by Oliver North
“I agree. This isn't a matter of choosing between right and wrong. The only choices you have are ‘bad' and ‘worse’—and only you can decide.”
Grisham heard Newman's heavy sigh. He had heard that axiom before.
“Pete...listen to me. I know what you're thinking, but you've got to get hold of your emotions here. You're a Marine. The right way to deal with this is to find this Julio Morales, or whatever his real name is, and deal with him the right way—in our courts.”
“And then Komulakov kills Rachel because I failed to kill the mole.”
“Well, that's not necessarily what Komulakov has to hear,” Grisham said. “Assuming we can find Morales, maybe we can deceive Komulakov about what really happens to the spy—long enough for us to get Rachel back. I don't know...maybe that transponder in your foot can help us find Komulakov somehow. But whatever...you've got to do this by the book. Otherwise, you're just Komulakov's hired gun carrying out a cold-blooded murder. Don't let it come down to that. I'm going to be praying that the good Lord will give you the wisdom you need to find the right path on this.
“You and I both know, Pete, Komulakov is not a man of his word,” Grisham added. “He's evil. Even if we find this spy and you kill him, why are you assuming Komulakov's going to let you and Rachel live? He's already tried to kill you both—and that was on Cyprus, where you were supposedly protected. It's certainly not going to change in Syria, or Lebanon, or wherever he's holding Rachel right now. Think like the Russian, my friend. What would he do when you return to get Rachel after successfully killing the spy? Do you honestly think he'd let you live, given what you know about him?”
“So what do I do?”
Newman's voice sounded like a man who was already whipped. The general paused for a moment before answering.
“Here's how I think we should handle it, Pete. Give me ten days to see what I can turn up about this mole Morales. Tomorrow I'm going to have another sat phone delivered to you from our embassy in Tel Aviv. If Komulakov gets back in touch with you, give him the number on that phone. Tell him you need to use that phone for all communications because you need to stay out of sight while you search for Morales. This phone is specially equipped to help NSA track where an incoming call originates and an outgoing call terminates. That may help us to locate where Rachel is being held. You with me so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. For all other communications, with me or anyone else on our side, use the Iridium sat phone you're using right now. Its encryption algorithm isn't great, but it's better than nothing. And it will at least give us some privacy. You still with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As soon as you can, I want you to get to Turkey and link up with Bill Goode. While I'm tracking down Julio Morales and doing what we can with the Israelis to find Rachel and the other woman, I need you to spend some time doing what you can to help us find those three missing nukes—the mission we started to work on before Rachel was kidnapped. Can you handle that while I take care of these other things?”
There was a long pause on the line. Grisham waited. He knew Pete was weighing his ability to concentrate on such a sensitive mission while Rachel's life was still in danger.
“Yes, sir, I can handle it.”
“Good,” said Grisham, “good man. Now...changing the subject a bit, I originally didn't think you'd have to go into Iraq. But it looks as though you will. When you get to Turkey, you'll find Bill Goode has tracked down some other old friends to help you get in and out safely and quickly.”
“Old friends?”
“Samir and his father, Yusef Habib.”
“But they're civilians, General,” Newman said. “We can't ask them to take part in this mission. They're not trained for this sort of thing...and besides, Yusef—he has to be at least sixty years old.”
“No. He's seventy-four. He worked with the British in World War II. But he's in better shape than a lot of men half his age. Don't worry; we're not going to place them in harm's way. Bill Goode has met with them, and they've talked about what we want you guys to do. They're simply going to act as your guides to get you to where the nukes might be.”
“That sounds like harm's way to me,” Newman said.
“Let's let them, and Goode, make that decision. Nobody is making them do anything they don't want to. The fact is...these Christian Arabs often escort tourists and other people around who want to see a certain country. They're even licensed as tour guides in several countries. As you know from your last experience with them, they're plenty savvy in situations like this...you won't have to worry about them. Bill Goode says they'll be just fine. Pete...am I giving you too much?”
