Quest for Honor (18 page)

“Tell you what. I’ll bring my toothbrush anyway, just in case.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Washington, D.C.

W
aiting to see
the President of the United States was never relaxing, although sitting in the Roosevelt Room was better than cooling one’s heels anywhere else outside the Oval Office. Denise Allenson was making her first visit to the building, and trying to hide her nervousness. Things were moving rapidly. This morning, she had come to work at Langley looking forward to another day of preparing for her next overseas assignment, then a relaxing weekend. That had changed fifteen minutes after she sat down at her desk in the section of CIA Headquarters devoted to the National Clandestine Service. Starting her day with a summons to the office of Director-NCS was something that had never happened to her, and the whirl of activity in the next several hours had left her scrambling to catch up, feeling just a bit flustered.

Denise wasn’t used to being flustered. From that day on the Vanderbilt campus when she’d taken a dare by a sorority sister to hand her resume to the CIA recruiter at the job fair, things had fallen into place for her. She hadn’t exactly started out to be an intelligence operative, but she found it be a lot more exciting than following in her parents’ footsteps and becoming an accountant. Dad had been disappointed when his daughter told him she wouldn’t be joining the family firm, but now he got a rush when he was asked at cocktail parties about his little girl’s occupation. He was only allowed to say she worked for the Federal government, but that was enough, since he usually added, “I can’t tell you any more than that,” with a raised eyebrow.

There was some luck involved, of course, but hard work and dedication had brought her to this room. In her fifteen years in CIA, her work had taken her all over the world, and she never dreamed that her most recent posting, in Djibouti, would amount to much. But she was one of the few available operatives who had recent experience in the Horn of Africa. Besides, the chief of station down there had specifically asked for her. She knew that had to be due to the quality of work she’d done at that posting, and not because Tom Simons thought she had great legs, although she suspected he did. He’d been one of the few men she’d worked with who hadn’t actually said so.

The two men in the Roosevelt Room with her were Director-NCS and the Director of Central Intelligence himself, whom she had met for the first time just a few hours ago. DCI was a short, courtly gentleman who reminded her of her late grandfather, a history professor at Vandy. Just a few days ago, the Senate had voted unanimously to confirm the Director as the new Secretary of Defense. That meant this operation would be one of his last as DCI. She wasn’t comforted by the thought that she might have a hand in shaping his legacy.

A man whom Denise recognized as the president’s chief of staff stepped into the room. “Director, the president will see you and your people now.” Denise stood and gave her two-button jacket one last quick adjustment, thanking her stars once again that she hadn’t decided to dress more casually.

They entered the Oval Office through the hallway door. She’d seen it many times on television, but actually being there was something quite different, and Denise tried to keep her eyes from wandering. She took in the lush, wheat-colored carpeting, dominated by the presidential seal just to the right of the furnishings, two plush couches facing a coffee table. To the left of these, between the couches and the fireplace, were two leather-covered chairs. Woven somewhere in this carpet, she knew, were quotes from four presidents and also from Martin Luther King, Jr. She looked to the right, toward the desk and the windows behind it.

“Mr. President, the DCI and his party,” the chief of staff said, and the man standing at the window turned toward them.

“Hello, Leon,” the president said, walking out from behind the desk. Denise thought he was taller than he looked on TV, and grayer, but he had a bit of a smile as he extended his hand to DCI, then to DNCS, both of whom were no strangers to this room.

“Mr. President,” DCI said with a touch of formality, “may I present Denise Allenson, one of our top NCS people.”

His handshake was firm, and she saw a glint in the dark brown eyes. “A pleasure, Ms. Allenson.” He gestured toward the sitting area. “Please, take a seat.”

The president sat in the chair on the right, the chief of staff on the left. DCI was in the right-hand couch, with DNCS and Denise taking the left. DCI got right to the point. “Mr. President, thank you for taking the time to fit this into your schedule. As I mentioned in my phone call yesterday, we have actionable intel about a high-value al-Qaida target in Somalia.” DNCS withdrew a red-bordered file from his briefcase and handed it to the chief of staff, who passed it unopened to the president. He flipped through the first few pages, nodding slightly. Denise wondered why he would give it such short shrift, but then it occurred to her that he’d probably seen it already.

“He wants to defect?” the president asked.

“That’s correct, sir,” DCI said. “This was confirmed by our C-of-S in Djibouti, who met with the subject two nights ago in Mogadishu.”

