Executive Power (31 page)

T
he last train for Washington D.C. left Penn Station at 10:05
P.M.
and arrived at Union Station at 1:20
A.M.
David had purchased the ticket earlier in the day with cash and then gone about preparing for the evening's focal point. With the Palestinian ambassador now dead, he was ready to move on to the next part of his plan. David regretted having to kill the two bodyguards, but there had been no other way. He tried to take comfort in the fact that their deaths would hopefully result in the birth of a nation.

After leaving the armory, David had calmly walked back to the Sheraton Hotel on Seventh Avenue, just a few blocks south of the Park. He had chosen the hotel for its proximity to the theater district, the main hub of tourist activity for New York. With so many visitors from all over America, and the rest of the world, it was effortless to come and go unnoticed.

Once up in his room David had sanitized the rifle one last time even though he had never touched the weapon without wearing gloves. Each piece was placed individually in large green garbage bags, wrapped tightly and then packed in the outside compartments of his wheeled suitcase. At 8:30 he left the hotel without bothering to check out. The room was under a credit card and would be billed automatically. He'd spied several construction Dumpsters on 52nd Street earlier in the day and he headed west in search of them.

As he approached the first Dumpster he checked to see who was about and then casually unzipped one of the outer compartments of the black wheeled case. When he passed under the scaffolding that protected pedestrians from falling debris he found himself alone. David hurriedly threw two of the plastic bags into the cavernous receptacle. A moment later he found himself standing next to the second Dumpster. Quickly he chucked the other two bags up and over the side, where they landed with a thud at the bottom.

David continued west and caught a cab on Ninth Avenue. He placed his suitcase in the trunk and then settled into the cramped backseat. The cabbie asked him where to and was visibly disappointed when David told him Penn Station rather than one of the airports. David settled in for the short ride and ignored the recorded voice of some celebrity he'd never heard of telling him to buckle his seat belt. The easy part was over. Now he had to go to Washington and execute the most difficult aspect of his plan.

M
itch Rapp had seen the president in various states of anger, but this morning he appeared to be especially upset. Michael Haik, the president's national security advisor, had put out the word. President Hayes wanted everyone at the White House by 7:00
A.M.
sharp. Kennedy had brought along Rapp and CTC Director Jake Turbes. She made it clear to both of them that she wanted them to keep a low profile during the initial meeting with the president's national security team. The information that the CTC had collected would be discussed later when the group was of a more manageable size.

The large conference table in the Cabinet Room was surrounded by brown leather chairs, each of them exactly alike with the exception of one. The president's chair had a higher back and was placed in the middle of the table so that he was the focus of attention. This morning, with his strained face and clenched jaw, he was very much the center of attention. Bloodshed in the Middle East was one thing, it wasn't good, it wasn't acceptable, but it wasn't a surprise either. The assassination of a foreign ambassador in New York City along with two of his bodyguards was absolutely shocking and unacceptable.

President Hayes listened to FBI Director Roach relay the facts surrounding the assassination of the ambassador. When Roach was done the president tapped his pen on a legal pad for a few seconds and then asked in a very disappointed tone, “That's all we know?”

Director Roach, the consummate professional, looked back at the president stoically and admitted, “For now, that's all we have, sir.”

In an unusually testy tone Hayes replied, “I learned that much reading the
Post
this morning.” Dismissing the FBI director with a shake of his head, Hayes looked one person over to Roach's boss, Attorney General Richard Lloyd. “Dick, I want this case solved, and I want it solved in a timely manner.” The president stared at his old friend and added, “I don't care what it takes. Find out who did this and put them on trial and do it quickly.”

The president then shifted his gaze back in the other direction and settled on Irene Kennedy. Rapp watched all of this from a few chairs down. The president was sitting with his back to the window; his national security advisor, Michael Haik, on his left and his chief of staff, Valerie Jones, on his right. Across the table and next to the attorney general were Secretary of State Beatrice Berg and Secretary of Defense Rick Culbertson.

Hayes kept his eyes fixed on Kennedy, his agitation clearly visible in the way he tensed his jaw. “What have the Israelis had to say about this?”

