“This place must have incredible history,” Camp said as he looked out over the wheat, cotton, sunflowers and corn. “Can you tell me some of it?”
Reuven swallowed some of his sandwich then took a long swig from his bottled water.
“Jezreel means ‘God sows.’ Since ancient times, this area has been the most fertile agricultural land in all of Palestine. It has always been strategic land. Jezreel and the Esdraelon plain is the only east-west access between the Mediterranean and the Jordan Valley. This was the major north-south trade route between Mesopotamia, or ancient Greece and Egypt. With the desert to the east and both sides of the Jordan River blocked by highlands – and access to the Jordan valley quite minimal thanks to the Dead Sea – most travel ran through the Valley of Jezreel.”
“And wars,” Omid added.
“Yes, and wars. It became a corridor for invading armies. It was the most level land in the area, perfect for battles.”
“From Gideon to World War I,” Omid added to the history. “This land was once controlled by the Canaanites who had chariots, mighty chariots. The Canaanites were people from the Gaza Strip, West Bank and Lebanon.”
“It was Gideon, the mighty warrior, the destroyer, the judge of the Hebrews, who defeated the Midianites and Amalikites right here,” Reuven said.
“But Gideon tested God twice, first with a fleece of wool that was wet, then one that was dry the next morning,” Omid said filling in the details.
“Gideon was facing a mighty enemy, but he had 32,000 men among the ranks of his army. God said he had too many men. If Gideon won the battle with an army that large, the men would claim victory because of their sheer numbers and because of their might. So Gideon allowed all those who wanted to go home, the permission to leave. More than 22,000 went home. But God told Gideon that 10,000 soldiers were still too many.”
Omid finished the story.
“Gideon took his men down to the water to let them drink. God told him to watch and separate those men who lapped the water with their tongues like dogs, from those who kneeled down to drink. Only 300 men lapped the water to their mouth from their hands. So Gideon marched this army of 300 to the enemy camp. Everyone was given a trumpet and a clay jar with a torch hidden inside. Trumpets blew, and fires raged, as Gideon and his 300 men defeated a far superior army, the Midianites.”
All three men fell silent.
“You share a common knowledge of history,” Camp said.
“We share much of the same history,” Reuven said.
“We shared both sides of many wars,” Omid punctuated.
“Too many wars,” Reuven concluded. “King Solomon fortified the ancient fortress of Megiddo to guard the pass. It was here that Jehu’s army defeated the armies of Jezebel which started bloodshed in the Northern Kingdom that lasted for years. And it was at Megiddo that King Josiah was killed as he tried to block the Egyptians from marching through the pass to save the Assyrians who were, themselves, trapped by the Babylonians.”
“Perhaps nowhere else on earth has there been as much bloodshed and violence than right here in this peaceful valley,” Omid said. “Megiddo is still the name used…your har megiddo, Reuven, and your Armageddon, Camp…the ultimate symbol for war and conflict.”
Camp stood and stepped up on a rock. He held out his arms and embraced the warm breeze as it hit his face.
“Does it really have to be this way?” Camp asked.
“I don’t wish for your annihilation, Reuven; most Muslims don’t either. The vast majority of Muslims are willing to live in peace. Yes, we’d like a Palestinian state, but we don’t need Israel to be destroyed.”
“What about the Twelvers?” Reuven asked. “Don’t they need Israel to be destroyed, in order to usher in the Twelfth Imam?”
“Their theology is bent; it doesn’t feel right. Not all Twelvers believe this, Reuven.”
“Most?”
“Yes, most of them do,” Omid finally conceded. “But I don’t want the blood of Iran, or Israel, to flow through the Valley of Jezreel up to the horse’s bridle.”
“What about the nuclear program, colonel? What will that mean for Israel?” Reuven asked.
“You have the power to kill me right now, Reuven. Israel has the power to destroy all of Iran and our Persian homeland. America and Russia could destroy both of us if they chose to. If I tell you something…can you assure me that Iran will not be destroyed?”
