Fuse of Armageddon (52 page)

Kate caught her breath as a spasm wracked her upper body.

Yeah, death was that much closer.

She wanted to pray.

She wanted to believe.

But how could she? All her life, she’d been told about God the Father. There was a cruelty in that. God, the loving Father, when every time she heard the word
father
she had an emotional recoil. How could she trust any father after her childhood?

She saw it again, as if the conversation were happening this instant. Quinn’s pain and anger and resolution. And his deep, deep sorrow.

Yes, that was a father’s love that could be trusted. If she could believe God held that same kind of love for her . . .

Maybe she could pray.

Outside Jerusalem • 21:19 GMT


Cohen had taken advantage of his security clearance and the speed of his BMW to reach Highway 1 to Tel Aviv. His cell phone rang. His private cell. Not many knew the number.

Cohen turned down his music. Mozart. A majestic piece.

With no foreboding, he answered on the third ring.

“Zvi,” the caller said. “It’s your CIA friend. You might remember a conversation we had once. Over dinner and wine. At a seafood restaurant in Yafo.”

Couldn’t be,
Cohen thought. What he said was, “This line isn’t secure.”

“Does it need to be? We’re old friends.”

Cohen realized he was pressing his cell phone hard against his head. “Are we old friends?”

“You mean maybe I’m using some kind of computer trick to re-create a voice pattern to fool you.”

“Are we old friends?” Cohen repeated.

“June 1992,” his caller said. “I find you in a hotel room, drunk and singing Elvis songs.”

“I still owe you for keeping that from my wife. Correction, ex-wife.”

“From the beginning,” the CIA man said, “I’ve known that Kevin was feeding you information.”

“Kevin . . . ?”

Traffic was sparse. The taillights of a few distant cars ahead. Headlights of another about a half mile back. With Mozart, in a BMW that kept highway noise to a hush, it would have been a peaceful drive. With this conversation, it was anything but.

“Don’t play games,” the caller said. “Think I don’t have a pipeline into the Mossad, too? Only I wouldn’t have used it to put Quinn on a platter.”

“Spell it out, then.” This was classic interrogation technique, the caller implying that he knew a lot, waiting to see what would be revealed. Cohen was essentially calling his bluff. Or assessing damage.

“Gaza Strip. The Iranian connection. Fawzi. Kevin fed you enough to pass on the time and location of the hostage exchange to Safady. And he fed it to you early enough that Safady could get to Zayat and try the botched attempt on Quinn.”

Cohen didn’t answer.

“Acco,” the caller continued. “Same thing. You had intel early enough to set it up for Safady. Did Kevin also supply the coordinates for the GPS locator to make sure Safady’s men could find him easier?”

A pipeline into the Mossad, too.
This was big damage. If the CIA knew this much about Acco, then his source deep inside the Mossad wasn’t a bluff.

“What do you want from me?” Cohen asked.

“You broke our deal,” the caller said. “Quinn wasn’t supposed to be part of this.”

“Safady wouldn’t do it any other way. We needed Safady to get IDF special forces to the Temple Mount. I did the math. It made Quinn expendable.”

“Obviously the American cop and Kevin are expendable too.”

“What do you mean?” But Cohen’s scalp prickled.

“You drove them into the Old City. I noticed they weren’t in your car on the way out. We both know what’s going to happen to the Muslim Quarter. If you left them there, you left them there to die.”

“What do you want from me?” Cohen said once again. He’d been under surveillance? Suddenly, the emptiness of the highway seemed dangerous.

“With all those connections to erase,” the caller said, “isn’t it too bad you missed one?”

“Look, you’re the one who helped plan this. You’re the one who connected me to Safady. There’s just as much fallout on you if you take this public.”

“You’re Mossad. And you have a secret order from the prime minister. Who’s going to suffer more damage if this gets out?”

“You’ve made your point,” Cohen said. This would be a disaster for the Mossad. For the entire government. That’s why he’d needed to obliterate any connections to himself and, by extension, any connections to the Mossad. “Last time. What do you want from me?”

“Just wanted to call.”