Kennedy was prepared for the question. If the president wanted to know what the Israeli response was to the killings, he would have asked Secretary of State Berg. Instead he'd asked the director of the CIA, which meant he wanted to know what Mossad had to say about the assassination. She'd already spoken to Ben Freidman three times, and on each occasion he had vociferously denied having had anything to do with it.

“Sir, Director General Freidman denies categorically that Mossad had a hand in what happened last night.”

The president looked doubtful. “Why should I believe him?”

The question could be answered in many ways, none of them good. Freidman had wasted what little trust the president had in him, and Kennedy doubted there was anything she could say or do that could rebuild the damage. She would have preferred to stay quiet on the issue, but the president wanted an answer. “I don't think Mossad would risk doing something this brazen.”

“And why's that?” asked Hayes.

“Simple cost-benefit, sir. Killing Ambassador Ali gains them very little and as we are sure to see as the day progresses … it will cost them greatly in the international community.”

“That line of reasoning would work if they actually gave a rat's ass what the international community thought, but as we saw with the attack on Hebron over the weekend … I'm not so sure they much care what the rest of the world thinks.”

Valerie Jones nodded. “I would agree.”

Several other people seconded her opinion. Secretary of State Beatrice Berg, however, dissented. “I don't see it that way. They might think very little of the UN, but they certainly care what we think.”

The president immediately turned his attention back to Kennedy. “Everyone here is familiar with what Israel says took place in Hebron over the weekend, correct?” All the attendees nodded. Hayes turned his gaze on Kennedy. “Now, Irene, would you please share with the rest of group what really happened.”

Kennedy sighed ever so slightly. This was compartmentalized information and she had no desire to disseminate it to the various agencies represented in the room. She knew, though, that any attempt to try to convince the president otherwise would be useless. Reluctantly, she began. “Through assets on the ground and reconnaissance photographs we have discovered that there was no bomb-making factory in Hebron.” Kennedy looked through her glasses at the confused expressions of the other high-level officials. “The damage that was done was not caused by a secondary explosion.”

“Then what in the hell was it caused by?” asked Secretary of Defense Culbertson.

After a brief hesitation, Kennedy said, “Sixteen Hellfire missiles were fired into the neighborhood.”

With a confused frown on his face Culbertson asked, “Why?”

“That's the million-dollar question,” replied the president in an unfriendly tone.

“Well … what does Freidman have to say about all of this?”

The president leaned back in his chair and looked to Kennedy for the answer.

“He's sticking with their story that there was a bomb-making factory.”

“How sure are we,” asked Secretary of State Berg, “that there was no bomb factory … that all of the damage was caused by the missiles?”

“The evidence is pretty clear-cut.”

“How clear-cut?”

Kennedy thought about the satellite images and the reports she'd received from their people on the ground. She normally preferred to avoid going too far out on a limb but on this one she felt confident. “I'd say the evidence we have convincingly contradicts the story that is being put out by the Israeli government.”

“So what you're telling us,” interjected Culbertson, “is that we can't trust what our only ally in the region is telling us.”

The president nodded. “That about sums it up. Beatrice, what does the Israeli ambassador have to say about last night?”

Berg had not called Prime Minister Goldberg nor had she called the Israeli ambassador. In the skilled game of diplomacy the higher-ups avoided asking questions of each other that might force lies to be told. So one of Berg's underlings had called the deputy chief of mission for an unofficial response to the assassination of the Palestinian ambassador. The ambassador's number-two man had dismissed any involvement by Israel as ludicrous. This was only the first round and the answer was expected. As the drama unfolded, tougher questions would be put to people with more weighty titles.

“The embassy,” started Berg, “is saying exactly what we'd expect them to say.”

“That they had no involvement,” answered the president.

Berg nodded.

“Irene,” asked the president, “what do we know about Ali? Is there any reason that we know of why the Israelis would want him killed, or more precisely why Ben Freidman would want him killed?”