The president turned to DNCS. “How about that, John? Do you think he’s serious?”

“Our man is convinced, Mr. President. Tom Simons has a strong record. He’s not easily fooled. If he thinks it’s legitimate, I believe him.”

The chief of staff, flipping through the file, spoke for the first time since he’d introduced the visitors. “I see the target wants the standard deal. What’s the hang-up?”

DCI pursed his lips and sighed. Evidently this part had not been revealed to the White House before now. “He wants to turn himself over to a private American citizen, a man he attended college with in Wisconsin.”

“Are you serious?” the chief of staff asked, with more than a little skepticism.

“I am,” DCI said. “He said this man is the only American he ever met who was an honorable person, the only one he’ll trust to bring him out.”

DNCS pulled out another file, more slender and with no red border, and handed it to the chief of staff. This time he flipped it open and glanced at the single page inside before passing it to the president.

“Have we been in touch with him?” the president asked.

“Not yet, sir,” DCI said. “I thought it prudent to proceed with a contact only after your approval of this action. It’s not every day that we involve civilians in one of our operations.”

“I see he was never in the service,” the president said, scanning the document again. “Applied twice for the reserves, turned down both times. Why was that?”

“Medical reasons,” DNCS said. “A college athletic injury.”

“So I can’t recall him to active duty,” the president said. “But his brother is serving, is that right?”

“Yes, sir, a West Point man, just promoted to colonel,” DCI said. “Commands a base in Afghanistan. Just before that he was on the ISAF staff.”

The president handed the file back to his chief of staff. “I may have met him when the ISAF people were here a few months ago.”

Denise knew that the International Security Assistance Force was led by the Army general who would be her new boss in a few more weeks. If this Wisconsin civilian’s brother had been on that particular general’s staff, he must be a pretty big wheel himself. What kind of man would his brother be? Denise would soon be finding out first-hand, and she knew her evaluation of him would go a long way toward determining whether this mission would succeed. If they got over there and he went all to pieces, it could be disastrous. The Horn was not the place to have a disaster.

“What’s your plan with this, Leon?”

DCI straightened his tie. “With your approval, Mr. President, we will contact Mr. Hayes this weekend and bring him to Langley for briefing and training. Simons is scheduled to meet with the target next Thursday, the twenty-eighth, to finalize the defection. If that goes according to plan, we would fly Mr. Hayes to Djibouti the next day. The principals would meet on Sunday the thirty-first, presumably in Mogadishu.”

“What kind of backup will Simons have at that meet?” the chief of staff asked. “Are we looking at another
Blackhawk Down
if there’s a problem?”

DNCS handled that one. “No, sir. Simons and his people will be supported by a Special Forces unit out of Camp Lemmonier. They’ll be ready to extract the civilians if something goes wrong.”

“Hopefully they won’t be needed,” the president said. He gave DCI a look that was all business. “I don’t want my people to be hung out to dry, Leon. I’ll have a word with SecDef about making sure we have enough assets available to get them out if it comes to that.”

Denise saw DCI relax, just a bit. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

The chief of staff had been looking at the Hayes file. “This fellow studies martial arts. I hope he doesn’t get cocky over there and think he’s Chuck Norris.”

The president offered a slight smile. “I don’t know, Bill. Sometimes I think it might be a good idea to draft Mr. Norris and send him over there.”

“We’ll keep him on a short leash, sir,” DNCS said. “Ms. Allenson will be making the contact with him and supervising his briefing. She’ll then accompany him to Djibouti and on the mission.”

The President looked at her. “I understand you’ve had experience in that part of the world, Ms. Allenson.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to keep her nerves under control. The president must have asked about her background when this meeting was scheduled. “I was stationed in Djibouti for a year until just recently, and before that in Sudan.”

“Well, take good care of this fellow,” the President said. He turned to the DCI. “Leon, mission approved. I’ll have the Attorney General’s office draw up the papers.” The chief of staff made a note on his pad. “Have the Israelis been notified about the tip on Ashkelon?” the president asked.

“Yes, Mr. President,” DCI said, “I spoke to Director Pardo personally yesterday morning. According to the source, Hamas plans to strike Ashkelon sometime tomorrow.”

“Any ideas about what they’re planning?”

“There are a few possibilities, from what Tamir told me when I talked to him again this morning. They could strike the marketplace or a shopping center, but we believe they intend to hit an elementary school, a graduation event.”

