77
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
“Hello? Who is this?”
It was clear to Marcus that he’d just woken up the head of the Israeli Mossad. But it could not be helped.
“Mr. Gilad, I’m sorry to wake you, but this is Agent Marcus Ryker. We met at the dinner with the prime minister the other day.”
“What time is it?”
“4:36, sir.”
“This had better be important, Ryker,” Gilad growled.
“It is, sir. The FBI and MI5 have figured out the identity of the man responsible for the bombing in London, or at least intimately involved in its planning.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Haqqani. I’m texting you his photo and details as we speak. We need to know whatever you have in your files on this guy. And we need you to put your people on the highest alert.”
“Why?”
“We have reason to believe, sir, that Haqqani may be coming to Israel.”
Hussam Mashrawi felt a sense of déjà vu.
Slipping out of bed as quietly as he could, he washed and dressed and put on his overcoat and slipped out the front door before the sun came up. It was not raining now, but it had been all night, and the stone sidewalks were slick. Still, Mashrawi moved as quickly as he could down the nearly empty alleyways, past the shuttered shops, cafés, restaurants, and hostels. As he approached the Monastery of the Flagellation, he saw a lone light on in a room above the shoemaker’s shop. That was the signal.
Knocking twice, he entered quickly when the door was unlocked for him. He’d been told to call his handler at precisely six o’clock that morning. The clock on the wall told him he was three minutes early, and he breathed a sigh of relief. That would be just enough time to open the wall safe and —
Mashrawi’s heart nearly stopped. As he entered the tiny room in the back of the flat so cluttered with books and old newspapers and smelling of stale cigarettes, someone was waiting for him. “Who are you?” he asked, trembling.
“Dr. Mashrawi, what an honor to finally meet you.”
Mashrawi said nothing, though he slowly began backing away from the shadowy figure sitting in the chair at the antique desk.
“There is no need to be alarmed,” the man said with a slight British accent. “The man you hoped to speak with sent me. He asked me to speak to you in person because the assignment he has for you is of the utmost importance, and no detail can be left to chance.”
“How do I know that —?”
“That what? That I’m truly sent from Kairos?”
Mashrawi gasped. He’d never used the word, not even on a secure call.
“Who else could I be, the Shin Bet?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then I’d be torturing you, not talking to you.”
Asher Gilad finally called Marcus back.
“Are you somewhere you can talk privately?” the Mossad chief asked.
The speech was over. The party was over. The members of the advance team had all gone back to their rooms for a few hours of shut-eye. Marcus was alone in his hotel suite, trying to get some sleep himself. Now he switched on a lamp and sat up in bed. “Yeah, what have you got?”
“It’s too late,” Gilad said.
“Too late for what?”
“I passed on the photo you sent me to the Shin Bet and airport security services.”
“And?”
“I’m afraid Haqqani’s already in the country.”
Stunned, Marcus was suddenly completely awake.
“Ryker, you there?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here.”
“Apparently Haqqani entered Israel on Saturday via a flight from Spain. He used an alias —Mohammed Peshawar —but photos never lie. It’s him.”
“Please tell me you have some idea where he is.”
“None whatsoever. We know he went to Jerusalem. One of our surveillance cameras picked him up getting into a cab. My men have tracked down the driver, showed him the picture. He says the man wanted to be taken to the American Colony Hotel and paid in cash. But the manager of the hotel says he has no reservation for a Haqqani or a Peshawar. We’ve run the CCTV footage and come up empty.”
“So all you know for sure is he came to Jerusalem and vanished?” Marcus asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
Marcus felt ill, but there was no time to slow down. He had calls to make.
The man in the shadows leaned forward so Mashrawi could see his face.
“My name is Mohammed al-Qassab. I am the director of operations for Kairos, and Father has sent me to ask for your help.”
Mashrawi said nothing.
“You have provided us critical information about President Clarke’s upcoming visit and about the king’s visit and the prime minister’s presence with them. You have pledged your loyalty to our father and told us you are willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve victory in our jihad, in our quest to rebuild the Caliphate. Is that true?”
Slowly Mashrawi nodded.
“Good. Then this is what Father asks. We need a shahid, a loyal and courageous martyr willing to kill the president, the prime minister, and the king. Will you lay down your life that the Caliphate may live?”
“I will —I am —I mean, I would if I could, but . . .”
“But what?”
“With all due respect, it would be impossible to bring a weapon onto the Haram al-Sharif, especially on that day. I am not a coward. I will do anything I am asked. But we must be realistic. Some things just cannot be done.”
“Nothing is impossible with Allah, Hussam. Do you believe that?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. There is a doctor I want you to see. He will perform a surgery on you. Tomorrow. And I will not lie to you. It will hurt. A great deal. For several days. But then you will be fine and ready for the most important and glorious mission of your life.”