The Lance

by Alex Lukeman

  The Israeli policeman was at a loss as to what he should do. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it. Just then Ari came down the hall, his Shin Bet ID held high in front of him. The crowd parted before him like the red sea before Moses. He stopped in front of the policeman.

  "Sergeant Major, I think you had better do as the American President suggests."

  The Israeli cop started to say something, thought better of it and gave the pistol back, butt first. The woman agent had moved to the side of the President and was talking into her microphone, holding one hand against her earpiece, the other on her holstered Glock, watching Nick the way a cat watches a mouse.

  "You are…?" Rice looked at Ari.

  "Ari Herzog, Mr. President, Shin Bet. Mr. Carter and I have been working together. One of my operatives was with him and injured when they were attacked. It's an unfortunate incident. We'll pursue it. "

  "Shin Bet. You believe this was a terrorist operation of some sort?"

  "Mr. President. We—Mr. Carter and I—have been concerned about your safety. It's possible this attack has something to do with your presence here in my country."

  Rice sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Herzog. I regret the trouble my visit causes you. I hope your agent recovers quickly." Rice paused. "Perhaps you would allow me to take charge of Mr. Carter. I'm sure you have much to attend to."

  It was a gracious dismissal and an order at the same time.

  "Of course, Mr. President. Nick, please contact me."

  "As soon as possible, Ari."

  Rice said, "This way, Carter." He turned and headed for the elevators, his detail flanked around him. Nick caught a hard look from Calloway, but the agent said nothing. Rice was the boss. There was no doubt about who was in charge.

  The ride up to the ninth floor was made in silence. Rice looked preoccupied. Calloway and his agents looked unhappy. Nick didn't know how he looked but decided to keep his mouth shut and work at getting the sake under control. He had a vivid picture in his mind of Rivka lying on the floor of his room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Touted as the most exclusive accommodations in Jerusalem, the Royal Suite where Rice was staying was twelve hundred square feet of carpeted luxury. Kings, Premiers and Presidents had all stayed here.

  The main room featured a grouping of white brocade chairs placed before a fireplace at one end. Sideboards, tables and elegant side chairs of polished hardwoods were arranged throughout. A windowed terrace swept the length of the entire suite, with a million dollar view of the Old City and its spotlighted battlements. Above the ancient walls, the deep black of the Judean night sky glowed with stars.

  The suite had separate reception rooms and a full kitchen. A large bedroom opened off a study furnished with a Chippendale style desk. Paintings in earth tones and grays dotted the walls. The room reeked of privileged elegance and money.

  Rice led the way into the study. He took a seat by the desk and gestured Nick to a chair. Calloway stood by the door, hands clasped in front of him. Nick half expected him to put on sunglasses, even though it was nighttime and indoors.

  "At ease, Carter, for God's sake. You're making me nervous."

  "Yes, sir." Nick made an effort to relax.

  Now that they were in the quiet privacy of the President's rooms, Nick could see how tired he was. Rice's eyes were fringed with red and there were deep shadows under them. The President was a man who needed sleep. A line from one of Bob Dylan's songs popped into Nick's mind.

  Even the President of the Yew Nited States must sometimes have to go naked.

  "John," Rice said to Calloway, "we may have a situation."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "Carter." Rice took a sip of water from a bottle on his desk. "I don't think Director Harker is the kind of person who makes unfounded accusations or gets pulled into conspiracy fantasies. Would you agree?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are you aware of her concerns?"

  "Yes, sir. She believes General Dysart may be part of a conspiracy and that there may be a plot to assassinate you."

  For an instant Calloway lost his mask of composure. Good, Nick thought. The guy's human after all.

  "Mr. President, someone tried to kill me three times today and a deep cover source of ours was murdered before I could talk with him. Someone breached our security. No one was supposed to know I was here, but Dysart found out. Now he's running NSA and he tried to get Harker to call me off. It adds up to a lot of suspicion."

