General Ferguson had been briefed on the plane that his counter-part, Major General Moshe Shalom would represent Aman, the overarching military intelligence body of the Israel Defense Forces. Though Major General Shalom was an intelligence expert, he couldn’t match the combat command experience of Brigadier General Jim Ferguson.
Mossad had at first declined to attend the meeting. But while the C-17 was refueling in Kuwait, word came that Mossad was sending two people. No ranks or titles were provided, just simply Yitzhak and Reuven, first names of two people from Mossad, one of the worlds’ most ruthless, efficient and surgically precise intelligence agencies, easily on par with the CIA and MI6. Camp did not have the intelligence credentials and suspected that he would be an observant, perhaps subservient, bystander.
Originally, the Americans thought they would be meeting their Israeli counterparts in the Ben-Gurion Complex Givat Ram neighborhood of Jerusalem. But the Israelis were known for conducting a cat and mouse game of moving meetings from location to location. They had been fighting for their own self-preservation since 1948 and for centuries before that.
All the Americans knew was that they would be driven to an undisclosed location in Tel Aviv.
Leaving the Mercedes, Ferguson, Camp and Finn were led up 75 marble steps to an impressive building that was both ancient and modern. Once inside the expansive lobby, the three were consumed with an endless abyss of nothing. A few statues carved from marble seemed to hint at biblical characters. Sporadic and sparse oil paintings filled a few walls between enormous amounts of glass, modern steel and marble. It wasn’t the least bit clear if the building was old or new, completed or still under construction. There were no names, no logos, and no signs.
Two sets of floor-to-ceiling, 16-foot wooden doors adorned both the north and south sides of the lobby. Two Israeli security officers greeted them in the middle of the room and politely asked them for identification and then asked each to power down their cell phones and place them in a velvet bag. The officers turned and led them to the north wing where they opened the large doors and ushered the three into a chamber off the main lobby. Two rows of tables faced each other in the middle of the room. Five Italian leather office chairs were on one side behind two mahogany tables. Four Italian leather office chairs were neatly arranged behind two mahogany tables on the other side.
As Ferguson, Camp and Finn walked into the chamber, Special Agent Daniels and Agent Fallon Jessup rose from their chairs.
“Gentlemen, great to see you. Allow me to introduce Agent Fallon Jessup,” Daniels said as Ferguson, Finn and Camp shook hands and made small talk.
Camp was mesmerized by Fallon Jessup at first sight. She was tall and thin, blonde with high cheekbone features and sported an incredible handshake and grip that Camp held one second too long. She wore a khaki skirt, white blouse and navy blue blazer. Her calves were toned, muscular, and strong but not obnoxious. Her voice was soft, but firm and her eyes pierced through Camp’s with relentless intensity. For a split second he felt inferior, under-dressed, improperly groomed. He felt disheveled.
The room was bare. Not a white board, TV screen or telephone in sight.
A rear set of 16-foot doors opened promptly, and the Israeli delegation of 10 people walked in. Numerous pleasantries and handshakes were exchanged. No one offered business cards. As though they had gone through an elaborate rehearsal, Major General Shalom sat directly across from Brigadier General Ferguson and three aides stood several feet behind Shalom. Special Agent Chaim Yariv sat directly across from retired FBI agent Billy Finn as three of Yariv’s aides stood behind him and next to Major General Shalom’s aides. The Mossad agents, Reuven and Yitzhak, took their seats across from Agent Fallon Jessup and Special Agent Daniels. Camp sat at the far end of the American table. No one sat across from him. He was the odd man out.
Major General Shalom spoke first.
“We have some questions…some concerns…and some issues that we’re hoping you can shed some light on.”
“Major General Shalom, our Secretary of Defense personally asked me to meet with you and provide you with anything you need. We continue to stand with Israel as friends, allies and partners,” Ferguson said with kiss-ass thickness that even made Camp sick to his stomach.
“Tell us about Kate.”
