77

THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, ANKARA, TURKEY

President Ahmet Mustafa had barely slept at all.

He prayed five times a day for Allah to bring down the corrupt, debauched, pagan empire based in Washington, and he had done so for years. He had no doubt that just as the Soviet empire had imploded, so would the American one. And soon.

The question was whether he was ready for a direct confrontation, and the answer was simple: not yet.

Hamdi Yaşar was a faithful Turk and a good man, and he was right. The objective had been to capture Israelis. Their man had grabbed three Americans instead. The only thing to do now was to trust that Allah in his beneficence had given them just what they needed, if not what they wanted, and to complete the extraction plan they had already set into motion.

Mustafa stepped into his personal study, opened his wall safe, and removed the satellite phone Yaşar had once given him during one of their “interviews.” Then he sent the man a simple text.

Buy the tickets. Get them out.

THE KIRYA, TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

“Miss Morris, gentlemen, welcome to Israel,” said Asher Gilad.

Israel’s revered spy chief, now in his midsixties, looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for days—and he probably hadn’t, Jenny Morris thought as she stepped off the elevator on the top floor of the IDF headquarters, a massive skyscraper located in the heart of Israel’s commercial capital. She shook hands with the Mossad director, who promptly introduced her to Lieutenant General Yoni Golan, the IDF chief of staff, and Tomer Ben Ami, deputy director of the Shin Bet.

Jenny, in turn, introduced her team—Geoff Stone of DSS, former SEAL commander Donny Callaghan, and Noah Daniels from the CIA. After some pleasantries that were not really so pleasant, given the situation, Gilad led them into a secure, windowless conference room. They were served coffee and bottles of water and asked if they wanted anything to eat. Jenny was famished after the long flight, but she declined, as did the men. Their friends were being held, and probably tortured, by the worst of humanity. It was time to get down to business. It was time to get them home.

“I must tell you,” Gilad began, “that while you were in the air, a great deal has happened.”

“Please tell me you’ve found them,” Jenny said.

“Not exactly, but we have found something.”

“What is it?” Jenny asked. “Tell us everything you know.”

Gilad glanced at his Shin Bet colleague and nodded, and Tomer Ben Ami continued the briefing by directing their attention to a large screen mounted on the wall. Using a remote, he brought up two images, one after the other. Both were of the same young Arab man. In one, he was in handcuffs and wearing a Hezbollah uniform. In the other, he was wearing prison garb and sitting in an interrogation room.

“As you know, we have a prisoner,” Tomer began. “His name is Tanzeel al-Masri. Unfortunately, he’s a pretty small fish. Only seventeen. Has been training with the Radwan Unit for less than a year. Insists he knows nothing. Not the plan. Not where the prisoners are now. Not any of the safe houses that the team is likely using.”

Geoff Stone stared at the screen, then back at Tomer.

“But . . . ?”

“But his brother is another story,” the Israeli replied.

“Who’s his brother?”

Tomer flashed another picture up on the screen. “Amin al-Masri,” he explained. “Twenty-eight. Born and raised in Beirut, though he lived in Libya for a time. Mother is Lebanese. His father was Egyptian. Both father and son worked in the Libyan oil fields before Amin moved back to Beirut, joined Hezbollah, and started steadily rising through the ranks.”

“Thus the surname,” said Jenny. “Al-Masri—the Egyptian.”

“Exactly.”

“And why is he important?”

“Because Amin al-Masri is the man who led the raid.”

All eyes turned back to the screen.

“Amin is not just a member of Hezbollah,” Tomer continued. “He’s the deputy commander of the Radwan Unit, the most elite of all of Hezbollah’s special forces.”

“So—a big fish,” said Noah.

“Very big,” Tomer continued. “Now I’ve been the one interrogating Tanzeel, and I have to give him credit. Despite his youth and inexperience, he is not as talkative as we had hoped. Won’t talk about his brother. Or the unit. Or his colleagues. Or the mission. But a little while ago, he made a serious mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” Jenny asked.

“For six hours last night, I asked him every conceivable question about his family, the operation, everything you would want me to ask. Tanzeel held his ground. Gave me nothing. But he was getting tired. And hungry. And thirsty. And I kept going. Past midnight. Until around 3 a.m. Then I let him have a bottle of cold water and told him to get some rest and we would try again in the morning. We put him in a cell by himself with a cot, a blanket, and a decent pillow. He fell asleep immediately. But an hour later, we woke him up again. Gave him a freezing cold shower. And then began the conversation all over again. He kept begging me for something to eat and more time to sleep. We went three and a half hours; then I finally let him go back to his cell. Again, he fell fast asleep. But a half hour later, we woke him up once again. Another cold shower. But this time I offered him a plate of hummus and freshly baked pita and even some grilled lamb, but only if he would give something I could verify. I told him to forget about the mission or his brother, to just tell me a little about himself. You know, just some basic biographical information I could put in his file. Date of birth. What hospital he was born in. Where he went to school. What’s his mobile number. What’s his ID number. Does he have his driver’s license yet. You know the drill.”

“And?” Jenny pressed again, eager to get to the bottom line.

“And he finally gave me something we can use.”