  "General Dysart took over General Hood's duties because he's in Walter Reed after suffering a stroke."

  "Sir, he'd just completed his annual physical and he was in fine health. How could he have a stroke?"

  "We're going to find out. I've directed his medical team to pursue detailed toxicology studies as well as the usual regimens. In any event, Director Harker was adamant that I am in danger. She said she is working on getting evidence Dysart is involved in a conspiracy."

  "If something is there Harker will find it, Mr. President."

  "As of now, Carter, you are part of my immediate security detail until I leave Israel. I'm sure the Director can take care of herself. I want you close by and I want you armed."

  There was only one possible response. "Yes, sir."

  Rice glanced at Calloway. "Okay with you, John?"

  It wasn't really a request, but it was typical of Rice to include others in decisions he had already made. Calloway was in a tough spot.

  "Of course, sir."

  "Good. Find a place for him to sleep. Put him up with our people. I want him with us tomorrow on the Temple Mount."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mr. President, may I call Director Harker and tell her of our conversation? I also need to contact Shin Bet."

  "Use your discretion and get some sleep. You'll need it."

  Time to call Harker and Ari and then try to grab a few hours. Maybe he wouldn't dream.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Morning in Jerusalem, and the sky was a luminous blue that went on forever. It reminded Nick of New Mexico, the only other place he'd ever seen that kind of unearthly color.

  The President rode with Prime Minister Ascher in the third of five identical armored, black limousines. Flags of Israel and America flew from the front fenders. Nick rode in the car behind the President. It was cool and insulated inside and smelled of new leather and stress. Nick felt trapped. The car was an easy target, armored or not. He looked out through tinted windows at the hostile faces passing by.

  The motorcade rolled between a solid line of Israeli soldiers, through checkpoints manned with armored vehicles and troops carrying the latest Tavor Tar-21 assault rifles. It was a security nightmare, a scene of barely controlled chaos.

  Thousands of protesters pushed against crowd control barriers keeping them from the Mount and from each other. Muslims, Jews, and Christians shouted and waved signs in Hebrew, Arabic and English. The noise was deafening. The crowd moved in a constant, seething motion, a coiled, restless serpent.

  The Waqf had refused to let Rice drop in by helicopter. He would have to walk to the Mount like everyone else. Once out of the vehicles, the President's party was surrounded three deep by a phalanx of Secret Service and Shin Bet. They entered a covered walkway over a wooden bridge that stretched above the Western Wall. The large plaza in front of the Wall was packed with people praying.

  The walkway was lined with more Israeli troops. It led to the Moors Gate, the only entrance for non-Muslims onto the Temple Mount. Carter walked a few steps behind Rice and Prime Minister Ascher. He couldn't help thinking it was heady company for a beat up former Marine. What the hell was he doing here?

  Rice wanted to staunch wounds bleeding since the time of the Crusades. He was going to appeal for reason and new peace negotiations between the Palestinians and Israel. He'd chosen the Temple Mount to make his speech as an acknowledgement of Islam. Many saw it as a political gimmick at best and defilement at the worst. Nick thought it would have to be a damn go
od speech, if the uproar around the Mount was any indication of things.

  They entered the Mount and were met by a delegation from the Waqf. A contingent of uniformed Muslim guards assigned to the Muslim Authority stood at attention along the sides of the broad square in front of the Mosque. They wore dark khaki colored uniforms with green flashes and green berets and were unarmed except for batons. The Israeli soldiers kept to the perimeter and were armed to the teeth. Overhead, Israeli military helicopters circled in the distance.

  Thousands of square feet of carpets had been laid everywhere people would sit and walk, to keep their shoes from touching the sacred surface of the Mount. Guns and cell phones were never allowed on the Mount, but there were plenty here today.

  The air was electric with tension. Nick's ear itched like hell. It felt like anything could set off a confrontation. If it went bad there was no telling what would happen.