“You’ve got leverage on me,” Cohen said. “You’ll be safe.”

“Like Quinn was?”

“That was different. Nearly everything is going as planned. Even after Quinn went to IDF. The operation is less than an hour away from success. You’ll get what you promised your people. There’s no reason to get you out of the way.”

“No reason anymore. You tried once”

“Point made again,” Cohen said. “But you would have played it the same way if you were in my position. It’s not personal.”

“Of course.” A pause. “Look in your rearview mirror.”

Cohen glanced back. The car behind him had moved closer. Now the headlights flicked to high beam, then back to low beam. His caller was behind him.

Instinctively, Cohen accelerated. His BMW was a 700 series. It would be hard to catch on this road.

“Just so you know,” the caller said, “it wasn’t personal to me, either. Until you made it personal. I’ve got a little payback headed your way.”

Cohen checked his mirror again. The headlights were farther back.

“I’m going to call in support,” Cohen said. He had the BMW at 120 miles per hour. He’d be able to maintain distance. “You’d be smart to leave this alone.”

“My first choice would be to do this where I can see your face,” the caller said. “Second choice is this. At least you’re going to hear it directly from me.”

“What’s that?” In twenty minutes, Cohen would be in Tel Aviv. All he needed were a few security guys to meet him on the road. He’d be fine.

“Remember how you had the van rigged to explode on Quinn in Gaza?”

Cohen didn’t answer.

“The bad thing from my perspective is that an explosion happens too fast,” the caller said. “You’re dead, but you don’t know it and you don’t know why. Much better that I could have this time on the phone with you and let you know that your lovely black BMW is rigged the same way. I’ve got my finger on the button here. It’s not anything you can outrun.”

“Let’s talk,” Cohen said, adrenaline washing through his body.

“Now that you know it’s coming,” his caller said, “I’ll count it down. Five . . . four . . .”

Cohen threw his phone down and slammed his brakes, tires screeching. If he could get the BMW down to 10 or 15 miles per hour, he’d jump clear, roll from the explosion, run into the darkness of the hills, and hope for the best.

He fumbled to unsnap his seat belt. It was not easy. He had to fight the steering wheel with his other hand to keep the BMW centered. He glanced at his speedometer. Down to 40 mph.

Finally he got free of his seat belt. The car was shuddering to a standstill. At 20 mph, he threw his door open. An automatic warning alarm beeped from his dashboard, and for a split second, he thought that was the explosion.

But he was wrong.

It came a heartbeat later.

Temple Mount, Jerusalem • 21:19 GMT


Esther and Silver had decided to split up to cover as much ground as possible. The Temple Mount’s thirty-five acres left a lot of room for a frightened little girl to hide from soldiers.

Silver used the flashlight beam to probe the gaps of an ornamental hedge. There was movement beyond the leaves. Thin, dark lines. Two. Then three. Then four.

He was transfixed but couldn’t comprehend. The leaves rustled slightly. Small branches cracked.

He stepped back slightly, then relaxed. It was the heifer. Seconds later, he saw something else through the leaves.

“Alyiah?” Silver said. Then he heard a small cry. “Alyiah!” He squatted. With one hand, he pushed aside some branches. With his other hand, he trained the flashlight on his face.

“Seelver!” she uttered.

It took some maneuvering for Silver to get through a gap in the hedge and reach her. She hugged him, not saying a word. He felt profound relief that the girl was not hurt.

He let the moment continue, enjoying the relief and the sense of protection it gave him to wrap his arms around her frail back. He wasn’t the first one to push away, either. Before, any physical intimacy had scared him; handshakes, hugs—they were meant to be endured only for as long as the publicity moment demanded.

Instead Alyiah broke loose and immediately spoke in rapid-fire Arabic. Soft but urgent.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

More soft, urgent words. She pointed over his shoulder.

“Let’s find Esther.” Silver knew she’d recognize the sound of the name and repeated it. “Esther.” He stood again and took one of her hands.

She tugged back, pulling him in the opposite direction.

“No,” he said. “Not that way.” The broad, high outline of the Dome blocked the starlight. He needed to get her off the mount.