“I don’t have that kind of power, Farid…you know that,” Reuven said sincerely.
“If there’s any hope, any hope that we can all live as neighbors in this holy and ancient land, I believe there must be an Islamic Reformation, where faithful Muslims can reject radical thought while remaining faithful to Allah. But we need a Palestinian homeland, too.”
“Share the plan, Omid. The three of us are standing in Armageddon. Let’s not fill this valley up with blood,” Camp pleaded as he sat down.
Finn and Yitzhak watched from the ridgeline of Megiddo as Omid spoke for nearly two hours. He shared every detail of the plan he had heard during the meeting in Qoms. He told them about Kazi and the Unity Festival, the MISIRI and their plans for the King of Saudi Arabia, nuclear warheads, a thousand Shahab missiles, a million men on the Iraqi border, and the 8-minute and 53-second clock that would become Armageddon.
The three men, a Christian, a Jew and a Muslim, discussed ways to neutralize the plan, though each knew that even if the plan receded temporarily, the mutual hate would not. The tension might subside, but a new plan would emerge.
The three-Suburban convoy returned to the Gesher gate where border soldiers manned the post and kept a close eye on Finn’s rental car. The driver got out as Camp, Omid and Reuven soaked up their meeting in silence.
“There’s one more thing that I must mention,” Omid said as Reuven turned around to look at him. “Kazi is my cousin…our fathers were brothers. Our fathers rejected my grandfather’s thoughts…he was too extreme…his heart was filled with hate…our fathers moved to Pakistan, just to get away from Qazvin, my grandfather…I was only six years old, Kazi was barely a year old…terrorists broke into our house where both of our families lived together under one roof…Kazi’s mother and father were killed…I watched as my mother’s throat was slit and a single gunshot entered the back of my father’s neck. Kazi and I, along with our sisters, were orphans…grandfather Qazvin came to Islamabad and took us back to Markazi Province in Iran…grandfather allowed me to visit every year where he thought my father lived in a home for several months before he finally died…to this day, I have never told Qazvin that my father died way back then…he despised his two sons for not accepting his brand of Islam…there was no reason for him to feel sympathetic when one son was killed and the other son was severely wounded.”
“Can you reason with Kazi?” Reuven asked.
“I don’t think so. He is very radical. He was Qazvin’s favorite. He spent every day in Qazvin’s lab at the university. Since he was born in Pakistan he had dual citizenship and was able to study in the states, become a microbiologist and earn his PhD in The Netherlands.”
“This is the man who killed our Army doctor?” Camp asked.
“Kazi would never pull a trigger. That’s not his style. But the SkitoMister we found…that’s Kazi.”
“Please, Farid, can you try? For the sake of the children in both countries?” Reuven dismantled his eccentric disposition and spoke with a hint of desperation and humility. “He is your cousin.”
“I will try.”
The three men got out of the SUV. Camp shook Reuven’s hand, said goodbye to Yitzhak and headed over to the rental car where Finn had the engine running.
The Mossad agents looked over at Reuven and Omid. Omid only slightly wondered if this was where his life would finally end. Camp and Finn were not so sure either.
Reuven moved closer as Omid raised his eyes to meet those of the Israeli.
“Ahkh,” Reuven said.
“It’s the same in A
rabic and Farsi…ahkee,” Omid said.
Camp looked back as Reuven and Omid embraced and bid each other farewell, as brothers.
“Reuven, I’ll be in touch with you,” Camp yelled from the car.
Reuven waved goodbye and yelled back, “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”
* * *
38
* * *
LyonBio
Lyon, France
Camp and Finn got a good night’s rest at the Hilton Lyon Hotel before arriving at LyonBio shortly before noon. Camp’s mind was racing with the frenetic exit from Jordan, a quick flight back to France, and the taxi ride back to the hotel.
Raines was sitting in her lab, grinning like a Cheshire cat, with a dozen long-stemmed roses standing in a crystal vase in the middle of her desk when Camp and Finn walked in.
