Executive Power (38 page)

A
mbassador Eitan had been sitting in the Oval Office for eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds. The Israeli emissary to the United States knew this because he was a fastidious time checker. Having to wait to see the president of the United States was not an unusual occurrence, but waiting alone in the Oval Office was. Either intentionally or unintentionally it was very unsettling, and this morning had been unsettling enough. It had started with a frustrating conference call to his superiors back in Jerusalem. They told him to tell the Americans nothing, which was easy enough since he knew nothing, but incredibly irritating because his own government didn't trust him enough to let him know what was going on.

Then there had been the protestors and the bright orange spray paint. His security chief had refused to stop and clean the paint, and as he'd predicted, the camera crews stationed at the White House had descended on the graffiti-strewn limousine like a pack of rats on a garbage heap. And then the most unsettling thing of all occurred: the car bomb. Eitan and his assistant had been shoved into a corner table of the White House Mess and told to stay put. They were under lockdown. No one was to leave or enter the White House until the Secret Service said so.

While drinking his coffee, he had seen the news bulletins on TV reporting that the Saudi ambassador had been the target. Eitan was not embarrassed by the fact that he felt no sorrow for the man. He barely knew the ambassador, but that wasn't the reason for his lack of sadness. There were plenty of people who he'd never met that he regularly felt compassion for. Eitan was not an insensitive man; he just simply felt that it was about time others experienced the pain that he and his countrymen experienced on a weekly basis. Especially the Saudis, who through their so-called charities supported many of the groups who spilled Israeli blood in the most indiscriminate and inhumane of ways.

He had been at the White House for almost two hours and was growing more nervous by the minute. The UN vote for Palestinian statehood was creeping closer, and if Eitan didn't deliver his message soon it would be too late to do any good. His government was depending on him to move the Americans in the right direction. After almost two solid years of suicide bombs, the UN was about to reward the perpetrators of such violence with statehood. The United States had to stop such a precedent from being set.

 

President Hayes entered his office with a determined stride and an angry expression on his face. That on its own should have warned the Israeli ambassador that something bad was about to happen, but at that moment someone other than the president had caught his attention. Actually two people had, but the second one of the two was far more unsettling. Eitan had expected to see Secretary of State Berg, or Valerie Jones or maybe even Michael Haik. He was mildly surprised to see CIA director Kennedy, but it was the sight of her companion that literally made him slightly weak in the knees.

He had read stories about the man, but they were nothing compared to the things he'd heard. Eitan had been told he was capable of great violence. Even the formidable head of Mossad, Ben Freidman, feared him. The ambassador had never seen him in person, only in photographs. His hair seemed longer now, and he was very tan. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd followed Kennedy into the room he probably would have never known who it was. When the man turned and stared at Eitan with his dark brown eyes all doubt vanished. Eitan had seen eyes like that before and they didn't belong to diplomats. The ambassador quickly looked away and found the president standing before him.

“Mr. President,” Eitan started, his voice a bit shaky, “I am very sorry about the attack on your country this morning.”

Hayes stared back at the man, his suit coat unbuttoned and his hands on his hips, his eyes searching for the slightest sign of insincerity. “Mr. Ambassador, I'm short on time so I'm going to make this real simple. I want your country to pull its military forces out of Hebron immediately.”

Eitan stood frozen before the president. He hadn't even been offered a seat and he'd been given an ultimatum that he knew would not be accepted. He licked his lips and tried to temper his reply. “Mr. President, I will gladly forward your request, but I of course can make no guarantees.”

“First of all,” replied Hayes, “it is not a request—it's a demand. And I want Prime Minister Goldberg to go on TV immediately to announce the withdrawal.”

The Israeli ambassador was reeling. “But, Mr. President, I cannot make such a request without—”

Hayes held up his hand and stopped him from speaking further. “I know … you want a concession … and it is this: In exchange for an immediate withdrawal we will get the Security Council vote delayed until tomorrow.”

Eitan felt himself begin to sweat. This was not an offer that he could take to the prime minister. He knew what his job was, and despite being caught off guard he gathered just enough confidence to hold his ground. “Mr. President, Prime Minister Goldberg will never agree to such a demand without assurances that you will veto the French resolution.”

The president shook his head vigorously. “If the troops aren't pulled out immediately, we will make no effort to delay the vote. In fact, if the troops aren't pulled out immediately we will back the French resolution.”

All Eitan could think to do was shake his head. “I'm afraid I will need more to work with … a concession of some sort.”

What Hayes had to offer was the opposite of what the ambassador was looking for. “Here's something to work with. Tell the prime minister that I know what really happened in Hebron, and unless he wants his cabinet to collapse in scandal he'll announce an immediate withdrawal.”

The president turned to his left and said, “Mr. Rapp, if you would please show the ambassador across the hall to the Roosevelt Room, we have it all set up for him to call Prime Minister Goldberg.”

“I would like to go back to my embassy to make the call, sir.”

The president testily replied, “I don't know if you've noticed, Mr. Ambassador, but we're running out of time. If you want me to forestall a vote on Palestinian statehood I suggest you get the prime minister on the phone as soon as possible.”

