Exit Plan (48 page)

Joanna answered for them. “Tel Aviv has many things we’d love to see, but that will have to be on our next visit. Like your boss, we have a tight schedule.”

The Daniel Hotel was on the west edge of town, almost on the water. The lobby was modern and almost tropical with lush greenery and a stunning view of the Mediterranean. It was located in Herzliya, a suburb north of Tel Aviv that was also the location of Mossad’s headquarters.

They were met by the Daniel Hotel’s manager and welcomed warmly. “Rooms for you and your security staff have been arranged. Your luggage is on its way up to your room. It has a lovely view of the Mediterranean, and there is an excellent outdoor breakfast buffet.”

Ben-Rosen was ready to leave, pleading a pressing schedule, but both Hardy and Patterson forestalled him. “You still haven’t told us when we’ll be able to meet with Dr. Harel,” she reminded him.

The assistant held up his smartphone. “I’m very sorry. I’d been hoping for an update on the deputy director’s arrival while we were driving to the hotel, but it hasn’t arrived. I’ll be back at my office in fifteen minutes, and I will send you a schedule as soon as it’s ready.”

Ben-Rosen hurried off, and Patterson and Hardy headed for the elevators.

~ * ~

Still unpacking, they’d turned on the TV as soon as they’d gotten into the room and found a news channel.

CNN had picked up the live feed from FARS about five minutes after the press conference began. English subtitles scrolled across the screen, but the Israeli news service relaying the CNN broadcast had added their own Hebrew subtitles. The two lines of text partially covered what was not a high-fidelity image.

Patterson recognized General Moradi at once.
What else could he possibly say?
she wondered.

Now, he stood in front of a battery of cameras and reporters, patiently answering questions. The press conference, according to FARS, the official Iranian news agency, was taking place at a hospital in Deyyer, a town on the Persian Gulf coast, where an unidentified body had washed ashore.

Without even thinking about it, she sat down and called to Lowell. “You need to see this.”

The questions, all from Iranian reporters, were prearranged setups. “When did you find the body? What injuries had it sustained? Have you identified it?”

Moradi was careful with the last question. “We do not know the individual’s identity or nationality. He was wearing an American-made watch, and his uniform is American issue.”

“What do you intend to do next?”

“We are sending his fingerprints and a copy of the autopsy report to the Red Cross in Geneva, to be passed on to the United States so they can determine if this man is one of their service members. He must have a family, and I’m sure they would like to know what has happened to him.”

Behind her, Lowell muttered cynically, “What a considerate guy.” She shushed him.

“There are also questions that must be answered about how he came to be in our territory. Certainly we cannot release a body to anyone until this mystery is solved.”

“What if he is not American?” a reporter asked.

“If the Americans do not claim him, then in several days we will post all the information: fingerprints, photographs, and the autopsy report, on the Internet so that others can examine it, and perhaps tell us who he is. Again, our first consideration is his bereaved family members, and understanding the circumstances of his death.”

Moradi continued, “We have a sketch of his features.” He paused and looked to one side, and a hospital worker held up two poster-sized drawings of a young man, one with a beard and one without.

“It’s Higgs,” she confirmed. She felt a pain in her chest. “I recognize him from the briefing.” She tried to remember what it said about his family.

“Lovely,” Hardy said grimly. “We can get the body back and explain why we were there, or disown him.”

“We can’t do that,” she protested.

“We won’t,” he answered, “but until we get Jerry and company get out of Iran, we can’t answer questions. And thanks to the kindness of General Moradi, Higgs’s family may have just gotten word that he’s dead. How long will it take for the news media to swoop in on them? Suddenly, I want to bomb Tehran.”

The secure phone rang, and Hardy answered. “Yes, Dr. Kirkpatrick, we saw it, too. I can’t predict how the Israelis will react, but it doesn’t reflect well on U.S. capabilities.”

Hardy listened for a minute, then answered, “The best way to fix it is to get Jerry and his people out, then have our own news conference, with an Iranian nuclear engineer and a boatload of files about a weapons program the Iranians say doesn’t exist.”

~ * ~

They’d had an excellent lunch, Hardy had called his congressional office, and they’d had a brisk exchange of e-mails with Kirkpatrick confirming that the body Moradi described was indeed Lieutenant Vernon Higgs. They’d reviewed possible scenarios, and researched some finer points of the Israeli governmental structure.

And Ben-Rosen had finally called, at 1500, to explain that the doctor had been delayed en route. They were waiting for a new ETA and would have the schedule quickly after that. He asked for their forgiveness, and patience. The hotel had a pool, a spa, and offered guided tours of the historic parts of the city. Perhaps they could refresh themselves while they waited.

Hardy almost slammed the phone in the receiver when he hung up.

Joanna fumed. “They’re trying to distract us. They think we’re so self-indulgent we’ll happily wait while they prepare their attack.”

“I wonder how many times it’s worked,” Hardy mused. “So let’s relax. Want to take a walk on the beach?” He put his finger to his lips.

