The Paris Protection (17 page)

“Yes,” Kazim replied.

“Where?”

“Istanbul.”

“You’re heading back there now?”

“Yes—to the city, not the prison. You?”

“Heading in that direction, but it’s not my final destination.”

“What is?”

“Paris.”

The man behind the small bar stepped out onto the red rug that stretched down the aisle. Dressed in a white shirt, bow tie, and black slacks and vest, he moved gracefully down the quiet dining car. Maximilian watched him from the corner of his eye, looking up only at the last moment. The barman’s bushy mustache outweighed all other features of his face.

“One Russian tea,” Maximilian said. “And . . .” He looked at Kazim.

Kazim held up two fingers.

The barman took away the two tall glasses with standing cloth napkins inside and returned to the bar.

“How did you know I was in prison?” Kazim asked. “Not a guess, I’m guessing.”

“No, I could tell.”

“How?”

“I worked in a prison for years.”

“Worked?”

“As an interrogator.”

“Inside the prison?”

“Yes. In probably the worst prison in the world.”

“A Russian prison, then—in the gulags?”

“Worse.”

“A communist prison? China? North Korea?”

“Do I look Asian? No. It was much worse than any of those.”

“What could be worse than a prison in Siberia or North Korea?” Kazim asked.

“The one in Jerusalem. There are no criminals there. No political dissidents. Only terrorists.”

“You interrogated terrorists in the Jerusalem prison. You’re Jewish.”

“No, not anymore. I have abandoned my people.”

“Why?”

“They betrayed me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Maximilian smiled, then turned his eyes to the decorative wood paneling lining the sides and ceiling of the dining car. The wood was cut with curves and open sections that gave it the random botanical pattern of vines. His mind drifted back through time. How could he explain the world he had come from to this intense younger man sitting across the table?

“It was an old Turkish prison,” Maximilian continued. “We took terrorists there for questioning. Inside, they would tell us everything they knew. We didn’t want false confessions—only the truth of what they knew. We didn’t bring anyone in there until we knew so much about them, we could torture them and know if they were telling the truth. We knew how to test for the truth. The Shin Bet was a well-oiled machine, and the men I worked with knew how to protect our country better than any other government on earth can protect theirs. Israel is surrounded by enemies, and because of the Palestinians, we have enemies living within our own borders. Our intelligence community is the best of them all. We don’t make mistakes like America’s CIA. Our counterterrorist groups give us better security. We spend a higher percentage of our country’s GDP on the military than any other country on earth. We have nuclear weapons and a working antimissile system against short-range rockets from Lebanon and Syria.”

“You do realize I am Muslim.”

“So we can’t be friends—because I was Jewish and you are Muslim?”

“I don’t know,” Kazim said.

“You’re from Turkey?”

“Yes.”

“So you are not an Arab.”

“Correct.”

Maximilian opened both hands and turned his palms upward, as if the supposition of their alliance had resolved itself. “Turkey has been a friend of Israel for many years now—not that I care anymore. Are you a religious fanatic—an Islamic fundamentalist?”

Kazim hesitated. “Why? Are you a spy?”

“For Israel?”

“For anyone.”

“No, not anymore. Are you a religious extremist?”

Kazim smiled slightly. “No . . . not anymore.”

Maximilian nodded, then tried to see out the window. But the light inside the dining car had cast their reflection on the black window, hiding the outside world.

“So we both are men who have lost their way,” Maximilian said. “Men who have broken ties.”

“We’re on the Trans-Siberian Railroad in Mongolia in winter. I think that the only men on this train are those who have lost their way.”

“We are in Russia now, in Siberia.”

“Doesn’t matter—it’s all the far edge of the world out here.”

The barman returned with two glasses of Russian tea in nickel-plated holders, with spoons sticking out. He set them on the table along with a tray of honey, sugar cubes, syrup, and jams.

“What changed your religion?” Maximilian asked, after the barman had left.

“I never said it changed. My interpretation of it changed. My intensity changed.”

“How?”

