Chapter 34

Washington

7:23 pm GMT, 2:23 pm Local

Israeli Foreign Minister Lior Eichorn’s nonstop from Berlin touched down on runway 1R/19L at Washington’s Dulles Airport almost four hours late.

The eleven-hour flight had been delayed taking off from its layover in Frankfurt, due to some sort of commotion resulting from a reported fatality in one of the terminal restrooms. The excitement had caused temporary runway closures, which then postponed the arrival and departure of dozens of flights for a good part of the morning. Fortunately, Eichorn’s plane was already out on the taxiway, second in line for take-off. The Airbus had been pushed back from the jetway eight minutes before the murder was estimated to have occurred, which meant there was no way the suspect could possibly be on board.

For this trip he was traveling with two members of Shin Bet, the Israeli internal security service. Since the State of Israel did not own a private aircraft for transportation of its government officials, heads of state—except for the prime minister—were forced to fly first class via regularly scheduled commercial airline. First preference, for obvious reasons, was El Al, not only because it was Israel’s national airline, but because of its near-impeccable safety record and its on-board missile defense system. There was no direct service via El Al from Berlin to Washington, however, which meant Eichorn and his party were forced to share the crowded skies with a plane load of tourists, businessmen, and noisy German exchange students on their way to America for the summer.

When the plane landed at Dulles, it taxied directly to a guarded gate, where armed security agents cleared the three Israelis through a private immigration checkpoint. They then were escorted to a waiting convoy consisting of three black Chevy Tahoes and two motorcycle cops. Eichorn sat in the back of the second vehicle, flanked by his two protectors, each of whom was handed a weapon as soon as they climbed inside. Before the short procession pulled away from the private arrivals curb, an attaché from the Israeli Embassy handed the Foreign Minister a manila envelope that was closed with a metal clasp.

“Your itinerary, sir,” the attaché told him. His name was Benjamin Covitz, mid-thirties, born and raised in Tel Aviv except for six years of college and graduate study in Boston.

“What about the invitation for tomorrow night?” Eichorn inquired.

“You are the personal guest of the president at the annual media dinner,” Covitz assured him. “Private reception at six o’clock. Your suit will be pressed, shoes polished.”

“I wish my wife could have joined me for this,” Eichorn lamented. He and Alina had been married thirty-nine years, but three months ago she had been diagnosed with stage three cervical cancer, and was undergoing treatment at Chaim Sheba Medical Center in Ramat Gan. When doctors had first presented her with the grim news he had offered to stand down from his post, but she had absolutely refused. “Who else is on the guest list?”

“The usual suspects, sir. Mostly members of the White House press corps looking for a free meal and bottomless champagne. Some senators and cabinet members, a cadre of lobbyists, and the usual Hollywood types.”

“And the vice president?”

“He’ll be seated on the dais.”

“Should make for an interesting evening,” Eichorn observed. “Americans do have some peculiar customs.”

“Self-effacing humor is considered honorable, I guess.”

“Particularly among thieves,” Eichorn replied with a chuckle.

He settled into his seat, the two burly special forces types sitting on either side of him. As the small motorcade got underway his mind drifted back to the multitude of texts that had downloaded into his phone when he’d switched it out of airplane mode. He felt a deep sense of remorse for the confrontation he’d had with his cousin at the Berlin embassy, the threats of violence and the crazy display of the gun. He’d sent Eitan Hazan an apology, but had received no word in return: very unlike him, unless he was royally pissed—or something else.

Setting his immediate concern aside, he scrolled through his messages and found one that left him more encouraged:

Shipment arrived. Delivery scheduled.

Excellent, Eichorn thought. Everything is working according to plan.

The motorcade pulled onto the Dulles Access Road and headed eastward toward Washington. He eased back in his seat, ignoring the banal and tedious architecture that had sprouted across the suburban Virginia landscape. He had first come here thirty years ago, when much of this terrain was lush forest and rolling hills. Now it was all just formless buildings squatting on the land, a tedious sameness punctuated by cell phone towers and asphalt and automobiles clogging the roads. How he missed the arid hills of Israel, and his wife Alina, who was being looked after by a cousin while Lior was out of the country, again, on state business.

Most of all he missed his daughter Avigail, whose death he still grieved as much today as he did six years ago when her plane vanished into thin air.

A dark feeling settled in as he wondered for the tenth time in as many minutes, Eitan—where are you, and why haven’t I heard from you?