. The prime minister was torn as he listened. The old soldier in him very much wanted to press the advantage, but there was another voice in his head that was preaching caution. It was the voice of a politician who had the support of less than half of his country.

So far the only reason he hadn't received a vote of no confidence was because there was no clear challenger willing to step into the ring. His opponents were circling, though, and it wouldn't be long before they pounced. For the time being he would have to keep a close watch on Freidman. If the UN found out what had really happened in Hebron, his cabinet would turn on him in a second, and Israel would once again be forced back to the peace table with weak leadership at the reins of power.

I
t was Sunday night, it was late and Mitch Rapp sat awkwardly behind the wheel of his sedan, his body contorted in such a way as to keep his right butt cheek from touching the seat. Medically speaking, the ass was not a bad spot to be shot; no vital organs, just a lot of muscle and fat. In terms of general comfort, though, it sucked. To the amusement of Coleman and his men, Rapp had flown all the way back from the Philippines either standing or lying on his stomach.

With the mission a complete success, and Rapp's long-term health not an issue, the men were able to make light of his situation. For the most part Rapp took the ribbing well. The humor was at least a welcome distraction from having to dwell on what awaited him when he got home.

Relationships, he was finding, were tricky things. He'd already learned that often his recollection of what had been said, or promised, varied greatly from his wife's. He'd been searching his memory for the last day trying to remember if he had ever specifically promised to stay out of situations where he might be shot. Most of these conversations were vague by nature of the secrecy that went along with his job, but he seemed to remember some reassurances he'd made that he wouldn't do anything stupid. Something told him that she would classify getting shot in the ass as downright moronic.

Ultimately, however, he realized that this legalistic approach, while an inventive defense, was worthless. Nothing specifically had ever been agreed upon or said, but there were clearly expectations in place. Anna was not a judge or jurist, so any case pleaded on the grounds of technicalities would be unwise. She was his wife and no amount of truth or logic would save him from her wrath.

This briefly led him to the conclusion that he would need to stall and fabricate a story. The Anderson family was currently recuperating at the naval hospital in Pearl Harbor. Rapp had told Kennedy that he wanted to stay with the family for a few days and handle their debriefing. He was hoping to stretch the debriefing into a full week of recuperation for his own tender wound. In addition to that, he felt it would be fairly easy to fake a surfing accident on a coral reef. All he'd need to do was shred a pair of swim trunks and scrape himself up with some coral. It would hurt like hell, but it would pale in comparison to what his wife would do to him if she found out he'd been shot.

Kennedy had dismissed his request immediately, saying that something had happened in Israel, and she needed him back in Washington immediately. A plane would be waiting for him in Pearl Harbor and he wasn't to waste a minute. Ever since that conversation he'd been struggling to find a way out of an impossible situation. Somewhere over the western United States he'd come to the awful conclusion that he would have to face the wrath of his wife head-on.

This was all new to him, this feeling of dread. Relationships for Rapp had always been fairly uncomplicated. Since the death of his college sweetheart, he had never allowed anyone to get that close to him. Part of it was his job. Intimacy involved honesty, and his job precluded allowing any woman to really know him.

There had been a torrid affair with Donatella Rahn, an Israeli spy, that had lasted on and off for several years. In certain ways Donatella knew him better than anyone. It was a volatile relationship prone to great highs and depressing lows, and in a certain sense they were too much alike to ever marry, although she sure would have liked to have tried.

There had been plenty of other relationships, but never one so serious as to make him want to change. Anna had altered all that. Before her, if someone asked too many questions, or demanded too much of him, he found the nearest exit and never looked back. Relationships had always been easy, because they were always on his terms, and as soon as those terms were challenged or questioned it was over.

Now, everything was different. There was no walking away, no my place and your place, it was now their place. He had married Anna because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She made him want to be a better man, and deep down inside he knew it was for all the right reasons.

But right now, driving down this dark, rural Maryland road he dreaded seeing her reaction. In a way he hoped she would lash out at him and get it over with. The alternative was too painful to think of. Anna was a fiercely stubborn woman. The worst thing she could do to him was withdraw her love and affection.

Rapp turned into their driveway and swallowed hard. He'd called her earlier in the day when they'd landed in California to refuel, and told her he'd be in around midnight. It was now closer to one o'clock and he hoped she would be asleep. The front porch light was on but that was about it.

Rapp parked on the new pad next to the single-car garage so Anna could get her car out in the morning if she left first. Carefully, Rapp rolled out of the car seat and stood still for a moment. Every time he placed weight on his right foot it felt like someone was sticking a knife into the wound. The doctor onboard the
Belleau Wood
gave him a pair of crutches that he'd left at the airport. This whole shot in the ass thing was going to be handled on a need-to-know basis, and Anna was the only one who needed to know. As far as everyone else was concerned he'd pulled his hamstring.

After grabbing his bag from the trunk he limped over to the front door like an invalid. When he inserted his key, the dog began barking. Rapp opened the door and quietly greeted his mutt.

“Hi, Shirley.” Rapp patted her head and then keyed in the code to turn off the alarm.

Somewhere in the house he thought he heard music playing. Anna had left the small light over the kitchen stove on, but other than that the first floor was dark. In the faint light cast from the porch Rapp saw a piece of paper sitting on the stairs. He picked up the linen card and opened it. It was addressed,
My Dear Husband, I've missed you terribly. Hurry upstairs!

Looking at the note, Rapp let out a long sigh and then started gingerly up the stairs, his left foot taking each upward step carefully followed by his right. By the time he reached the top step he could tell the music was coming from the bedroom. He approached the open doorway with trepidation, torn between a deep yearning to hold her in his arms and the fear of how she would react when she discovered his wound.