“Hey, its Tom and Jerry…welcome back, boys.”
Camp couldn’t see past the roses to greet Raines.
“What’s this?” Camp said with newfound disdain.
“Guess I have a secret admirer. Not sure if he’s here in France or one of my old boyfriends back at Fort Detrick.”
Camp walked over to the vase and ripped the card out of the arrangement.
“Help yourself by all means, Captain Campbell,” she said as he pulled the card out of the tiny envelope. Camp read the note out loud.
“Congratulations, Leslie…you did it! Manufacturing is underway and five million sublingual doses will be ready to ship on October 5th. Just let us know where they’re going. Your friend, Thierry and Rochelle Gaudin.”
Camp rolled his eyes and teased Raines.
“Very funny, Les, I hope you got a good laugh at my expense.”
“Thank you. I did. But you seem a bit too tense to enjoy it.”
“We’ve been to Armageddon and back. Literally.” Camp explained.
“Twenty-one hours a day in this lab wasn’t exactly a trip to Miami Beach either. Lighten up, sailor.”
Camp walked over and reluctantly kissed her forehead.
“Congratulations, Les. You’re a rock star.”
“I’ve got some good news and bad news, one for each of you. Which do you want first?”
“Bad,” Finn said as he took a seat.
“General Ferguson called, and he wants you to return to Kabul, Billy. Your work is done here.”
“Thank God,” Finn said. “I could use some bad news like that. Your sailor is going to get me into trouble if I keep hanging around him.”
“The good news is for me?” Camp asked.
“Actually it’s good for us. You’ve been detailed back to Washington, Camp…Walter Reed National Medical Center.”
“Are you serious? When?”
“As soon as you can get on an airplane.”
“What about you, Les?”
“I’ll stay here and babysit the vaccines. They’ll ship to Tel Aviv on 1 October. I’ll head home when they’re out the door.”
Raines drove the boys back to their hotel after lunch so they could re-pack their small backpacks and book their travel arrangements. Camp leaned in through the open window of Raines’ rental car as Finn went inside the Hilton.
“Got any plans for dinner tonight, sailor?” Raines asked.
“Well, actually I’ve grown tired of waiting for my lab rat friend to find some social time so, yeah, tonight I think I’m open for dinner.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Qazvin University of Medical Sciences
Ghods Hospital
Markazi Province, Iran
Omid parked his car in the small parking lot at Ghods Hospital, a lot that had been recently overflowing with tularemia-infected villagers from the Bourvari District. The hospital and university classrooms were all quite familiar to him. He didn’t spend as much time at Ghods as Kazi did, but it was a second home nonetheless.
Omid was six, and Kazi was one when they, along with four sisters between them, came to live with Qazvin after an abrupt and terrifying exit from Pakistan. Their grandfather’s house was located in the neighborhood just behind the hospital. At first the boys would join their grandfather in his lab every day after school. Qazvin was a chemist by trade but had added advanced life science degrees to his curriculum vitae along the way.
He had picked up a lot of radical thought as well. Qazvin joined a secret society in the 1950’s called Hottajieh. He was obsessed with moving Islam in a different direction.
As young boys, Kazi and Omid saw their grandfather grow more extreme. Kazi was young and impressionable. He learned advanced chemistry as a very young boy and Qazvin took Kazi to several of his religious meetings to show him off. Omid was not interested in the lab, or chemistry, or science. His heart was broken over the loss of his parents. He was old enough to remember his own father explaining why the family had left Iran after the Shah was overthrown and why young Omid needed to pretend that his grandfather was dead. Omid turned to writing and literature. He studied world philosophies and the history of war. He knew more about the Middle East and the Persian Empire than any of his counterparts. Omid was a student of Aristotle and examined every detail of Alexander the Great, Darius I the Persian conqueror and Genghis Khan. He understood world religions and was particularly interested in the impact Martin Luther had on the Catholic Church.
Kazi was born and raised for revolution.
Omid was born and raised for reformation.