  The golden Dome of the Rock dominated the Mount. It was reached through a set of steps and an arched colonnade. The building was octagon shaped, the huge dome sheltering the Rock of Abraham rising from the center. Arabic inscriptions in green and gold ran along the eight sides of the shrine below the dome, over arched openings protected by carved grillwork. On the peak of the dome, the crescent and star of Islam gleamed in the bright morning sun.

  The al-Aqsa Mosque was across from the Dome at the southern end of the Mount. Seven tall, strong arches lined the front of the Mosque, forming a sheltered porch and colonnade. In front of the Mosque was a large, square fountain for ablutions.

  Unlike the golden Dome of the Rock, the smaller dome of al-Aqsa was sheathed in grayish lead. Four ancient minarets graced the building, the newest seven hundred years old.

  It was here that Muhammad had arrived on the Night Journey. Muslims believed that from al-Aqsa the Prophet had gone to the rock of Abraham across the way and ascended on a winged horse to paradise, to talk with God. To the Muslim world, al-Aqsa was only a shade less important than Mecca itself.

  In Islam the Temple Mount was called Haram-al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary. In the West the nearest equivalent was perhaps St. Peter's Basilica, but the religious fervor and sacred devotion directed at the Noble Sanctuary by Muslims had no real counterpart in the Christian world.

  The news networks had set up cameras and satellite links for the event. Nick saw logos for CNN, Al-Jazeera, Israeli television, BBC. There were others he couldn't identify. The entire world was watching.

  A speaking stage had been erected. Two rows of chairs for dignitaries lined the back of the stage. Secret Service and Shin Bet agents were stationed on the stage and around it. A raised podium bristled with microphones. It was armored and big enough for Rice to get behind if someone was stupid enough to start shooting. Bullet-proof deflectors were attached front and sides. It seemed an odd way to bring a message of peace and reconciliation to the world.

  Calloway positioned Nick on the square in front of the stage, to the right of the podium. He gave him one of the earpieces and mikes used by the Secret Service. With his wrap around shades and cord curling away from his ear, Nick felt like he fit right in, even if his suit was gray instead of black.

  In front of the stage, seats for the invited guests were arranged in a semicircular pattern. It was meant to create a friendly atmosphere. Nick couldn't help thinking it was going to take more than seating arrangements to get these people to agree on anything. The seats were filled, buzzing with speculation about what the President was going to say.

  At five minutes before ten, Rice positioned himself at the podium.

  Someone made last minute adjustments to his makeup. Someone else moved a microphone. The cameras fired up.

  It was showtime.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The cell in the basement of Shin Bet Headquarters was damp and cool. It had a bare cement floor and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelled of something unpleasant, old and dark. A single bright light glared down on the prisoner.

  The prisoner sat in a battered wooden chair, his arms and feet bound with stained leather straps. He had been sitting there for more than three hours, waiting. A black, coiled hose was hooked to a rusty water faucet on one wall. The walls were unpainted gray cement, stained with dark streaks and splatters that might have been anything, but might have been dried tissue and blood.

  The room was far underground. No sound could penetrate the building above. The door was of steel. It was not the kind of room anyone would want to be in. It was a room heavy with anticipation.

  Ari Herzog observed the man Carter had seen at the mall bombing, two days and what seemed a lifetime ago. He'd been beaten when he was captured. His face was bruised and one eye was blackened and puffed shut, but he'd suffered no real damage. Two silent interrogators stood to the side of the room, dressed in black jeans and tee shirts. They waited for Ari to begin.

  In the hard and secretive world of Shin Bet, Ari was legendary for getting results in interrogations. The old school methods were not his style. Ari detested violence and torture. He believed it debased prisoner and jailer alike. He was sure there was a better way.

  Over the years Ari had perfected the art of deception. The cell in which the prisoner sat was part of that deception, a prop created to prepare the subject's mind. No one who found himself in a room like that could doubt that he was about to enter a world defined by agony.