“Good Christ,” the chief of staff said. The President frowned, shaking his head. Denise could sense his frustration. Give the man credit, he’d tried a different approach with The Opposition, but it didn’t seem to be working too terribly well, recent events in Egypt and elsewhere notwithstanding. The administration had started falling back on the only means that seemed to work with bullies and fanatics: force.

“Let Director Pardo know we will render whatever assistance he might require,” the president said. He stood, with everyone else following suit. “Well, Ms. Allenson, good luck.” He extended his hand. “Bring Mr. Hayes home safely.”

“I will, sir.”

In the limousine on the way back to Langley, they went over the preliminary plan that had been slapped together earlier in the day. As for what would happen when they got to the Horn, Allenson would have to be flexible. Simons would be in charge of the mission at that point.

They pulled into the underground garage. “I’ll be taking my leave,” DCI said as the limo glided to a stop. He reached across the passenger cabin. “Denise, good luck. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

She took the hand, shook it, and said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

From the curb, she watched the limo drive away. Next to her, DNCS glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you call it a night, Denise?”

“That’s all right, sir. I have some paperwork to clean up.”

“No, you don’t. Go home, pack, get a good night’s sleep. We’ve already set up your flight to Chicago tomorrow. Be back here at eight, make the call to the subject, then we’ll get you to Andrews. Your flight leaves at ten.”

“Perhaps I should call him tonight, sir.”

“No, we don’t want him to get cold feet and leave town. Don’t worry, we’re keeping an eye on him. He’ll be there tomorrow.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Israel

T
he drones had
eyes on the two vehicles from the moment they left the safe house on the outskirts of Ashkelon. On the monitors at the Tel Aviv headquarters of
Sherut haBitachon
haKlali
, the Israel Security Agency, technicians and officers watched the white Toyota minivans as they negotiated the Saturday midday traffic, heading east into the city of Ashkelon, some fifty kilometers to the south of the command center. More commonly known by its Hebrew acronym of Shabak, and still known in the West primarily as the Shin Bet, for its Hebrew initials, the agency employed hundreds of people to maintain security within the borders of Israel, utilizing the latest technology but relying more on the human element. Its operatives were among the most highly trained security personnel in the world, often drawing recruits from the nation’s regular military services.

Working closely with the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, commonly known as Mossad, Shabak kept a close eye on potential threats already inside Israel, while Mossad worked outside the country, primarily in the Middle East. Close cooperation was necessary, and although there were the usual inter-service rivalries, they rarely boiled over into problems that threatened the efficiency of the agencies’ operations. Surrounded on three sides by enemies who had sworn to push Israel into the sea on its fourth side, the security services had little time or inclination to play political games. Those were left to the men and women of the Knesset, who did that job quite well.

One such joint operation was about to come to fruition, hopefully with success. Alerted two days ago by the American CIA, Mossad had swiftly notified Shabak of an imminent terrorist attack on Ashkelon. Potential targets were identified and security measures were stepped up. Surveillance on suspected Islamist operatives and sympathizers was increased as well. Within twenty-four hours Mossad had provided them with the intelligence they were hoping for: a known Hamas courier, seen three days earlier meeting with mid-level officers of the terror group in Gaza City, was spotted in a town on the coast south of Ashkelon. Other departments were working to answer the question of how the man had managed to get into Israel undetected. Shabak agents had the courier under surveillance when he was seen entering a known Hamas safe house. Within a few hours, several other Arab men had found their way to the house. Listening devices planted in the house overheard everything, although the terrorists’ Iranian-supplied detection sensors had found nothing.

After consulting directly with the Prime Minister’s office, the decision was made to allow the terrorists to launch their operation. It would be risky, as this would require Shabak to intercept the men well before they reached their target, but this was deemed less risky than raiding the safe house itself. They could not be sure lookouts in the neighborhood would not tip off the house about incoming security teams, giving the terrorists a chance to escape. Too often, Shabak agents and local police had invaded such a house, finding only weapons and the clutter of residents who had left hurriedly. This time, they would capture the terrorists en route to their target, while simultaneously striking their headquarters.

The list of potential terrorist targets had been reduced to one as the listening devices revealed their plan. Golda Meir Primary School would be holding a ceremony at one o’clock, honoring its sixth-graders for completion of a special summer program. Some one hundred fifty people would be in attendance, about a third of them children. There would be a security presence anyway, of course, but on this day it was reinforced by policemen in plain clothes to avoid tipping off the terrorists with an increase of uniformed officers.

