“Between 9/11 and his death, Bin Laden built the first global terrorist organization in history—cells in over sixty countries, with sophisticated communications and financing. They’ve struck in London, Casablanca, Madrid, Algiers, Islamabad, New Delhi, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Egypt. They took out Benazir Bhutto. Every day they hit targets in Iraq, Yemen, Pakistan. In Afghanistan, a double agent blew up seven of our colleagues. An al Qaeda operative trained in Pakistan tried to blow up a passenger plane over Detroit, another attempted to demolish Times Square with a truckload of explosives, and more seem to be coming at us damn near every week.”
“At least Bin Laden’s dead,” Sweder said flatly. “Pray his successors have less operational ability and judgment impaired by hatred. Bin Laden was special.”
Grey sat straighter, drawing attention before he spoke with quiet authority. “Alive or dead,” he said with quiet authority, “Bin Laden was a rare leader in the history of the world. He let no personal grudges cloud his thinking—early on, some of us misread him as merely spiritual, even ethereal. But Bin Laden alone had the capacity to envision and create the network we’re describing. Viewed with dispassion, Osama Bin Laden was a truly exceptional man. Only a Western capital in ruins would be worthy of his memory.”
The room fell briefly silent, each man weighing his own thoughts. “For twenty years,” Sweder reminded them, “Bin Laden was obsessed with nuclear weapons. He tried to buy highly enriched uranium in South Africa, and he negotiated with Chechen separatists for a bomb they’d stolen from the Soviet arsenal. But Pakistan has always been his focus.” Ever meticulous, Sweder paused to straighten his tie. “He had links to A. Q. Khan, the ISI, and scientists within the Pakistani nuclear program. We also know that just before 9/11, Bin Laden and Zawahiri met in Afghanistan with a leading Pakistani scientist and a prominent engineer, both of whom shared his belief that a nuclear holocaust would fulfill al Qaeda’s perverted notion of the Koran. They even sat around the campfire drawing up specifications for an al Qaeda bomb. But Carter and Brooke may well be right. Why build your own when you can steal a better one off the shelf?”
Brooke turned to the group again, glancing at Wertheimer. “Michael’s principal question,” he told the others, “is whether al Qaeda could motivate LET and the Taliban to help. I don’t know how much al Qaeda would tell them. But a proposal that empowered jihadists, toppled the civilian government in Islamabad, and got us out of Pakistan and Afghanistan might be too seductive for its brethren to resist. As for using nuclear weapons, people with countries fear retaliation. But men in caves call them ‘war winners.’”
Wertheimer, Brooke saw, listened with new intensity. “So what’s al Qaeda’s plan?” he asked.
“Nuclear disaster,” Grey answered crisply. “After 9/11, al Qaeda announced its intention to kill four million Americans to balance the Muslim deaths they attribute to the U.S. and Israel. Then Bin Laden issued a fatwa openly calling for the use of nuclear weapons against the West. A Pakistani bomb would destroy an entire city. That would cause widespread death and devastation, stagger the world economy, unleash a wave of fear that could curtail our civil liberties, and create mass sentiment for withdrawal from the Middle East.” Facing Brustein, Grey concluded, “In al Qaeda’s mind, such an act would command deep admiration throughout the Muslim world. With America gone, there’d be nothing but a few enfeebled Arab states between al Qaeda and Bin Laden’s dream of an Islamic caliphate.”
Brustein rested his chin on steepled fingers, then faced Sweder. “Assuming that al Qaeda has its weapon, where do they plan to set it off? Your people ponder that question night and day.”
“And weekends,” Sweder answered tersely. “Our very long list starts with Washington and New York.”
A flash of doubt pierced Brooke’s consciousness. But he could not yet work out why.
TWO
On entering his office, Brooke took out a map of the Middle East, well thumbed from his service in the region. Perhaps inevitably, his thoughts turned to the woman who had returned there, to Israel, and the year that followed their first encounter, its final day the fault line that divided him from the man he had been before.
