The Last Jihad

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  None acted as though they knew each other, and each headed in a separate direction. But twenty minutes later, convinced they were not being followed, they converged on the Graben—Ditch Street, in English—at the place known as the Plague Monument. Built in remembrance of the end of the bubonic plague, which raged through Europe in the sixth, fourteenth, and seventeenth centuries and killed more than one hundred and thirty-seven million people, it was now the point of rendezvous for four men, once dubbed by analysts at the CIA—and their British counterparts at MI6—as “the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”

  One of the men unlocked and entered a white rented Volvo parked nearby. Another took pictures like a tourist, while his partner flipped through a Fodor’s guide to Austria and talked about finding an inexpensive restaurant for lunch. The fourth discreetly slipped his gloved hand into a nearby trashcan and fished out the unmarked envelope within a discarded German newspaper. He peeked inside. Four train tickets. Four new passports. Four visas. And forty thousand euros in small bills. The team now jumped into the waiting, running Volvo and headed for Südbahnh of, Vienna’s South Train Station.

  On their way, all but the driver passed the Journal story around, as well as a copy of the International Herald-Tribune, the newspaper published jointly in Europe by the New York Times and the Washington Post. The story that attracted their greatest interest this morning was a front-page profile of Russian President Vadim, his remarkable new strategic partnership with the U.S. and NATO, as well as his intensifying political troubles with hard-line nationalists within the Duma, the Russian parliament.

  New polls inside Russia put Vadim’s approval ratings south of Stalin’s, and with a cold, bitter winter settling in over Moscow, people’s frustration over the rapidly deteriorating economic conditions inside the country—and growing fears of a new wave of hyperinflation—were running deeper every day. Being a friend of the West was doing the shrewd and savvy Russian leader little good at home, and various Western analysts quoted in the story worried that Vadim’s days in office might be numbered. Even the country’s oil industry—which accounted for nearly half of its entire gross domestic product—was falling on hard times. The price of oil hovered between $22 and $25 a barrel. If it dropped too low, Russia would be in very serious trouble indeed. The Herald-Tribune writer wrote that, “growing concerns in Washington over the future of the Russian economy suggest an old Russia hand like Iverson could be the right man for the moment.”

  At precisely nine-thirty, the four parked, entered the train station and headed for the Ost Section—the East Section—where they arrived on the platform and waited. The terminal was dark and dingy, yet somehow classic and impressive, with a high, arched roof of steel and glass, suggestive of a World War II airplane hangar. Trains from all over Europe arrived and departed here, and tens of thousands of passengers crisscrossed these platforms every day. But not these passengers. Not one of them had ever been to Vienna before, and the longer they waited, the more nervous they got.

  Their eastbound train to Bratislava was supposed to leave at 10:05 A.M. sharp. But, in fact, it was late and all four would end up waiting for another two full hours. Each cursed the gray skies and freezing temperatures and lit up their American-made cigarettes, unaware that, from three separate angles, two men and one woman—each in separate rental cars—were furiously snapping dozens of 35mm photographs with powerful zoom lenses, while radioing a team of other agents loitering inside the terminal that the “four horsemen” were in the corral.

  The two calls came almost simultaneously.

  One from the Pentagon. One from Langley. Both were top priority and, within minutes, the U.S. Counter-Terrorism Task Force was reassembled via secure videoconference link.

  “Mr. Vice President, this is Jack at CIA.”

  “Go ahead, Jack.”

  “Sir, we just got word from one of our teams in Vienna. They’ve positively identified the Iraqi cell as the ‘four horsemen.’ They’re at the train station and the Iraqis have tickets that take them to Moscow, sir. My team wants permission to take them down and interrogate them for what they know about the attack on the president.”

  The VP considered that for a moment, then shifted gears.

  “No. Not yet. Have your team trail them. Intercept any calls they make. Monitor any contacts they make. Have them check in on the hour. I want to know where these guys are going and why, and I want to know before anyone knows we’re watching them.”

  “Sir, you sure? We’ve been hunting these guys for six years. Now we’ve got them.”

  “And they just happen to be moving the same day somebody’s attacked the president.”

  “Exactly, sir. That’s why we need to take them down—now.”

  “No. That’s why we need to shadow them until we find out what they’re up to—or until I say to take them down. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Who’s next?”

  “Mr. Vice President, this is Burt at the Pentagon,” began the Secretary of Defense, his eyes weary and red.

  “Yes, Burt, what’ve you got?”

  “Sir, we just got this report. Three of our reconnaissance jets have just been shot down over southern Iraq. We’ve got F-15s going in right now to take out the SAM sites. But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, sir—and there’s more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Our satellites are picking up indications that the Iraqi Republican Guard may be in the process of being mobilized. There’s activity around three mechanized units southeast of Baghdad—and we just got word from our forward command post near the border inside Kuwait. Radar is picking up several small blips—could be recon units. We’re trying to verify that right now, sir.”

  “You’re right—that’s not good.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t. We’ll know more over the next few hours, sir, but given all the rest of what’s going on, I’m concerned Iraq may be preparing to make a major military move of some sort.”