Alyiah pulled her hand loose and moved a few steps away using only one crutch.

“Seelver!” She slipped through the hedge.

He had no choice but to work his way through the gap again, scratching his arms and face. When he broke through, she was waiting. But she moved away again.

“Seelver.”

He tried to catch up to her, but she refused to wait, teasing him forward a few strides at time.

This continued until they reached the steps of the shrine.

“No,” he said.

But Alyiah climbed up the steps.

The great doors were closed, but there was a side door. Open.

“Seelver,” Alyiah said again. This time she waited for him to climb the steps and reach her. She took his flashlight and snapped it off. Then she took his hand and pulled him through the door, into the shrine that was the third most holy site in the Muslim world.

Western Wall Tunnel • 21:19 GMT


All Kate knew was the Lord’s Prayer, the one that began with “Our Father, who art in heaven.” Ever since she was a little girl, she’d hoped she never made it to heaven. One father on earth had been enough horror.

Again she snapped off that thought. She imagined Quinn leaning down to pick up his little girl, kiss her forehead, tell her stories.

It gave her the strength to begin.

Our Father, who art in heaven . . .

She let herself go, whispering to this Father that she was lost and alone and cold and very, very lonely and could He maybe find a way to take away the hurt of dying without someone to love her and hold her hand and gently stroke away the hair from her forehead the way she’d always wanted a father to do.

She wasn’t ready for the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks.

She wasn’t ready for the cold to disappear as it did. For the loneliness to fall away from her as she slipped into warmth and peace that made her forget that her body was pressed against a stone wall and that her blood was seeping from her body.

Kate told herself her mind was giving her the gift of a desperate delusion. But as she ended her prayer, it felt as though she was in the strong arms of a Father she could trust.

If this was dying, she thought, she was ready.

If this was dying, there was one last thing to do before giving up the fight.

Kate fumbled for her wristwatch and punched a button.

Then she closed her eyes.

49

Old City, Jerusalem • 21:19 GMT


Hamer was waiting for Quinn at the top of the steps that led from the western plaza through the gates to the Temple Mount.

“Are you nuts?” Hamer said. “You just left them there.”

“They’re either going to come in or they aren’t,” Quinn said. “If they don’t come in, you send soldiers. Brad Silver knows that.”

“But—”

“I don’t have time for this.” Quinn rarely snapped. But this was too urgent. “Are paramedics waiting at the tunnel entrance? Bomb squad?”

The Western Wall tunnels were accessed near the Wailing Wall, just off the plaza where Hamer had set up base of operations for IDF.

“Already had the power turned on in there,” Hamer said. “Seemed smart, even though you sound crazy.”

“Read this.” Quinn scrolled the message so that the screen lit up and handed Hamer his cell phone. The message was burned into Quinn’s memory.

Am in wall tunnel. Nuke threat. Davy Crktt. Cohen shot Kevin. Me 2. Losing blud.


Hamer waved Quinn toward the steps to the plaza. “I’ll deal with the surrender. Keep running! If there’s a nuclear bomb in there, find it!”

Dome of the Rock • 21:25 GMT


Alyiah held Silver’s hand, step by quiet step, only five paces into the shrine. She was trembling when she stopped, and she was gripping his hand so hard that his knuckles hurt.

Silver knelt beside her, wishing he could speak words of comfort that she might understand. She pressed a finger against his lips.

This he could comprehend. She wanted silence.

His eyes began to adjust to the semidarkness. The air was so still with such absolute silence that Silver imagined he’d be able to hear and feel a butterfly if it passed within his reach. The slight scuffle to his right, however, was not his imagination.

Instinctively he stepped back, pulling Alyiah with him.

“Stop,” a voice said from the darkness, maybe thirty paces to their right. “That’s far enough.”

Alyiah gave a small cry of fright and clutched harder on his hand. Silver inched back farther. He and Alyiah were only a few rushed steps away from the side door and the freedom outside.

“I thought the girl had seen me,” the voice said. “Too bad for you she brought you back. I’ve got a machine gun. Any farther and you’re both dead.”