They had met on a warm fall night in Greenwich Village. It was September 2000; Brooke was twenty-five then, headed for a master’s degree from NYU in Near Eastern Studies. School came easily, and it was early in the semester. So Brooke decided to meet Ben Glazer, his closest friend since Yale, for dinner at Trattoria Spaghetto, consuming pasta and Chianti at an outdoor table while observing the usual array of eccentrics.
“After this,” Brooke informed Ben, “there’s a student forum on Israel and the peace process. I thought you might be interested.”
Ben raised his eyebrows, feigning bemusement as a means of tweaking his friend. On the surface the two were opposites. Blond and athletic, Brooke carried himself with a careless ease—the legacy, Ben insisted, of “six generations of WASPs whose only tragedy was inbreeding.” By his own admission, Ben was the antithesis of aristocratic panache—short, round, bearded, and Jewish, a would-be master of the universe at an investment banking firm. But the bluff kindness at Ben’s core served a humor and directness that drew men and women alike. It was Ben, not Brooke, who had the smart and beautiful fiancée. And Brooke savored his friend’s impatience with euphemism and evasion, his gift for speaking hard truths that sometimes made his listeners squirm. The fact that Brooke was unoffendable did not dishearten Ben at all.
“A disenchanted evening in the Middle East?” Ben asked in disbelief. “Why? They’re crazy, all of them—Hezbollah, Hamas, the Orthodox Jewish settlers, the Arab terrorists in caves. By now you must have noticed how much these God-bit visionaries relish killing each other’s kids. But sooner or later they’ll start killing ours. Fanaticism has no respect for borders.”
Brooke repressed a smile, pausing to admire a tall blonde who sauntered by their table. Noting this, Ben admonished, “She looks too much like you. Diversify now, or your children will be idiots.”
Brooke gave his friend a look of amiable tolerance. “Entrapping Aviva has made you smug. As for this forum, your world is shrinking. You sit peddling derivatives on the ninety-fifth floor, never noticing the inexorable shriveling of your soul. You need a break from lusting for excessive compensation.”
Ben grinned sourly. “My father, the gravestone magnate, always said college professors lived in the ether. You’ll be perfect.”
Brooke had never doubted that Ben would go with him.
The auditorium featured bright lighting and theater-style seats that, as Ben pointed out, were lacking in soft drink holders. Settling in, he remarked, “We should have rented Lawrence of Arabia.”
The forum had already started. One of the two speakers, a massive Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn named Jacob Sklar, was vigorously denouncing Arafat, the Palestinians, and the peace process promoted by President Clinton. Sklar’s older brother, it emerged, had emigrated to the no-man’s-land at the edge of Israeli settlements on the West Bank, inspired by the biblical God who had reserved it for the Jews. As Sklar finished, Ben tartly encapsulated the man’s worldview—Sklar’s personal Jehovah had stuck Palestinians on a lower branch of His evolutionary tree. As the landlord of a Greater Israel that included the West Bank, God wished no Arab to be His tenant.
But it was the peace advocate who drew Brooke’s attention before she said a word.
Her name was Anit Rahal, the program informed him, an Israeli taking a junior year abroad after four years of service in the army. In an offbeat but arresting way she was extremely pretty—small and wiry, with jet-black hair, dark crescent eyes, olive skin, sharp, well-defined features, and a somewhat sardonic grin. She listened to her opponent with a stillness and concentration that, for Brooke, accented her appeal. Yet he sensed a caged energy about her. It did not surprise Brooke to learn, as he later did, that at school in Tel Aviv she had excelled in track—as a sprinter, he guessed correctly. Everything about her seemed bred fo
r survival.
At last the moderator, a middle-aged professor, interrupted Sklar’s monologue. “How do you respond, Ms. Rahal, to the assertion that Jewish dominion over the West Bank is a biblical imperative?”
“That my God has never mentioned it,” she told Sklar briskly. “You see three million Palestinians as squatters. I see them as our Siamese twins. For centuries Jews had no country; now Palestinians don’t. There will be no peace until they do.”
Her English was flawless. Though Brooke noticed the stray guttural enunciation that marked Hebrew as her first language, someone with a lesser ear would have taken her for a New Yorker—she had the directness of manner to match. Leaning closer, Ben observed, “Gets to the point, doesn’t she?”
