The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The Turkish woman, meanwhile, raced eastward down H Street. She was running directly parallel with L Street and receiving updates by phone through her Bluetooth earpiece every few moments. Zigzagging through traffic, she was making far better time. By the time she reached Chinatown, she was three full blocks ahead of the Suburban, stopped at a light.

  Taking a hard left on Seventh Street, heading north, the Turkish woman accelerated until she reached L Street. Making a slow right on a red light onto L, she pulled over and checked her mirrors. At that instant, another call came in. The commander of the first cell told her she was in sight, all the cameras were rolling, and that “the FedEx truck” was just two blocks back. Glancing at her left mirror again, she saw the flashing red-and-blue lights of the Suburban. The ambassador’s vehicle was coming up fast.

  The moment Reed passed, the BMW accelerated again, pulling back into traffic, but three cars back. One block later, the BMW was two cars back. Just before Fourth Street, the Turkish woman made her move. She gunned the engine and quickly caught up to the Suburban. At the same time, the driver of the Festiva, heading south on Fourth, slammed on his brakes and screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection, forcing the driver of the Suburban to hit his brakes as well.

  Now the Turkish woman braked hard too, stopping on the rear left side of the Suburban as the DSS driver laid on his horn. In a well-rehearsed motion, the woman’s right hand grabbed for her courier bag. She flipped open the cover, reached inside, and pulled out a thirteen-pound limpet mine. Typically used by Navy divers to sabotage ships, the device consisted of a cylindrical shell housing devastating explosives. It also contained powerful magnets, allowing the woman to easily attach the mine to the side of the vehicle, right over the gas tank. An instant later, she had set the fuse, revved her engine again, and taken a hard left on Fourth Street. The driver of the Festiva followed suit, hitting the gas and racing away from the scene.

  Three seconds later, an enormous explosion shook the capital.

  25

  ATHENS, GREECE—19 NOVEMBER

  Hamdi Yaşar struck a match and lit a candle.

  “We need to talk,” he said. “Father has added two names to the list. Wait for me to leave and then meet me at the hotel.”

  The two men stood close to the main altar of the cavernous cathedral. Yaşar considered it highly unlikely that any undercover police officers or intelligence operatives were monitoring them. They’d been diligent to make sure no one was following them, and no one could have known in advance about their meeting, given that he had chosen the location at the last possible moment.

  Yaşar closed his eyes and breathed in the incense, allowing the aroma to overwhelm his senses. Then he turned and walked out into the moonlight. The sun had not yet risen over the Greek capital, nor would it for another several hours, and Yaşar preferred working in the shadows.

  A young-looking twenty-nine, Yaşar had a fair complexion and a mop of dirty-blond hair. In ripped jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tweed jacket, he looked more like a graduate student in philosophy at the University of Athens than an award-winning field producer for Al-Sawt, a satellite news network based out of Doha, Qatar, known in English as “The Voice of the Arabs.” But television was not his first love. Nor was journalism. These were merely tools. They provided him a cover, and a useful one at that.

  What truly animated Hamdi Yaşar—what drove him to take ever-more-dangerous risks—was the dream his father had spoken of for so long, always in hushed tones. Now that dream was poised to become reality. It was time to restore the one true Islamic Caliphate on earth—not the pitiful version that had been such a colossal recent failure in the deserts of Iraq and Syria but the once grand and glorious Ottoman Empire.

  At its zenith, the Ottoman Empire had controlled half of Europe, nearly all of North Africa, and most of the Middle East, including the holiest cities of Mecca, Medina, Jerusalem, Damascus, and Baghdad. Admittedly, it had collapsed after being subverted and betrayed by the pagan Western powers, particularly the Americans and the Brits. But the Ottoman Empire had ruled supreme for six centuries, and it would soon rise again. Allah’s judgment of the atheists and the polytheists was imminent. So, too, was the dawn of the new era of Muslim might and glory. This was the cause that ran so deep in Yaşar’s genes and so hot in his blood, and by the mercies of Allah, Hamdi Yaşar now found himself at the vortex of the Caliphate’s prophetic rebirth. For unbeknownst to his family, friends, and colleagues, Yaşar was Abu Nakba’s senior aide and chief courier and thus one of the most pivotal men in Kairos, the organization the great leader was building in the deserts of North Africa.

