Fuse of Armageddon (16 page)

“You have knowledge, then, of the message of the Gospels?” Safady asked.

“I have studied the Gospels thoroughly,” Silver said.

“Have you raised money to support Israel, a land with a vibrant economy and a high standard of living?”

Silver was again very conscious of his situation. In the captivity of a Palestinian terrorist, deep in Palestinian territory. Yet all it would take was the review of one single show on his network and it would be obvious that Silver and his organization raised money to support Israel.

“Yes,” he said.

“And you agree Israel has a vibrant economy and a high standard of living?”

“Yes.”

“Then repeat it for the camera. Like this: ‘I have raised money to support Israel, a land with a vibrant economy and a high standard of living.’”

Silver did as directed.

“Would you have raised money and awareness to help Jews in concentration camps and ghettos during World War II?” Safady asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you aware of the poverty in Gaza? the low standard of living?”

“It . . . It is not something I consider,” Silver said, hardly speaking above a whisper.

“Have you raised any money to help Palestinians badly in need of hospitals or schools?”

“No,” Silver said. “Money is stolen from the people by the Palestinian leaders to finance their terrorist efforts and—”

Safady had stepped across the room and slapped Silver across the face. He bared his teeth. “Trust me, you are very close to death.”

Silver tasted blood.

Safady stepped back. “That part will be edited. Answer my question. Have you raised any money to help Palestinians badly in need of hospitals or schools?”

“No.” Silver’s cheek felt like it was swelling already.

“‘I have not raised any money to help Palestinians badly in need of hospitals or schools.’ Say it like that.”

Silver said it.

“Are you a racist?” Safady asked.

“No.”

“Do you love Jews more than Palestinians?”

Silver felt skewered. “The Jews . . .” He stopped himself from completing his sentence.
The Jews have a divine right to the land of Israel.
“I am commanded by Jesus to love my neighbor as myself.” This was true, though it didn’t necessarily mean Silver had been successful in following Christ’s directive.

Safady smiled. “Ah yes. Clothe the poor and feed the hungry. Welcome to Gaza—a land of opportunity for that.”

There wasn’t a question in this, so Silver held his silence.

“Is your God a racist?” Safady asked.

“What?” The question was so unexpected it startled Silver.

“Is your God a racist?”

“Of course not.”

“You are telling me that your God loves all people?”

Oddly, strains of childhood song drifted into Silver’s mind.
Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.

“God loves all people,” Silver said.

“Except Palestinians?” Safady asked, watching Silver with wolflike concentration.

“God loves Palestinians, too,” Silver said, knowing it would sound weak.

“But your God loves Jews more?”

Silver couldn’t bring himself to speak. God had His chosen people.

“I don’t hear you,” Safady said. “What is your answer? Your God loves Jews more than Palestinians?”

“No,” Silver whispered. “But He has chosen the Jews as His special people.”

“More special than Palestinians?”

“Except for His church, the believers.”

“The Palestinians who die in concentration camps should die because the Jews are special to Him and the Palestinians who have lost land to the Jews are not. And still you say God isn’t racist.”

“No.” Silver’s voice was low. “God is not racist.”

“Are you a racist?” Safady asked.

“No.”

“Tell me then which public figure has stated that the Palestinians are a tainted and brainwashed people.”

Silver didn’t answer.

“Did you say that?” Safady asked.

“Not in those words.”

Safady smiled. “Thank you. I’ve got a segment of one of your television shows where you say those exact words. I’ll be splicing it in at this point where you try to deny it. I think you’ve accomplished what I needed you to accomplish.” He stood again.

Silver expected another blow across the face.

Instead, Safady reached for the video camera and shut it off. “That’s enough for now. Soon enough, we’ll see how good you are at reversing this racism.”

Ben-Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv • 18:13 GMT


Quinn knew that Kate resented the fact he had been invited to the meeting; she’d told him so while removing his handcuffs. Twice. Just as she’d told him she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if he tried anything stupid. Then she’d allowed two Mossad agents to escort both of them to a meeting with Zvi Cohen.

