Authors: Vince Flynn
I
t wasn't quite 7:00 on Wednesday morning when David entered the tiny garage behind the house he was renting. Inside was a stripped-down white Ford minivan with no seats or windows in the rear passenger area. David had done all of his dry runs without the van. Even though he was confident the bomb wouldn't go off unless it was armed, he erred on the side of caution and kept it locked up in the garage. As he slid the key into the ignition he couldn't help but catch himself worrying that starting the engine might bring about a premature end to his plans.
The concern was foolish. He'd read all the manuals ad nauseam. There were ample materials available on explosives if one was willing to look, and besides, his people had become experts on bombs over the last two decades. The more difficult aspect of the plan had been obtaining the amount of explosives he needed and then getting them into the United States. The now deceased General Hamza had been kind enough to supply him with three separate shipments of Iraqi-made Semtex, a very powerful plastic explosive, and then using a series of export companies he had shipped a large cargo container from Jordan to Indonesia and then finally to the busy port of Los Angeles.
From there the container had made its way east to Richmond, Virginia, where it sat in a storage facility for two months while David made sure it wasn't being watched. Twelve forty-pound blocks of the claylike Semtex sat in the back of the van under a canvas painters' tarp. Underneath the tarp was a maze of det cord and blasting caps that would ensure the near simultaneous detonation of the 480 pounds of explosives.
David backed up slowly until he reached the street and then headed south. Due to all the government jobs, D.C. was not a city of early risers and the traffic was still light. He cut down a cross street and then turned the van onto Georgia Avenue. A short while later he passed Howard University and then Georgia turned into 7th Street. He was now less than a mile from the White House. After stopping for a red light he took a right onto Rhode Island and continued in the right lane avoiding as many potholes as he could.
He was more nervous now than when he had killed Ali. There was something about D.C. All the cameras and various law enforcement agencies each presented the possibility of capture. To David it was truly unbelievable that a city with so many cops in it could have such a high murder rate, but that was America.
He tried not to be overly optimistic about his odds of succeeding. He'd covered his tracks diligently and monitored the FBI's Web site hourly waiting for a photograph of him to appear at any moment, but it hadn't. They had no idea who he was, and if the papers were to be believed, the entire world, even the Americans, believed that the Israelis were responsible for the assassination of Ambassador Ali. Everything was going according to plan. Now all he needed to do was make one last grand statement. An act of pure violence that would force Israel to concede.
He turned onto the desired street less than a quarter mile from the White House and slowed for a car that had abruptly pulled out in front of him. David continued north for two more blocks in search of the optimal parking place. Much of the credit for this last bold move had to be given to Omar. He had convinced David that the best way to force Israel to the table was to enrage the Americans. Spill blood on their soil and watch them lose their patience with Israel.
Now more than ever David was convinced it would work. The French ambassador to the UN was scheduled to bring a resolution for Palestinian statehood before the Security Council at 11:00 this morning. So far everyone was onboard, minus the United States, but unfortunately that wasn't enough. As a permanent member of the Council, the American ambassador had veto power. As things stood right now, the Americans were not ready to back the French resolution, but that was about to change. After David was done this morning the vote would probably have to be postponed, but its odds of passing would be greatly increased.
David carefully parallel-parked the van and then plugged the meter with enough quarters to last into the afternoon. Standing next to the parking meter he took one last look at the van and made sure he'd done everything. The tabs were up-to-date, the meter was full and the bomb could not be seen from the front window. As casually as his nerves would allow, he turned and began walking away from the vehicle. He would wait to arm the bomb when he got back to the house. After he was sure his target was on the way.
R
app stepped out of the shower in the men's locker room of the New Headquarters Building and grabbed a towel. He'd managed to sneak in a few hours' sleep on the couch in his office, and right about now he was wondering if that had been such a good idea. Due to his wound he'd had to sleep on his side with his head up on the armrest. The contorted angle of his neck had given him a kink that a steaming hot fifteen-minute shower had done nothing to fix. As he dried off he told himself to ignore it. There were bigger problems to deal with, like finding this prick who worked for Fat Omar. That's what Rapp had taken to calling the Saudi prince, refusing to grant him his regal title.
With the aid of a full-length mirror, he taped a new bandage over his wound and got some clean clothes out of his locker. It was common for those who worked in the CTC to keep a change of clothes at work. When a crisis erupted there usually wasn't enough time to sleep, let alone go home and get changed.
Rapp was standing in his boxers when the locker room door flew open and a disheveled Marcus Dumond burst in yelling Rapp's name. “Mitch ⦠Mitch!”
“Over here,” yelled Rapp.
Dumond skidded to a stop at the end of the aisle. “You gotta get upstairs! Olivia found something!”
Rapp pulled his pants on. “What?”
“She's got a lead on this guy, and you're not gonna like it.”
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Rapp stood over Bourne's shoulder, his thick black hair wet and uncombed, staring at the flat screen monitor. For the third time in a row he watched the man walk across the expansive floor of Penn Station, and for the third time in a row he asked Bourne, “Are you sure it's him?”
