Ferguson put his papers down.
“There’s more,” Major Spann said. “The Iranians are raising the rhetoric bar another notch. They’re threatening a first strike against Israel if they feel an Israeli attack is imminent.”
“What are the Israelis saying?”
“Nothing today, sir. Oh, and this came in today as well.”
Spann handed Ferguson a classified memo from the CIA.
“I’ll be damned,” Ferguson said as he read the memo. “US Navy Captain Campbell has been officially barred from traveling to Israel on either personal or government business for a period of 180 days…signed by the Director of Central Intelligence.”
“Who’d he piss off?” Spann asked.
“Apparently, Special Agent Daniels…Camp got a bit too cozy with the boys from Mossad to suit Mr. Daniels and his lovely sidekick, Fallon Jessup.”
Tel Aviv, Israel
Yitzhak handed the phone to Reuven and brought up the field report from Bangkok, Thailand.
“Yes,” Reuven said into the phone.
“Looks like the same method as last week in Georgia and India,” the female voice on the other side said.
“Iranian hit squad?”
“Yes, sir, not exactly the same, but similar.”
“Go on.”
“Five bombs in all. We’ve recovered one that was unexploded. Seems to be a $27 dollar portable radio, easy to buy on the streets. Inside, the radio is packed with tiny ball bearings and six magnets. It sticks easily to the metal on the side of a car.”
“Explosive?”
“Looks to be white military-grade explosives with M26 hand-grenade fuse. The assailant pulls the pin from the radio and four and a half seconds later…”
“Smuggled in, or assembled in Bangkok?”
“Probably neither, sir. Our best guess is the diplomatic pouch. Off limits for screening or security.”
Reuven hung up the phone, and Yitzhak rolled his chair closer.
“Get on the chain…we want our Ambassador to the UN to complain that Iran is targeting our foreign diplomats.”
“Retribution?”
“No, not yet…we need to stall, buy some more time…ask for an international investigation…suggest that Israel will remain committed for months for the international court of public opinion to hold Iran responsible for these acts of unilateral terrorism.”
“I’ll make the calls,” Yitzhak said as he started to roll away.
“Yitzhak…get the sailor routed through to my cell phone.”
Qom, Iran
Key members of the Iranian Shura Council had gathered and were sitting on the floor near the marja-i talqid, the one who was chosen for emulation. Senior military officials and members of the intelligence community were seated, as was Ayatollah Yazdi, the spiritual leader in the city of Qom. Yazdi was the one who opposed democratic reforms, the one who was opposed to the people’s uprising and the reform movement, and the one who believed that Iran had become too liberal, and too open, since the Revolution in 1979. The Shoeib was seated. He was quiet and introspective. The Supreme Leader was absent, all according to plan. Some from the Assembly of Experts had gathered as well.
Qazvin was present and sitting next to his grandson and famous microbiologist, Kazi.
Omid was sitting among senior military intelligence advisors.
Hot tea was poured, and all shared in subdued fellowship. The talking began to cease though no one had called the meeting to order. The din in the plain white-walled room fell to silence. Yazdi spoke.
“Brothers…the time is upon us…the Age of the Coming is now before our eyes…a well-laid plan must now unfold…may the grace of Allah be revealed in the coming of the Mahdi…the infidels of the Great Satan believe their sanctions can stop what began so long ago with the Prophet’s daughter Fatima and Imam Ali…today we have demonstrated that their devices have no power on our Islamic Republic…Iran has, today, cut off oil exports to Britain and France…more nations will be cut off…we do not need Satan’s money to do Allah’s work…our warships can close the Straits of Hormuz at a moment’s notice…our preparations are almost complete…we can soon rain fire down on the Zionist regime according to our will, not theirs…today I announce the date, a date that must not leave this room…the blessed Ali ibn Abi Talib, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet, the beloved husband to Fatima, and the first Imam, was born on the 23rd day of October…we shall honor Ali with the revolution…Brother Markazi, will start the revolution before the appointed day.”