The outside temperature was seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, with a light breeze. The Mediterranean could have been an oil painting. It was hard to be angry or impatient in a setting like that, and Patterson felt a little of her tension fade. She looped her arm through his and slowed to his pace.

Once they were away from the hotel, Hardy said, “I know our detail swept the room for bugs, but the Israelis are good. Let’s not take chances.”

“What if they call while we’re out here?” Patterson asked.

“They won’t call until we make them call,” he answered. “If they can stall us for a day, maybe just overnight, they can say ‘It’s too late now, we’re committed.’ They’re that close to being ready.”

“When, do you think?” she asked.

“As early as tonight. It doesn’t affect them as much as the Iranians. The Israelis can fly and fight in the dark as easily as the daytime. It reduces the chances of agents here spotting all the activity, the Iranian air defense crews will be tired, and it gives more time to rescue aircrews if any get shot down. I’d start provoking false alarms around midday, start messing with their minds. . . .”

“But how do we force a meeting?” she asked.

Hardy smiled. “How did you get that meeting with the Russians on
Peter the Great
?” In negotiations with the Russian Navy, she’d connived suspicious, almost hostile Russians into listening to her by publicly announcing that a meeting had been scheduled. It was risky, but it had worked.

“I came at them from a different direction, through the media. Can we do that here? The Israelis don’t care about what the press says. Their national survival is at stake. Can we apply pressure somewhere?”

Hardy almost laughed. “They don’t want what we’ve got right now.” He paused for a moment. “But they will want what we’ve got later, after the strike.”

“Political support,” Joanna said.

“Right. We can promise to abstain from any Security Council vote. We can threaten to limit arms sales in the future. The Israelis have to convince us that they are using the stuff we sold them for legitimate self-defense. If the Iranians don’t have the bomb, and the Israelis won’t listen, then they’re just bombing Natanz because it feels good.”

She didn’t look convinced. “We can’t say that on our own hook. Sure, you’re on the Senate Armed Services Committee, but you’re the junior member. We need to get approval from State.”

“Or from someone higher in the chain. We’ll ask. The Israelis know that acting against their ally’s wishes will have a political cost. Maybe they need to see what the price tag actually says.”

Patterson spoke softly. “And what about the data Jerry’s group has? When we get it, we’ll release a lot of the files. It would prove the Israelis were played—that there never was a bomb. It would embarrass both the Iranians and the Israelis.”

Hardy did laugh out loud, but lowered his voice to answer. “You mean make Mossad, the world’s greatest intelligence agency, look like monkeys? Would we do that?”

She just smiled, envisioning the scene.

“Let’s go write some e-mails,” Hardy suggested.

“But we should play nice,” she added. “We could say that we’re willing to listen to their analysis. We have the president’s ear. This is one last chance before the shooting starts to convince the U.S. and get our support.”

“And to think I married you for your looks,” he answered.

~ * ~

Given their reception, a casual observer could not guess that the U.S. and Israel were allies. Mr. Ben-Rosen was waiting in the security lobby at Mossad headquarters. He didn’t smile, and didn’t offer his hand to either Hardy or Patterson. Once they’d signed in and gone through the scanner, he simply said, “Please come with me.” At least they didn’t have an armed escort.

The headquarters was busy, even hectic, but in addition to all the activity it looked to Patterson like security had been beefed up as well. One expected security guards in the lobby, all armed with Uzis of course, but there were additional checkpoints as they moved through the building. And when Ben-Rosen pulled out his identification so they could get on an elevator, she spotted the shoulder holster under his suit coat. So they did have an armed escort after all.

The elevator took them straight to the top floor. The previously voluble assistant didn’t utter a word until they stepped out. “They’re waiting for us in the conference room.” He opened a door on the left.

Joanna went in first, followed by her husband. She expected the long table, the Israeli flags, and paintings on the wall. What she didn’t expect was the Israeli Minister of Defense, Michael Lavon, seated at the far end of the room. He’d been in the news enough to be instantly recognizable.

A second man stood next to a coffee urn at the far end. He was about the same age as Lavon. Ben-Rosen introduced them. “Senator Hardy, Dr. Patterson, this is Dr. Yaniv Revach, our Director, and General Lavon, our Minister of Defense.”

So instead of meeting with one deputy director, they were speaking directly with the two most powerful, and probably the busiest men, in Israel.

Neither was smiling, and while they shook hands with the Americans, there was no warmth in their grip. There wasn’t any small talk either. While Hardy and Patterson took their seats, Ben-Rosen served coffee and then left the room. The two ministers took chairs on the opposite side of the table from the American envoys. They were the only people in the room, which was big enough to hold thirty. No secretaries, no briefers, no assistants.

Lavon spoke first. In his early fifties, his trim build and short blond hair hinted at his past. He still flew fighters when time allowed.

“We are hoping this meeting will be short. That’s one reason for limiting its size. We also hope we can all speak frankly, without unfriendly, or even friendly ears overhearing the discussion. We will not take notes, and you will have to accept our guarantee that we are not being recorded.” La-von smiled a little, but it appeared forced.