“As with all things between the Israelis and the Palestinians, there is ample motive. Ali grew up in Gaza and was an active member in the terrorist group Force 17 and then later with the PLO. The Israelis claim that like Arafat, he was a terrorist and still is a terrorist. More recently there have been accusations of fund-raising for the martyr brigades and some questionable acquaintances with people who run in the wrong circles.”

“What kind of circles?” asked Hayes.

“People who deal in arms trafficking.”

Valerie Jones, who had been quiet up until now, asked, “Is that information we collected on our own, or intelligence that was provided by the Israelis?”

“That's information we gathered through our own sources.”

“So,” began the president, “do you see anything in Ali's recent history that would warrant Mossad wanting to kill him?”

The president was fixated on Freidman, and Kennedy couldn't really blame him. Despite Freidman's denials, Kennedy had been thinking quite a bit about the possibility that he had ordered the assassination of Ali. There were many logical reasons why Freidman should not have ordered such a bold move, but on the other hand, recently he had proven to be increasingly unpredictable and brazen. The president was looking to Kennedy for an answer and she settled on an honest if somewhat cautious course.

“A year ago, sir, I would have not thought Ben Freidman capable of such a drastic move, but today I'm not so sure.” Kennedy hesitated for a moment as if she were about to say something else and then stopped.

The president picked up on this and said, “What is it?”

“I'm trying to step back and see the big picture from the Israelis' point of view. It's been a bloody couple of years for them. The homicide bombers have taken a massive toll in both life and morale. Israel already receives almost no support from the international community, so in that regard they risk almost nothing. They could be expanding the war … an extension of their attitude that if you hit them they will hit you back even harder.”

President Hayes nodded. “Hit the Palestinians where they feel safest, and keep them off balance.”

Kennedy shrugged. “It's a possibility. One that I think is a bit of a stretch, but a possibility.”

Hayes seemed to like this line of thinking. It gave him something he could get his hands around to explain why Freidman would do something so reckless. In a final effort to draw out any disagreement, Hayes asked, “Can anyone right now come up with a suspect other than Mossad?”

Rapp had been listening keenly to the discussion, and despite his complete lack of faith in Ben Freidman, he thought there were quite a few other possibilities that should be explored. He also knew a few things that the others didn't, but under orders from Kennedy he was to keep his opinions to himself until they were alone with the president.

P
rime Minister Goldberg had never in his life felt so beleaguered. This was worse than the Yom Kippur War, when he had been surrounded by Syrian forces and shelled until his ears bled, and ordered by his commanders to hold his position until a counterattack could be mounted. He had hung on for three days without sleep. He and his men were fighting a much larger Syrian force in a bloody battle for the Golan Heights. The counterattack eventually arrived and an angry Israeli army threw the Syrians back across the border and closed to within spitting distance of Damascus.

Then the United States and the Soviet Union had stepped in and tried to separate the belligerents like fighting children on a playground. Goldberg would never forget the lesson he learned in 1973, and that was to never trust his Arab neighbors. They had attacked on the holiest Jewish holiday of the year, when Israelis were either at home or in their synagogues praying. For the first three days they had hammered the Jewish people, and then when the Israeli army regrouped and pushed both the Egyptians and the Syrians back across their borders, the Arabs screamed for international intervention. They launched a sneak attack and then whined for peace and of course wanted their land back even though thousands of Israelis lay dead.

Under the pressure of an Arab oil embargo the United States had forced Israel to pull back and concede much of the land they had captured in a war they did not start. How many times did the world have to see proof that Arabs could not be trusted? It frustrated Goldberg to no end that the leaders of Europe refused to see things as they were. It saddened him deeply that despite everything his people had been through on that cursed continent that they did not come to the aid of Israel. All Goldberg wanted for his people was a safe place to live. And if things weren't already bad enough having to deal with suicidal Palestinians and bigoted heads of state, he now had to contend with dissenters within his own government.

He was tired. The years of leading the fight had taken their toll and Goldberg's energy was beginning to wane. At the rate things were going there was a good chance he wouldn't survive the week without being subjected to a vote of no confidence. To start with, the UN and a healthy number of his cabinet members were up in arms over the events in Hebron, and now someone had assassinated the Palestinian ambassador in New York City.

