by Jack Mars
“I’m a little tight,” he said.
The kid came across the last runway. His light blond hair was gone—now it was dark brown, maybe black. His clean-shaven face was also gone—replaced by a full beard. Luke noticed that tinted contact lenses had turned his blue eyes brown. It was quite a transformation, from a European to a Middle Easterner in a few hours.
If an elite soldier carrying fifty or sixty pounds of gear could saunter, that’s what the kid was doing.
“Hello, dummies,” he said. “Ready to die?”
“Seems like it’s been going around,” Ed said.
The kid nodded. “A lot of innocent people died today.”
“Yeah,” Ed said. “People are dying. Which is something you and I need to talk about.”
The kid slung the bag on his shoulder to the ground. “Talk away.”
“I don’t ride with ghosts,” Ed said. “Never have, and I’m not going to start now. An operation like this has more than enough unknowns. The identity of the people involved isn’t going to be one of them.”
The kid shrugged. “You know who I am.”
Luke shook his head. “No. We don’t.”
The kid dropped his other bag and looked at Luke. A sound escaped his mouth—it was halfway between a grunt and a laugh. He smiled and shook his head. “You guys. A couple of practical jokers, right? You heard what the Director said. My name is Ari Meil. I was a captain in Sayeret Matkal. I was recruited into Mossad and—”
“And you died four years ago,” Ed said.
The kid stopped and stared at Ed. His body was suddenly tense. He seemed to think carefully about his next words.
“You know what a Golem is, big black man? A Golem is not quite dead, not quite alive. A supernatural being, the protector of the Jewish people. It is brought to life from the mud of the land itself. It has no past. It has no future. That’s me.”
Ed shook his head. “Not good enough.” He tilted his head from side to side, the ligaments crackling as he did so.
“It’ll have to do,” the kid said.
“It won’t.”
The kid held an arm out toward Ed. “You don’t want to test me. Because I’ll surprise you. I bet you’re not half as bad as you think.”
Ed wasted no time. He stepped up and landed a hard right cross to the kid’s face. It was a bone-cruncher. And it was fast, a blur, so fast it was almost like it hadn’t happened. Except the kid’s head snapped around, followed an instant later by his body. He seemed to spin in slow motion, like a ballet dancer. His feet left the ground. But somehow, when he landed, he was still standing, bent over with his hands on his knees.
Wow. Tough kid. Luke had seen one shot from Ed’s right hand put people to sleep—on the ground, snoring, body twitching. Good night.
Ed seemed a little surprised himself.
Suddenly, the kid spun, delivering a hard kick to Ed’s ribs.
Ed backed away, a hand to his side. Now he seemed very surprised. Not only had the kid not gone down, he still had some fight left in him. It was an affront to everything Ed knew to be true, and all he held dear. His eyes suddenly went to that crazy place.
“Oh, he does want to dance after all.”
The kid went into a fighting crouch as Ed moved in. Luke noticed the kid already had a cut beneath his eye. That eye was going to swell.
“I like dancing,” the kid gasped.
Luke stepped between them, his hands in the air. “All right, all right. That’s plenty.” He pushed them further apart, and neither one resisted.
“Guess who’s going to Iran tonight? Me, that’s who. Also both of you. Now guess who’s the boss of this dangerous little expedition? Also me. And guess who doesn’t need his people in traction when he goes? Can you guess?”
They stared at him.
“Don’t make me pull rank, all right? That’s not how this is going to work.”
Ed’s body relaxed a bit. He looked at the kid.
“Okay. You probably don’t like me very much right now. I can tell you, the feeling is mutual. But I want us to be friends, and I can’t be your friend if you don’t tell me your name. See how easy that is? We can be best friends with just two words from you.”
“Ari Meil,” the kid said.
Ed shook his head. He half-smiled. “I’m gonna break you, man.”
“So do it.”