She smiled confidently and said, “Yep. The software mapped his face and gave us a lock on the surveillance photos the Brits provided.”
Rapp watched the man in the dark trench coat. The times worked out. Kill Ali, get away from the area, dispose of the weapon and then catch a train out of town. Or go to the station and make everybody think you got on a train, then duck back outside and disappear. Rapp had used the trick himself on more than one occasion. “Have you checked to make sure he didn't turn around and come back out?”
“No need to,” replied a confident Bourne. She made a couple of key strokes and more black-and-white surveillance footage came up on the second monitor. Bourne handed Rapp a printout that showed the schedule of trains leaving Penn Station for the night in question.
Rapp looked down at the one she had circled and squinted to read the small type.
“Going off of that,” offered Bourne, “I pulled the footage at Union Station. The train left New York at ten oh five and pulled into D.C. at one-twenty in the morning.” Bourne hit her Enter key like a concert pianist striking the final note of a glorious performance and then sitting back she crossed her arms and watched the digital video stream play across her screen. “That's our guy walking across the lobby right there.”
Rapp didn't bother to ask if she was sure this time. “The bastard's in D.C.,” he mumbled more to himself than Bourne. His mind instantly seized, not on who he should call, or where the man might be, but rather on who he was after. When you stripped away all the bullshit, Rapp was an assassin. He was also much more than that, of course, but in the most raw, blunt way he was an assassin. He understood the thought processes involved in running an operation virtually alone. It was his preferred mode. That way he didn't have to worry about anyone other than himself screwing up. This guy looked like he was operating alone, and if Rapp was guessing right there was only one reason why he would come to D.C. He wasn't done killing.
“Do we have any more footage on him?”
“No, this is it.”
“Dammit,” swore Rapp. “Have you told Jake?”
“No. He's on his way up to the Hill to brief the Intel Committee.”
“Irene?”
“No. She's on her way to the White House.”
Rapp stood up straight and looked across the sea of cubicles at the far wall to see if Tom Lee, the CTC's deputy director, was in his office. If Rapp had been a typical government employee, he would already be racing across the Bull Pen on his way to tell Lee everything he had just learned. Needless to say, Rapp was more than some bureaucrat worried about covering his ass and making sure his government pension was protected at all costs. This was a tricky situation. Lee was not an employee of the CIA, he merely had an office in the building. He was FBI and with the FBI came a lot of rules on how things were handled. Rules that Rapp felt got in the way.
Rapp had to make a quick decision. They needed to catch this guy, but they didn't want to spook him. Plus once they told the FBI about him there was no taking it back, no flexibility in how to handle the situation.
He decided on a cautious course for the moment. Looking down at Bourne and Dumond who were seated he said, “Call the cab companies and find out who was working the station at the time this guy stepped onto the curb, and”âRapp lowered his voiceâ“keep it within our little group right here.”
Both Bourne and Dumond nodded. They were CIA and knew exactly what Rapp was talking about.
“And, Marcus, keep working on Fat Omar's accounts. There should have been a large chunk of change moved sometime in the last week. If anything comes up call me on the digital.” Rapp grabbed the printout of the surveillance photo and a train schedule and started for the exit.
“Where are you going?” asked Dumond.
Rapp folded the printouts and shoved them into his pocket. “The White House.”
P
resident Hayes sat behind his desk with a phone to his ear while his national security team sat on the couches and waited for him to join them. Kennedy was sitting next to Valerie Jones pretending to read a file. In truth she was listening to what the president was saying, or more accurately what he wasn't saying. The senior senator from New York, a state the president had barely carried, had called to advise him not to come down too hard on the Israelis for their incursion into Hebron.
Hayes didn't even want to take the call, but Jones had practically demanded it. When he was up for reelection they would need New York. This was not the first call placed to the White House this morning on behalf of Israel. The powerful Jewish lobby was in crisis mode trying to avert a potentially disastrous vote that was to take place at the UN later today. Every member of the National Security Team had fielded at least two calls from influential power brokers pleading the Israelis' case. Secretary of State Berg had been solicited the hardest, followed by Chief of Staff Jones and then Secretary of Defense Culbertson. Even Kennedy and General Flood had been hit up.
“I'll take it all under advisement,” said the president as he looked at nothing in particular. Hayes listened for a few seconds and then said firmly, “I fully understand the gravity of the situation, Senator. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.” Hayes slammed the phone down in its cradle and shot Valerie Jones an extremely unhappy look.
Getting up from behind his desk he kept his eyes on his chief of staff and said, “That's the last one I'm taking. These people are more concerned about Israel than their own country.”
“What did he say?” asked Jones.
“Pretty much that if I want to win New York next time around I'd better make sure this French resolution doesn't make it out of the Security Council.” Hayes chose to stand rather than sit. “And if things weren't already bad enough, they went and sent tanks into Hebron. American-made tanks, I might add.”