The men and women of Shabak were used to dealing with terrorists, and there was no such thing as a permissible target for the Islamists to hit, but this one was especially troubling. Many of the agents had children of their own, and as with any Israeli parent, a terror strike against children was their worst nightmare. Their training helped force this fear back, but dialed up their diligence a few more degrees. This terror strike would be stopped at all costs.

All routes to the target were plotted out. It was anticipated that the terrorists would split their vehicles and approach from different directions. The location of the school helped the Shabak agents in this case, because it was located in a largely residential area and thus the vehicles would have only a few options. Plain clothes agents and unmarked cars were positioned carefully along all possible routes. Uniformed police and military security teams were kept in reserve, far enough away from the routes to avoid suspicion but close enough to allow for quick response times should they be called upon.

The decision had been made to stop the vans before they got within a kilometer of the school, so ambush locations had been set up in advance. To avoid as much collateral damage as possible, the two most-traveled routes were carefully blocked off by the early-morning arrival of utility and construction crews, causing traffic to be re-routed. Announcements had been made on the radio and internet about the detours, which were fairly common. Motorists with destinations not close to the school would choose detours that would take them well away from the ambush locations. Those innocent drivers who chose to come closer to the school would be politely but firmly kept out of the way.

As the vans made their way into the city, the Shabak teams kept in touch by cell phone and encrypted walkie-talkies, avoiding police-band radios in case the terrorists were monitoring those frequencies. Constant adjustments were made as the enemy vehicles were tracked, allowing security personnel to be moved away from areas that would not come into play and toward the ambush points. The net was being efficiently and quietly closed.

There had been some heated debate as to how the enemy vans would be stopped. Some within Shabak argued that a visible police presence and order to halt would prevent any tragedy if someone had mistakenly identified the vehicle and it turned out to have innocent civilians inside. Others said that would needlessly put uniformed officers at risk. A compromise of sorts was agreed upon, with the use of utility vehicles to form roadblocks. Civilian vehicles would slow to a stop, terrorists would not. That would make the decision easier for the men in the field.

David Eisner took a final swig of water from his bottle and checked the display on his smart phone again. He and his partner, Levi Rosenberg, were parked in their nondescript gray Toyota utility van along a side street, perpendicular to one of the likely terrorists’ routes. The truck’s doors displayed the logo of a landscaping service, but the vehicle itself was built with reinforced armor plating and bullet-proof glass. The logo, one of many used by Shabak, was a magnetized sign that could be moved from vehicle to vehicle depending on mission requirements.

The waiting was the worst part. Eisner and his team would likely be in combat very soon, and he was grateful this would not be his first time, nor would it be for any of his men. He trusted in his training, which had gotten him through many tough spots, going back to that first time, during his Army service. He and his buddy Ehud had been manning a checkpoint in Gaza when two Palestinian boys, both about fourteen, walked by. They were wearing long caftan tops, and on such a hot day that didn’t seem right to Eisner. When one of the boys brought out an AK-47, Eisner and his partner were ready, dropping to a crouch and cutting the boys down with bursts from their own submachine guns. There had been more than a few firefights since then.

Eisner’s phone chirped with a text message. “Red One is heading our way,” he said to Rosenberg, using the code name for the lead Hamas van. “ETA, three minutes.” He keyed the transmit button on his multi-purpose cell phone, activating the radio function. “Team Two, this is Team Leader. Take your positions. One target en route, ETA three.” An answering series of clicks indicated the other four pairs of men in his unit were ready. On the opposite curb of their side street, the engine of a large dump truck roared to life.

On their vehicle’s dashboard, a video screen flicked to life, displaying a drone’s overhead view of the neighborhood. Five green dots indicated the positions of his team, two of them in vehicles, including their own van, the other three inside or next to buildings, providing a cross-fire pattern. Two sniper teams were set up on the rooftops of three-story apartment buildings, flanking the street leading to the school. A back-up pair was situated further down the block, ready to engage the terrorists if they somehow got through the roadblock that was about to appear in their path. The two pairs on foot were armed with anti-tank weapons as well as submachine guns.