The room was lit with candles and there she was, lying in the middle of the bed in a black silk nightgown propped up against an array of plush pillows with one leg languidly crossed over the other. She gave him a devilish smile and held out her hand.

Rapp's brain was racing in opposite directions. Part of him wanted to tear off his clothes and jump into bed with her, and another part of him was saying that he needed to explain a few things before he got naked. For the short term, the path of least resistance and most enjoyment won out. Rapp moved across the room smiling at his gorgeous wife.

Stopping at the side of the bed he reached out and held her hand, and for a moment all of his worries melted when he looked into her sparkling emerald eyes. She tugged, pulling him closer. Rapp bent at the waist only a few inches and was instantly shocked back to reality. The fresh wound stopped him in his tracks, sending signals screaming to his brain not to bend farther.

Rapp recovered by pulling Anna toward him. She got up on her knees and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I missed you, honey.”

“I see that,” replied Rapp as he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips.

“Did you miss me?”

“You know I did.” Rapp smiled. “More than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I think I can imagine.” She wrapped her arms around his back and squeezed tight.

Rapp held her head against his chest and laughed like a little boy. “Did you have a good week?”

“No.” Anna reached up and slid his jacket over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “How could I have had a good week without you?” Next she grabbed the leather holster of his Beretta and slid it over his shoulders. The daughter of a Chicago police officer, she knew enough not to let the weapon drop to the floor. Carefully, she lowered it and set it on the jacket.

Rapp admired her slim figure under the thin black silk and let his hands begin to explore. Anna tugged at his shirt and began unbuttoning it while she tilted her head back and offered her lips to her husband. Rapp kissed her, knowing he should stop her from undressing him and explain what had happened, but he couldn't. He didn't want it to stop.

Anna tore off his shirt and broke away from the kiss. Pushing herself back she ran her hands over his bare chest and down around his sides. She took in his lean strong body and let out a lustful moan. Before Rapp could react, her hands slid from his sides down and around to his butt. Anna looked into his eyes with a playful hunger and squeezed with a force that matched her passion.

There was a split second in Rapp's mind where time stood still. Everything froze and his mouth and eyes opened in anticipation of what was about to happen. And then the pain emanating from Anna's grip shot through his body like a lightning bolt. His entire body went rigid and he reached for his wife's hands. Prying them loose, he stepped back and closed his mouth and eyes as a wave of nausea washed over him.

“What's wrong?” asked a startled and concerned Anna.

Rapp held on to her hands and waited for the pain to subside. In a weak attempt to lighten the situation, his painful expression lessened into a grimace but not quite a smile. “Um …” His brain searched for the right words but they weren't coming.

“What's wrong? What did I do?” Anna stepped off the bed, holding her hands out gently.

“You didn't do anything,” Rapp managed to say. “It's just something that happened to me.”

“You're hurt?” Anna looked confused. “Why didn't you say something to me … what's wrong?”

The questions kept coming, as she moved closer and he backed away, in a weak attempt to buy some time. “Honey, it's not a big deal … I just suffered a little injury while I was in the Philippines.”

“What kind of injury … let me see it.”

Rapp held on to her hands. “No … you don't need to see it. It's no big deal.”

Anna detected the look of guilt on his face and seized upon it. “What do you mean I don't need to see it? I'm your wife.”

“Honey,” Rapp said in a lame attempt to calm her, “it's really no big deal.”

Anna released him and took a step back, placing her hands on her hips. With a menacing look she stared him right in his face and said, “You are trying to hide something from me, Mitchell Rapp, and you'd better come clean right now, or we are going to have serious trouble.”

Rapp let out a nervous sigh. He was boxed in with nowhere to go. Defeated and embarrassed he said, “I was shot during a hostage rescue and—”

“Shot!” screamed Anna. “Oh my God, where? Are you all right?”

“Yeah … yeah, I'm fine.”

Concerned and puzzled, Anna asked, “So where were you shot?”

“Um …” Rapp hesitated and then in a slightly embarrassed tone said, “In the ass, but don't worry, I'll be fine … it just hurts a lot.”

Confusion spread across her face. “How did you get shot?”

“I can't talk about that,” Rapp replied with as much confidence as he could muster. “It's classified.”

Anna placed her hands on her hips and looked angrily at her husband. “Classified my ass! You're my damn husband for a week, you come home one night and tell me you have to leave town on an urgent matter and that, oh by the way, you won't be doing any more of that James Bond stuff that you used to do.” She stabbed a finger at his chest, backing him into the corner. “You lied to me, Mitchell.”

“No”—Rapp kept his hands out in front of him—“that's not true, honey.”

“Don't bullshit me, Mitchell! And then to add insult to injury I run into your boss at the White House on Friday night and she tells me you're over in the Philippines supervising the rescue of that family of Americans. Irene told me you were on some ship and out of harm's way.” Folding her arms tightly across her chest she added, “I can't believe I was dumb enough to trust her.”

Rapp was completely caught off guard that his boss had confided in his wife. Shocked, he asked, “Irene told you about the mission?”

“Yes.” Anna got right in his face. “And don't try to change the subject, or hide behind all that national security crap. If you want this marriage to survive you'd better come clean with me right now. How in the hell did you get shot?”

There was no more room to maneuver. “I was shot during the hostage rescue.”

“So you weren't on the ship, you were right there in the thick of it?”

After hesitating for a second he said, “Yes.”

Anna began shaking her head. Through clenched teeth she snarled, “That bitch. She lied to me.” Looking her husband in the eye, she said, “Your boss sat there and lied to me at the White House. She ordered you to lead this hostage rescue, and then had the audacity to tell me you were safe.” She clenched her fists and let out an angry scream.

“You're done working for her, and when I see her …
boy,
am I going to let her have it.”