“I became less intent on strictly following the ancient teachings of my religion, and instead focused on what had been taken from me.”

“But Islam is based on strict behavioral adherence.”

Kazim didn’t respond.

“What was taken?” Maximilian continued before taking a sip of his tea, enjoying its distinct smoky flavor. He didn’t want to seem as if he was forcing the question.

“My brothers—all three of them. I was the youngest. Now I’m the oldest—the only one left.”

“You must be strong to have survived such a loss.”

“What about you? Have you changed your religion?”

“In a way, I think I have. But Judaism is a birthright, so maybe my politics are what has truly changed. Unfortunately, politics has a strong role in religion, or vice versa. For so long, my faith was tied to the struggles of Israel. The connection was easy because the struggles were great. My father fought in the Six-Day War. I myself fought in the 1982 Lebanon war. War is common for citizens of Israel, and terrorism is even more common. Many in the world support Israel. Many have sympathy for its people, but they cannot truly know what it is like to be surrounded by a dozen nations wishing to wipe your family from the face of the earth. Israel has the strictest antiterrorism procedures in the world for a reason. They live with their enemies, surrounded by their enemies, and as I came to realize one day, they even have enemies among themselves.”

“One day?”

“The day Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated.”

“Did you know him?”

“I was on his security protection detail. His safety was my responsibility. We saw a rising tension in the streets after the Oslo Accord. Many Israelis hated him for giving Arafat so much in the negotiations. Many thought the Palestinians deserved much less than what he was offering, but he wanted peace. It was understandable. But tensions were growing. We asked him to start wearing a bulletproof vest, but he refused. He said he had been a soldier before becoming a politician. I admired him for that—for his courage. He was a truly extraordinary man. And one day, some punk with a gun just walked up behind him as we were moving toward the car, and shot him. He died within hours, just like America’s President Kennedy. The nation—and most of the world—suddenly mourned. Then everything changed for the worse. The peace process stopped. The Shin Bet and all other security agencies in Israel came under fire for failing to protect Rabin. I was in the middle of it all. Something terrible had happened to Israel.”

“So then you abandoned it?” Kazim asked.

Despite the warm tea, Maximilian felt a sudden chill. “Yes, I have abandoned Israel. I reject it and all its allies.” He was not ready to reveal the full story of why he now hated his former home. He could not yet trust this man with the painful secrets of his past. “I have grown angry at the entire concept of powerful governments influencing foreign countries. And if I use this anger to attack a friend of Israel, I can show the world the folly of superpowers meddling in other countries’ affairs. Ironically, I now fantasize about becoming like the madman who killed Bobby Kennedy, or the madman who killed Rabin.”

“And who would you attack? Who would be the target?”

“It is a dangerous conversation—even more dangerous than what we have already said. So please, before I continue, I wish to hear your story.” He paused, took a sip of his cooling tea, and said again, “Please tell me your story.”

Kazim’s features seemed to grow darker as he leaned away from the hanging light behind him. He stared silently at Maximilian. Then, standing up from the table, he said, “My story is too dangerous to tell. Thank you for the tea.”

He started for the door.

“I know about Baghdad,” Maximilian said.

Kazim stopped. He stood completely still, frozen in the aisle of the dining car. Then he turned sharply, like a startled animal reacting to a sudden danger.

“I know about Baghdad,” Maximilian repeated, “but what I don’t know is your story afterward.”

Kazim looked at him without a word. His breath quickened.

“I’m a friend, Kazim.”

“I don’t know you.”

“And yet, I’m still a friend.” Maximilian gestured for him to rejoin him at the table.

He shook his head.

“I know Moqtada al-Hakim.”

Kazim took a step closer. “How?”

“Through Abdul al-Sadr. I’ve been tracking you since Calcutta. Saw the mess you made in Bangkok. Lost you in Singapore. Found you again when you entered Hong Kong. Followed you to Vladivostok and have been with you on the train since there.”

“You’re tracking me? Who are you?”