The attention in the room shifted to Qazvin who presented his grandson.
“God’s peace be upon all of you,” Kazi said as choruses of blessings were echoed back to him.
“The wind of torment has been sown and now proven effective in Bourvari, Rasht, the village of Levo, and God willing, in Ajloun before the sun sets tomorrow. On the day that has been appointed, ten days before the Revolution, a festival of Islamic Unity will begin in Beirut, Lebanon. Fifty magnificent hot air balloons will rise into the sky and fly along the coast of the sea to Port Said in Egypt. Television news cameras from all nations will film the festival flight so that our children from all corners of the world will experience our unity. The wind over the Zionist regime pushes in from the sea and over the non-existent land of the Zionists from the north then back south and out to the sea. Like the hands of a clock that starts at 11, the wind pushes to three then back out at seven. The wind of torment shall be released from these 50 balloons at the appropriate time. With international television cameras as our guide and protector, we can come as close to the Zionist coast as we desire. There is no cure for this torment, no protection.”
Yazdi nodded to the intelligence commander with MISIRI, the Ministry of Intelligence and Security.
“God’s peace be upon you…three days before the revolution, on the 21st, our Shia brothers in al-Awamiya, a town in the Qatif region of Saudi Arabia, will execute a plan that has been given to them through divine providence. They have unrestricted access to the King. Whether he is killed, injured or escapes, news from around the world will speculate on his fate for nearly two full days. Chaos and confusion will abound in the Saudi kingdom. Rumors and dissension will run through the ranks of the security forces. This will be the moment when our brothers in Yemen begin their push north. They will charge over the border and directly into Mecca where they will reclaim the holy city for the Mahdi.”
Yazdi made eye contact with a senior military commander who began to speak.
“God’s peace be upon all of you,” he said as responses filled the room again. “We will move our Army to the Iraqi border on the 22nd day of October. Early in the morning on the 23rd, God willing, three, perhaps as many as six, nuclear warheads will visit Tel Aviv, Haifa, Beersheba and Ramla. More than 1,000 Shahab missiles will then fly in succession. Beitol Moghadas is a holy city and will be spared from nuclear fire but will receive carefully placed Shahabs. The mighty Iranian Navy will block the Straits of Hormuz. In less than nine minutes, the revolution will be won. The Mahdi’s deputy, the Shoeib, will have conquered Israel. May God’s name be praised.”
Some prayers were offered, and the meeting was adjourned. Small groups of informal conversation were underway as Yazdi and the Shoeib left the room amidst a large security detail. Omid walked over to Kazi and Qazvin. Qazvin quickly turned his back and walked away.
“This is a very big and important project for you, Kazi,” Omid said.
Kazi shook his head as a disgusting scowl smeared across his face.
“But much too big of a project for you, Colonel Farid.”
Kazi turned and walked away.
* * *
33
* * *
Lyon, France
Billy Finn was sound asleep in his double-sized bed at the Lyon Hilton Hotel when his cell phone rang. He let it go to voice mail. The phone quickly started ringing again. He recognized the area code, 212, as New York City.
“Finn,” he
answered simply and concisely from his grog.
“Billy, did I wake you?”
“No, ah, I mean, yes, who is this?”
“Susan Francis in New York.”
“Susan?”
“What! Did you take stupid pills after you retired? Susan Francis, intel, New York field office?”
Finn sat up in bed wide awake.
“Oh my gosh, Susan, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s three in the morning here.”
“Sorry, Billy, I was just getting ready to head home myself when I got a strange call. I had your home phone and called your wife. She said you were trolling the hills of Afghanistan as a DOD civilian. She gave me your number.”
“Well, actually I’m in Lyon, France right now but probably heading back to Kabul in a couple of weeks. Is everything okay?”
“Fine, but I got this call and needed to tell you about it. I got a call from Pablo.”
Finn’s mind wandered at full speed. Who the hell is Pablo?
