First Strike (12 page)

“Marwan!” Que'san yelled. “
Stop!
”

Al-Jaheishi searched for the buttons, his hands quaking with fear. As he fumbled, his eyes again went down the hallway. Que'san's handgun was trained at the open doors. The metallic
thwack
of suppressed gunfire was accompanied by the thud as a slug ripped into the back wall of the car.

Al-Jaheishi tucked into the front corner, shielding himself from Que'san's bullets. He found the Close Door button just as another slug ripped the wood at the back of the elevator.

Que'san's footsteps grew louder as he came closer.

Al-Jaheishi hit the button repeatedly as several more bullets boomed into the elevator, their damage moving in a line along the wall, moving closer and closer to him. Then the lights of the hallway seemed to flicker as Que'san's large frame crossed beneath the closest hall light. Al-Jaheishi could hear his breath, filled with anger.

The elevator doors seemed to be stuck … and then they moved inward.

The gunfire grew rapid now. Slugs hit just inches above al-Jaheishi. The doors groaned shut. Then came a loud series of
clangs
as slugs struck the outer door and the elevator began its descent to the lobby, eighteen floors below.

 

16

RAMAT DAVID AIRBASE

ISRAELI AIR FORCE

JEZREEL VALLEY, ISRAEL

In a small building at Ramat David Airbase, a windowless room held four workstations and a wall of plasmas. Two plasmas showed a topographical map, in real time, of the Syrian border east of the Golan Heights. Imposed upon the plasmas was a set of red and green grid lines, with various lights flickering. What the maps displayed was Syrian Defense Forces, including missile batteries, lined up like chess pieces along the border, waiting for signs of Israeli incursion by plane or helicopter.

The plasmas also showed Israeli asset groups in the same area.

“They just crossed Green Line.”

The Green Line was the original border between Israel and Syria.

The speaker was a young, pretty blond-haired IAF officer named Adina Safer. She was the mission officer and had tactical command authority for what would soon be penetration of the Syrian border by the Panther carrying Dewey and Kohl, which at that moment, was a red dot flickering brightly at the center of the plasma as it moved at a blistering 300 mph clip above the forbidding mountain crags of the Golan Heights.

“
Electromagnetic deception,
” Safer continued. “Jonathan, are you ready?”

To Safer's left, another uniformed Israeli, Jonathan Tarshaw, studied a small computer screen in front of him as his fingers maneuvered furiously across his keyboard.

“I'm locked in,” Tarshaw said. “On your go, Dina.”

Safer cued her mike. “Panther Ten, you are two minutes from Purple Line, over.”

Purple Line was the actual border between Israel and Syria, created after Israel took the Golan Heights from Syria in the Six-Day War. After crossing the Purple Line, the Panther would be fair game for a kill shot from a Syrian missile battery.

The speakers in the mission control room crackled with static from the helicopter, then one of the pilots came on: “Roger that, control, over.”

“Check your systems, Matthew.”

“Systems clear.”

“Wait for the free and clear,” said Safer, nodding to Tarshaw.

“Initiating signals,” said Tarshaw.

“On your count, Lieutenant.”

Tarshaw stiffened slightly, then leaned in. “Hard count,” he said loudly. “Beginning now.”

Tarshaw held up his left hand, five fingers, as, with his right, he typed. “Five,” he said, then dropped a finger as he counted down. “Four … three … two … one. And we are live. That's a go.”

He hit the keyboard.

On the screen, the red flicker of the Panther abruptly disappeared.

“You're dark, Panther Ten,” said Safer. “Free and clear, over.”

“Affirmative,” came the voice of one of the two pilots in the cockpit. “Panther Ten has the con, over and out.”

Safer crossed her arms, then took a step toward the plasma screen.

The pilot's voice popped again inside the control room.

“Path cut to two-seventy dot four nine in ten … nine … eight…”

*   *   *

The Israeli chopper banked right and climbed sharply as it crossed an empty stretch of hills that, ten thousand feet below, constituted the border between Israel and Syria.

The speaker inside the cabin came on with the voice of one of the pilots.