Cohen opened a laptop and set it on the table. The screen brightened as he punched a few keys. Seconds later, an image became crisp, and he stepped back for Quinn and Kate to get a better view.

It showed two men in a warehouse setting, kneeling in front of the video camera, heads bowed in silent prayer. A Palestinian flag was mounted behind them. They looked like Americans. A masked gunman had the muzzle of an AK-47 pressed against the skull of the American on the left. Another stood to one side. The first gunman was joking in poor English about trying to kill the hostages with one bullet going through both skulls.

“We’ve identified the Americans as Neil Cain and Jesse Arnold. Both were part of a Christian tour group organized and hosted by evangelical Jonathan Silver. As an act of decency, I’ll skip through the next thirty seconds.” The screen blurred as Cohen moved through the digital images. “You should be proud of them as fellow Americans. They died with courage and dignity.”

When the images resumed play, there was Jonathan Silver with a Palestinian flag in the background. The video quality was good. Sunlight angled across his face, putting the left side in partial shadow. A machine-gun barrel was pressed against his temple, but the camera shot was tight enough to keep the gunman out of view.

“You recognize him, of course,” Cohen said.

“Yeah,” Kate said. “All those Sundays, shaking wallets for Jesus.”

On the laptop screen, Silver began to speak. “We have been taken hostage.” His head was down, making it obvious he was reading from a script. “There are thirty of us. Confirm with the guest list at the King David Hotel for our identities. The ransom demand will be announced by midnight. Please help us.”

The video clip ended.

“That’s it,” Cohen confirmed. “It arrived by e-mail, along with instructions for Quinn to negotiate on behalf of the Americans.”

“E-mailed to what address?” Quinn asked.

“I’d prefer not to tell you,” Cohen said. “Let’s just say I was startled that someone outside the Mossad had access to the address.”

“That tells us something.”

“It does.” Cohen didn’t elaborate.

“Background information to this point?” Quinn said.

“We’ve confirmed the disappearance of a busload of American tourists. Their last known location was Megiddo.”

Quinn paced a few steps. “Jonathan Silver. High-profile televangelist, right?”

“Right. I’ve got a complete background report with me.”

“Where was security?” Quinn asked.

“Had his own. We’ve been told there were six. All former marines. Top-notch men.”

“No reports of a firefight?”

“None.”

“They went down without a battle,” Quinn said. “Or it took place where no one knew about it. How were they moved?”

“By bus,” Cohen answered. “That’s the obvious answer.”

“You haven’t found the bus.”

“That tells us something too,” Cohen said. “The GPS locator on the bus had been disabled. This wasn’t done by typical Palestinian thugs.”

“No one has taken credit for this?” Quinn said.

“No,” Cohen said.

“Any idea why I was requested specifically?”

“No. But you will accept the request.” Not really a question.

”Conditionally,” Quinn said.

“You’re in no position to make conditions,” Kate snapped.

Cohen held up a hand to silence her.

“We set up base at CCTI, not Mossad.” If there was anything in Rossett’s office that would give some clue as to why he was taken or who took him, this was Quinn’s chance. More importantly, Quinn knew that hostage negotiating was exhausting. His own office had been designed to lessen the stress.

“At Mossad, we—”

“This could take days,” Quinn said. “I want a place that’s familiar to me. I can access CCTI computers and technology. It’s got sleeping quarters, shower facilities. You can reach me there instantly with anything you need to send from Mossad.”

Cohen didn’t agree immediately.

“Worried about losing control?” Quinn asked. “Don’t. You know how negotiation works. Rule one: I’m the go-between, not the decision maker. That’s you or whomever you choose.”

“At Mossad, we—”

“You’re going to risk thirty American lives in what’s going to be one of the highest-profile kidnappings over bureaucratic turf war? How’s that going to play in the media? You’ll have comparisons to Munich all over again.”

“Munich?” Kate said.

“The Bavarians and West Germans botched the Olympic hostage taking so badly that the hostages never had a chance.” Quinn looked at Cohen. “Right?”