  Ari stood outside the room. Like an actor about to go on stage, he took time to find the part of himself that would convince the bomber he was at the mercy of a serious and ruthless man. It wasn't far from the truth. If Ari believed it, so would the man in the chair.

  He was ready. He entered the room. He stood in front of the prisoner and addressed him in Arabic.

  "You are Achmed al-Khalid. We know who you are. We know where you live." Ari's voice was flat, almost bored.

  Khalid watched him.

  "This man," Ari pointed to one of the interrogators, "wishes to hurt you. His sister was killed at the mall the night you set off your bomb."

  It wasn't true, but Khalid didn't know that.

  "I set off no bomb." Khalid looked defiant, but Ari could see the fear. Khalid gave off a faint sour odor, an almost visible mist that surrounded him like primal fog. He licked his lips.

  Once Khalid's identity was known, Shin Bet had discovered the rest. He lived with his wife and sons and his extended family in the West Bank area controlled by Hamas. Khalid was also Hamas. He was dedicated to the eradication of Israel.

  Khalid was more than a suicide bomber. He was one of the few with operational control over the bombers as they went about their murderous work. That made him important. He could be difficult to break, but Ari knew that family, above all else, was one of the keys that might unlock a terrorist's psyche. To gain anything of value, Ari would have to trick him.

  Khalid was Palestinian. In the culture of Palestine nothing was more important than family. Along with Islam, family was the center around which life revolved.

  "I set off no bomb," Khalid said again.

  "Oh, but you did." Ari spat on the floor. "Your denials mean nothing to me. Let me tell you what will happen if you don't cooperate."

  Ari bent low and whispered for a long time in Khalid's ear. He knew how to think like a terrorist. He knew what they were capable of doing. Color drained from Khalid's face.

  "My family is innocent!"

  "It doesn't matter to me if they are innocent or not. If you do not tell me what I want to know before I leave this room, they will pay for your crime."

  Ari spat again. "You are not innocent. An insult in blood must be atoned for in blood. Honor must be upheld."

  Honor. The ancient tribal concepts of honor had fueled thousands of years of murder and war in the Middle East. They were little different today than in the time of Abraham. Both Ari and Khalid understood them well.

  "Allah will throw you into hell!"

  "Perhaps, but not before your family pays the price. You will be kept
alive to think about what you have done." Ari paused. "Although you will not be as—healthy—as you are at this moment."

  Tears ran down Khalid's cheeks. "You cannot do this."

  "I can," Ari said. He smiled a terrible smile at Khalid. "I will. This is your only chance. I will not ask again."

  He waited. Khalid said nothing. Ari nodded at the men dressed in black. "Begin," he said. He turned as if to leave the room. Would Khalid break? He had his hand on the door when Khalid called out.

  "Wait! Wait! I will tell you what I know."

  Ari turned back, his face dark. "If you lie, your family will suffer."

  "No lies, no lies, I swear by Allah!"

  "Did you plant the bomb?"

  "Yes! It was Jibril, who now resides in Paradise, who set it off."

  "Who else is involved?"

  "There are others, I don't know all of them. There is another bomb." Khalid stopped. He had said too much. Now, he was trapped.

  "Another bomb?"

  Khalid nodded, shame-faced at his cowardice.

  Ari looked at the other men in the room, then Khalid. "Where?"

  "I don't know, I swear by Allah, I don't know. I was told it would be used against the American President."

  Ari's heart skipped a beat. "When?"

  "My family, you must protect them."

  "I will, if you tell me the truth. When?"

  "Today. While he speaks. I don't know."

  Ari was out of the room and on the phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Elizabeth and Stephanie looked at an exchange of encrypted emails between Dysart and an unidentified person earlier that day.

  Unidentified Sender: The key to Parsifal has been found.

  Dysart: Antarctica?

  Unidentified Sender: Yes.

  "What's Parsifal? What does it have to do with Antarctica?" Stephanie asked.

  "I've got no idea, Steph. Must be a code name."

  Unidentified Sender: Status Valkyrie?