12

PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE, JERUSALEM

Reuven Eitan was livid.

Until now, the sixty-four-year-old Israeli premier’s morning had been uncharacteristically quiet. There were no public events on his schedule. No one was coming to visit him that day. He had even slept in. For the first time in months, he had not bothered to set an alarm clock. He and his wife had enjoyed a simple breakfast of grapefruit and coffee, read the morning papers, and daydreamed together about what their lives could look like once he was out of office. Afterward, Eitan had showered, shaved, and dressed to go to Shabbat services.

Now he was being told that some idiot general had decided to invade Lebanon. How was that possible? How exactly could an Israeli general start a war without authorization from the prime minister and the security cabinet?

It had been just after 10 a.m. when the bizarre and infuriating call had come in from the Kirya. The PM and his wife had been getting into the motorcade, preparing to depart their official residence for the Great Synagogue on King George Street, when his security detail rushed him back inside to the secure communications center. On the line were two of his most trusted advisors. Shimon Levy was the country’s minister of defense and one of his closest friends and most important political allies. Lieutenant General Yonatan “Yoni” Golan was Israel’s Ramatkal—the IDF’s chief of staff. Golan was a fine officer and a thirty-two-year veteran of the Israeli Defense Force. But he had been the chief of staff for less than a year, and Eitan did not know him well.

“How in the world could this have happened?” the prime minister erupted after Levy had briefed him on the events unfolding in the north. “You’re telling me a firefight has been underway on the Lebanon border for almost forty-five minutes and I’m just hearing about it now? Are you two out of your minds?”

“I take full responsibility for that,” the defense minister replied in a calm, nondefensive tone he wrongly hoped would douse the flames. “It’s been a fast-moving situation. To be honest, I thought we could contain it quickly and—”

“And what?” the PM bellowed.

“Well, I—”

“Well, what? Spit it out, Shimon.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you on one of your rare days off, Ruvi,” Levy replied, using the PM’s nickname.

“That’s lunacy,” Eitan shouted into the phone. “Absolute insanity—you should have called me immediately.”

Levy had nothing to say. Neither did Golan. So Eitan fired more questions at them.

“Wasn’t there any sign Hezbollah was planning such an attack?”

The general took that one. “None at all, sir.”

“You’re saying this was an utterly unprovoked and wholly unexpected act?”

“Absolutely,” Golan said. “My men are reviewing all of the intelligence now, but I can tell you categorically we’ve seen nothing in recent days suggesting the possibility of an attack. No warning. No hints. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever. What’s also odd, sir, is that we have no indication that this attack was authorized or directed by the Nasser Unit, which is responsible for all Hezbollah operations south of the Litani River. Nor does it appear to be the work of Al-Talil, a unit specially trained at making infiltration attempts into Israel.”

“Then who gave the order?” asked the PM.

“Sir, the initial indications suggest this was an operation conducted by a cell from the Radwan Unit, which is comprised of special operations forces.”

“Haven’t they conducted raids before?”

“No, sir,” said the Ramatkal. “I’m not saying the fighters in the Radwan Unit aren’t trained for invasive action. But we haven’t seen them engage in such activities in years—not since the Second Lebanon War, at least.”

“Then why now? Why today?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have those answers—not yet, sir,” Golan replied.

Defense Minister Levy shifted the conversation to what steps the IDF was taking to find and recover those who had been taken captive. “Prime Minister, as we speak, the entire sector—up to twenty kilometers from the site of the attack—is being bombed without pause or mercy,” Levy noted. “Every known Hezbollah facility inside the zone is being destroyed. Every bridge is being taken out. As is every petrol station. And every vehicle moving north. At the same time, every road in or out of the sector is being bombed in the hopes of entirely disrupting—or at least slowing down—any and all efforts by the kidnappers to take the captives northward, deeper into Lebanese territory. We’ve also flooded the airspace in the zone with drones. We’re intercepting and monitoring every phone call, text message, email, and radio signal. Believe me, Ruvi, we’re doing everything humanly possible to get these three individuals back—alive, unharmed, and in short order.”

Eitan was not impressed. To the contrary, the more his advisors tried to explain how hard they and their forces were working to rectify the situation, the more furious the prime minister became. And when they happened to mention, almost in passing, that the head of Northern Command had activated the Hannibal Protocol, the PM unleashed a blistering, expletive-laden diatribe that lasted several minutes. He declared yet again that they should have informed him of this “unmitigated and far-reaching disaster” from the beginning. “And furthermore,” he concluded, “the Hannibal Protocol is not even IDF policy. It’s years out of date and no longer part of the IDF’s rules of engagement. Any general stupid and foolhardy enough to unilaterally activate Hannibal should be relieved of his duties immediately.”

When his rant had run its course, there was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. But Eitan had more questions.

“How many did they take?” the prime minister asked, suddenly remembering that Levy had begun the call by saying Hezbollah had grabbed “several folks” along the border but had not actually provided any specifics.

“Three,” said the Ramatkal.

Eitan exploded again. “Three Israelis? Three Israeli soldiers? Three precious sons of the State and you wait forty-five minutes to tell me?”

“Actually, Mr. Prime Minister, only one of them is an Israeli,” General Golan clarified.

“I don’t understand,” said Eitan. “Then who are the other two?”

“Americans.”

Eitan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Americans?”

“I’m afraid so,” Golan replied.

“What Americans?”

The defense minister took that one. “Two DSS agents—they were doing an advance trip ahead of Secretary Whitney’s arrival tomorrow,” Levy said. “What’s more, I’m afraid you know them, Ruvi.” Levy paused a moment to let the thought sink in, then added, “They actually saved your life at the Jerusalem peace summit with the Saudis.”

Eitan had been pacing around his office, talking into a headset. Now he felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. His legs felt weak, and he dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Who?” he asked, all the fire drained from his voice.

“Special Agent Marcus Ryker is one of the hostages,” the defense minister replied. “Special Agent Kailea Curtis is the other.”

“I don’t believe it,” Eitan said. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“I’m afraid I am, sir,” Levy replied.

“This is a disaster,” Eitan said. “Do you two understand just how serious . . . ?”

The prime minister’s voice trailed off. He never finished his sentence. Nor did he need to.

Levy said nothing. Golan, too, remained silent.

“That’s why your man activated Hannibal?” Eitan asked, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. “To get Ryker and Curtis back?”

“Well, sir, not entirely,” Levy replied.

“Explain,” said a baffled Eitan.

“Ruvi, it wasn’t the capture of the two Americans alone that triggered Hannibal,” Levy said. “General Kidron gave the order because of the Israeli.”

“The Israeli? Why? Who’s the Israeli?”

There was a long pause, and then Shimon Levy dropped the bombshell. “Your nephew.”