Fuse of Armageddon (15 page)

“Tiger Woods. Over.”

“Proceed,” Joe said. “Over.”

Joe was already certain what the next command would be. The sounds of a firefight had been clear in the night air. Though he guessed it hadn’t been much of a fight but more of a slaughter.

Despite the all-day heat he’d endured, Patterson was grateful he’d been given the task of watching the heifer. He was tired of seeing men die, even Muslims. The briefness of the sounds of the firefight told him that the ambush had worked perfectly, and the voice on his walkie-talkie confirmed it.

“Zero casualties, Joe. Orphan Annie is clear to return. Over.”

That told Joe that Lieutenant Saxon was not nearby. Earlier, when Saxon overheard a few of the men refer to the heifer by the nickname, he had reamed them savagely. Joe and the others had wondered why Saxon seemed to care so much about this heifer. They joked that perhaps it reminded the lieutenant of an old girlfriend.

“Understood. Over.”

Joe untied the halter from a stake in the ground and patted the heifer on the head. He led the heifer down the gully, using his flashlight to check the terrain. The last thing he needed was for something to spook the animal. It had been carefully hobbled, with padding around its legs to protect its hide from chafing against the restraints. But if something spooked it and it tried to bolt, those same hobbles might put it on its side.

As he approached the shipping container at the edge of the dump, the sound of the bulldozer became apparent. When he rounded the last bend, he saw that temporary floodlights had been set up.

Two small livestock trucks were parked beside the container. The flatbed in back had high rails to keep goats inside.

In the background, one of the soldiers was at the controls of the bulldozer. He was about to use the massive blade to push bodies of the Muslim dead into a deep hole scooped in the garbage at the end of the dump.

Joe took a deep breath. By the position of the bodies, it was obvious that the Muslim men had been herded into a small semicircle before a rapid execution.

He briefly closed his eyes and replayed the sight of the commercial airliners crashing into the Twin Towers on 9/11. That’s what it took before each new killing—a reminder of what they had done to America. It was getting more difficult, however, to ignore his conscience.

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 17:59 GMT


“How many people have become Christians because of your preaching?” Safady asked Silver.

Silver sat on a small stool in front of a video camera on a tripod. Behind him was a large Palestinian flag as a backdrop. He was acutely aware of the similarities between the setup in this room and the warehouse where the hostages had first been taken in the bus, the warehouse where Neil Cain and his companion had been left behind to be executed. He flicked his eyes at this flag, licking his lips, desperate to find some moisture. He had already provided this madman a hostage plea. Was it now his turn to be executed? “It’s not because of me,” Silver protested. “No man can ever take credit for another person’s decision to follow Christ. That glory belongs to the Holy Spirit.”

In this moment, Silver did not find it ironic that it was the first time he’d deflected personal glory in this way. He was too concerned with self-preservation for musings like that, given that the murderous lunatic in front of him still gripped his pistol and had taken Silver into a room away from the other hostages.

“How many people have become Christians because of your university?” Safady asked.

“It’s not my university.”

“You founded Freedom Christian University. You are the chancellor. Your Christian television network is broadcast from a studio there. And you deny it is yours?”

“I’m a figurehead,” Silver said, denying for the first time in his life that it was his university.

“You are a dog.” Safady spit in Silver’s face.

The spittle burned against Silver’s cheek, but he didn’t dare wipe it. Safady’s eyes were intense with hatred, and Silver believed a single wrong move or wrong word would incite his immediate execution. If it wasn’t already determined. Conscious of this camera, Silver lifted his head and straightened his hair by running his fingers through it.

“You are going to answer some questions for me about your faith,” Safady said. “Make sure you defend it well. The entire world will hear what you have to say.”

Ben-Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv • 18:01 GMT


Kate Penner stood in an office somewhere in what felt like the bowels of the airport. Security men had assured her that Quinn would be under guard—the same security men who had hustled them off the El Al passenger jet.

