33

Stephens leaned forward in his seat.

“What I’m about to tell you all is highly classified and for this room only,” he began. “The Israeli is an intelligence officer by the name of Yigal Mizrachi.”

As the DCI flashed a picture of the young man up on the screens, Bill McDermott studied the face. The Israeli was young. No more than twenty or twenty-one. Dark features. Dark hair. Military cut. Brown eyes. Slight build. Clearly not a combat soldier. Wasn’t likely to hold up in interrogation. Not for long, anyway. The knot in McDermott’s stomach tightened. They had to find this kid and get him, Ryker, and Curtis out of harm’s way and fast.

Stephens explained Yigal Mizrachi’s role as a liaison to the DSS advance team and noted that he was an aide to the general in charge of the IDF’s Northern Command. He mentioned that he was fluent in four languages, including Arabic.

Then he got to the main point.

“Mr. Mizrachi is also, I’m afraid, the nephew of the prime minister.”

A hush came over the room.

“As you can see, we have a problem at several levels,” Stephens continued. “If Hezbollah figures out that they’ve just nabbed Marcus Ryker, the first call they make isn’t going to be here or the Pentagon. They’re going to contact their friends in Iran and explain that they hold in their possession the number one man on the Revolutionary Guard’s most-wanted list. If they were targeting Ryker, then that call has already been made, and this is going to escalate very, very fast.”

This was the first time McDermott had heard of the bounty on Ryker’s head, and he was growing more angry by the minute that Stephens hadn’t deigned to inform the national security advisor—or even the secretary of state or the head of DSS, for that matter—that one of their men might be a particular target in that neighborhood. McDermott understood Stephens’s decision not to inform the president unless or until the allegation had been confirmed. In his shoes, McDermott thought, he’d probably have done the same thing. Still, it was profoundly irresponsible for the director of the CIA to withhold information this volatile from those responsible for deciding whether to deploy Ryker on missions outside the United States.

Stephens continued his briefing. “So far as we know, no American woman has ever before been kidnapped by Hezbollah,” the DCI noted. “As Secretary Whitney has noted, Agent Curtis is a fine, exemplary public servant. She cut her teeth as a beat cop for the NYPD. She’s been tested under fire in the DSS. She’s tough. Smart. Brave. A model agent, to be sure. Still, what Hezbollah operatives might do with her—to her—none of us can say, but I’m afraid we need to brace ourselves for the worst.”

McDermott saw Whitney wince.

“And there’s one more point, which hardly needs to be made, but let’s be clear,” Stephens concluded. “If Hezbollah figures out that they’ve grabbed a member of the Israeli prime minister’s family, it will be the coup of the century. No matter how much Agents Ryker and Curtis will suffer, it’ll be nothing compared to Mr. Mizrachi.”

“Unless, of course, the Israelis are prepared to make Hezbollah an offer they can’t refuse,” Clarke noted.

Stephens shook his head. “I cannot imagine what Sheikh al-Hussaini—much less the mullahs in Tehran—would accept for such a prize.”

“It’s a nightmare,” Whitney said.

“It is,” Stephens agreed.

McDermott turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General Meyers, what kind of contingencies do you have to find and rescue these three quickly? I think we’re all agreed we cannot allow our people, much less Mr. Mizrachi, to be held and tortured by some of the most barbaric terrorists on the face of the planet.”

“Agreed,” said Meyer. “I’ve already ordered the commanders of SEAL Team Six and Delta to begin preparing options. In just a few hours—1300 local time—I’ve got a call scheduled with General Golan, the IDF’s chief of staff. Yoni and I have known each other for years. He was with me at the Pentagon last month for a visit. We’ll work together on this, and I guarantee you, if the intel guys can find them, we’ll mount an operation to go get them.”

“But time is short, am I right, General?” the president asked.

“Yes, sir, it is,” Meyers confirmed. “If we can find them while they’re still on Lebanese soil, then we’ve got a shot. But if, as Director Stephens is suggesting, they’re going to be transferred to Iran—or even to Syria—then I would have to say that the military option will have been lost. There would have to be a negotiated diplomatic arrangement, if we’re to get them back at all. Alive, at least.”

Clarke recoiled at the notion of opening negotiations with Tehran. McDermott felt the same. They all did.

“Mr. President, there’s another matter I need to bring up in this context,” said the CIA director.

“What’s that?”

“Sir, we’ve learned that Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Hossein Ansari, has passed away from cancer.”

“What, just now?” Clarke asked.

“Within the last two hours,” Stephens said. “The news hasn’t been made public, but on my drive here from Langley, I took a call from Prince Abdullah bin Rashid.”

“The Saudi spy chief.”

“Yes, sir. The prince says they have two high-level sources deep inside Tehran, and both—independently of each other—have reported that the Supreme Leader has died and that the regime is preparing to make an announcement tonight.”

“This isn’t really unexpected, right?” the president asked. “I mean, you’ve been telling us for more than a year, Richard, that the guy was suffering from cancer . . . uh . . .”

“Pancreatic.”

“. . . right, and that it was only a matter of time.”

“True enough.”

“Any reason to believe someone pushed him over the edge?” McDermott asked.

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Foul play?”

“Is it possible?” McDermott prompted. “We’d heard repeatedly that he had no more than a few months to live. What if someone got tired of waiting?”

“I’ll have my guys watch closely and ask the Saudis to as well,” said Stephens. “But there’s something else.”

“What is it?”

“In the last hour, NSA has intercepted a number of messages going back and forth between Hezbollah’s senior leadership and the IRGC. Apparently the Iranians are furious that Hezbollah is provoking a new war with the Israelis when all of Tehran is about to be consumed with a state funeral and the need to choose a successor. The Hezbollah guys, however—the ones close to the Sheikh—are pushing back. They’re saying they had nothing to do with this and are trying to figure out how this thing erupted. What’s even more strange is that the Israelis say they’re also picking up chatter from Hezbollah field units suggesting a high degree of internal chaos. Nobody seems to know exactly how this thing got started, who ordered it, or why.”

“I don’t buy it,” McDermott said.

General Meyers shook his head. “Neither do I. Sounds to me like a disinformation campaign. Far more likely, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps secretly ordered Hezbollah to open up the Israeli front to distract from the death of the ayatollah.”

“I agree,” the president said. “This whole thing has Tehran written all over it.”