  At a pace at once deliberate and relaxed, Yaşar walked nine blocks, never glancing back. Stepping into the lobby of the Royal Olympic Hotel, he took an elevator to the fourth floor and entered his palatial suite with the expansive and stunning views of the Acropolis, National Gardens, and Lycabettus Hill. Then he unlocked the door to the adjoining suite and grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the mini fridge.

  Minutes later, someone rapped three times.

  “It’s open,” Yaşar replied.

  In walked Mohammed al-Qassab.

  At thirty-four, the Syrian Arab wasn’t that much older than the Turk. But with prematurely graying hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and sporting a pin-striped, two-thousand-dollar suit, handcrafted Italian leather shoes, a crisp white cotton shirt with French cuffs, and a four-hundred-dollar turquoise silk tie, he could easily have passed for someone at least a decade older, possibly two. The man’s ability to look significantly older than he really was might not have been his most important asset, but it certainly made the list. Al-Qassab rarely struck people as too young to be in the room. Typically they regarded him as the man who ought to be running the meeting.

  “Has the room been cleaned to your liking?” al-Qassab asked as he stepped over to the glass doors leading out to a large balcony.

  He was not referring to the handiwork of the housekeeping staff. He was asking whether Yaşar had thoroughly checked both of their rooms to identify and remove any eavesdropping equipment and whether he had, in turn, installed appropriate electronic countermeasures to ensure their conversation could be neither monitored nor recorded.

  “It has, indeed,” the Turk replied, watching his colleague pull the open drapes farther back to reveal the small black disk he had positioned in the far-left lower corner. The device created continuous vibrations across the glass, thwarting any long-distance laser microphones from monitoring the sound of their voices. “Come, have a seat,” Yaşar said. “We have much to discuss.”

  The Syrian scanned the lights of the city for another full minute, then walked over to a control panel on the wall and pushed a button to shut the drapes. Only then did he take a seat on the plush crème-colored couch on the far side of the living room.

  “You are to be congratulated for your hit on Ambassador Reed,” Yaşar said. “Father is very pleased, and the money has been wired to your account. Now he has two new targets for you.”

  “Who?” the Syrian asked.

  “Brace yourself. These are not ambassadors.”

  “My team can kill one as easily as another.”

  “No,” said the Turk. “These two are different.”

  “Then tell me,” the Syrian pressed. “My train leaves in an hour.”

  Yaşar leaned forward and despite all of their precautions whispered the names. “Reuven Eitan and Andrew Hartford Clarke.”

  26

  The Syrian was visibly stunned.

  For a moment, he sat across from Yaşar and said nothing. Then he got up and began pacing the room. Yaşar studied the man closely. He had advised Abu Nakba to choose someone else for this mission. The old man had been insistent that al-Qassab was the right man, but the old man was clearly wrong.

  Part of Yaşar’s distrust of the Syrian stemmed from their profound ethnic differences. Yaşar was a Turk and deeply proud of his heritage. Al-Qassab was merely Arab.
And for a mission as vital as this, did they not need a Turk?

  To Abu Nakba, however, Mohammed al-Qassab was, on paper, the perfect man to serve as the head of operations for Kairos, at least in Europe. Born and raised in Damascus, the son of a prominent general, he had served in Syrian military intelligence and been steadily promoted through the ranks before deciding against becoming a career officer. Moving to Lebanon after receiving his honorable discharge, al-Qassab completed his undergraduate studies at the American University of Beirut, then headed to the U.K. to earn his MBA from the London School of Economics. There, he’d discovered he had a knack for arbitrage and worked for a series of boutique financial firms before landing a job with a major investment banking house located in the Canary Wharf area.