When the door opened, the first thing she noticed about the man who entered was his black aviator glasses, then the full, dark hair that seemed younger than the lines on his face. He was in great shape, obvious even in the suit the guy was wearing, which probably cost as much as Kate made in a month. Kate hated him immediately for the obvious money and for trying to look like a man a decade younger than he was. She would have made a bet he was fifty and recently divorced. He had that air about him, a subtle stance that she was far too tired of observing. The fifty-year-olds who were wannabe forties always hit on women her age, like thirty was perfect for them—old enough to be respectable and young enough not to be used up yet.

He had strolled in as though he owned the airport, file folder in his left hand, his right hand outstretched for greeting, as smooth as if he’d been taught the move in Dale Carnegie.

“Zvi Cohen,” he said. “I’m head of Israel’s Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.”

“Why not just say Mossad?” Kate said, refusing to reach across and shake hands.

“Very well,” Cohen answered. “I’m head of the Mossad.”

“To me, you’re just a security guard until you show me some identification that proves otherwise.” Kate glared at the man.

“You are aware of the role that the Mossad plays in Israel.”

She was. The Mossad was like the CIA but with a reputation for more efficiency, secrecy, and ruthlessness. The Mossad had more power and more secrets than any other intelligence agency in the world. The institute’s methods of interrogation were brutal—including, it was rumored, torture. A rational person would feel a certain amount of fear in this situation. If she disappeared, the Mossad wouldn’t have to answer for it. But the fact that he was trying to intimidate her just made her more stubborn. She knew it was a character flaw, but she’d learned to live with it.

“Nevertheless,” she said, “I need identification.”

“Identification?” he said. “Like a police badge?”

“We don’t talk unless you prove you are who you say you are,” Kate answered. “Are all of you this dense?”

“Remarkable,” he said, “how quickly you’ve proven to be exactly what I thought you’d be after reviewing our file on you.”

“ID.” Kate ignored the change in conversation he’d attempted. She was enjoying this. She had no doubt he was the head of the Mossad, but she wanted to see how far she could push. That would give her an indication of how much leverage she had. Whatever was happening was obviously important, and if it was going to involve her, she wanted to know where she stood.

“The fact that I was able to get a commercial jet to turn back after takeoff doesn’t prove anything to you?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear you make the call, did I?”

He sighed and snapped open his cell. After punching a couple of buttons, he barked a few sentences in a language she didn’t understand and snapped the phone shut. “I’m having it faxed to the airport.”

“With photo?”

He snapped open his cell again and barked another command, then hung up.

“With photo,” he said. “Satisfied?”

“Only if it gets here in less than sixty seconds. More time than that, someone could be doctoring a set of papers.”

Cohen reached into his file folder. He handed two sheets to Kate. “Perhaps, then, you’ll read this while we wait.”

Kate shrugged and accepted the papers.

He continued. “Putting it together in the last hour isn’t quite as impressive as ordering a passenger jet back to the airport, but it’s close.”

“I see,” Kate said. It was a background file on her. Extremely thorough. If it had been done in the past hour, as Cohen claimed, it was impressive intelligence work.

“You really break the jaw of the mayor of Vegas?” he asked.

“One punch,” Kate said, anger at the memory overriding her determination to keep yanking his chain until the fax arrived. “Time and the facts proved me right. You’ll notice the mayor is gone and I’m not.” She handed back the papers.

“Despite your belligerence,” Cohen said, “you would be the type of agent I’d appreciate in the Mossad. Remarkable what you put together on Quinn as a cop working alone with limited resources.”

“Think that fax will be here in the next thirty seconds?”

“Had you been one of our agents, you’d have discovered that the Muslim you found murdered at the Hoover Dam is part of a far larger picture,” Cohen said. “Would it interest you to know that since then, fifteen others across the United States have been found dead in the same way? Crosses made of the torn poster of the Dome of the Rock stapled to their backs. Drowned in pig’s blood.”

Kate blinked. Quinn? A multiple killer? Or a copycat? Or maybe, as Quinn had quietly said in Acco, there was another explanation.