“No, sir. I'll handle it.” The Marine paused for a moment and then spoke as though he was thinking out loud. “I don't have much choice, really. There isn't anything I can do here to help Rachel. James is safe with my sister. And you have a far better chance of tracking down who the mole is than I do by myself. Let's get on with it. Where do I meet Mr. Goode?”
“I'll send you instructions tomorrow in the package with the sat phone. You'll also find included ten thousand dollars in cash. Use that to pay for tickets and other expenses. If the Israelis ask where you're going, tell them you're coming here to meet with me. Don't mention anything about the nuclear weapons. Got all that?”
“Yes, sir. Seems like you've got it all covered.”
“I'm not so sure about that, but I try. And, Pete...you know I think the world of you and Rachel.”
“I've never doubted that, sir, and I appreciate it more than I can express. When you get home, please do all you can to reassure our parents.”
“Count on it. Oh, Pete, one last thing. The terrorists that escorted you from Damascus to the meeting with Komulakov, those that guarded you at the site that the Israelis hit, and the ones who came with Rachel—did you notice if they had any cell phones or radios for communications?”
After a pause, Newman said, “Yes, they did. I remember being impressed by the fact that they all had Marconi DM-3 Long Range UHF radios. Why?”
“Well, I've been thinking of how we can find where the women are being held without the transponders that were sewn into the clothing they were supposed to get. And I think you've just helped me solve that riddle.”
HEATING UP
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hospice of Saint Patrick
Old City of Jerusalem,Israel
Sunday, 22 March 1998
0415 Hours, Local
Just after eleven P.M., Isa Boyian buzzed Newman's apartment to inform him that an insistent American was at the front desk, demanding his signature on a receipt. A courier from the Defense Attaché's Office at the American embassy in Tel Aviv had come to deliver a package, Isa said, so Newman had hurried down, signed for the package, and brought it back upstairs.
Back inside his apartment, Newman tore open the Tyvec pouch and found another Iridium phone, ten thousand dollars in cash, and a “back-channel” cable from Incirlik, Turkey, to the assistant Naval attaché, a Marine major, containing General Grisham's instructions to Newman for linking up with Bill Goode in Turkey.
Newman waited for another call from the Russian; but when he hadn't heard from Komulakov by midnight, Newman decided to get some sleep. He kicked off his shoes and lay down on top of the bed, still dressed in slacks and a T-shirt.
He was too tired to sit up and turn off the lamp beside the bed; he fell asleep immediately. The call awakened Newman from a fitful dream at a little after four A.M.
“I am just calling to see if there is anything you need for your assignment,” Komulakov said in a voice like a friendly uncle's. “Do you need passports...airplane tickets...money...weapons?” I m fine.
“Really? What does that mean?”
“It means I'll take care of getting my own tools. I'm a little touchy about those things. I have more confidence in my own contacts. Besides, you ought to know by now that I get nervous when you offer help.”
> Komulakov chuckled. “As you wish. Do you have a plan worked out yet?”
“I'm still working out the details, but it seems to be coming together. I've pulled in an old friend to help me. He's the only one who can get me back into the U.S.
“But I have to tell you...we're concerned that your spy is so highly placed we'll set off alarms just by making inquiries. If what you say is true, your guy Morales has looted the classified files of every single American intelligence agency. I'm going to have to be very careful not to spook this guy. I still don't see why you don't just signal him to meet one of your SVR or GRU types in Washington and take care of him yourselves.”
“Ah, believe me, Colonel Newman, if I thought he would respond to an invitation to dinner, I would have sent him one a long time ago.”
“Well, why don't you signal Morales that you think he's about to be caught—tell him to come to your embassy in Ottawa or Mexico City so you can help him escape—and then grab him and kill him yourselves?”