Clearly, her point was not lost on Sklar. “By a ‘country’ for Palestinians,” he retorted, “you must mean Greater Israel.”
Anit waved a hand. “I call it the occupied territories—”
“What you call ‘occupied,’” Sklar interrupted, “is the Jewish land of Samaria and Judea. You would mutilate it with borders of your own devising, telling God’s children where they can and cannot live. This is sacrilege.”
Rahal gave him a thin smile. “Your synonym for sanity, it seems. But this much should be clear to anyone—Israel cannot incorporate the Palestinians on the West Bank and survive as a Jewish state. Unless you mean to deny them the right to vote, like the stateless Palestinians confined to refugee camps in Lebanon—”
“‘Stateless,’” Sklar repeated with palpable outrage. “‘Confined’? For over a decade Arafat and the PLO used Lebanon as a launching pad for terrorist attacks on the diminished patch of earth you define as Israel. Only when we attacked them did we eliminate the threat.”
“To what end?” Now Rahal’s tone conveyed weariness and disdain. “The slaughter of Palestinians—some women and children—at Sabra and Shatilah by Christian militia empowered by Ariel Sharon? Caging Palestinians in refugee camps that serve as a breeding ground for hatred? Helping to empower another threat to Israel, the Shia terrorists of Hezbollah, through the indiscriminate bombing of Lebanese civilians? There is no end, and all our wars provide none.”
Rahal’s quickness of tongue, Brooke perceived, was enhanced by an intensity of manner that seemed close to aerobic—gestures, nods, swift shakes of her head. But he caught something more: Though roughly Brooke’s peer in age, she seemed older, grounded in a reality harsher than that of the other women he knew. “Don’t mistake me,” she concluded in a level voice, “Israel has real enemies. I’d sacrifice my life for its survival. But our very existence is threatened by a permanent state of war.”
The student audience, Brooke noticed, seemed to pay her rapt attention. Inclining his head toward Ben, he murmured, “The Israelis need a way out of Palestine—”
“War,” Sklar was saying, “is the only sane response to terrorists with no regard for human life. The settlers are the Jewish bulwark, our first line of defense. Would you ask my brother to abandon his home?”
“Yes, some must leave,” Anit acknowledged. “I know this would be a tragedy for your brother. But if Israel wanted protection, the settlements were a grave mistake. Soldiers leave more easily.”
To Brooke, she had captured the nub of the problem—a historic error, maintained through two generations, had placed Jewish families in the way of peace. “Whoever asks us to leave,” Sklar said fiercely, “our duty is to resist them—Jew or Arab. Your belief that Palestinians will honor your betrayal is the pipe dream of a child.” His words came as swift as gunfire. “They mean to kill us all. Arafat can’t make peace—his own people would tear him to pieces. Instead they keep on breeding. The most deadly bombs of all are the wombs of Palestinian women. Their children will come for you unless we expel them first.”
“In cattle cars?” Rahal inquired in acid tones. “That’s not a pretty image. What destination do you propose?”
Sklar waved a stubby hand. “Australia or Canada. Certainly not the Middle East—even other Arabs can’t stomach Palestinians on their land. It’s only people like you who haven’t noticed.”
With genuine fascination, Brooke watched Rahal control her anger, the effort bleeding into the chill of her voice. “One notices many things, Jacob, when not listening for the voice of God. One is that the Palestinians aren’t going anywhere. You’d make us and them scorpions in a bottle, bent on consuming each other.” She paused, then achieved a calmer air. “There’s no safety for Jews in oppressing or expelling others, imposing on Arabs the hardships we’ve endured for centuries. Our only hope is to create a place where Palestinians have the joys and challenges of a normal life, and the ability to live it. Anything else is doomed.”
Ben’s expression, Brooke noted, had become thoughtful and intent. “She’s right,” he remarked at length. “The Greater Israel people are on a suicide mission. The question is who goes with them.”