“Sir,” started Jones, “I think we need to focus our efforts on getting the vote delayed.”
Hayes ran a hand through his hair and then grabbed the back of his neck. “Bea?” He looked to his secretary of state for an answer.
“From what I'm hearing the French are hell-bent on putting this to a vote now. Especially since the tanks rolled in last night.”
“Let's not forget about the suicide bombs,” interjected Secretary of Defense Culbertson. “That's how this all got started. Israel has a right to defend herself and if the Palestinians are going to locate their bomb factories in residential neighborhoods, then no one should feel too bad for them when one of them blows up.”
The secretary of state ignored her colleague and said, “Mr. President, I would never argue that Israel doesn't have the right to defend itself, but the reality is that the UN is fed up with this never-ending cycle of violence, and the assassination of one of their own has galvanized the entire assembly like nothing I've ever seen before.”
Culbertson moved to the edge of the couch. “But there's no proof Israel had anything to do with the ambassador's death. In fact, it's preposterous to think they'd do such a thing.”
The president turned his gaze on Kennedy. Now was the time to let the rest of the team in on what only a few knew. “Irene.”
Kennedy closed the folder on her lap and looked at the secretaries of state and defense and General Flood. The president had been very specific about what he wanted her to say, or more precisely, what he didn't want her to say. There was to be no mention of the mysterious man who had met with Prince Omar. The Brits had quite an extensive file on the brother of the crown prince. While they felt that he was somewhat business savvy, or at least wise enough to surround himself with people who made good decisions, the Brits also felt that Omar was a bit dense. Their initial opinion was that they doubted Omar could be involved in something as complicated as the assassination of a UN ambassador. So for now, Kennedy was sticking with what they knew to be fact.
In a voice barely above a whisper she said, “There was no bomb factory in Hebron.”
Secretary Berg stared at Kennedy. “Did the Israelis admit to this?”
“No. In fact they are standing by their story.”
Culbertson asked suspiciously, “Then how do we know there was no factory?”
“We had satellite coverage of the attack. There were no secondary explosions.”
“Then where did all the damage come from?” asked Berg.
“Sixteen Hellfire missiles fired by Apache helicopters.”
“American-made Hellfire missiles,” added the president, “fired by American-made Apache helicopters.”
Secretary of State Berg made the connection first. “That's why they went back into Hebron last night. They wanted to clean up the mess.”
“Or,” said Kennedy, “knowing Ben Freidman, they'll plant the evidence to make it look like they were telling the truth the whole time and the Palestinians were lying.”
“Or,” contradicted Culbertson, “they simply went back into Hebron to clean out these martyr brigades.”
“I'm sure it's a bit of both,” agreed Kennedy, “but right now I'm inclined to believe one is a pretense for the other.”
“The reality,” said the president, taking control of the discussion, “is that we have an ally who is not being truthful with us.”
“What is Freidman saying about the ambassador's assassination?” asked Berg.
Kennedy looked at the keen secretary of state. Berg was well aware of Israel's official denial of any involvement in Ambassador Ali's death. Her question by itself showed that she believed Mossad capable of conducting a brutal version of their own foreign policy.
“The director general is denying any involvement.”
Culbertson grimaced. “Just because they lied about the bomb factory doesn't mean they had anything to do with the Palestinian ambassador's assassination.”
“I'm not so sure,” replied Hayes. “At a bare minimum, however, it proves that we can't take them at their word.”
Culbertson turned to Kennedy and skeptically asked, “You don't really think they would have done something so brazen, do you?”
Kennedy took a moment to compose her thoughts. “I don't see the benefit of such an action ⦠at least not here on American soil, but then again I don't have all the facts. For all I know this could be the start of an all-out offensive on Israel's part to clean out the West Bank once and for all.”
“Why kill the ambassador then?” asked Berg. “All they've managed to do is galvanize the UN.”
Until this moment, for several reasons, Kennedy had restrained herself from voicing her next comment. First and foremost was that she didn't want to believe Israel could be so reckless, but her strained relationship with Freidman and the assault of the suicide bombers on the Israeli psyche led her closer to the conclusion that they were indeed capable of such a brutal move.
“There is a school of thought”âKennedy couched her words carefullyâ“that Israel no longer cares what the UN thinks.”
The president had not heard this before and asked, “How so?”
“To be sure, there are elements within Israel that believe engagement is the only way to lasting peace and security, but there is a growing lobby that thinks every time Israel trusts her concerns and security to another country or organization, she gets burned.”
Secretary of State Berg concurred. “They see the UN at a bare minimum as being unsympathetic and at worst, as blatantly anti-Semitic.”
Kennedy agreed. “So by killing the Palestinian ambassador in New York, they're telling the UN what they really think of them, while at the same time sending a message to the Palestinians that they can be every bit as brutal as they are.”
Culbertson started to see their point. “UN resolutions go unenforced all the time, so why bother trying to appease them.”
“Exactly,” replied Berg.