One of Goldberg's aides had briefed him on the assassination during breakfast, and his private reaction to the news had been one of desperate fear. The very first person who came to mind was his old friend, and the director general of Mossad, Ben Freidman. Goldberg had been asking himself all day if Freidman was capable of launching such a disastrous operation on his own. The answer was a startling
yes,
which made him all the more uncomfortable with the meeting that was about to take place. The prime minister would have preferred to let the problem fade away. There was enough bloodshed in the Palestinian–Israeli conflict that the ambassador's death would fade to the background sooner than one would think, but unfortunately, for the next month or two, things were sure to get worse. It was still early in America, but Goldberg had no doubt that as the day progressed President Hayes, or more likely Secretary of State Berg, would be on the phone demanding assurances that Israel had had no hand in the brutal act.

Goldberg was tempted to bury his head in the sand, but that would be foolish and contrary to his character. He needed the truth from Freidman and then after that he could decide what to say to the Americans. He ran a frustrated hand through his thin white hair and looked at his wall clock. It was approaching 2:30 in the afternoon. Freidman was late, which was not a surprise. The head of Mossad came and went as he wished.

 

It was a few minutes later that Freidman finally arrived to find a nervous prime minister sitting behind his desk. Freidman knew what this was about. He was the prime suspect in the assassination of Ambassador Ali. In contrast to the prime minister's suit, Freidman was dressed casually in slacks and a loose-fitting, short-sleeved dress shirt. As always, the shirt was untucked to conceal the .38-caliber revolver he carried in a belt holster at the small of his back. Freidman never went anywhere without it.

Slowly, he lowered himself into one of the two armchairs opposite Goldberg's desk. The beleaguered expression on his friend's face did not go unnoticed. “David, you do not look good.”

Goldberg had the type of face that had surrendered to gravity almost completely. It was hard to believe that this roly-poly man had served in combat. He shook his head, heavy jowls sagging. “I am in the fight of my life.”

Freidman interpreted this comment as the exaggeration of a politician who had lost perspective. In a voice void of any compassion or sympathy, Freidman said, “This is nothing.”

Looking up under hooded eyes, Goldberg studied the supremely confident head of Mossad and felt a bit of anger spark from within. “Maybe you haven't noticed lately, Ben, but my cabinet is about to fall apart. The UN is screaming for inspectors to be sent into Hebron and after what happened in New York last night, it's a foregone conclusion that they will pass a resolution.”

“And you can tell them to stick their resolution—”

Goldberg slammed his fist down on his desk, cutting Freidman off. “I will be able to tell them no such thing,” he yelled, “because I will no longer be prime minister! Thanks to you I will be long gone before the first inspector arrives.”

“You're exaggerating,” responded Freidman with a disgusted shake of his head.

“Exaggerating,” snapped Goldberg. “I'm doing no such thing. You have gotten me into this mess due to your overzealous actions in Hebron!”

“Don't criticize me for being
overzealous.
The whole reason you were elected was because the Israeli people wanted someone who would be overzealous.”

“You didn't need to level the whole damn neighborhood,” Goldberg shot back.

“Yes I did!” screamed Freidman. “Remember Falid Al-Din? We sent a missile right into his car, and he walked away. I wasn't going to make that mistake again.”

“So you destroyed an entire neighborhood!”

“You're damn right I did! This is a war!”

Goldberg let out a frustrated sigh and through gritted teeth said, “I know it's a war, but there are other issues to consider.”

“Like what?”

“Like our allies.”

“You mean our allies who firebombed Dresden and Tokyo and then dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?” Freidman stared back at the prime minister with righteous conviction. They'd had this discussion many times before and their views were identical. “War is ugly, and sometimes you save more lives in the long run by being more brutal than your enemy. We should expel every Palestinian from the occupied territories and not allow them back until every major Arab state signs a peace treaty with us … and damn the international community.”

The prime minister shook his head. “You know better than that. The political will to launch such an operation isn't there.”

“Why don't we find out?”