  Along the way, al-Qassab had changed his name to Michel al-Jalil and had taken great pains to suppress his Syrian ancestry and Muslim religion. His immigration papers from Lebanon and the bio on his firm’s website both listed him as a Palestinian Catholic. They indicated his family had fled the Galilee region during the 1948 war, settled briefly in one of the many teeming refugee camps in southern Lebanon, and finally found their way to Beirut, where “Michel” was born and raised.

  All of it was a lie, of course. Al-Qassab had no Palestinian roots. Neither he nor his parents had ever set foot on the shores of the Sea of Galilee or anywhere close. Yet he had convinced everyone he’d met at the London School—the administrators, his professors, his fellow students, and even his various girlfriends and one-night stands—that this was his story. No one had ever questioned it nor felt any reason to do so. They had simply accepted him and his story, and in time Mohammed al-Qassab had morphed into Michel al-Jalil.

  When Abu Nakba had found and recruited him, the founder of Kairos had been pleased to discover that the wealthy Londoner was already in possession of two completely different legal identities and two complete sets of credit cards, driver’s licenses, and other legal documents to go with them. It was just one more reason Abu Nakba had taken a liking to the man and made him such a generous offer to join Kairos and be assigned a prominent position in the fledgling terrorist organization.

  Within the upper echelons of Kairos, he would be known by his actual, given name. To everyone else, and certainly everyone on the outside, he was known as Michel al-Jalil. His French was as flawless as his English and his Arabic. He was even learning Mandarin Chinese to pursue more Asian connections. He was intimately acquainted with both Western and Eastern banking and financial institutions and operated untraceable numbered accounts in various banks throughout Europe and the Caribbean.

  Even his British fiancée had no idea who he really was. Al-Qassab had met the stunning coed at the London School in his second year. They’d started dating almost immediately, and after graduation he’d helped her get a job in the human resources department of the investment firm where he was a rising star.

  Still, for all al-Qassab’s formidable assets, Yaşar remained worried that the man might not truly be up to the job. As he continued to eye the Syrian closely, Yaşar removed from his jacket pocket a beautiful sterling silver lighter and small silver case engraved with his initials. He next removed a cigarette, lit it, and replaced the items in his pocket as bluish smoke flowed from his nostrils and encircled his head.

  “Should I find someone else?” Yaşar finally asked.

  “Don’t be a fool—of course not.”

  “Perhaps you and your team are not as capable as you boast.”

  “I am building the greatest team the world has ever seen,” al-Qassab snapped. “But what you are asking for is nearly impossible.”

  “Your father is not asking. He’s giving you a direct order. Will you do it or not?”

  “I will do it, but it will be costly—very costly.”

  “Get me a budget. I will get you the money. But you must be certain the evidence will lead here, to Greece, not to Father’s home.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last few months?” the Syrian demanded. “We have painstakingly laid clues like breadcrumbs all across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. Once the name Kairos becomes public and the hunt begins in earnest, every spy service in the world will pick up the trail, and it will lead them here, just as Father has requested. The world will conclude that Kairos is responsible not only for the new attacks but for the slaughter of the Mossad team here this past summer as well, and they will begin tearing this country apart for us. Only there will be no one to find.”

  “You’d better be right,” Yaşar said. “Father has great confidence in you. I have my doubts. Prove me wrong. Take out Eitan and Clarke, and do it fast.”

  “How fast?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Yaşar said. “In the next thirty days one of two things will be true—Eitan and Clarke will be dead, or you will be.”

  27

  THE MUSLIM QUARTER, OLD CITY, JERUSALEM

  Hussam Mashrawi woke early.

  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes—or tried to—and put on his wire-rimmed glasses. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand beside him. The green digital display read precisely 4:15 a.m. Getting out of bed quietly so as not to wake Yasmine or the children, he washed and got dressed for the day. Then he put on his overcoat, grabbed an umbrella from the front closet, and slipped out the front door of their cramped third-floor apartment located less than twenty yards from the Damascus Gate.

