Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen England

  8:21 P.M.

  The shores of Galilee

  “. . .would lead us to believe that Hadi will be going back across the border into the Sinai sometime tomorrow morning, most likely before dawn.”

  “And this ‘weapon’,” Avi ben Shoham began, searching his counterpart’s face for any sign of dissimulation, “you have no idea what it might be.”

  “None,” came the even response as Lay looked him in the eye. Not even the faintest trace of deception in his voice.

  Not that there would have been, Shoham thought, the cynicism that came with this job rising as ever to the fore. He’d read Lay’s jacket years prior—when the American had first arrived to take over Station Tel Aviv—had found himself reviewing it once again these last few days.

  The man was good. He had to have been to have done what he’d done in Germany back in the day, and that was only what they knew about. Always far more below the surface than above.

  And what did lie below the surface on this night?

  “Then I guess we’re going to have to take Hadi out of play,” Shoham said calmly, turning and beginning to walk back toward the Mossad vehicles. Time to get out of the rain. “Find out what he knows.”

  Lay didn’t react, not right away—he gave him credit for that. His voice only rising to answer him after he’d already taken six steps away from the shoreline.

  “Do that, and you run the risk of spooking them, forcing them to go to ground. That happens, you’re going to lose control of this altogether.”

  “Lose control, David? Is this what you think control of a situation looks like?” The Israeli demanded, turning back toward Lay, his words coming out in a low hiss. “If you want us to stay our hand, you'd better have an alternative. Because right now, I'm not seeing one. And I will do what needs to be done, that I promise you.”

  “Give me a few hours, Avi. Let me see what I can do. Before we all find ourselves in deeper than we can well afford to be.”

  “If your intelligence is right, a few hours is all any of us have, David. I make no promises.”

  Lay closed the door of the Crown Vic on the rain outside, its gentle tap against the windshield breaking the quiet as he sat there, his exchange with Avi ben Shoham still running over and again through his head. Watching the taillights of the Mossad vehicles fade in the distance.

  It shouldn’t have happened this way. None of this should have happened, and yet. . .here they were.

  No help for it. And no end in sight. He shook his head, a curse escaping his lips as he slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. Forcing himself to calm down.

  Get a grip.

  He dug the cellular phone from its pouch on his belt after a long moment, flipping it open and keying in a number. “Daniel,” he said when the other end was picked up, “I just parted with our friends the Israelis.”

  “And?” There was a peculiar note of strain in Vukovic’s voice. Impatience.

  “And what we have right now isn’t enough,” Lay replied, gazing out the windshield into the darkness. “Not nearly enough to prevent this from blowing sky-high. What can you give me?”

  “Right now, David. . .not a thing.” There was a distinct and awkward pause on the other end of the line before the deputy station chief continued. “You’re calling at a bad time.”

  9:43 P.M.

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv

  “. . .according to our best analysis this ‘weapon’, whatever it may be, has not yet been delivered. I think one could reasonably infer that the removal of al-Shukeiri created difficulties on the Palestinian side of the deal, and this Iraqi officer was dispatched in person in an effort to clear them up.”

  “So, this new intelligence from the Americans. . .you’re telling me you believe it can be trusted?” Efraim Halevy asked finally, his eyes gazing wearily into Shoham's own as he looked up from the briefing notes.

  As compared to the intelligence the CIA had given them on al-Shukeiri, he didn’t add, but he didn’t need to. They were all thinking it.

  Disinformation designed to throw them off balance—keep them looking in all the wrong places. Could it be happening again?

  Of course it could. Ever the risk you ran in this business, and the Agency's alliances in the region had always been questionable, going back decades.

  “Our analysts are going over the tapes now,” he responded, choosing his words carefully. “They appear to be legitimate. I am of the opinion that our message was received in Washington. Loudly and clearly.”

  Halevy’s gaze shifted across to Gerstman. “Would you concur, Eli?”

  The senior Mossad officer cleared his throat, his elbows resting on the table as he leaned forward, glancing from one to the other. “Dichter’s network was able to confirm a heavy increase of activity in the area of Mahmoud Damra’s compound only a few hours after our Kidon team lost the Iraqi in Firas. As reluctant as I am to say it. . .it checks out.”

  “And since?”

  “Nothing.” Gerstman spread his hands. “If Umar Hadi went in, he hasn’t come back out.”

  “Damra’s compound is located near Beit Hanun,” Shoham observed, watching the Mossad director closely, “nearly four kilometers to the southeast. Out in the countryside. A single access road.”

  He paused, letting the implications of his words sink in, the look in the older man’s eyes showing he clearly understood what was being suggested.

  The Iraqi had to leave sometime. And when he did. . .

  “You’re suggesting that we intercept his vehicle,” he heard Gerstman say, turning to look down the table at his old friend. “Have you honestly thought this through, Avi?”

  “I am, and I have.”

  The man just looked at him, shaking his head. “Then you know that as soon as we take Hadi, all bets are off. Any intelligence we can extract, useless almost from the moment the grab goes down. And we’ll be left with nothing.”

