WE’RE SOMEWHERE OVER THE NORTHEAST MED WHEN VADIM shakes me awake.
‘Message from Sergeyev,’ he says, handing me his phone.
Joshua – I trust you have slept. I have some more data for you.
Danilovsky left Sarov nine years ago. As a boy, he trained there for a special mission, and still has the ability, using the energy of his mind, to collapse a ballotechnic and trigger a nuclear weapon.
He went initially to Dagestan, a village called Dalukhani. There are reports of a priest answering his description returning to his birthplace, re-embracing the faith of his people and committing himself to jihad. Some say it’s here that he took on the nom de guerre Al-Mohandis.
Next set of sightings: Iraq, coinciding with the rise of ISIS, then from all around the Caliphate – first Syria, then Yemen, Egypt, Somalia, Sudan and Niger.
We believe he entered Israel through Gaza, and have to assume the presence of a fully assembled hydrogen bomb somewhere in the city, built by Vladimir Ilitch with a 3D printer, and the support of the siloviki and your own intelligence community.
One more thing. The abbot tells me there are no nuns at St Alexei’s. Never have been. Get some rest before you reach Jerusalem, my friend. You’re going to need it.
I look up to see Vadim beckoning me toward the cockpit.
As I squeeze through the door, the co-pilot turns, smiles, and shakes my hand. His name is Oleg. The sun is up. We are between Turkey and Cyprus, two hundred miles from Ben Gurion, closing on the Israeli coast.
I take the jump-seat and reach for a headset.
‘Tel Aviv Identification,’ Oleg says into the radio, ‘this is Moscjet Two One Two, flight level three-nine-zero, squawking one-six-six-four.’
The response crackles in my headset. ‘Moscjet Two One Two, Tel Aviv Identification. Request standby on One-Two-One, Decimal One.’
Oleg switches to the new frequency.
‘Moscjet Two One Two, One-Two-One, Decimal One, Moscjet Two One Two, standing by.’
‘Moscjet Two One Two, go ahead.’
‘Please be advised we are a diplomatic flight with a VIP on board for the conference talks in Jerusalem, codename Omega.’
‘Moscjet Two One Two, Tel Aviv Identification, understood. Be advised that Iron Dome is active.’
Vadim and Oleg look at each other.
‘What’s Iron Dome?’ I ask.
‘The Israelis’ missile shield,’ Vadim says.
‘For protection against short-range artillery rockets,’ Oleg adds. ‘Normally it is switched off. But because of the conference it’s active, I guess.’
Another crackle in my headset. ‘Moscjet Two One Two, this is Tel Aviv Identification. Please repeat name and identification of your VIP. Over.’
Vadim indicates to Oleg that he has the mike. ‘Moscjet Two One Two, VIP’s codename, as stated, is Omega, repeat …’
‘Understood, Moscjet Two One Two. To proceed as cleared to Ben Gurion, we need your passenger’s actual name. Over.’
I think for a moment, as we continue to head toward Israeli airspace at six miles per minute, then signal that I have the mike and dip the transmit button. ‘Tel Aviv Identification, VIP’s name – my name – is Colonel Joshua M. Cain, and I am required—’
The controller jumps in before I can finish. ‘Thank you, Omega. Stand by.’
I look again at Vadim. There’s an interminable pause.
Then: ‘Moscjet Two One Two, Tel Aviv Identification. Continue as cleared to Ben Gurion, landing on Short Runway zero-three, two-one. Be advised you are cleared through Iron Dome and your ground party is waiting for you by the old Israel Defense Force cargo ramp east of the runway. Shalom, Omega. Welcome to Israel.’
Fifteen minutes later, we thump down and taxi to the site of the former IDF base.
I clamber out of my seat while Vadim is still shutting down the jet and make my way toward the back of the plane, where the airstairs are already starting to deploy. I exit as fast as I can into the glare of the apron and the rising temperature.
Hetta is at the wheel of the waiting Suburban, hair tucked into a baseball cap, eyes hidden by Ray-Bans, her freckled face angled toward the sun.