Cohen smiled like he knew he had her. Which he did.

“Of course it interests you,” he said. “All of them were Red September terrorists. The media loves the whole Red September thing, but what’s always been top secret are the names of the terrorists in that group. Strange how so many Red September were not only identified but ended up dead in your country. Lynched, so to speak. You would call that strange, right?”

“Until I see identification, I won’t even agree with you that the sun rises in the east.”

“You don’t want to know more about those deaths?” He smiled as he studied her, stroking his chin. She hated chin strokers. And the dark sunglasses. He probably thought he was James Bond. “We can make a trade. No one in your country has pulled together what we have.”

“You’ve put Mossad agents into the States?” she asked, not surprised.

“Trade with me.”

Kate leaned forward. “Maybe.”

“Not too concerned about my identification anymore, are you?”

“Never was.”

“Good. The fax I promised was a bluff anyway.”

“Take your glasses off,” Kate said. “If we’re going to talk, I don’t want you hiding.”

That was a lie. She cared more about keeping the upper hand than seeing his eyes. She figured he didn’t like taking orders from anyone, let alone a woman. But if the smug smooth talker was going to rake in the pot and throw his cards on the table to brag about his bluff with the fax, she was going make him pay.

He let out a breath and removed his aviators.

“What’s the trade?” Kate asked, hiding her own satisfaction.

“Quinn. We want him.”

“No way. I’m only here to escort him back to the States. Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the authority to stop the extradition process.”

“You can delay it for a few days. That’s all we want—two days. Perhaps three, depending on how the situation unfolds.”

“I don’t have that authority.”

“You have an excuse instead. It’s been filed that the plane turned back for a medical emergency. His. The doctor’s report is being prepared as we speak. You can fax it back to the States. No one would reprimand you for waiting until a prisoner was medically able to travel.”

“I don’t know,” Kate said. Of course she knew. She’d make the trade. But she wanted as much as she could get.

“I’ve seen your résumé,” Cohen said. “This would be a minor act of insubordination for you.”

“I’m in the process of reforming.”

“Do you want to reform badly enough to let thirty American hostages die on Palestinian soil?”

He was serious. She could see that.

“A video reached us about an hour ago,” Cohen continued. “And it was specific. The terrorists have demanded Quinn as the negotiator, or the hostages are dead by midnight.”

“You could have told me this as soon as you walked into the room.”

“You’ll give us Quinn?”

“One condition,” she said. “I shadow him the whole time. And I want a couple of sets of handcuffs for him.”

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 18:04 GMT


“Speak directly into the camera,” Safady told Silver. “This isn’t going to be like your pitiful begging earlier for the world to save you and the rest of the hostages. You’d better be ready to defend yourself. And be sure to give the correct answers. Untruthfulness will result in death.”

“Correct?” Silver said. “Who decides if the answers are correct? You?”

Safady smiled and answered simply, “The truth shall set you free.”

Silver was sitting on a stool and hoped he could control the spasms of his stomach. He swallowed a few times, then nodded and said, “I’m ready.”

The lens of the video camera seemed like the dark hole of a small cannon pointed directly at his head. A phrase echoed through Silver’s mind.
Propaganda video.

“You claim you are a Christian,” Safady said. “Is that true?”

Silver was in a land where people were stabbed, shot, or burned for the wrong ideology. He wanted to deny it so badly that he felt like weeping. He thought of Peter, weeping after denying the Christ three times before the rooster crowed.

Did Silver want to do the same? Escape seemed unlikely, and Silver had been on the air almost daily for three decades, proclaiming messages in the name of Jesus. If he was going to die no matter what he answered, did he want his final words on earth to be a denial of this?

Please, Jesus,
he silently prayed,
just once in my life, help me be courageous.

Slowly Silver spoke. “It is true I am a Christian.”

Saying it gave him strength of sorts. He squared his shoulders. Yes! He did believe in Christ as the Savior. If he was going to die, he was going to be proud of defending his faith.