  It was Lay’s point, made an hour earlier in the Galilee. A grab like this, so close to Gaza—it was going to be impossible to conceal. And it was unlikely that the Palestinians were going to stay the course once they realized their go-between was in Israeli hands. But they would at least have a better grasp of what they were dealing with, and that was something. “Nothing is what we have right now, Eli. And it’s all that we’ll have if we just let him go. The Americans—if we can trust them—have agreed to keep supplying us with operational intelligence as this continues to unfold, but that only takes us so far. So, what is your plan?”

  Silence hung over the conference room for a long moment before Gerstman responded. “From the evidence you’ve presented us,” he began, seeming to choose his words with utmost of care, “it would appear that the Egyptians are already aware of the interest being expressed in Colonel Hadi. I say we reach out to the Mukhabarat, have them hold him at the airport on some. . .pretext. They’ve always known boundless creativity in such regards.”

  No. Their situation with the Americans was tenuous enough. Bringing in a third intelligence service—an Arab intelligence service—could be the undoing of them all. “Let’s be realistic here—Egypt isn’t going to ‘disappear’ an Iraqi Army officer. Not at our behest. And if they should find out the nature of the weapon transfer he was arranging before we do. . .”

  Shoham let his voice trail off, his dark eyes hard and glittering as he glanced around the table. They all knew the realities that were facing them. In a part of the world where you only trusted “allies” as far as you could throw them. . .this wasn’t a risk worth taking.

  “Your concerns are not without validity, Eli,” Halevy said finally, a heavy sigh escaping the old man’s lips as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table’s surface, “but Avi is right. Allowing Colonel Hadi to leave Gaza is unacceptable, and should we—together with the Americans—be unable to ascertain the details of the plan by other means in the next few hours. . .we will be left with no choice but to take him in.”

&nb
sp; “Efraim, duty compels me to—” Gerstman began, but the Mossad chief cut him off, taking off his glasses as he turned his attention toward Shoham.

  “Enough,” he said, laying them deliberately on the table. “I will brief the Prime Minister. How soon can your teams be in position?”

  9:47 P.M.

  The United States Embassy

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Station Tel Aviv was alive with activity as David Lay came through the doors, spotting Vukovic in the far corner of the room—leaning over an analyst’s desk as he gestured at the screen of his monitor.

  “. . .get me everything you can from our assets in the area. And I mean everything,” he heard his former deputy say, pushing himself away as he spotted Lay’s approach. “I told you this wasn’t a good time, David.”

  “Looks like it,” Lay observed, glancing around the station, “But we don’t have the luxury of awaiting a better one. We—”

  His voice broke off suddenly, seeing Vukovic’s eyes flash a warning only moments before he heard Fournier’s voice from behind him.

  “David,” the station chief said, Lay turning to see him standing there a couple cubicles away, a folder in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

  It was a question that could have easily cut both ways. He hadn't expected to find Fournier still in the office at this late hour. Might not have come in person if he had. Not that he'd been left with much choice.

  “I heard about the bombing in Netanya. Thought I'd come in and see if I could offer any help,” he lied, using what he suspected was the reason for Fournier's own presence. Attacks in Israel were coming with distressingly greater frequency of late, most of them not large enough to warrant the presence of the chief of station. But it was his first day.

  And reason enough for him to be jealous of his turf if he chose to be, Lay thought, watching his face. Knowing only too well how this could backfire.

  “Then I'm sure we can find a way to make use of you,” Fournier replied finally, his smile only too obviously forced. “Vukovic, take care of this, will you? Make sure he gets set up.”

  “He knows something is going on, David,” the deputy station chief said, flipping on the light as he ushered Lay into the corner office. Casting a glance back over his shoulder as if to assure himself of Fournier's location. “He's known, and you showing up here tonight has only confirms his suspicions. He’s already asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Then by all means. . .keep an eye on me, Daniel,” Lay replied calmly, keeping his face neutral, unperturbed as he turned to face his former deputy. “And while you're at it, reach out to Fort Meade. See if you can get them to task an analyst or two to us for the night—Arabic-speakers, preferably. We're going to need all hands on deck for this one.”

  Vukovic just looked at him, shaking his head. He took a step closer to Lay, lowering his voice as he glanced back out at the station. “This is insane. We are running an op under the nose of the chief of freaking station. Do you understand the gravity of that? Do you?”

  “I do,” he replied, measuring his words carefully. Vukovic always had been the voice of caution, the legacy of a career spent in the Intelligence Directorate. He wasn’t comfortable with field operations under the most optimal of conditions, and no one was going to describe this day as anything close to “optimal.”

  “I don't think you do, David,” the deputy station chief shot back, his eyes flashing. “Or maybe you just don’t care. You’ve got your orders straight from Langley, you’re covered no matter how this goes down. My orders? They’re coming from someone who no longer has the authority to give them, so I’m the one whose butt is left hanging out in the wind.”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable concern, one he might even have given voice to himself if their situation had been reversed. Chain of command, authorization. . .accountability, it was everything in their business. Never more murky than now.

  But he didn’t have time for trepidation. No time to think about what could happen if they failed, because Vukovic wasn’t the only one going to be left holding the bag.