  Thunder rumbled overhead as he moved down the stairs. It was dark and it was pouring, and on any normal day he would have felt miserable, especially before his first piping hot cup of coffee. Yet this morning, Mashrawi’s heart was pounding in his chest. As he headed to morning prayers at the Al-Aqsa Mosque, he hustled down nearly empty alleyways, past all the closed and shuttered shops, cafés, restaurants, and hostels. It was far too early for any but the truly devout to be stirring.

  Not far from the Monastery of the Flagellation, however, Mashrawi saw a lone light on in a room above a shoemaker’s shop. He ducked into the doorway and knocked twice. A moment passed, then another, but finally the door opened a crack. The shoemaker studied Mashrawi’s face, then quickly opened the door more widely and allowed him to enter before shutting and locking the door just as quickly.

  The man said nothing, just turned and walked down a long, narrow hallway. Mashrawi followed, past a workroom that smelled of leather and stale cigarettes, through a doorway, and past a darkened kitchen and two darkened bedrooms. Finally, in the back of the flat, they reached a small room cluttered with books and old newspapers. The man nodded to the antique desk and chair. Then he left, closing the door behind him, and Mashrawi was alone.

  Removing a painting from the wall, Mashrawi found a wall safe, just as he’d been told by his handler. He entered the combination from memory, opened the safe, retrieved a mobile phone, and powered it up. Next, he opened the WhatsApp feature, so popular in the Middle East as a texting platform, not least because its communications were encrypted end to end and thus remarkably secure for a commercial app. Entering another number from memory—this time the mobile number—Mashrawi double-checked his watch. He wished he could have done this sooner, given the importance of the information he had, but certain preparations had to be made. Some things couldn’t be rushed. Satisfied that the timing was right, he typed as quickly as he could.

  Urgent: POTUS is coming to Jerusalem. Will give major, televised speech on the Haram al-Sharif. Advance team coming shortly to start planning. Don’t have exact dates yet, but mid-December. Will send update once I get more.

  Everyone was devastated by news of Reed’s murder, but no one more than Marcus.

  The American delegation had gotten the news not long after taking off from Andrews, yet to the surprise of many, General Evans had not turned the plane around or canceled the trip. The speculation was that the president had personally insisted that his national security advisor stay focused on the mission ahead while letting his deputy deal with the crisis.

  N
o one on the flight was getting any sleep. Marcus certainly wasn’t. Devastated for Reed’s wife and daughters, he was battling feelings of tremendous guilt. It was he who had recommended that the president reassign the man. Kailea tried to talk to him about it, but Marcus shut her down. The last thing he wanted to do was bare his soul to a woman he barely knew.

  Despite the countless trips he’d taken on the vice president’s detail, and later on the Presidential Protective Detail, Marcus had never visited the Holy Land. It had long been a dream of his and had been for Elena and still was for his mother. Be it a lack of money or time, they had never made it. Now he was finally going, though this was hardly the itinerary he and the women in his life had prayed for. And Marcus was certainly in no mood to enjoy any of it. He and his team were going to be on the highest possible alert. Two senior American officials were dead, and they had no idea what might be coming next.

  28

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  With a heavy security detail, Bill McDermott headed to the crime scene.

  With him was the secretary of homeland security, who informed him that along with Ambassador Reed, three DSS agents were dead, as were three other Americans—one pedestrian and two more who had been driving a large moving van directly behind the Suburban. Four more pedestrians—tourists from Wisconsin—had been wounded by flying shrapnel, one of them quite seriously. All were being treated in local hospitals.

  As their motorcade of armor-plated SUVs arrived on scene, McDermott could see a huge crowd of reporters and photographers and banks of satellite trucks. A row of D.C. squad cars and police barricades and dozens of uniformed officers were blocking the street and the sidewalks on both sides. After showing their badges, however, the drivers of the White House convoy were finally allowed to enter.