At the end, the audience gave both speakers sustained applause, especially Anit Rahal. Though she nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes did not change. Brooke swore he could read her thoughts—most of the audience were Jewish progressives, and their approval was foreordained; the rest were equally disdainful of Palestinians and of Jews less militant than they. She had debated for an hour and changed no minds. Brooke supposed this was what fatalism looked like on the face of a twenty-five-year-old woman.
Standing apart, Rahal and Sklar lingered on the stage, speaking with whoever approached. “If you don’t mind,” Brooke told Ben, “I’d like to talk to her for a minute.”
Ben looked at him sideways. “This is novel. You are aware she’s Jewish, right?”
“Is that a problem?” Brooke inquired blandly.
“Maybe for her. I just thought your taste ran more to deracinated Gentiles from New England. As previously noted, I’ve resigned myself to being the honorary uncle of kids with sloping foreheads and defective hips.”
“I’m more venturesome than that, pal. Ms. Rahal has a certain allure.”
Ben grinned. “Beauty isn’t everything—yours or hers. This woman strikes me as daunting.”
“Nonetheless,” Brook answered with a shrug, “so goes the lemming to the sea.” With that he began a lazy but purposeful stroll in the direction of Anit Rahal.
A claque of admirers still gathered around her. He waited at the outskirts until, at last, they were alone. Rahal looked at him with raised eyebrows; Brooke sensed that she had noticed his presence without seeming to. Extending his hand, he said, “I’m Brooke Chandler.”
Her firm grip came with a querying look. “You sound as if I must know you. Should I?”
Brooke was amused, partly at his own discomfiture. In seconds this woman had nailed a sense of entitlement to which, Ben pointed out, Brooke was sometimes oblivious. “I just thought it was good manners,” he responded. “I also thought you were impressive. Agreeing with what someone says is one thing; respecting how they say it another.”
She nodded briskly. “I should thank you, then. That’s good manners, too.”
This woman gave no openings. Hastily, Brooke said, “I’m a grad student in Near Eastern Studies. I was hoping we could sit down sometime. I still have a bit to learn.”
A skeptical smile appeared at one corner of her mouth. “So you’re a scholar, in search of quotidian knowledge.”
Caught, Brooke could only laugh. “I thought it was a passable cover story.”
Anit Rahal gave him a long look of appraisal before allowing the smile to curl both sides of her lips. “I prefer honesty,” she said. “You’re certainly nice-looking enough. I can spare an hour to find out if you’re smart.”
Ben, Brooke thought, would have loved this.
THREE
Three hours after the emergency meeting, Carter Grey came to Brooke’s office, his face seamed and pale. Before Carter could speak, Brooke said bluntly, “Get some rest. You can’t last this way.”
Grey shook his head. “We’ve confirmed the missing bomb thr
ough sources in the ISI. The president has started a task force. I’m taking you.”
Standing at once, Brooke went with him to the director’s conference room, ready to help if his friend stumbled. Sitting beside Grey, he took in the setting: mahogany walls; photos of former directors; the American flag beside that of the CIA. The room was equipped with secure phones, a bank of computers, televisions monitoring CNN and al Jazeera, and several teleconference screens—a nerve center in crisis. The faint metallic hum in the air, Brooke assumed, was meant to thwart surveillance.
The others were already seated at a long, burnished table. Brooke knew most on sight: Alex Coll, the president’s national security advisor; the deputy secretaries of State, Defense, and Homeland Security; the deputy director of the FBI; senior administrators from Immigration and the Drug Enforcement Administration. Among those representing the CIA were Noah Brustein; Ken Sweder of the Counterterrorism Center; Frank Svitek of Operations; senior analyst Michael Wertheimer; and, by teleconference, Carl Holt, the station chief in Islamabad.
Coll ran the meeting. Curtly nodding at the newcomers, he continued speaking to Brustein, “When the president confronted him, the prime minister swore he didn’t know. We don’t know any more than you’ve already guessed. Starting from scratch, our job is to stop whoever took the bomb from using it.”
Coll did not need to embellish this: An act of nuclear terrorism was what any president feared most. The first—and worst—fear was that the bomb was on its way to this city. Still addressing Brustein, he demanded, “How is the agency responding?”
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