Rapp stood up with one arm pointing toward the door. The message he conveyed was simple. The president was done talking. With a sigh and a nod the ambassador reluctantly gave in. As Rapp escorted him from the room the Israeli's discomfort was obvious.

T
he president was reluctant to give final approval to the next part of Kennedy and Rapp's plan. If the media ever found out they would eat him alive. Every leader of every country would scorn him and virtually every member of his own party would repudiate him. As Rapp had pointed out, though, there was no other option.

They were back downstairs in the Situation Room, just Kennedy and the president. Kennedy was resting the phone against her shoulder waiting for the president to answer her question.

She could tell he was having second thoughts. “Sir, this will not hurt you. This was my idea, and I gave the order. Mitch has already laid out plausible deniability. We have a source in place, and after what happened this morning no one will be able to criticize us for being overly cautious.” Kennedy waited for a few seconds and then added, “Both our ambassador and the French ambassador are out of the building. Now is the time, sir.”

There was no other option. The French were refusing to delay the vote, and Rapp insisted they not reveal what they knew about Ambassador Joussard until the time was right. That was ammunition they would use later. Ultimately the decision came down to trust. Hayes trusted Kennedy and Rapp, and in addition to that they were out of options.

Hayes looked at the director of the CIA and said, “Go ahead.”

Kennedy punched in the number, and when the familiar voice of her counterterrorism director answered she said, “Jake, that phone call we talked about earlier … it's time to make it.” Kennedy listened only long enough to receive confirmation and then hung up.

Kennedy had just ordered her director of counterterrorism to inform the UN of a suspected terrorist plot to attack the headquarters in New York City today. Turbes was instructed to say only that the suspected attack was linked to a larger plot including the car bombing in D.C. The media would be informed through leaks and United Nations World Headquarters would be evacuated within the hour.

 

Rapp was standing in the hallway outside the Roosevelt Room, his back against the wall and his hands firmly clasped in front of him. Normally he enjoyed being as anonymous as possible but this morning he rather relished playing the role of intimidator. He'd even gone so far as to wait in the conference room alone with the ambassador until the Israeli had been forced to ask him to leave.

His injury was considerably better and despite not having slept much the night before he felt okay. This was because they were finally making some progress, taking action and forcing people to do things that would tell them more about where they stood. Sitting back and waiting for things to happen was contrary to Rapp's way of life. He was about to open the door and rattle the ambassador again when his digital phone began to vibrate. Rapp snatched it from his belt and checked the number before answering the call. It was the CTC.

“Hello.”

“Mitch, you're not going to believe what I'm looking at.” It was Olivia Bourne and her voice was elated. “I've got our mystery boy on camera. He just checked in at the United counter at BWI.”

“Baltimore Washington International?” Rapp's voice was eager. “You're sure it's him?”

“The computer picked him up first. It's been running searches all morning at Reagan, Dulles, BWI, Union Station and Richmond.” The facial recognition program that Bourne was referring to was able to scan hundreds of images every second and instantaneously compare them against a sample, which in this case was the earlier photograph of John Doe they had from his entry into the country. “It's him, Mitch, and if you hold on for a second I'll give you a name and an itinerary.”

Rapp's mind was already racing ahead. “Have you told anyone?”

“Only Marcus. He's working on a name and flight right now.”

“Is he still at the counter?”

“No. He's just walked away, but we have him on camera. He's headed toward the security line. Hold on … Marcus has a name. Don Marin. He's booked on a flight that leaves for Paris at ten thirty-two, and from there it looks like he's … connecting to Nice.”

The frantic calculations and maneuvering came to an abrupt halt. “Say that again,” commanded Rapp. Even as Bourne repeated herself Rapp barely paid attention. His mind was already off, looking in a different direction, toward Europe. He was no longer frantically trying to figure out how to get to the Baltimore airport in thirty minutes. He was no longer trying to figure out how to deal with the airport police and the FBI and everybody else who would want to get their hands on the man who had more than likely killed both the Palestinian and Saudi ambassadors. He was suddenly seeing things with great clarity.

“How are the cameras at BWI?” he finally asked.

“Good.”

“Good enough to make sure he gets on that flight?”

There was a pause while Bourne did some checking. “I've just pulled up his gate and they're already boarding the plane. I don't think he has enough time to do anything other than go straight to the gate.”

“But if he's got another ticket on another flight …”

“I'll keep an eye on him and make sure he gets on the one to Paris.”

Rapp stood calmly in the hallway clutching the tiny phone to his left ear. If this went wrong, he would be severely criticized for not alerting the airport police and having John Doe arrested. If he did that, however, there would be a record, and a lot of witnesses. And even if he did manage to get the guy away from the police and the FBI he would have to try to interrogate him, which Rapp detested. There was a better way, a little bit riskier, but in the end, a way that was much more likely to give them the truth.

Bourne's voice pulled him back to the moment. “What do you want me to do?”