As Luke watched, a convoy of black SUVs passed through the gate to the airstrip. The sun glinted off the windshield of the first one. The Mercedes logo gleamed almost like a large mouth.
“Ed,” Luke said. “We got company.”
Ed turned, saw the speeding cars, and forgot about the kid
The cars pulled up right in front of them. A handful of bodyguards in suits climbed from the cars, a couple of them holding Uzis tight to their chests. The rear door of the middle SUV opened and a thick older man in a black pinstriped suit clambered out. His hair was silver and combed over the top of his head. His ears were unusually large. His cheeks were wide and prominent—chubby, almost. His eyes were alert and intelligent.
Luke recognized him instantly. He was Yonatan Stern, leader of the raid on Entebbe many years ago, and now the Prime Minister of Israel.
He extended a hand to Luke. “Agent Stone.”
“Prime Minister Stern,” Luke said.
“Brukha haba’ah le Israel,” Stern said. “Welcome to Israel. I’m sorry I wasn’t available to greet you earlier.”
“Thank you, sir. I understand how busy you are.”
Stern glanced at Ed and Ari. They stood some distance from each other. Ari’s eye was already swelling. The gash below it was bleeding just a bit.
“Is everything all right?” Stern said.
“Ah, everything’s fine,” Ed said. He extended a hand. “I’m Agent Edward Newsam of the Special Response Team. Former Delta Force operator, former FBI Hostage Rescue Team. I work with Agent Stone.”
The Prime Minister shook Ed’s big hand. Ed’s knuckles were raw and scraped.
“Your President tells me you gentlemen are the best of the best.”
“We work very hard, sir,” Ed said.
Stern looked at the kid. “Agent…?”
“Prime Minister,” the kid said, “my personal name is classified information. I am Agent K57. Sometimes referred to as Ari Meil. Sometimes referred to as the Golem.”
Stern almost seemed to do a double take. He looked the kid up and down. He focused on the kid’s eye.
“You… are the Golem?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fit for duty?”
The kid nodded. “Of course.”
“You are a great credit to your people,” Stern said. “Believe me when I say that your work, and your sacrifice, has not gone unnoticed.”
The kid nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
He looked at all three of them now. The desert wind made his suit ripple, and his hair blew sideways. Behind him stood three large men with Uzis, impassive, their eyes hidden beneath dark aviator glasses. Behind them, the strange, endless desert.
“These are the darkest days Israel has faced in many years. The forces that would destroy us have become unspeakably strong. When I was young, I was a soldier like yourselves. I understand what you face, and I pray for you, both that you succeed in your mission, and that you come home safe.”
Stern paused.
“I am very glad, and very proud, to know each of you. I hope we can meet again in happier times.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
7:31 a.m. Eastern Standard Time (2:31 p.m. Israel Time)
The Oval Office
The White House, Washington, DC
“He just called,” Kurt Kimball said. “He says he’s running about fifteen minutes late.” Kurt hung up his telephone and looked at Susan.
Susan sighed. It had been a long sleepless night. Early this morning, she had summoned Gholam Rahmani, the Director of the Iranian Interests Section, to a meeting with her. There were no diplomatic tie
s between Tehran and Washington. The Iranian Ambassador to the United Nations was not in the country. Rahmani was the closest thing she had to an opposite number—he ran his office out of the Pakistani Embassy.
They had set the meeting for 7 a.m. Then his office had called and asked could it be 7:30. Now it looked closer to 7:45, or even 8 a.m.
“Does he know he’s meeting with the President of the United States?” she said.
Kurt just smiled.
“Give it to me again, Kurt.”
Kurt shrugged. “Not much to say. Gholam Rahmani, fifty-six years old. Master’s degree in International Relations from the University of Tehran. Career diplomat, with numerous posts in various parts of the world. Fluent in English and French, passable in half a dozen others. More of an administrator than what you might call a negotiator.”
“And Iran?” Susan said. “One more time.”