“You are intelligent, my dear Colonel Newman,” said the Russian, “but once again, I've already considered this. Julio Morales would be highly unlikely to respond in that way. Given how meticulous he has been, and how much money we have paid him over the years, we believe it is much more likely, if we sent him a message like that, he would simply flee on his own and no one would ever see him again.”
Newman grunted.
“I'm going to need to stay in close contact with you, Colonel Newman. How can I reach you while you're working on this...task...when you are back in your country?”
“Well, I'll be carrying an Iridium satellite phone, since I don't have an office back in the States.” Newman gave him the number. “Or you can call here at the hospice and leave a message. I'll be calling back here periodically.”
“All right. Just remember, Colonel—no games. You seem to have the right attitude about this. I like the way you're going about this so carefully. Just stay on that plan and don't raise any suspicions. But, Colonel...make sure you are successful. Your wife is depending on you.
“I want to talk to her. I need to know she's all right.” Despite his attempts to control it, Newman could hear his voice rising.
“I'm sorry...perhaps another time. I have to hang up now before those who tap your phone are able to trace the call. Good-bye.”
Newman slammed the telephone handset back into its cradle and pounded the headboard of the bed with his fist. He was hoping for a few words with Rachel, to reassure her that he was doing everything he could to get her released.
Ah, well...maybe it's for the best. Knowing Rachel, she would have heard something in my voice that would've scared her....
Newman got up, showered, and dressed. Then he threw some things into his flyaway bag. When he checked his watch, it was nearly five o'clock. It wasn't quite light in the east, and he stood for a moment looking out the window, lost in thought about his course of action. General Grisham's instructions, contained in the cable that had arrived with the sat phone, provided very specific arrangements for him to get to Turkey and for establishing contact with Bill Goode, Samir Habib, and a Turkish intelligence officer Grisham said he could trust.
Newman was jotting down a list of instructions for Isa Boyian to follow for running the hospice in his absence when General Grisham called on the encrypted phone.
“Pete,” said the general, “I just got a flash call from my friends at NSA. Did you just receive a call at the hospice from Komulakov?”
“Yes.”
“I'll get the transcript in a few hours and anything they may be able to figure out regarding Komulakov's location. Did you ask him the questions I suggested?”
After Newman related the conversation, the general said, “Trust us, Pete. I've got the best guys in the world working on this. But now...I really need you to get your mind focused on trying to find those loose nukes.”
“I understand, sir. I fly out to Turkey later this morning.”
“I don't want to sound callous, Pete. I know you want more than anything in the world to be reunited with Rachel and have the Komulakov business behind you. But we'll take care of it. Meanwhile, time could be running out on the other matter. Our guys think the Iraqis may try to use the nuclear weapons just as soon as they're located—probably against Israel or some American military base in Kuwait, Turkey, or Saudi Arabia.”
The two men talked for another few minutes, and then Newman hung up and checked to see if his ride had arrived.
Surprisingly, the taxi arrived less than twenty minutes after he called. It was almost dawn when Newman walked through the front door of the hospice and climbed into the cab.
Police Station
Patriarchate Street
Old City of Jerusalem
Sunday, 22 March 1998
0533 Hours, Local
Police Sergeant Ephraim Lev watched the video monitor aimed at the entrance of the Hospice of Saint Patrick. His attention was on the taxi that had just pulled up in front of the building and on the man who got inside, carrying a small travel bag. He zoomed in to get a better look. This was the second unusual event of his shift. A little more than six hours earlier, a car with diplomatic plates had stopped for about five or ten minutes. Lev had made entries in his log and recorded the car. There was no mistaking who got in the cab when he came out of the hospice; it was the husband of the woman who had been kidnapped, the one called John Clancy.
As the taxi pulled away in the still, gray dawn, Sergeant Lev reached for the telephone. He maneuvered the video controller to keep the picture locked on the red taillights of the taxi as it drove away. A tired voice answered on the third ring.