Rapp didn't speak at first and then he said, “Keep an eye on him. Make sure he gets on that flight and get me a surveillance team and a plane.”

Bourne did not reply right away and then asked, “Are you sure you don't want to alert the FBI and have him detained?”

No, he wasn't sure, but he was pretty sure, and if his luck held for another thirty minutes he'd be absolutely sure. “Let's keep the Feds out of this for now. Just don't lose him, and get me a plane.”

Rapp stabbed the end button and then quickly dialed a number from memory. After several rings Scott Coleman answered and Rapp asked, “Can you and the boys be ready to leave within the hour?”

“May I ask where we're going?”

“South of France. Low intensity, mostly surveillance, but I might need you guys if I have to do any heavy lifting.”

“Standard fee?” asked the retired SEAL.

“Of course.”

“We're in.”

Rapp was already on his way downstairs. “Good. I'll call with the specifics, in the meantime get ready to roll.”

 

With her finger poised above the keypad of the secure phone Kennedy looked to the president and asked, “Are you ready?”

Hayes nodded and placed his hand near his own phone. Kennedy dialed the number from memory, and after she'd hit the last number she gestured for the president to pick up.

The voice that answered on the other end was not Ben Freidman's. It was one of his assistants, who politely informed Kennedy that Freidman was on the phone. Kennedy didn't doubt that. The director general of Mossad was undoubtedly talking to Prime Minister Goldberg about the phone call he'd just received from his ambassador in Washington. Kennedy told the assistant that it was very important that she talk to Freidman and that she would wait.

It didn't take more than a minute for Freidman to come on the line, and when he did his voice was cautious. “Irene, how are you?”

“Fine, Ben, and you?”

“I have been better. Much better.”

“I would imagine so. Have you heard about our meeting with your ambassador?”

“Yes, the unfortunate development was just relayed to me.”

“Ben, I'm calling you as a favor. One old friend to another. The president is very serious about this. He wants those tanks out of Hebron immediately.”

“So I've heard,” was all Freidman managed to say.

Kennedy knew he was not about to freely offer information. “That's not all the president wants, Ben.”

With a tired sigh, Freidman asked, “What else does he want?”

“Your job,” Kennedy replied flatly. “He wants you removed as head of Mossad immediately.”

“That is ludicrous. Why would he demand such a thing, much less care who runs Mossad?”

“He knows you lied to us about Hebron, and allies don't lie to each other about things like that.” Kennedy looked at Hayes while silence filled the line. She knew Freidman was trying to think of some excuse for deceiving them. “Ben, I'm sure you had your reasons, but now is the time to come clean. If you care about keeping your job, and keeping our alliance together, you'll tell me.”

Freidman snorted. “David Goldberg is not about to start taking orders from anyone. Even the president of the United States.”

“Really,” replied Kennedy. Sensing Freidman's confidence was feigned, she said, “Even if it meant ending his career in political scandal? I'm not judging you for what happened in Hebron. God only knows how we'd react if we had suicide bombs going off every week, but you need to keep me in the loop, Ben.”

“What do you know about Hebron?”

“No, Ben,” Kennedy forcefully announced. “That's not the way we're going to do this. If you want to keep your job, and you want to avoid this scandal becoming public, you're going to answer the questions. The president is furious, Ben! Those were Apache helicopters and Hellfire missiles.” She lowered her voice as if she didn't want to be overheard and said, “We have satellite footage of the attacks. The president wants to take the tapes to the UN and show the world that you and Goldberg are liars.”

Seconds ticked by before anything was said and then finally Freidman spoke. He had no other choice than to admit the truth. “There was no bomb factory.”

“Why didn't you tell me that from the start?”

“I'm sorry. I should have.” The apology did not come easily.

“Why the cover story?” asked Kennedy.

“Because, I wasn't going to miss the chance to take every last one of those bastards out, but with them meeting in a neighborhood like that I knew they would claim a massacre.”

“How did you find out about the meeting?”

“We had a source.”

“Who?” asked Kennedy in a casual tone.

“Someone who was working for us.”

Kennedy looked at the president for a second. “Who was the source?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Ben, we're on the same side on this. Trust me. I need you to tell me who your source was.”

Freidman was reluctant and then said, “A Palestinian.”

“Was he on your payroll?”

“No.”

“Did you recruit him, or did he come to you?”

“A little bit of both, I suppose.”

Kennedy had no idea whether or not this source of Freidman's was an important piece of the puzzle, but intuition and experience told her to dig deeper. “Ben, if you want me to convince the president to back off, I need you to send Jake Turbes everything you have on this Palestinian, and I need it immediately.” For good measure she decided to add, “The president is meeting with the secretary of state right now. They are discussing how to bring the Hebron evidence in front of the UN.”

Freidman tried to figure out what Kennedy was after. His Palestinian informant was dead along with all the other terrorists. He saw no harm in sending her the encrypted files on him, but instinct told him there was more going on here than he was aware of. One thing he did know, however, was that a great deal of damage would be done if the UN was told the truth about Hebron. After thinking about it for a good ten seconds, and seeing no better alternative, he agreed to send the information.