  Trainor didn’t complete the thought. But he didn’t have to. Suddenly, CIA Director Jack Mitchell broke in.

  “Mr. Vice President?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “DDI just called from downstairs. He’s on the phone with Brigadier General Yoni Barak, head of Aman, Israeli military intelligence.”

  “Sure, I know Yoni—what’s he got?”

  “Sir, he’s got a team—I think you’ve met with these guys—the Sayeret…”

  “Sayeret Matkal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One of their deep recon units.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “What are they telling him?”

  “The unit is picking up intercepts of heavy military radio traffic in and around Baghdad…hold on…OK…he says that agents on the ground are reporting air raid sirens are going off throughout the city…apparently, there are no civilians on the streets…state radio and TV are off the air…the Republican Guard appears to be mobilizing and there are already some advance recon units heading east towards Kuwait and south towards Saudi Arabia…it’s all pretty chaotic, sir—but that’s the latest.”

  “Any Iraqi units heading towards Israel?”

  “Not that they have picked up.”

  “What’s their sense of it all right now?”

  “Prime Minister Doron doesn’t want to wait. He’s convening an emergency Security Cabinet session any moment. The thinking is he’ll put the IDF on high alert and call up their reserves within the hour.”

  “Full or partial?”

  “He couldn’t say. Not yet.”

  “What’s your gut tell you, Burt?”

  “Full.”

  “Jack?”

  “Y’all know what I think. The Israelis are going full—and we should get started, too. Calling up our reserves and moving our forces back into the region immediately.”

  “Marsha?”

  “Sir, I think they’ll go f
ull. Given what’s been going on all night, this does have all the makings of a move by Saddam and may be a prelude to Iraq seizing control of the oil fields in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. I agree with Jack. We need to move fast on our own reserves and we need to talk to the Saudis about putting boots on the ground there immediately. That’s all going to take time—a lot more time than for the Israelis. But we don’t have much choice.”

  “If it is a move by Saddam, who’s he most likely to go after first, Kuwait or the Saudis?” pressed the VP.

  “Both. Either. I don’t know yet,” admitted Kirkpatrick. “Either way it’s extremely serious.”

  “Mr. Vice President?”

  Everyone turned towards to Secretary of State Tucker Paine.

  “Yes, Tuck?”

  “Sir, I just got off the phone with the Saudi prince to express our condolences. They’re safe, but pretty shook up.”

  “Do they have any clue as to who did this?”

  “Not yet. Everything’s happening too fast. But they promised to call me the minute they had something.”

  “What about Moscow? Heard anything from them yet?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. I’ll keep checking.”

  “So we don’t know what we’re looking at yet.”

  “Not exactly,” the Secretary of State replied. “I just think we need to be very careful not to jump the gun here.”

  “Jump the gun?” asked Mitchell. “Mr. Secretary, the president and the leaders of several of our major allies have just been the subjects of an incredibly well-planned, well-financed, and almost flawlessly executed conspiracy to kill them. It’s early, I agree. But as we’ve just said, there is strong circumstantial evidence that this may all be the work of Saddam Hussein in a new play to dominate the Gulf and disrupt the formation of a Western coalition that could stop him. How exactly is calling up the reserves and deploying our forces to the region jumping the gun?”

  “Sir, I am just saying that we need to stay focused on our diplomatic options—not go off half-cocked,” said Paine.

  “Half-cocked?” asked Mitchell. “How about locked and loaded? We’re at war, Mr. Secretary. We all know there ain’t no diplomatic options with the Butcher of Baghdad. We all know we should’ve dealt with Iraq earlier. Not just arming and training the anti-Saddam forces. Not just playing games at the U.N., but really taking out this monster once and for all. But we didn’t. Fair enough. But now it’s coming back to haunt us.”

  “Mr. Vice President, with all due respect, we are not at war, not yet, not unless you and the president listen to the yahoos,” warned Paine, the pasty white, silver-haired former U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. “We need to consult with our allies and come up with a game plan.”

  “Yahoos?” laughed Mitchell. “Glad to know State has it all figured out. Why don’t ya’ll just invite Saddam over for a barbeque and, you know, just hammer out this little disagreement once and for all—like nice, civilized U.N. choir boys. Hell, let’s just pass another worthless resolution.”

  Paine sniffed with disgust. The VP moved to regain control of the discussion.

  “Gentlemen, please. Settle down. Marsha, what’s your sense of things? What would you recommend the president do?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid we’ve crossed the Rubicon. We don’t have any choice. I recommend a full ground stop immediately on all planes in the U.S. and no aircraft entering the country. Combat air patrols over both coasts and the borders. Shut down the borders with Canada and Mexico—at least until we get a handle on things. The last thing we need is suicide bombers coming over in eighteen-wheelers or freight trains.”

  “What else?”

  “Then, sir, I believe we need to execute Operation Imminent Cyclone as quickly as possible. That will move the Nimitz battle group back into to the Gulf and park the Roosevelt and Reagan battle groups off the coast of Israel. We’ll move out the 82nd Airborne and Delta Force and get them on the way to Saudi Arabia this morning. The key is to get as many troops and mechanized units and air units in place as we can ASAP.”