Qazvin was sitting at his desk, reading some papers, when Omid walked in and tapped on his door.
“Hello, grandfather,” Omid said quietly so as not to startle Qazvin.
Qazvin moved his head far enough to look over his reading glasses and see Omid standing at the door, dressed in his military uniform.
He did not answer Omid.
Omid moved in closer and leaned against the wall just a few feet from Qazvin’s chair.
“Kazi’s portion of the revolution will start very soon. I suppose you are very proud of him.”
Qazvin continued to read his papers.
“I have news for you, Qazvin. I just received word from Islamabad. My father – your son – has finally died.”
Qazvin put his papers down and removed his glasses.
“Thirty-one long years, grandfather…31 years he suffered in that house, sitting in his wheelchair, waiting to die…that’s a long time to wait for death.”
Qazvin said nothing.
“I want to talk with Kazi…I want to tell him about my father, his uncle.”
Qazvin turned sharply and stared at Omid.
“You will not speak with Kazi…he is the gifted one. That’s why you were removed from him 20 years ago. Kazi has been blessed with the power to change the world. You have been cursed with the confusion of too much thought, too many ideas. You are as your father was…worth nothing.”
Omid felt the heat of anger flush across his face. He had almost forgotten the yelling and the beatings grandfather Qazvin had given to him when he dared to offer a different opinion, a different thought, or something he learned in a book from history.
“Perhaps you are correct, Qazvin, you are a wise elder. Still, I would like to speak with Kazi…he will want to know that his uncle has finally died.”
Qazvin returned to his papers. He had no love or compassion for Omid.
“Kazi has left…the Shoeib and the council have new concern that the Zionists will strike us first…we would have to spend years rebuilding before we returned to this same place…the plan will launch early…before the Zionists can launch their Jerichos.”
The air from Omid’s lungs was sucked out as Qazvin’s words rattled around in his mind. He was numb and powerless. He had to make a call.
“Kazi has gone to Beirut…already?”
“The Unity Festival has been moved up…the wind of torment will blow earlier…all praise to Allah,” Qazvin said as he opened a new page on his computer screen.
“Allah? Grandfather, you honestly believe that this is what Allah want
s for his children? To kill the innocents, to slaughter the elderly, to bring about war so that the Twelfth Imam, the Mahdi can bring about peace? We are Persians, grandfather. Darius was ruthless when war was the only option, but he built things, he gave us common currencies and trade, magnificent buildings and art, he opened passageways for trade. We are a great people, Qazvin, look what we have built with our own hands. Look at our technology, our science, even the great universities that you and others have built. But you…look at you, grandfather…you have spent your entire life consumed with hate…you have taught Kazi to hate…and now, at the end of your life, you continue to search for ways to kill, while the children of Islam seek ways to live.”
Qazvin pulled his reading glasses down and put them on his desk. He pushed his office chair back slightly and then rested his chin on his clasped hands. Omid watched his grandfather’s eyes fill with tears.
“You sound like your father, Farid…I remember him saying these words as well…he was so different than me…his brother was so different…they both left Iran…left me…and moved to Pakistan…they dishonored me, Farid…they dishonored Islam…now you dishonor me.”
Omid moved in closer.
“Qazvin…baba…I have always loved you…I cherish my grandfather…you know the holy scriptures like no other…I still respect you…I just disagree with you…is that a sin? Am I evil because I hold a different opinion?”
Qazvin started to weep. His chest moved up and down with great emotion as his Pirahan Shalvar filled with moisture from his own tears. Qazvin tucked his fingers into the wide Kamarband belt as he tried to regain his self-control. Omid moved in and embraced his grandfather as he sat in his chair and wept.
“I am an old man now, Farid…I have done many things in my life…some good, some not so good. But I could not let my sons bring dishonor to our family name no matter where they lived…I am so sorry, my grandson. I’m sorry that your father lived so long in agony. He was supposed to die that night…just like his brother.”
Rage filled Omid as he held his grandfather. He was in total disbelief.
Jericho 3 Page 30
