by Ward Larsen
Saddam Hussein Abd al-Majid al-Tikriti.
SIXTY
Slaton had officially broken with Mossad more than five years earlier. It was rather like an ugly divorce: he’d long ago lost track of what his ex was up to and where they were living. So it came as no surprise when, sometime before daybreak, he and Bloch had been dropped in front of a building he’d never seen before.
It could only be described as a bunker. Set deep in the bedrock of a minor hill, the building was long, rectangular and deeply nondescript. Given the approximate duration of the drive, and the direction from the Sea of Galilee—his navigational instincts were not to be denied—Slaton guessed the place to be somewhere in the hills of the upper Jezreel Valley.
In the predawn Bloch had ushered him inside past layers of security and, without any suggestion of a debriefing, deposited him in a functionally appointed sleep room. One cot, one blanket, one pillow. In that moment, Slaton had been profoundly grateful.
He woke, according to a clock on the wall, at two that afternoon. Rolling out of the cot, his first sensation was that his mouth was sandpaper-dry. An ice pack gone to water, stretch-bandaged to one shoulder, reminded him of his brief encounter with the agency doctor—an officious woman who’d given him a once-over when he arrived at the bunker. He unwound the stretch bandage and tossed aside the now room-temperature plastic pouch. He rolled his shoulder as a test, and deemed it sore but serviceable.
Slaton had stripped down to his boxers to sleep, and he discovered that the filthy clothes he’d been wearing through three days of desert travel and firefights—not to mention being dropped from an aircraft like a human bomb—had been replaced by something similar. And of course, in his size.
Retirement had not dulled Bloch’s eye for detail.
There was a tiny shower in the adjacent bathroom. The water was warm and wonderful. The muscles in his neck were crossbow-tight, a predictable consequence of tension, fatigue, and hitting a lake at highway speeds. He rolled his head under the stream until things loosened up. After dressing, he stepped into a hallway that seemed brilliantly lit and turned in the direction of the most noise. Through the first door on his right were a half dozen men and women chatting in a small cafeteria. Bloch was at a corner table, sitting alone and looking contemplatively at a large plate in front of him. On it was a thick steak, and what looked like potatoes Lyonnaise.
The sound level crashed when Slaton stepped into the room. Everyone looked at him as they might a stray Rottweiler who’d wandered into a backyard. News of his adventures, apparently, had preceded him. He nodded cordially on his way to the coffee pot. There he filled a Styrofoam cup to the brim, then took a seat across from Bloch.
“Steak for lunch?” he asked.
Bloch finally looked up. “I really shouldn’t.”
“What … eat it?”
“Moira has convinced me to become a vegetarian.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
Bloch picked up a fork and serrated knife, but still did not attack. He sighed. “When I am at home it seems easier. But at times like this … I have doubts.”
“You used to have doubts about much more consequential things.”
Bloch said nothing.
“Would I be helping if I offered to eat it for you? I haven’t had a real meal in days.”
Bloch looked at him severely, then began sawing off a hunk of the steak. The look on his face when he savored the first bite was nothing short of ecstasy.
Slaton let his old boss relish the moment, before asking, “So what is this place?”
Bloch lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Some years ago, the army built a network of remote command bunkers—a bit of insurance against strikes to more obvious command and control nodes. They are occupied on a random cycle, but on any given day most go unused.”
“So, for Mossad—this is like your version of an Airbnb rental?”
“It seems an efficient use of resources.”
“Have you heard anything from Lebanon?”
“Your Russian defector, a hairdresser, and a young boy have all been safely retrieved.”
“That’s good to hear. What about the SD card I gave you—did you upload it to Langley?”
“Precisely as you asked,” Bloch said.
“Did you look at it yourself?”
“Of course.”
Slaton never expected anything less. Mossad was due something in return for their assistance. “What did you make of it?” he asked.
Bloch shoveled in a second piece of meat, taken close to the bone. He directed his knife at Slaton as a maestro would wield a baton. “It is the worst news I’ve heard in years. Iran has acquired a new weapon of mass destruction. I instructed Director Nurin to run an analysis of how and where such an agent might be used, and what possible countermeasures are necessary. We of course will prioritize vulnerabilities in Israel, but other targets must be considered.”
“You instructed Nurin?” Slaton mused. Raymond Nurin was Bloch’s successor, the presiding director of Mossad.
“Strongly advised, if you prefer. In this instance, we are in complete accord. Anything you can add would be appreciated—you spent a good deal of time with this interpreter.”
“I think we both might benefit from a conversation with Langley.”
“Your new controller, Miss Sorensen?”
“She’s far more agreeable than my old controller.”
Bloch feigned pain. “You strike me to the quick, David.”
“Yeah, right. I’m guessing you can set up a secure call from this place?”
“If not here, then where? This outpost was built for secure communications.” Bloch then acquired a more circumspect gaze. “Can I surmise, then, that your mission for Miss Sorensen is not yet complete?”