  She was right. Events were beginning to spiral out of control. Even the graying sixty-seven-year-old vice president—a former Naval Intelligence officer, one-time Virginia governor, four-term U.S. Senator, and long-time chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, a solid Washington hand if there ever was one—was beginning to get edgy.

  “I agree with all of your recommendations, and so will the president,” the VP began. “But you guys know as well as I do, this isn’t going to be enough. It’s a start. But, look, if Saddam Hussein has decided to go back after Kuwait, or after the Saudis, or after all the Gulf states, Imminent Cyclone isn’t going to stop him. And all of you know it.”

  He scanned the room and the video screens on the wall in front of him. No one seemed to disagree.

  “We don’t have the forces in place to shut him down quickly. Not if he launches a full-fledged invasion. We can mobilize NATO to come with us—we’ll definitely get the British. Who knows about the French and the Germans? But even if we do get NATO to go with us, we certainly don’t have six or eight months to build up. Saddam could have half the world’s oil supply under his control by the end of the week.”

  The team was silent, each principal contemplating the past few hours.

  “I am going to go ahead and recommend to the president that we go to a full ground stop. That we immediately call up fifty thousand reservists. And that we execute Imminent Cyclone. But, Tuck, first get back on the phone with the Saudis and get them to ask us.”

  “Sir, I…”

  “Right now, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Sir, obviously I will comply. But I must say for the record that we need to get the president on the line here soon and convene an official meeting of the National Security Council before we proceed much further.”

  “We will,” assured the vice president. “You just make sure the Saudis are with us one hundred percent. They’ve been edgy in the past about us being there. And I don’t need to tell you all there have been a lot of strains in our relationship over the past few years. They don’t like U.S. troops—especially women and Christians—anywhere near the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. But they need us and we need them. We need to make sure we’re all on the same page, fighting the same war. And they need to know we’re not going to abandon them to the likes of Saddam Hussein. We’re not going to undermine their regime like Carter did to the Shah of Iran. And we’re not going to waffle and hedge and run feckless, photo-op foreign policy like Clinton did. We’re dead serious about shutting Saddam Hussein down—and we’re in this for as long as it takes. It’s your job to make that crystal clear, Tuck. You got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “OK. Now, that said, ladies and gentlemen…”

  The vice president again scanned the faces of everyone in the room with him, and every face on the video screens on the wall before him.

  “I’m going to say it again. This isn’t good enough. The president and I can’t tell the world we were winning the war on terrorism—and then lose the Gulf, for crying out loud. We need new options—and we need them fast.”

  The vice president sat and stared for a moment at the communications console in front of him. No one knew whether he was done. No one knew quite what to do.

  “So much for the victory lap.”

  Delays were not uncommon.

  They happened all the time, in and out of the two major Vienna railway stations. But this was no typical day. By the time this particular train finally pulled in, twenty U.S. agents—fifteen men and five women, each Arabic-and Russian-speaking—had arrived, been briefed and had taken up positions in each of the train cars most likely to be occupied by the “four horsemen.”

  These Iraqis were professionals. Though they didn’t yet know they were being followed, they certainly had no intention of mingling out in the open to be observed and overheard if they were being shadowed. No sooner were they on board with their tickets punched by a conduc
tor than they slipped into their reserved, four-person sleeper compartment and locked the door.

  The best the lead CIA agent could do was put a few of his team in the two sleeping berths on either side, and have them attach highly sensitive listening equipment to the walls, connected to digital recording equipment. The rest of his team would assume the roles of waiters, tourists and baggage handlers while he took up his own command and control position with the engineers at the front of the train. The only good news on this leg of the assignment: the four weren’t going anywhere the agents couldn’t go as well, at least not for the next two and a half days.

  They all might as well settle in for a long winter’s night.

  The American and Israeli agents regrouped.

  They walked quietly down an empty corridor. When they reached the end, the man with the gold-rimmed glasses punched a nine-digit pass code into a plastic box on the wall, unlocked a massive steel door, entered, and everyone moved briskly down three flights of stairs. There they showed their IDs to two armed sentries, put their thumbs on a fingerprint identification pad, were cleared, and stepped into a huge, soundproof, blastproof, wood-paneled office packed with TV monitors and computer screens, military aides, and bodyguards—the office of Israeli airport security chief Yitzhak Galit.

  Galit didn’t look up as the four men entered and quickly shut the door behind them. He was huddled around a TV screen behind his desk with three other men. One was Yossi Ben Ramon, the head of Shin Bet—Israel’s internal security service—nervously chain-smoking Winstons. The second was Avi Zadok, head of the Mossad—Israel’s renowned foreign intelligence service—calmly puffing on a thick Cuban cigar. The third was a quiet man named Dietrich Black, head of the FBI counterterrorism team based in Israel, who now poured a Diet Coke into a glass mug filled with ice.

  “Well?” said the American who’d just walked in the room.