Goldberg was angry at himself for getting so far off track. Freidman had once again shown that he was willing to go to great lengths to get what he wanted.
Maybe,
Goldberg thought,
he would even be so devious as to put me in a position where I had no choice but to lash out.
He looked hard at the director general of Mossad and wondered just how far he'd go to get what he wanted. The answer, he knew, was that he would go very far indeed.

“Look me in the eye and tell me what role you had in the death of the Palestinian ambassador.”

It was easy to offend some people, but not Ben Freidman. Goldberg might as well have asked him what he'd had for lunch. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Ali's murder.”

Goldberg searched for some hint that his old friend was lying to him. After only a second or two he knew it was a worthless exercise. He'd seen the man on too many occasions lie with the same impunity as he told the truth. “Did Mossad have anything to do with the ambassador's death?”

Freidman shook his head. “I might be crazy, David, but I am not stupid. Why would I be so dumb as to kill the Palestinian ambassador to the UN while he is in America?” He frowned dismissively. “I do not mourn Ali's death. He was a two-bit thug dressed up as a diplomat. He's in Ramallah almost every month. If I wanted him dead there would be easier ways to do it, with far fewer repercussions.”

These words had the opposite effect on Goldberg than he had intended. Through Freidman's defense the prime minister glimpsed the very reason why he might have thought he could get away with killing the ambassador. Sound-minded people would eventually decide that the director general of Mossad would never risk offending the Americans when he could simply kill the ambassador when he was visiting the West Bank. Now Goldberg was truly worried. What if one of his closest advisors was working behind the scenes to provoke an all-out war?

Freidman could tell that Goldberg was not buying his denial. In a more ingratiating tone, he said, “I promise you, David, I had nothing to do with this. I have already spoken to Director Kennedy and she believes Ali's assassination may have something to do with a business deal gone bad.” Freidman was stretching the truth a bit, but felt it was needed.

Goldberg gave him a skeptical look. “What kind of business deal?”

“Ali has been known to deal in arms from time to time.”

“Weapons?”

“Yes.” Freidman was happy to see this seemed to give the prime minister some hope.

“And you say the Americans knew about these activities?”

“Yes, as do the French, British, Germans, Russians and I'm sure quite a few other intelligence agencies.”

“I would like to see Ali's file as soon as possible and give the Americans everything we have on him.”

“It's already in process.”

Goldberg felt a little bit better, but he still had the Hebron disaster to contend with. “Assuming we are fortunate enough to be cleared of any wrongdoing in Ali's death, it will still be too late to help us with the Hebron thing. With the current political mood the UN is sure to vote for inspectors by today or tomorrow.”

“Have the United States stall.”

“They won't. Not right now.”

“Then just deny the inspectors access.”

Goldberg had already thought it through and discussed it with his closest political advisors. Dejectedly he replied, “I can't. It would be political suicide. My cabinet would fall apart, and I'd get a noconfidence vote within twenty-four hours.”

Freidman knew he was right, but wasn't willing to give in so easily. The two men sat in silence, both of them trying to find a way out of this complicated mess. Freidman had come up with only one option when his thoughts were interrupted by a muffled rumble coming from outside the building. Both he and the prime minister got to their feet and went to the window, just as another explosion was heard in the distance. Unfortunately, this was a noise that they had become all too familiar with.

Within minutes, reports were streaming into the prime minister's office. Three suicide bombs had gone off within minutes of each other. Two in West Jerusalem and one in Tel Aviv. The damage and death toll was unknown, but expected to be high. Emergency response teams were at each site and searching frantically to make sure no other bombs were set to explode. It was a new and particularly evil trick of the martyr brigades to set secondary devices to detonate later and kill the paramedics who rushed to the scene to help the victims.

Freidman grabbed Goldberg by the elbow and led him into a corner out of earshot from his aides. “This is your opportunity.”

“How could this be an opportunity?”

“Send in the army and declare a curfew on Hebron. Secure the area and leave the rest up to me. By the time the UN inspectors arrive there will be ample evidence of a bomb-making factory. You will stifle the critics in your cabinet and the UN will be appeased.”

Goldberg thought about it for a second, then slowly began to nod. It was his only option. It was war, and in war the truth was almost always the first casualty.