  “Just make the call, Dan,” he said after a long moment, staring into his former deputy’s eyes. “Do it now.”

  10:27 P.M.

  The reservoir outside Nir Am

  Israel

  “Comms check, all units,” Ariel breathed into the lip mic of his radio set—gazing across the still waters of the reservoir toward the scattered lights of the Gazan city of Beit Hanun, visible not even four kilometers distant.

  Just across the border.

  “Have you loud and clear, Keilah,” a man’s deep voice responded over his earpiece. “We’re two minutes out.”

  “There they are,” he heard Ze’ev say, glancing back toward the dark shadows of the kibbutz nestled on the low hill to the west, just then seeing headlights sweep across the night sky as they crested the rise—rolling down the access road toward the reservoir.

  A pair of dark SUVs pulling to a stop maybe twenty meters away, just alongside the cement escarpment leading down into the reservoir.

  The lights going out as a short, stockily-built man in civilian clothes pushed open the driver’s side door and stepped out—the familiar sight of an AKM assault rifle slung across his chest, its metal stock folded back along the receiver.

  Chaim Silbermann, Ariel thought, recognizing the figure of the IDF colonel as he advanced across the gravel, his right hand extended. More armed men disembarking from the vehicles behind him.

  “David,” Silbermann greeted warmly, an unnoticed shadow passing across Ariel’s face at the use of his birth name. It had been so long since anyone had used it. . .its very sound reminiscent of memories. None of them good.

  But that was how Silbermann had known him, long before, back in those days when they’d served together in Sayeret Duvdevan.

  Then, as this night, hunting the enemies of the Jewish state. “It’s been a long time, my old friend,” he responded, forcing a smile to his face as he clasped Silbermann’s hand in his own. “Too long.”

  “It has,” the man responded, a tight smile creasing his own lips as he glanced past Ariel, acknowledging Tzipporah’s presence with a nod. “Do you have a location for our target?”

  “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Ariel replied, turning to lead the way to the back of the vehicle—the rear door raised, weapons and clothing bearing the distinctive insignia of Hamas spread out on the floor. “Have your men put these on. I’ll explain en route.”

  10:52 P.M.

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv

  As of ten minutes before, the Kidon team was across the border, Shoham thought, bringing the cup of coffee to his lips as his eyes shifted across the map table. Re-acquainting himself with the terrain his men were going to be traversing.

  Open ground. Naked and bare. There wasn’t much cover there, on the very border of the Negev. It was only one of the factors that was going to make their lingering in the vicinity the more hazardous. Even with the Duvdevan team backing their play. It seemed only a few months before that Israeli television stations had spoken hopefully of peace. That newspaper headlines had borne the promise of an end to the violence which had consumed this land for so many decades.

  And now it all lay in ashes. As he had known it would, he thought—his eyes shadowed as he gazed at the map. Peace was a dream for those who knew nothing of man. And he knew far too much.

  “Sir,” he heard a voice exclaim from behind him, looking back to see a communications officer approach, taking off his headphones as he came, “we’ve intercepted radio communications between Damra’s compound and Fatah headquarters in Gaza City.”

  “And?”

  “The language they use is veiled, but as far as we can determine, they seem to be requesting official authorization for passage back across the border. A car to be sent to the compound to pick up a ‘guest.’”

  “How soon?”

  “Within the next ninety minutes.”

>   He swore softly, shaking his head. That was going to move their timeline up beyond anything they had anticipated. Force their hand.

  “Red-flash the Kidon team,” he said finally. “Make sure Ariel is made aware of these developments.”

  11:08 P.M.

  The United States Embassy

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  “Look, I understand the concerns the State Department has expressed about reading the Israelis in on any further such intercepts,” Lay replied, keeping his voice level with a mighty effort as he glared at the blank wall—the receiver of the Secure Telephone Unit pressed against his ear, “but this is why we have ECHELON in the first place. To give us an edge.”

  An edge the State Department themselves had been none too loathe to exploit over the years when it suited them, he thought ironically, a strange, bitter smile playing around the corners of his mouth. But now, with the peace process remaining little more than a cruel joke, State's people were getting skittish.

  “You've seen my authorization,” he continued, not giving the NSA officer time to butt in. “You know this is coming from the highest levels at Langley. The very highest. So are you going to give me what I need, or do I have to trouble my boss to speak to yours?”

  It would have been a more effective threat a few hours later, with both Tenet and General Hayden home with their families. Or, possibly, out to dinner.

  But those were hours he didn't have. So you rolled with what you had. Watched the dice tumble through the air.

  “All right,” the man said finally, seeming to let out a heavy sigh. “I'll authorize on-site access to our listening station in Haifa, brief them on what you're looking for so they can prepare for your arrival.”

  “I'll leave at once.”

  11:35 P.M.

  Near Beit Hanun

  The Gaza Strip

  This was going to have to be timed so precisely, Ariel thought, Shoham’s words running over and again through his mind as he stood there beside the vehicle—his binoculars trained over open fields toward the Fatah compound not three kilometers distant.