Ferguson seemed perplexed. He looked at Billy Finn and past the eyes of Jessup and Daniels down to Camp. No one had a clue what Shalom was talking about.
“The RQ-170 Sentinel drone that crashed near Benalood. Her name is Kate,” said Reuven as he stared straight ahead at Daniels who knew but said nothing.
“The drone was next-generation technology which we deployed over Iran for surveillance of their nuclear program. It was not shot down. There was technical malfunction.”
“Nuclear surveillance, General Ferguson, or was it bio-weapon surveillance?” Chaim Yariv from Shin Bet asked.
Again, Ferguson looked down the row for help, but no one made eye contact with him.
“The short answer is both. We have reason to believe the Iranians are trying to weaponize tularemia.”
“Run-of-the-mill rabbit fever?” Yariv pressed.
Billy Finn jumped in since his counter-part had taken over the questioning.
“No. We believe the Iranians acquired some tularemia stockpiles from the Russians, and they have cooked up a vaccine-resistant bacteria strand suitable for aerosolized dispersal equipment,” Finn said perhaps releasing more information than what needed to be disclosed.
“The outbreak in the Bourvari District earlier this month was not lethal,” Yariv stated.
“Phase One human clinical trial,” Camp nearly yelled from the corner of the last table just to be heard and included.
“And Rasht yesterday? More than 46 dead…and counting,” Yariv said.
“Phase Two human clinical trial,” Camp sighed as he slouched back in his Italian leather chair.
“And what would be Phase Three, Captain Campbell?” Shin Bet’s Special Agent Chaim Yariv asked.
“Phase Three would be Israel.”
Ferguson interrupted and offered a soft rebuke for his American partner.
“We don’t know that, Camp, that’s only armchair speculation,” Ferguson said as he turned his attention back to Major General Shalom. “General, we will share all information with you on this topic in a very timely manner. I urge all of us to remain calm, but vigilant.”
“What about Kate? Are you going to blow her up before the Iranians discover her?” Shalom asked.
“We are evaluating our options right now.”
“Options? What options do you have?” Mossad agent Yitzhak demanded.
“The American government is reluctant to drop a missile on the drone in Iranian territory. We don’t want this incident to be perceived as an act of war.”
Yitzhak laughed and leaned forward.
“And how will the presence of a spy drone be perceived if the MISIRI finds it first? We do not welcome the thought of stealth drone technology in Iranian hands.”
“I’m sure your Ofek 9 has some good images. Why don’t you blow it up if it bothers you that much?” Camp asked as he cleaned a speck of grunge from beneath his fingernail.
Reuven grew intense and directed his comments to the end of the table.
“Perhaps we wouldn’t have an issue at all right now, Captain Campbell, if you and your Alpha Team had taken care of business the way you should have inside Datta Khel Village. I find it surprising that a SEAL would leave a machine like the SkitoMister intact, just to prevent some toothless tribesmen from firing off a few AK-47 rounds.”
“I’m sorry, Reuven, but I looked all over the damned Hindu Kush, and I didn’t see any Mossad boys out there doing the heavy-lifting. Please feel free to join us next time if you’re ever in the area.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Major General Shalom called out, “you indicated a vaccine-resistant tularemia. If Captain Campbell is correct, the Phase Two trial must be such a bac
terium.”
“Not necessarily, General Shalom, there’s no indication that any of the citizens in Rasht were previously vaccinated against tularemia. This would appear to be a lethality test,” Ferguson said.
“So you’re saying that we don’t know this particular tularemia recipe, and nor do we know if an existing vaccine will cause an immune response?” Shin Bet’s Special Agent Chaim Yariv asked.
“Not exactly,” Ferguson said with much deliberation. “We have tried to create such a recipe in our labs and a corresponding new vaccine. It’s still too early to know if we’ll be successful…in time.”
“In time for what? Phase Three?” Mossad agent Yitzhak questioned.
General Ferguson pushed his chair back slightly from the table. No one else moved.