“He was patched in from several connections for security purposes – his and ours – we spoke only briefly.”
“What did he want?”
“He implied that the two of you recently met. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that’s what he said.”
Finn paused for what seemed like an eternity. Pablo! He wasn’t sure how he should answer.
“Finn?”
“Yes, I did meet Pablo. Completely by chance. We even talked about your father and his colon cancer.”
Now Susan Francis was silent.
“Were the two of you camping? He said he wanted ‘camp’ and gave me some numbers for you to call…to get in touch with him. He said it was urgent.”
“Give me the numbers, Susan…I think I know what he wants.”
Francis gave him three numbers and the associated codes then bid him goodnight.
“Billy, don’t get too involved with Pablo. His intelligence door swings both ways, if you know what I mean.”
Finn ended the call on his cell and immediately called Camp on the hotel phone.
“What?” came an agitated and sleepy voice on the other end of the line.
“Get your ass down to my room right now. Omid is looking for you.”
Tel Aviv, Israel
Reuven walked slowly in the setting sun along the tan sands of the Mediterranean Sea on Metzitzim Beach. He paused and looked out over the sea as the sun seemed to set between Morocco and the Rock of Gibraltar. His heart was heavy. Reuven had two young sons and a lovely wife, but all of his energy, all of his passion, was invested in preserving his country. The entire Middle East seemed to be sitting on a powder keg, ready to explode at any moment.
He had been hopeful that democracy would rise in Iraq and provide stability to the region. But the Americans left hastily with little “shock” and no “awe” while a fledgling Iraq was left to battle pockets of terrorism and internal Shia-Sunni rivalries alone.
At first glance, the Arab Spring uprising in Egypt seemed to be an authentic yearning of the people to have their freedom, but the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood gave Reuven great caution. He knew that Egypt was only tolerating Israel under Mubarak, thanks in no small part to American foreign aid. God only knew what might come up from the south with a new Egyptian government in place or fewer American dollars in the Egyptian treasury.
Muammar Gaddafi’s 42-year reign in Libya came to an abrupt end as rebels, with the assistance of NATO airstrikes, tracked Gaddafi’s motorcade down, marched him through the streets, and finally administered a judge, trial and jury with a single gunshot to the head inside a drainage pipe. Reuven knew that no matter the political leanings of the rebels that seized control of Libya, they certainly would not attempt to be friends of Israel.
Reuven’s head turned and looked to the north as he stood next to the sea. In his mind he could see the flames of war coming from Syria as a resistance movement in the city of Homs endured untold bloodshed while refugees streamed into Turkey and Jordan. Syria was closely aligned with Iran and would do Iran’s bidding as proxy soldiers in whatever cause was deemed proper.
Hezbollah, literally the Party of God, stood less than 134 miles away from Reuven as he walked. Armed with as many as 15,000 Katyusha rockets, 1,000 soldiers and tens of thousands of sympathetic volunteers, Hezbollah would march on Israel in a moment’s notice.
Is it really worth all of this? Reuven thought as he walked and waited for his phone to ring. All he wanted was to raise his sons in peace, to love his wife and to provide for his family. Was that too much to ask?
“Yes,” Reuven said as he answered the incoming call that was patched in from three separate transmitters and relay switches from around the globe.
“Shepherd’s Pie for Molly Bloom,” Camp said.
“Hello, Shepherd. We need to meet,” Reuven asserted.
“Well, that might be difficult. The King of Ireland informs me that I’m not welcome in your pub for at least six months.”
“So I hear.”
“I want you to meet someone,” Camp said.
“That won’t be possible for obvious reasons.”
“I like impossible. I just spoke with him. We have arranged for a dinner in the booth next to yours. Perhaps we could have three beers? You’ll be close enough to look through the glass in your mug. Maybe you’ll join us then?”
“Sorry. Not possible.”