“Major Rotem, this is Ephraim Lev in the Patriarchate Street Police Station Command Center. You asked me to report to you any unusual activity at the hospice. Well, this wasn't exactly unusual, except for the time. Clancy just left his home in a taxi...number 8344. It went out the Damascus Gate and is turning left. It just now drove out of camera view, heading west.”
Rotem Apartment
Derekh Sur Bahir
Ramat Rahel, Israel
Sunday, 22 March 1998
0535 Hours, Local
Ze'ev Rotem hung up the phone and looked at the clock on the bedside table. Five A.M. Where was Newman going in a cab at such an hour?
He picked up his mobile phone and punched one of the speed dial numbers.
As the phone rang, Rotem walked over to the bedroom window and looked out into the Ramat Rahel section of modern Jerusalem. He saw scores of multistoried condominiums, newly constructed on a high hill, between the road to Bethlehem and the Palestinian-controlled West Bank. But this upper middle class suburb of Jerusalem came with a price much higher than just a mortgage. Unfortunately for the homeowners, Arab terrorists routinely used the buildings for target practice, shooting directly into the spacious windows, aiming at the occupants. The tenants had learned to cope. Some installed bulletproof glass. Others stacked sandbags on the balconies to obscure and protect the windows. The government had also constructed a high concrete wall on the slope beneath the east side of the buildings. The wall was more than ten feet high, tall enough to prevent a sniper from shooting over the top of it into the yard or blasting out a first-floor window. Nevertheless, the newly constructed buildings were pockmarked by bullets that came from some distance away in the West Bank, a warning that there were those who were violently militant about Jews moving into the neighborhood.
Major Rotem was one of those who had installed expensive panes of Mylar-laminated, bulletproof glass in his windows. Still, he was cautious; he and Dyan usually kept their shades closed and had dark drapes to conceal their shadows when they walked past the windows at night. However, when he was alone in the apartment, he would often take the risk of opening the shades and drapes in order to see the magnificent view of the valley.
“Hello?”
“Captain Moysche, this is Major Rotem. Have you any information from the American with whom I have
been working? Yes, of course...Clancy...the one who lives in the Old City.” Rotem listened while the night duty officer checked with someone else before responding that he had nothing to report.
“Did he leave word with any of our men that he was going somewhere today?” asked Rotem.
“No, sir.”
“I want you to initiate a search for him. It should be easy. He has a location transponder implant, and our guys in Duvdevan HQ tracked him in Syria on the rescue missions. Tell Duvdevan to put the American back on the tracking roster—they have the frequency of his transponder. I want to know where he goes. Meanwhile...I'll be in by eight. If anything unusual happens before I get in, give me a call right away.”
Rotem disconnected the call and put the phone back on the dresser while he walked into the kitchen to make some coffee. It irked him that the American hadn't told him about his plans. Rotem hoped he wasn't hatching some kind of rescue operation with the American military or the CIA. After all, his own wife's safety was at issue as well—and that of their unborn child.
Ze'ev Rotem wasn't an observant Jew. In fact, he had been in a synagogue only a handful of times since his Bar Mitzvah. But the day before, knowing that time and options were running out for rescuing his wife, Rotem had gotten up early and driven to the Old City. He maneuvered his Toyota through Zion Gate, turned right, passed En Nabi Dawoud Square and the Armenian quarter, then drove downhill on Batei Kakhase Street. That place held sad memories for him. It was near here that his father had been killed on June 7, 1967, on day three of the Six-Day War. His father had been one of the first fifty paratroopers of the Jerusalem Brigade to enter the city through Zion Gate, and he had been felled by a sniper's bullet as his unit had rushed down this very hill into the Jewish quarter of the Old City.
Rotem had turned left on Hakehuna and pulled his little sedan into an open space at a car park just south of the Sephardic Synagogue. He had gone into the temple for a few moments, stood for awhile in the back praying silently, and then left. But when he exited, instead of going back to his car, he had walked east on Beit El Street to Khayei Olam and then wandered through the winding alleyways of the old Jewish quarter until he stood in the square below the Western Wall.