“I can assure you that you have the full support of the American government, military and intelligence community. We will navigate these turbulent waters together. But in the mean time, we must remain calm, measured and vigilant.”
Reuven looked over at Camp who was already staring back at him.
“Tell me, Camp…may I call you Camp? How long will it take Raines and her French biotech company to manufacture the vaccine she created? Two weeks? Two months? Two years? We have more than 7 million people in Israel. How many vaccines can they manufacture in a week? And tell me this, Dr. “Camp” Campbell, famous trauma surgeon from Balad and Navy SEAL from Tora Bora…how will we know that this vaccine is safe in humans? It’s never been tested on humans, has it Camp? Or do you suppose that the entire country of Israel stands ready to be your guinea pigs?”
The entire room was silent. Two Mossad agents with first names and no titles knew as much about the situation as Camp did. Camp pushed his chair back and stood.
“Hey Reuven…how far along are you Israelis with this vaccine? Or are you just holding back and waiting for Uncle Sam?”
Reuven was silent.
“What’s that? You’re doing nothing? Just sitting back and waiting for the Americans to cover your ass again? Listen pal, next time, you boys get on a plane and come brief us. I’m not interested in your juvenile schoolyard games designed to prove that you know everything about jack shit. Millions of people are about to die while you play ‘I’ve got a secret’ with human scorecards. You may have some great intelligence, I grant you that. But if you even remotely understood the Age of the Coming, the Twelvers, or the Mahdi, you wouldn’t be sitting here with half-shit-faced grins on your faces. Go play with somebody else.”
Ferguson and Billy Finn fidgeted as Daniels dropped his head. Agent Fallon Jessup allowed a soft smile to percolate across her high cheek-boned face as Camp jumped out of his chair and walked out of the chamber toward the two 16-foot wooden doors. He ripped the velvet bag out of the hand of the guard at the door.
“Give me my damn cell phone,” he said as he reached in and grabbed his phone shoving the bag back into the man’s chest as he walked through the expansive lobby and down 75 marble steps to an approaching taxi.
“Hilton Tel Aviv,” Camp said to the taxi driver as he pushed the car into gear. Within a few minutes they had turned down Arolzorov Street and into Independence Square where the Hilton Tel Aviv overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, less than a minute’s walk to the beach.
Camp walked in through the double-wide revolving glass door and into the well-appointed lobby with exquisite leather seating and recessed golden glow light boxes. He looked through the glass walls against the back of the lobby. Tables and small living room suites filled the veranda lit by tiki torches painted up against the blue backdrop of the Mediterranean Sea. The view was simply spectacular. It was an oasis of relief given ISAF headquarters, Ashgabat, FOB Lightning, Chergotah and the laboratory and barbaric surgical suite in Datta Khel Village.
“Good afternoon and welcome to the Hilton Tel Aviv,” the front desk clerk said with a warm and inviting smile.
“Hello, Seabury Campbell,” Camp said as he handed her his tourist passport and an American Express card.
“Dr. Campbell, I have five in your party all together. Are you the first arrival?”
“Yes, they’re probably behind me in another taxi. My meeting got out a little earlier than their meeting did.”
“Your rooms are direct-billed. Would you like me to keep your card on file for incidentals?”
“Please.”
Camp checked into room 711, threw his bag on the bed and opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sea salt air and temperate breeze. He had never been to Tel Aviv before. The modern city set against the sea grew on him by the moment until he was overwhelmed by the notion that another country was planning its total and complete annihilation.
Camp walked back into the room, fell face-down and sprawled spread-eagle out on the bed as he dozed off into a deep sleep.
When his phone started ringing at 8:45pm Camp reached up and tapped the top of his nightstand clock, hoping from the depths of his slumber that he was hitting some type of snooze button.
The phone kept ringing.
“Hello,” he finally said sounding fully asleep.
“Captain Campbell?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Fallon Jessup.”
“Oh, who?…ah, Fallon…what’s up?”
