Highway One, Israel
July 19, 7:48 p.m.
Mullaney had pulled the phone from his right ear and was punching in a number already loaded into his speed dial … Parker’s mobile phone. After five rings, the automated voice asked if he wanted to leave a message at the beep. “We were attacked on the road to Jerusalem. Your dad’s beat up a bit, but generally okay. Where are you? We’re concerned. Call me.”
An ambulance followed closely behind the police cars. Two EMTs jumped out, and the police directed one to the wounded agents and the other to the limo.
Mullaney stepped out of the way as the tech eased into the car and began checking Ambassador Cleveland’s vital signs. Since the Mercedes had dual bucket seats both front and rear, there was no comfortable way to get Cleveland to lie down.
His eyes flashing back and forth between the ambassador and his phone, Mullaney pulled up his contacts, scrolled to the entry labeled “Levinson, Meyer,” and then pushed the phone icon. The call was answered in the midst of the first ring.
“Hello, Brian. I’ve been waiting for your call. What’s your condition?”
“Hello, Meyer. Ambassador Cleveland is banged up pretty good, but nothing fatal. But Meyer, I need your help.”
“Of course. What can I do?”
During two of his tours back in Washington, Mullaney had built a close relationship with Meyer Levinson, who was, at the time, a senior operative of Shabak—or Shin Bet—Israel’s internal security arm. Levinson was the agent in charge of security for the Israeli embassy in Washington. A Syrian Jew, Levinson was raised in a scientific family. Trained in theoretical physics, on a track for a professorship at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Levinson was plucked from academia by the Israeli Security Services and quickly advanced through the ranks of Shin Bet. Mullaney and Levinson had two things in common—their devotion to the hope of democracy and their passion for the Chelsea Football Club. It was while rooting for Chelsea during the FA Cup tournament that Mullaney and Levinson ran into each other in the Airedale sports bar in the Columbia Heights section of DC. A deep friendship was spawned under the blue-and-white lion of Chelsea.
Levinson was now director of the operations division of Shin Bet, the most prestigious and active branch of the anti-terrorism service—the home of fighters and warfare groups that pursued Israel’s enemies with a relentless determination to eliminate threats before they could strike the Jewish homeland or its people.
Whether exposing terrorist rings or providing intelligence for counter-terrorism operations in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip or personal protection of senior public officials, for most of its history Shin Bet generally carried out the tasks of safeguarding state security with little publicity or fanfare.
If anyone could help Mullaney find Palmyra Parker, it was Meyer Levinson.
“I’ll give you the background later,” said Mullaney, “but right now we need to find the ambassador’s daughter, Mrs. Palmyra Parker. She left the residence about two hours ago to visit the open air market nearby.”
“In the Shmu’el Tamir Garden,” said Levinson.
“Yes. She is not answering her mobile phone. With this attack on the ambassador, we’re concerned that she may have also been a target. We’ve dispatched two teams of DSS agents from the residence to search for her on foot and by car. But …”
“But if these were professionals,” Levinson continued, “we both know that Mrs. Parker is already long gone—either being held for ransom in some dark hole or, well …”
Mullaney knew where Levinson was going. But they were words he didn’t want to hear or speak.
“My assistant is already forming a team to start working on the tapes,” Levinson said, referring to the ubiquitous network of video surveillance cameras that Shin Bet maintained and reviewed throughout the state of Israel. “We should have some information from the videos shortly. And I contacted our watchers as soon as we got word that the ambassador was under attack … forgive me, Brian. You do know that we have agents watching the US embassy and the residence twenty-four seven, correct?”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“I was speaking with the team leader when you called. They saw a woman leave the compound, but she had a scarf over her head and was dressed like a worker. I’m sorry, Brian, but they are not yet familiar with the new residents. I will call you back as soon as we have more information. Please let the ambassador know: we will find her.”
“Agent Mullaney?”
Brian looked up. The EMT was pushing himself out of the back seat of the Mercedes. The tech turned aside to a police officer. “Please get the stretcher from the back of the ambulance. I can’t treat him here.” He returned to Mullaney. “Werner.” He extended his hand. “The ambassador needs to go to a hospital so he can be effectively examined …”
“I’m not going to any hospital.” Cleveland spoke from the back of the car, his renewed voice loud, clear, and final. “Not now!”
Werner pulled in a breath, shook his head, and went on as if Cleveland hadn’t spoken. “Right now, he’s stable and there doesn’t appear to be any damage that is life-threatening. He’s got a couple of cuts that need to be stitched and a nasty bump on his head that has probably caused a concussion. In the short term, those I can deal with here. The problem is, I can’t tell what’s going on inside. There is a good chance of internal injuries—for you and for the other agent, as well. All three of you should go to the hospital for observation and testing. You, I want to check out as soon as I’m done with the ambassador. Oh, by the way, you’re wise-guy sidekick dislocated his shoulder. We pulled it back into place. It’s functional but will be sore.”
“What about the other agents?”
Werner nodded his head. “Lucky, there. Two with gunshot wounds, nothing critical. One of the guys, the bullet shattered his ankle. He’s going to the hospital too.”
Werner was about five foot four, with a riot of sandy-colored hair exploding from his head in all directions. He was built like a boxer, steady on his feet and firm in his determination. Mullaney could tell he was well trained and accustomed to people following his direction.
“IDF?”
“Reserve,” Werner said about the Israel Defense Forces. “I did three tours of active duty in and around Lebanon.”
Mullaney knew about Lebanon, how the Israeli military was throttled and decimated by the Hezbollah militia, forced into a humiliating retreat after the 2006 invasion by the IDF.
“Lebanon, that was tough duty,” said Mullaney. “Glad you survived. But no disrespect, Werner, I gotta tell you that the only people going to the hospital are you and the agent with the shattered ankle. We’ve got work to do.”
Werner smiled, a signal to Mullaney that he understood. “Yeah, that’s what I expected. Let me get the ambassador to the ambulance and get him stitched up and then we’ll get you on your way. But that car of yours? It’s pretty awesome, but it’s not going anywhere either. You guys need a lift?”
“Thanks, Werner, but we’ve got a squad with vehicles on its way. Should be here by the time you finish with the ambassador. Let’s get him on the stretcher.”