“Syrian airspace, boys. Start packing up.”

Dewey registered the words as he stared out the window at the ground now three miles below the speeding helicopter. It was all dark except for occasional clusters of lights from villages.

With him was Kohl Meir along with two more commandos from Shayetet 13, Leibman and Barsky.

“Why don't they shoot us down?” asked Dewey.

“Technology,” said Meir.

“Stealth?”

“No,” said Meir. “It's called electromagnetic deception. We know where the Syrian radar is and we send false signals. At least, we think we know where it is. Hopefully Assad hasn't moved the tracking stations.”

“What do you mean, ‘hopefully'?” asked Dewey, a little surprise in his voice.

“
Hopefully,
” said Meir matter-of-factly. “You know, like hopefully that girl likes me, hopefully it's nice weather at the beach, hopefully that guy shooting at me is a bad shot. Hopefully, the Syrians haven't moved their radar transmission systems.”

“That's reassuring.”

“You asked.”

“And if they
have
moved them?”

“If they moved them, it will be a dramatically shorter flight.”

Dewey shook his head.

“Anyway,” continued Meir, grinning, “the guys are pretty smart back in Tel Aviv so I'm not too worried. We direct data streams into the emitters, including false targets. We figured out how to make their radar see things it isn't really seeing. We're invisible.”

“Why haven't the Syrians figured it out?” asked Dewey. “Seems like the kind of thing that you can get away with once.”

“We'll know if they figure it out.”

“How?”

“There will be about a dozen missiles flying up from the ground,” said Meir, smiling nonchalantly. “Keep your eyes peeled, will you, Dewey?”

“That's funny.”

“It wasn't meant to be.”

Dewey nodded toward the cockpit. “Can these guys evade a Syrian missile?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Meir nodded. “They're very good. One missile, perhaps even two. But…”

“
But?
What the fuck does that mean?”

“If the Syrians shoot more than one or two missiles … well, I think at that point I'll probably put on a parachute.”

Meir was now laughing.

Dewey shook his head.

“I'm glad you find this amusing.”

“I'm just fucking with you,” said Meir, still laughing.

The other commandos, seated on the floor of the cabin, were also laughing now.

Dewey breathed a sigh of relief.

“So we know for a fact they haven't moved the radar?” asked Dewey.

“No,” said Meir. “I mean the pilots can't evade two missiles. Even one would be next to impossible. It's a fucking helicopter. A fighter jet, yes, but this thing is slow. It's like a flying elephant. Hitting it with a missile would be like hitting the side of a barn with a watermelon.”

Meir, joined by Leibman and Barsky, were now red-faced with laughter.

“Fuck you,” said Dewey, smiling and shaking his head as laughter from Meir and the others filled the cabin. “I forgot how fucked-up Israeli humor is.”

“You'd have a fucked-up sense of humor too if everyone was trying to kill you.”

Dewey pressed his nose to the glass and looked out the window. Other than a small patchwork of yellow in one spot on the ground, everything was black.

“What am I looking at?” asked Dewey.

“Golan Heights,” said Meir, who was also looking down from a window on the opposite side of the cabin. “My father fought there. So did Matthew's.” Meir pointed his thumb toward Leibman, on the floor behind him. “It was a terrible war, but we won. Afterward, Israel offered to give most of it back to Syria in exchange for peace. But of course they said no. The Syrians would rather kill Israelis than enjoy a picnic with their family on the beautiful hills.”

They were interrupted by the crack of the cabin intercom.

“Lights out,” came the pilot. “We'll be above Izraa in ten minutes. Keep the noise down too.”

 

17

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Al-Jaheishi entered the lobby. It wasn't crowded, but there were at least a half dozen people, including a pair of security guards, as well as businesspeople just arriving for the day.

It had been Nazir's idea to locate one of the ISIS offices in Damascus, in the heart of Assad-controlled territory. He had believed that if they wore the right clothing and used accounts that were untraceable, they would simply blend in. He'd been right, of course, but it always gave al-Jaheishi a chill to enter the lobby, afraid of what he might find.

It will soon be over. You will be in America. Uncle will remember you.