“Listen, the four of us were going to have dinner in the King Solomon Restaurant, but it looks a bit stuffy, so we’re going to meet down at the Sea View Terrace in about 15 minutes. Thought you might like to join us, if you’re hungry, or anything.”
Camp rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed.
“Yeah, um, maybe, we’ll see…I’m working on some reports right now.”
“Okay, well, the invitation stands.”
“Fallon, was Ferguson pissed?”
She laughed.
“Not really. He said you’ve been going off like that since the day he met you. Says you’re a ‘loose-cannon’, but your shots always hit the mark, whatever that means.”
Camp bolted for the shower and unrolled his tactical 5.11 khakis and a purple Ralph Lauren polo and hung them on the hook behind his bathroom door. The hot water soothed the tension in his troubled skin as the steam smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes.
Outside the elevator and into the lobby, Camp saw the sign pointing toward the Sea View Terrace. Fifteen feet from the door to the restaurant a man stepped out from behind the massive marble wall and approached within inches of Camp’s face.
“Reuven…well, if it’s not my favorite intelligence spook. Are you here to tell me where I’m going or just where I’ve been?” Camp said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
“Your Fallon Jessup is quite attractive, young and naïve, but definitely attractive.”
“Is that your official intelligence report?”
“If you go in there you’ll have to do battle with three other men and an array of waiters for her attention. Besides, she and Daniels have a thing going on.”
“Do you have an alternate suggestion that you already know I’ll choose?”
“Perhaps a brief walk and chat along the sea. My favorite bar is just a few hundred yards down the beach. They serve seafood scampi that will amaze you. Then perhaps a Macallan single malt whisky, served neat, and a fine 54-gauge Cuban cigar?”
Camp shook his head and laughed as Reuven smiled for the first time.
“You certainly do your homework, Reuven. I’m all yours.”
Reuven and Camp walked south along the beach on a warm August night and made small talk until they came across a taxi stand at the next hotel down the coast.
“Let’s get in,” Reuven said.
“I thought you said your favorite place was within walking distance?” Camp asked.
“I lied. Besides, an Israeli never goes to the place he mentions first. Life is an endless series of back-up plans.”
Reuven handed the driver a slip of paper, and four minutes later they pulled up in front of Molly Bloom’s, directly across from t
he US Embassy.
Molly Bloom’s was an Irish pub, an Anglo-establishment with real beef and stout whisky in their Shepherd's Pie. Reuven and Camp took a wooden booth against the back wall of the very loud and raucous pub.
“Kind of hard to talk in here,” Camp said above the din.
“Harder for others to listen to us, as well. No agencies or countries while we’re in here, okay?”
“Got it.”
The waitress rolled up and threw two drink coasters down on the table. She didn’t bother to greet her two new customers and nothing about her convinced Camp that she really wanted to be waiting tables, especially theirs.
“I’ll take a pint of Guinness,” Reuven said, “and two menus.”
“Newcastle Brown if you have it,” Camp said as the waitress left without speaking.
“You might be the first American I have ever met who gets it.”
“I thought we weren’t mentioning agencies or countries.”
“Touché.”
“Get what?” Camp asked.
“Twelvers. All the men and women who sit in elevated and elected chairs across the world can’t fathom such an irrational act with mutually destructive consequences. ‘Who would even consider such a thing’ they say as they rattle their sabers and authorize more sanctions. No one in their right mind purposefully triggers mutual annihilation. It defies logic. It defies game theory. No one would do it…no one other than the Twelvers.”
“Can you stop it?” Camp asked as the waitress dropped off two beers and two menus then left.
“Stop what? Stop which wave? Stop which plan? We face hundreds from every border, thousands more within the reach of missiles. Which plan should we stop tonight? Which one tomorrow morning or the day after? All day – every day – I exist to stop hundreds of evil plans for our annihilation. One of these days, I will screw up. One of these days, I will be a step too slow. One of these days, I will make a wrong move on the board. One of these days, I will guess wrong.”
The men were silent as Reuven’s words echoed in their heads and cold beer quenched their thirst.
Jericho 3 Page 22