Kurt shook his head. “Complicated. Mostly bad stuff since the 1979 Revolution and the Hostage Crisis. We openly backed Saddam Hussein against them in the Iran-Iraq War from 1980 to 1988. More than a million people died in that war, nearly constant atrocities committed by both sides. At the same time, the Executive Branch and CIA were secretly selling them weapons to fight Saddam, while funneling the profits to the Contras in Nicaragua.”
“Playing both sides,” Susan said.
“Yes,” Kurt said. “Very cute.”
“What else?”
“Iran has long backed terrorist groups throughout the Middle East, and to some extent the world. They supported the PLO for many years. They are the primary supporters of the Assad regime in Syria, Hezbollah in Lebanon, and Hamas in the Palestinian territories. We believe that for two decades, Iran has allowed Al Qaeda militants to traverse their territory unimpeded. One of Iran’s stated goals is to destroy Israel. They have never backed away from or softened this stance, not once, during any international negotiations.
“Since 2010, they have shot down at least half a dozen American spy drones flying in or near Iranian airspace along the border with Iraq. In one case, they claimed that their cyberwarfare department commandeered an RQ-170 Sentinel operated by the CIA and brought it safely to the ground in Iranian territory.”
“Did they?” Susan said.
Kurt nodded. “Yes. As far as we can tell, they did. As a result, existing drones in that series had to be redesigned and redeployed elsewhere.”
He went on.
“For thirty years, they have threatened to mine the Strait of Hormuz into and out of the Persian Gulf. Tankers from a host of oil-producing countries travel through there. Iran controls the high ground to the north of the Strait, though they have never attempted to mine it. US Naval assessments, and assessments by international intelligence organizations, have often been conflicting as to whether they could close the Strait, and if they did, how long they would manage to keep it closed. The general consensus now seems to be that yes, they could close the Strait, but that it would cost them dearly in blood and treasure. The time frames I’ve seen extend from fifteen days on the low end, up to a hundred thirty or more days on the high. Needless to say, if Iran somehow managed to close down oil shipping in the Persian Gulf for more than four months…”
“Economic collapse,” Susan said.
Kurt nodded. “At least.” He glanced down at his notes.
“From 1995 until 2015, we implemented a trade embargo against them, which covered most items except foodstuffs. Trade between the two countries dropped off a cliff. Unfortunately, this hurt American manufacturers much more than Iranian manufacturers, since historically we export far more products to Iran than we import from there. When we concluded the nuclear deal with them, we lifted the sanctions in exchange for their promise not to pursue a nuclear weapons program.”
Kurt paused. “Which brings us to where we are today.”
“Nowhere good,” Susan said.
“Our best hope is that they’re bluffing.”
A Secret Service man popped his head inside the door. “The Director of the Iranian Interests Section is undergoing a security check at the West Wing entrance. He should be here momentarily.”
Susan nodded. “Thank you.”
She looked at Kurt. “What do I want from him?”
Kurt shook his head. “I don’t think he can give you anything. He’s not empowered to do so. But he will talk to people upstream from him. All you can do is pass on our message in the most emphatic terms possible. They need to stop this. They need to back all the way up. And they need to start over from the beginning. If they have nuclear weapons, that’s not a status quo we can live with. They must surrender them and allow in international inspectors.”
A few moments passed. The doors opened again. Susan and Kurt both stood as a small man in a suit passed through. He was heavyset, with a receding hairline up top and a thick salt-and-pepper beard, and he wore glasses. A young woman trailed behind him.
“Madam President,” he said, and held out a thick hand to her.
“Director Rahmani,” she said. “Thank you for coming. This is my National Security Advisor, Kurt Kimball.”
The two men shook hands.
“And this is?” Susan said, indicating the woman.
“That is my assistant, Ms. Ahmad. She will be taking notes, if you don’t mind. I want to make sure I represent our conversation correctly to my superiors.”