“Are missions ever?”
“I suppose not.”
The sweet smell of heated butter and garlic wafted in from the kitchen. “Did you bring your own chef?” Slaton asked.
“Our budget is never so generous. One of the men on my protection detail is an excellent cook.”
“Which is why he’s on your protection detail.”
“Why waste talent? He tells me all his ingredients are from sustainable sources. The cattle are grass fed and free range, whatever the hell that means. Mind you, all of this is classified at the highest level … Moira can never hear of it.”
“Your secret is safe,” Slaton said. “And while you’re working out that communications link…” he pointed to Bloch’s plate, “do you think I could get one of those?”
SIXTY-ONE
“Sergeant!”
Nazir froze, which wasn’t hard to do. He was wedged headlong inside the engine bay of a jet, a two-seat BAE Hawk trainer. As a powerplant specialist, he was responsible for keeping the unit’s Adour turbofans perfectly maintained. He counted his wrenches carefully—he’d brought three into the cavity, and it was sacrosanct to not leave any behind—before backing out onto the work stand.
He looked down and saw Captain Mahrez striding across the glossy concrete of the air-conditioned hangar. “Yes sir?”
“Number three is due an oil service on the accessory housing next week. I want you to do it today—we can afford no mistakes for tomorrow’s event.”
“I will take care of it as soon as I am finished here,” Nazir promised.
“What are you working on?”
“A minor leak in a hydraulic line. I tightened a B-nut and performed the pressure check.”
Mahrez began to turn away.
“Sir?” His supervisor paused. “I was hoping for some time off this afternoon. I have worked extra shifts the last three days, and it is my mother’s birthday—”
“We are all working overtime this week!” Mahrez interrupted.
“Yes, sir. But I would only need a few hours. I can return after evening prayers.”
Fortunately for Nazir, Captain Mahrez imagined himself a man of reason and compassion. Nazir knew he was the so
n of a distant member of the royal family. It had been enough to earn him a commission, but nowhere near what it took to gain a slot for flight school. That being the case, Mahrez did what most third-tier royals did—he went through the motions of a job he cared little about, with the end date of his obligatory four-year hitch circled in red on his calendar. At that point, having “served,” he could expect a comfortable position at some state-run company. He would spend the rest of his life idling through soft promotions at a place like Saudi Aramco, overseeing expatriate workers who broke their backs in the field. The likes of welders who repaired refinery coking tanks under dangerous conditions.
“All right,” Mahrez said. “If you can finish the accessory housing, take your leave. But be sure number five is ready for the scheduled practice.”
The captain walked away.
With a sigh of relief, Nazir eased back into the engine bay of number 4 and finished what he was working on. Ten minutes later he buttoned up the access door, picked up a rag, and began wiping grime from his hands. He tried to recall what he’d blurted about his mother. Had he said he was going to see her? No, he thought reassuringly. I only said it was her birthday. And it very nearly was—early next week.
He heaved a sigh of relief.
In truth, his mother no longer lived in Jeddah—she had recently returned to Jordan. He was glad for that. She had never acclimated to life in Saudi Arabia, and he’d easily convinced her to return to the Hashemite Kingdom. He wished she’d gone farther away, but that could be dealt with later.
He looked to the far end of the hangar and saw the next jet in his work queue. A fan blade inspection wouldn’t take long at all. He set out with his toolbox across the spotless floor. As he did, Nazir felt a surge of satisfaction as he composed the message he would send tonight.
Package is installed. Delivery will be right on time.
* * *
“It must be put to a stop!” the white-bearded sheik shouted.
Sultan listened dutifully.
They had moved to a smaller room, twelve of the most important clerics in Iraq seated on pillows before him. Sultan was also seated. He had been briefed by Ibrahim prior to entering the room on certain religious protocols, and to the best of his abilities he’d abided by them. The men in this room were powerful, collectively if not individually, and the sway they imparted upon their flocks was essential to achieve success.
For over an hour the holy men had had their say. One by one, they outlined their grievances. Those from Baghdad were united—the Shia clerics in the city conspired with the government at every turn, trying to freeze out Sunni influence. Intersect marriages were forbidden, schools forced to use only Shia-approved textbooks. Sunnis were never given consideration for influential government jobs.
“If they have their way,” a squat man with nicotine-yellowed teeth complained, “there will be nothing left for us but to sweep the streets and pick up garbage!”
Sultan nodded with feigned interest. At essence, these were the same Sunni-Shia arguments that had been raging since the death of the Prophet Muhammad fourteen hundred years ago.
He found himself studying the room. What had seemed a gilded place on first glance showed signs of age on closer inspection. A corner of the ceiling displayed water damage and rotted wood, and many of the floor tiles had hairline cracks. The air was stagnant and carried the unmistakable hint of mildew. He wondered who had lived here through so many years of conflict. As a child, he remembered being told that voices in a home never die. They echoed between the walls, decreasing in volume but never going silent. The sounds of anger and ecstasy, of joy and grief. If that were true, this place, surely, had stories to tell.