“You’re threatening me.”

Quinn smiled. “Rule one in negotiation: gather as much information as possible before making a decision. I’m giving you the facts. You decide. And ask yourself if you’d rather have the Mossad or CCTI taking the fall if it all goes sour.”

“Anything else you want?” Cohen asked. Nobody reached the top of the Mossad with a lack of political smarts.

“What are the chances that you send Kate to a hotel for the duration?”

“I can answer that,” Kate said. No smile.

“Don’t bother,” Quinn said. “I think I can figure it out for myself.”

12

Sheikh Zuweid, Egypt • 19:22 GMT


Patterson stood beside Orphan Annie on the back of the truck, surrounded by goats. Wind plucked at his
kaffiyeh
, the black and white checked scarf that Palestinian men wore on their heads. The truck rattled ferociously at highway speed, headed the short distance on Highway 30 from Sheikh Zuweid to Rafah. The engine of the truck sounded like it was ready to throw a piston through the hood. Even so, Patterson imagined he could hear the thumping of his heart.

It was from fear.

They were only minutes from Rafah, the border crossing. So many unknowns lay ahead. None of the platoon knew the plan, only that they would learn details once inside Gaza. This was to protect all of them; if one or two were captured, they could not betray the platoon.

If they got inside Gaza.

The men were dressed as locals. They were bearded. The lighter haired among them had applied brown dye; those with blue eyes used dark contact lenses. At a glance, they passed for Palestinians. But only at a glance.

Except for Lieutenant Del Saxon, none spoke or understood Arabic. The first question to any of them by a border official would expose them, leading to certain arrest and all the questions that would follow. Their trail would be tracked backward to Afghanistan and all they had done there. In short, as mercenaries operating outside of the law, the Freedom Crusaders would face lengthy prison sentences or execution.

If they managed to get across the border, they were about to enter a state that was as lawless as the Old West. Tribal leaders measured power by the number of machine gun–toting bodyguards they could afford. Territories were divided among crime lords. Squabbling terrorist groups competed for notoriety. The only common thread in all of this was hatred for Israel, the United States, and by extension, all the West. Joe knew that if any of the Freedom Crusaders were captured by terrorists inside Gaza, the question was not whether he would be tortured but how long he could survive it.

Patterson’s fear was a rising whirlwind, and he calmed it by beginning to pray.

He reminded himself that they were Freedom Crusaders, doing God’s work.

Onward, Christian soldiers
 . . .

CCTI Headquarters, Tel Aviv • 19:24 GMT


“Nice digs,” Kate said to Quinn with a slight edge to her voice.

Cohen had taken a call on his cell, excused himself, and left her alone with Quinn in Quinn’s office at the CCTI building. Kate was standing at the doorway to a small suite attached to the office. Altogether, the office and suite were the size of a small apartment and decorated like a New York penthouse. Oversize leather couch, huge desk in the working space. From the doorway, she was looking at a small galley kitchen, knowing past it was a bathroom complete with glassed-in shower stall and sauna. Off the bathroom was a large walk-in closet, which looked like it had a month’s worth of wardrobe. She knew all this because she’d done an inspection, feeling a touch melodramatic as she made sure there were no windows for Quinn to exit if he tried to escape.

Her rational side told her that thirty lives depended on his negotiating skills, and in theory, a decent man wouldn’t try to escape custody and leave the thirty behind. But then again, in Vegas he had tortured a man to death in a way that was hideous beyond the imagination, let alone application, of someone remotely decent. Besides, she wanted him to know that she wasn’t about to let him out of her sight.

Quinn didn’t respond to her comment about his office suite, which added to her bad mood.

They
were
nice digs, but they didn’t seem to fit with what little she knew of Quinn’s personality. He didn’t strike her as an extravagant spender or someone stuck on luxuries. She’d have to work a year for what it cost to put this place together, and this blatant show of disposable income irritated her. Just as his lack of reply to her slightly nasty comment about it had.