“Don’t worry, no one else is looking for you. You weren’t on Interpol’s radar, and the Americans have no idea who you are. MI-Six doesn’t know. Mossad doesn’t know. No one knows—no one except your friends.”

“I have no friends.”

“You have friends in the community.”

“What community? Yours?”

“No. The type of operations you did were not a main concern for Israel. When Israel abandoned me, I abandoned it in return. But I still have channels with Palestine and Libya, and they have channels to Iran as well as to radical networks. I made some inquiries and was directed to a man who knew Hakim. We had a conversation in Kuala Lumpur. Your name came up. I was interested and made other inquiries. Saw you had spent some time in Dubai but had left for India. It wasn’t easy, but I finally tracked you to Calcutta only a month after you left there. It was difficult catching up with you, but now we are here on this train, heading for Moscow. I hope that before we arrive at the end of this line, I will have convinced you to join my cause.”

“The world is a big place, with a lot of people. Why are you so interested in me?”

“Because you have more motivation for my plan to succeed than anyone else on my team—perhaps even more than I.”

“Your team?”

“I will need two hundred men for a special mission. I have many of them already, but I am in the process of obtaining more. I will need you to lead some of them. Hannibal was a brilliant general, but he had great generals below him who helped with his plans. Hasdrubal was his brother and his top general. I don’t have a brother I can trust to be my top general. I am hoping you will be my Hasdrubal.”

“You speak very dangerously,” Kazim said, looking down the car to the barman, who was absorbed in a game of computer mahjongg.

“Only when I’m with dangerous people,” Maximilian replied.

“I’m not the leader type.”

“Of these men, you will be. On this operation, you will lead them with your fury.”

“What kind of operation?”

Maximilian lost all the intensity he had allowed Kazim to witness up until that moment. “It is a decapitation strike on a major world power. There are five potential cities where it might happen in the next year or two. Maybe as long as five years. It will take immense planning and resources and caution, and the risks of early detection will be high—and the likelihood of surviving the operation is minimal even if it succeeds. And the unlikely event of survival will be followed by a lifetime of hiding and being hunted like a war criminal.”

“What’s the target?”

“I’m recruiting you because I know your past. I know what happened to you in Baghdad. Don’t say it out loud, but think in your mind of the one person in the world you would most like to kill.”

Kazim stared at him hard and silently.

“Do you have that person fixed in your mind?”

Kazim nodded.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded again.

“That is the person we are going to kill.”

“You can’t possibly kill the person I’m thinking of,” Kazim said. “It’s not even a person, really. It’s a position, a title . . . a symbol.”

“Precisely.”

“You can’t kill that person.”

“Yes. We can,” Maximilian replied. “And we will. If our operation goes as planned, we will be able to kill them in five years or less. And you will have revenge for your brothers.”

Kazim smiled. “Where would it happen?”

“There are events already planned that they will attend. World forums, et cetera. One is set for Tokyo, one for Rome, one for Dubai, one for Berlin, and one for Paris. We will plan for all five and will be in all five cities, ready to strike when they are there. We won’t know the details of their trip until they are there, and we will never have any inside access to their plans or security measures other than what is public knowledge. But we will wait and we will be ready. And when we have the opportunity, we will strike.”

Kazim’s smile widened. And in that moment, Maximilian knew that after weeks of tracking this man, he had him. In the middle of a desolate winter landscape at what felt like the edge of the world, he had found the brother he never had before.

And together, they would change the course of history.

35

JOHN ALEXANDER OPENED THE SMALL square door to the service elevator shaft while the other agents stood behind him, protecting the president and Colonel Marks. Stepping through the low opening, he felt his stomach sink when he looked down into the dark abyss. They were on the fourteenth floor—a long way up from the basement’s third sublevel. The elevator car was down there at the bottom, nearly two hundred feet below.

“All right,” he said. “There’s a ladder running down the shaft, without a shell. So it’s open, meaning that if anyone slips or lets go, they’re dead—along with anyone they knock loose on the way down. Madam President, we’re going to figure out a way to tie you to the ladder so you can’t fall.”