Al-Jaheishi walked through the lobby and out to the street, then went right and fell into the crowd of pedestrians. He walked for several blocks. When he saw a taxi stop at the corner in front of him, he ran to the door. Just before he climbed inside, he glanced back at the office building. The sidewalk in front was crowded. A line of people arriving for work was queued up outside the revolving glass doors. Then Que'san emerged from the revolving doors and charged through the middle of the line, nearly knocking over several people.

Al-Jaheishi quickly ducked into the cab and shut the door. His eyes shot to the back window.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.

Behind Que'san stepped his deputy, Azrael.

Al-Jaheishi shuddered.

It was Que'san who came up with the idea of the beheadings. It was Azrael who performed the first one.

The two men stood on the granite steps in front of the building, looming unnaturally and darkly, scanning the sidewalks and streets for al-Jaheishi. Both had on suits. Both had their right hands tucked inside their jackets, clutching guns. Que'san was looking left, but it was Azrael's eyes who seemed to home in on the taxi. His arm moved into the air, pointing in al-Jaheishi's direction; pointing, it felt like, directly at him.

“East quarter,” said al-Jaheishi. “Café Mosul.”

*   *   *

Mallory was dropped off at the central train station. The area in front of the station was packed with people, though there were also pockets of empty space. Soldiers. They stood in the olive-and-red uniforms of the Syrian Army. Mallory quickly counted eight before he'd made it halfway to the front doors. Each soldier clutched a submachine gun. They covered the entrance at ten-foot intervals, eyes scanning the crowds.

Mallory walked with his head bent slightly, eyes to the ground. He entered the crowded station and cut across the main waiting area, heading for an exit at the far side. He moved slowly, so as not to raise suspicion, crossing another line of gunmen, then fell in line with a pack of pedestrians just off one of the commuter trains. He crossed the street, then cut back toward the main entrance, where he'd been let out. The Citroën was still in front. Bending over, pretending to tie a shoelace, Mallory looked across the busy boulevard, between cars and buses, until he had a clear view. The driver was still sitting in the front seat, his head turned toward the entrance, as if watching for him. Mallory stood and moved up a side street, away from the train station, walking quickly. He took his next left, then a right, then another left, zigzagging into a pretty neighborhood of sandstone homes, with neat courtyards in front and brightly colored shutters.

“Good day to you,” said an old man from his porch, where he sat with a cat on his lap.

“Good morning, my friend,” said Mallory, waving.

Mallory had been to Damascus on several occasions during his CIA career. In some ways, its crowds, traffic, smog, and noise reminded him of Cairo. But if Cairo's buildings spoke of history and wonder, of architectural achievements hard to imagine having taken place so long ago, Damascus had a simple beauty that was beguiling. Cairo had inhabitants; the city was there for them, too large and sprawling to ever feel a sense of ownership, only awe and fear. Damascus was clean in the way a local city is, a city that was more like a large town, and the pride that came with that was obvious in its cleanliness, in the way its people nodded politely, the way shopkeepers kept their windows spotless and, just off the commercial areas, the way red and yellow flowers dangled from flower boxes perched on small porches. Legend had it that on a journey from Mecca, the Prophet Mohammed saw Damascus but refused to enter the city because he wanted to enter paradise only once, when he died.

Mallory looked at his watch. It was five minutes after eight. He used the distant white peak of Mount Qassioun to orient himself. He spotted the Presidential Palace in the distance. When he reached the outer circle surrounding the fountains at the center of Umayyad Square, he noted a loose line of soldiers pacing around the fountain. Cars sped by, horns blasting almost constantly.

Mallory walked until he came to Al Madhi Ibn Barakeh, a busy street running west. After a few minutes, he could see the telltale blue glass of the Blue Tower Hotel. A half dozen blocks later, he saw a fountain down a small side street; then, beyond, a line of shops. In the middle of the line of shops, he saw a bunch of tables filled with people, eating and drinking.

He glanced at his watch: 8:36.

He looked again. He didn't see Andreas, but that meant nothing. Mallory assumed that Andreas was camouflaged, but there were so many people.