“Of course.” Susan offered the young woman her hand, which the woman accepted, hesitantly, eyes watching her boss.
“Welcome,” Susan said. “Won’t you both sit down?”
Rahmani sat. His assistant remained standing.
“You’re probably aware that I summoned you here for a reason,” Susan said.
Rahmani nodded. “Of course. Things are… difficult.”
Susan nodded. She almost laughed. The man had a gift for understatement. “That’s one way to put it,” she said. “And I’m afraid that your country is making it more difficult. Your sudden declaration that you are a nuclear-armed power, and your threats against Israel, have put my country in an awkward position.”
“You are in an awkward position because you are the protectors of the Zionists,” Rahmani said. “I’m not sure what you expected to happen, given whom you choose to share your bed with.”
“For one, I expected you to honor your agreements.”
Rahmani shrugged. “Our enemy does not honor agreements. When Israel was created, the rulebook was shredded.”
Susan decided to try a different tack. It was clear that this man had received orders from his superiors. Toe the party line. Do not apologize for anything. Blame Israel for everything.
“The policy of the United States is that any further attacks on Israel will be considered an attack on America. Do you understand this policy?”
Rahmani frowned. “Perhaps. I’m not sure. It would hardly matter to me, since Iran has not attacked Israel, and has no plans to do so. We merely stated the truth, which was if attacked by Israel, we will counter with overwhelming force, including nuclear weapons. We stated this after we received a direct threat from Israel.”
“Sir, you are playing a very dangerous game. Earlier today a suicide attack at the Western Wall killed hundreds of people.”
Rahmani waved that away. “An attack by a Palestinian from Gaza, not by an Iranian. We have nothing to do with—”
“Do you deny that Iran funds and controls Hamas?” Susan said.
Rahmani stared into her eyes. His eyes were hard. “Madam, I don’t confirm or deny anything. I spend my days providing aid to Iranian travelers in America. We help people obtain duplicate passports and receive medical care. We repatriate people who are in trouble of one kind or another. Does Iran fund Hamas? I should think not. Hamas is a Sunni organization, and Iran is a Shiite country. The Sunnis have sworn to destroy us. Would we pay them to do this?”
He paused.
“And whether Iran funds Hamas or not, I know that we do not control them, as you suggest. No one co
ntrols Hamas, not even their own leaders. It must be so. I cannot think of a group as poorly organized, and which brings more routine disasters down upon their own heads, and upon the heads of their people, than Hamas. They would benefit from a certain amount of outside control.”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t think you’re hearing me.”
“Then please explain in simpler terms,” he said. “Perhaps my English…”
“We hold you responsible for the attack at the Western Wall,” Susan said.
“For an attack by a teenage girl who never set foot in Iran, and who probably never met an Iranian in her entire life?”
Susan nodded. “Yes. And we hold you responsible for the missile attacks by Hezbollah. We hold you responsible for providing Hezbollah with advanced weaponry. And I can tell you in no uncertain terms, should you use nuclear weapons—”
“Only in defense, Madam. Only if Israel attacks us.”
“If you use them at all, you will bring the entire might of the United States down upon your own heads.”
Rahmani shook his head. “Like the Israelis, we are not without powerful friends. Both the Russians and the Chinese have pledged to come to our defense.”
Susan shook her head.
“Don’t fool yourself. They won’t risk World War Three for Iran. It’s not worth it.”
Rahmani raised a finger and wagged it at her. “And if you believe that, then you are the one playing a dangerous game. You are the one fooling yourself.”
He rose to leave. “Are we done?”
“Not quite,” Susan said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You will immediately agree to dismantle and surrender your nuclear weapons, under the supervision of international observers, including ones from the United States. The process will begin with a reasonable timeframe, not more than thirty days from now. If you cannot agree to this, we will be forced to destroy the weapons ourselves. Afterwards, you will be subject to frequent inspections to determine that you have not restarted your weapons program.”