A minor argument broke out on the left side of the holy formation, two bearded men raising fingers at one another. Sultan sighed.
As vital as these men were, the soon-to-be Fifth Rashidun understood that they needed him more than he needed any one of them. Only the last remaining son of Saddam Hussein could pull everyone together—a theological coalition to join their respective theaters of battle.
“Enough!” he shouted.
The squabble went silent. Sultan looked across the group, meeting each set of eyes for a moment. With order established, he decided it was time. Time to begin the speech he’d been waiting a lifetime to deliver.
“I have heard your troubles, listened to your hopes. Now it is time to share with you my own vision for Islam…”
SIXTY-TWO
The bunker on the rim of the Jezreel Valley was unmistakably an army affair. The chairs were gray metal, the walls olive-drab. There were steel toilet seats that would last a hundred years, and closets stocked with prepackaged meals that might outlast them. The only decorative touch in the building, if it could be referred to as such, was an official photograph of the chief of the general staff of the Israeli Defense Force. Israel’s equivalent of a three-star general, decked in full regalia, brooded high on a wall near the vault-like entrance.
The communications center, too, had the IDF’s utilitarian hallmarks. Most of the connections were old-school, hardened landlines that networked to regional military outposts, and two dedicated lines linking to Northern Command headquarters in Safed. More advanced technology, however, was not completely ignored—one secure satellite link had been installed. Taken together, Slaton recognized time-honed military doctrine: the more lines of communications you had, the greater chance that at least one would work when you needed it.
Bloch coopted a workstation and used the satellite device to connect to the Special Activities Center at Langley. Knowing Mossad as he did, Slaton was sure that every word spoken would be logged in the databases of the agency’s own Glilot Junction headquarters complex.
“Good afternoon, David,” Sorensen said, her face streaming across the grainy feed.
“Not where you are,” he replied. “What is it … ten a.m.?”
“It was a long night. I have to say, you look surprisingly relaxed given what you went through.”
“I had some time to rest. You should know that a certain former Mossad director is listening in.”
“I expected as much. Hello, Anton.”
“Good morning, Miss Sorensen. Our paths cross again. And once more, with David in the crosshairs.”
“Thank you for coming to his rescue.”
“As you and I both know, David is far more dependent on us than he imagines.”
Slaton didn’t bother to respond.
Sorensen said, “We’ve gone over the SD drive. It essentially backs up what Kravchuk told us. President Petrov promised to deliver a new and very lethal nerve agent to Iran.”
Bloch said, “As I told David earlier, such a development would be viewed gravely by Israel. Do you have any information about how or when this transfer might take place?”
“Actually, we are quite confident it already has.”
Slaton’s attention ratcheted up—this was news to him.
Sorensen went on, “Two days ago there was an event in Sudan, a very remote area in eastern Darfur. The emergency services hotline received a series of three calls. All reported fatalities at a tiny desert outpost in North Kurdufan.”
“How many fatalities?” Slaton asked.
“As it turned out, two.”
Slaton’s gaze narrowed. He had an ominous sense of where Sorensen was going.
“This area is extremely remote, and it took some time to get the right investigative team in place.”
“And what did they find?” Bloch asked.
“This.”
Sorensen’s face disappeared from the screen and a still photo took its place. Slaton saw a compound consisting of three dilapidated buildings. Only one of them looked habitable, and in its entryway lay two bodies. Outside were a pair of decomposing bovine carcasses.
Sorensen said, “The victims were eventually identified as a cattle herder and his teenage son. They had no ties to any nefarious organizations, either inside Sudan or elsewhere. Intervie
ws suggest that in the last week rumors have been circulating in nearby villages that the valleys to the east were favorable for grazing.”
“They were lured to this place,” Slaton surmised.
“Apparently. The route to the so-called promised land would have taken them right past it. By chance, the first team the government sent in to investigate was led by a medic. He got a close look at the bodies, and recognized enough warning signs to pull away and call for backup. It probably saved his life. There were a few more missteps, but by the next morning the Sudanese understood they were looking at something out of their league. They quietly informed us of the situation, and we sent a team in. The DOD keeps a Chemical and Biological Defense Program response team on standby at Incirlik Air Base in Turkey.”
Sorensen began stepping through more photos. Both bodies from different angles, the area around the compound. In the background technicians in hazmat suits could be seen. “Have you confirmed the use of a nerve agent?” Slaton asked.
“Yes, the tests were definitive. We also found a staging site a short distance away.” More photos. From some ancient training, certainly administered by the IDF, Slaton recognized an open-field decontamination area. Two full suits lay accordioned on the ground, the booties still in place. A spray bottle of what had to be decontamination fluid was discarded next to one of them. Somewhere in the back of his mind warning lights began to flicker. Faint and ill-defined—but definitely there.
“Any idea who was wearing these suits?” he asked.