Camp got angry with Reuven. He was tired of hearing why things would not work, why situations were impossible. Camp was a glass half-full kind of man. Anything was possible. “No, of course not, let’s just eat a plate full of the regime’s jalapenos and let them burn our mouths.”
Reuven was silent. Camp assumed he wasn’t accustomed to yielding control.
“I will send you instructions,” Reuven finally said.
“No! I will send you the damn menu. Order what you like,” Camp said as he slammed his phone shut.
Hilton Hotel
Lyon, France
Billy Finn looked up at Camp who was pacing the balcony at the Hilton Lyon Hotel as Finn took another bite from his bagel with cream cheese.
“That went well.”
Camp said nothing. He just paced.
“You didn’t even mention that you’ve spoken with Omid.”
“Because I don’t have a clue what Omid wants in the first place. Omid and I talked for a few minutes. He said we should meet at the Four Seasons in Amman, Jordan – in the steam sauna no less. Omid said he had something he must tell me. I asked him for a clue, a bone, anything I could hang my hat on and justify the encounter,” Camp said as his voice trailed off and lost in his own thoughts.
“What did he say?” Finn asked.
“One word. He said just one word. Armageddon.”
Finn got up and pulled a scotch out of the mini-bar, twisted the cap off and poured it down his throat.
“That can’t be good,” Finn said as he dropped the empty bottle into the tin trash can.
“For all I know, Reuven and his Mossad buddies will gladly kill me and Omid if they get a chance,” Camp said as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Or if they need to,” Finn added.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying…sometimes when a guy knows too much…sometimes he just needs to go away…makes life simpler.”
“Mossad isn’t just going to ‘off’ a US Navy Captain, Finn, be real.”
“Well, maybe that’s what Omid intends to do. Maybe he’s regretting that he told you too much.”
Camp stopped dead in his tracks. Omid did call Camp and went to great lengths to find him. Reuven called Camp as well and went all the way around the earth to hide the call.
“Then what do I do?” Camp finally asked.
“Hide…hide out in the open…with both of them.”
The Village of Al Wahadinah
Ajloun, Jordan
The men who had sprayed their village for the bugs that were damagi
ng their plants had left nearly four hours earlier. But everyone living near the first three homes sprayed was already sick.
Bacterial infection from the spray had affected adults, children and the elderly rapidly. The infection happened from contact through the skin, mucous membranes, gastrointestinal tracts and inhalation through the lungs. The infection was intracellular, meaning the bacterium multiplied once inside the body. Within hours, the tularemia struck the people of Al Wahadinah in their lymph nodes, lungs, liver, spleen and kidneys. Once inside the mucous membranes or even on the skin, the infection spread faster than they could wash themselves, and long before they could seek help.
The initial tissue reaction to the tularemia was immediate and pronounced. Red spots and open ulcers formed rapidly. A simple lesion quickly became granulomatous, a massive clump of ulcerated and infected cells.
For those victims who inhaled the mist as it was sprayed, their airways were filled with blood-hemorrhaging inflammation. They couldn’t get air because their passageways were swollen shut. Fever, sweats, chills, fatigue, body aches and diarrhea were universal symptoms throughout the village.
The young and the elderly couldn’t handle the onset of such sudden and dramatic illness. The older children and adults in good health were extremely ill but would survive if they could get medical attention and antibiotics within a reasonable amount of time.
Tularemia, the wind of torment, was more lethal as a weapon of fear than it was as an instrument of death. The reduced probability of lethality was of little comfort to an entire village that believed they were sick to death.
Word spread through surrounding villages and into Ajloun, the capital town in the governorate and throughout the 27 villages and towns in the hilly area, then 47 miles southeast to Amman, Jordan.
Some thought a plague had been unleashed.
Others speculated that the sins of one village had brought God’s wrath and judgment as it did in the days of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Health officials and doctors refused to travel to Al Wahadinah. It was, after all, a predominantly Christian village, filled with infidels who consumed contaminated meat and the unclean that drank dirty water. What did filthy people expect?
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