89

15 DECEMBER —52 HOURS BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE LANDS IN ISRAEL

Marcus woke earlier than usual, threw on sweats, and jogged to the embassy.

Keeping with the routine he’d established upon arriving in Israel, he worked out in the embassy gym, spent an hour in the basement gun range, then jogged back to the hotel to clean up. Every step of the way, his thoughts were consumed with al-Qassab and Haqqani. As he stood in the shower, the hot water pouring over his aching joints and muscles, the steam filling the bathroom, Marcus came to the conclusion that if they had any chance of finding the bomber in time, Haqqani was the key.

There was no way they were going to find al-Qassab. The man was a professional terrorist. He’d spent his entire life plotting mayhem and avoiding capture. He’d certainly made his share of mistakes, but he’d also be especially careful now not to repeat them.

Haqqani, on the other hand, was a physician by training, not a terrorist. Thus, he was much more capable of making mistakes —even likely to, given that he was now in unfamiliar enemy territory and under tremendous stress. If Marcus’s operating theory of the imminent crime was correct, Haqqani had already performed the surgery on whomever al-Qassab had chosen to kill the president, prime minister, and king. The bomb was already in place. The assassin had already had several days to recover from the surgery. He or she was now operating at or near full strength, more or less. That meant that the Pakistani surgeon, while enormously valuable to Kairos, was no longer needed for this operation. If Haqqani was going to bolt, he was going to bolt now —today or tomorrow at the latest. This was their best chance to find him, trying to bluff his way through Ben Gurion, across a border into Jordan or Egypt, or onto a boat in one of Israel’s shipping ports in Tel Aviv, Ashdod, or Haifa.

The smartest thing Haqqani could do was stay put and stay low. If he did that, they’d never find him in time. He’d be holed up somewhere at a safe house well-provisioned enough to allow him to stay in Israel —or the West Bank —for several weeks, perhaps several months, until the storm blew over and the manhunt ended. Yet based on every scrap of intelligence they’d pulled together on the Pakistani, Marcus felt certain the man would try to flee. He’d fled Yemen, after all, before Abdullah al-Asiri had blown himself up. He’d escaped London, too, just before the Sheripovs had blown themselves up. Why wouldn’t he follow the same pattern now?

Haqqani was not a strategist. It was possible he didn’t know the name of the so-called martyr in whom he had placed the bomb. But it was more likely that he did know the name, given all the other information he’d need to elicit about his patient before performing the surgery, from blood type and allergies to whatever medications the bomber was currently on, as well as the bomber’s family medical history. It was also possible that he hadn’t seen the person’s face. Theoretically, the bomber’s face could have been covered with a mask or a sheet or the like and Haqqani had never been allowed to see it at all. But Haqqani must have interviewed the bomber at length to build the medical profile, and certainly he had applied the oxygen mask and anesthesia himself.

Either way, the Pakistani would at least know if the bomber was a man or woman. He’d know the person’s height and weight. And he was likely to know exactly what kind of device had been used, how big it was, how it worked, and what its blast radius was. He might also know where to find Mohammed al-Qassab, what his next movements would be, and what his plans were for escaping the country. And he would certainly have seen and interacted with other Kairos operatives here in Israel and perhaps in the West Bank. Subjected to the proper kind of interrogation, Haqqani would likely be able to provide names, ages, what types of vehicles they were using, and what types of weapons they had, among other critical facts, all of which could help stop the bomber and take down whatever cells Kairos was operating in the country.

Marcus turned off the shower and toweled off. As he lathered up and shaved his face, his thoughts turned to al-Qassab. More than likely, Marcus realized, it was this Syrian who was carrying the mobile phone that would be used to detonate the human bomb at just the precise moment. But if al-Qassab was playing Maxim Sheripov’s role in this scenario, who was playing the part of Amina? Yet unless he wore some sort of masterful disguise, it seemed highly unlikely that al-Qassab could literally be at the side of the shahid as Maxim had been at his sister’s side in the press pool at Number 10 Downing Street. Where would al-Qassab be standing? How would he know when his shahid was in position if he wasn’t at or near his or her side?

When he finished shaving, Marcus took a suit, shirt, and tie out of the closet, then set up an ironing board and pressed them all. After he’d gotten dressed, he polished his shoes and put them on. Then he grabbed his Sig Sauer pistol and the rest of his gear and headed to the elevator.

It was between the fifth and fourth floors that it finally came to him. There was no way Mohammed al-Qassab was going to be at the side of his suicide bomber. For one thing, he had to know that the entire American and Israeli law enforcement communities were hunting for him by now, even though they’d been very careful not to let news leak that his office and apartment had been raided by MI5 and the FBI just days before. He’d know, therefore, that he’d never get into an event with POTUS and the other principals. But al-Qassab had also figured out that he didn’t need to be in the room. Every move President Clarke made was going to be broadcast live on Israeli, American, and Arab television networks and probably European and Russian channels as well. That meant he could be sitting anywhere, watching television in any apartment in Israel or the Palestinian Authority, and know the exact right moment to make the call and blow the peace process and its participants to kingdom come.

They would never find al-Qassab, Marcus concluded. Not before the bomb went off, at least. Maybe Roseboro was right, Marcus mused as the elevator door opened. Maybe they should be jamming every cell tower within a mile of POTUS’s location regardless of how big a fit the press and others would throw.

As Marcus entered the lobby of the King David, Roseboro was already waiting. A moment later, Kailea came up behind them, and Geoff Stone arrived shortly thereafter, followed by Noah Daniels and the rest of the senior team. At 7 a.m. sharp, they all loaded into two armored Suburbans and headed out on the short trip to the U.S. Embassy to gather in the war room and begin their daily working breakfast.

They had to figure this out. They had to find Haqqani, and they had just two days left.