Eisner exited the utility van and went around to the passenger side, opened the cargo door and began preparing the weapons while Rosenberg kept one eye on the screen. “Here they come,” he said. “Five hundred meters.” Eisner waved to the men in the dump truck, and the heavy vehicle trundled out into the street, coming to a stop at an angle with its nose pointing in the direction of the oncoming enemy van. In the large box of the dump truck was half a load of dirt and gravel. The two Shabak agents climbed down from the cab, the driver going to the back of the truck to unhitch the rear gate of the box, while his partner took a position near the front, crouching with his M-4 at the ready. Across the street, the nearest anti-tank team was in position. Their orders were to take the terrorists alive if possible, but Grossman wasn’t going to risk any of his men in an extended firefight that was likely to end with the enemy committing suicide anyway.

The neighborhood was calm. Police in plain clothes had quietly evacuated the homes and shops for a three-block radius around them. Eisner was still on alert, though, in case a civilian had somehow been overlooked.

His phone chirped and a voice said, “This is Balad. I have contact. Target confirmed, heading our way, just made the turn. Three hundred meters.” Taking his weapon from Eisner, Rosenberg scrambled out of the passenger seat and crouched at the back end of the van. Eisner keyed his mike. “This is Team Leader. Engage on my contact.” Clicks came quickly in response.

He saw the van now, moving at normal speed for this neighborhood. The driver started slowing the vehicle as he saw the dump truck up ahead. It would not fool them very long. He hoped the other units were closing in from the west, to choke off that potential escape route should the terrorists try to turn around and retreat.

The van slowed, but then swerved to the right, coming right at Eisner and Rosenberg. Eisner opened fire, stitching the front of the van with a five-round burst, shattering the windshield. The van lurched back to the left and slammed into the dump truck. The cargo door slid open and two men jumped out, both armed with AK-47s. The first had hardly taken a step before a sniper cut him down with a perfect shot to the chest, throwing the man back into his comrade.

Eisner shouted at them in Arabic to lay down their weapons and surrender, but to no one’s surprise the answer was a hail of gunfire from the inside of the van, through the open side door and the windshield. Rosenberg put a three-shot burst into the second terrorist as the man took a step toward them. The Shabak agent at the front of the dump truck leaned over the hood and fired back through what was left of the windshield. Two more men leaped from the side door and were killed instantly by the ruthlessly efficient Shabak fire.

When the fourth man went down, no more shots came from within the van. Eisner shouted for his men to hold their fire, and they waited for a tense half-minute. There were five Arabs inside the van, and four of them died in the hail of gunfire that started with Grossman’s first shots. One was wounded in the legs and right arm. Support units, who had closed on the scene with the first report of contact, now deployed to cordon off the neighborhood, search the van for weapons and explosives, and give medical attention to the surviving terrorist and Eisner’s team. Rosenberg had been nicked in the left thigh by a stray round, but he’d be fine. Everyone else came through without a scratch.

The demolition experts quickly concluded that the enemy had not been carrying explosives, which was consistent with the intel they’d picked up from the safe house. This was to be a small-arms assault, turning the school into a shooting gallery. The terrorists would then scatter or, if trapped, fight it out with security forces. It was evident they had not prepared for the possibility that they might’ve been under surveillance and funneled into an ambush.

As Eisner busied himself with wrapping up the operation, part of his mind wondered about that. Hamas was not normally quite this sloppy. Through much experience, Shabak had learned not to underestimate its enemies. They were highly motivated, cunning, and utterly ruthless. This mission today seemed less than their best effort. Why would that be? Could it have been merely a diversion? No, there were no indications of other activity elsewhere in the country today. Vigilance was, as always, very high. If something else was going on, Shabak would know, and word would have gotten to Eisner and his men.

Eisner watched the attendants shut the doors of the ambulance, knowing what would happen next to the prisoner. He would be treated, stabilized, and then the questioning would begin. He would talk, eventually. They almost always talked. Shabak’s interrogation methods were very efficient. Those methods would probably cause many Americans and Europeans to get very squeamish, but things were different here. They had to be. Eisner wished that were not so, but it would be a long time before things might change. Maybe his grandchildren would see it.

The captured terrorist was a teenager, not much older than those boys Eisner and his buddy had killed in Gaza so many years before. The thought of it brought a pang of sadness to him; Ehud had been killed in Lebanon in ’06, and sometimes he missed his old friend very much. “What’s the matter?” Rosenberg said, pulling Eisner’s thoughts back to the here and now.