The Mahdi, page 18
Kufdani nodded back at her. “Caitlin. My true love. If she wants the lights to blink, they blink.”
“And you were talking to her on the phone, I assume?”
“No, that was our chatbot Emilie, mostly,” Kufdani said. “But that’s a story for another day.”
Sachs shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. It’s like science fiction, the world of tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow has arrived,” Kufdani retorted. “You have the story lead. Let’s see how you handle it.”
Sachs sat down again. “Are you ready to finish the interview? We have plenty of time.”
He shook his head. “I have time for just one more question. You ask, I’ll answer. Then I’d better run. I imagine your folks will be looking for me soon, and they’ll be unhappy. I’d rather not go back to jail.”
She looked startled for a second, then nodded. “What is the question?”
“Ask, ‘What do you want?’”
The floodlights switched back on, and one of the cameramen nodded.
“So, Sheikh Kufdani,” Sachs began, “you’re telling me that your people have caused untold destruction in Jerusalem this evening in response to the involuntary relocation of Bedouin Israelis from the West Bank. Earlier, most of Beersheba and its industrial production were destroyed in support of a prison break, which you also claim.”
She paused, and he had to admire her clever phrasing: no question had been asked.
“Yes, I did tell you that.” He nodded, playing along. “The days of us Bedouins living under the repressive thumb of a theocracy that specifically denies our rights under Allah are over. Beersheba attempted to interfere with Yousef Salama’s return to glory among his people. But it is Jerusalem that is in the Bedouin crosshairs. If you make life uncomfortable for us, as you continue to do in the West Bank, we will make life uncomfortable for you, as we have just done in Jerusalem.”
“Let’s get to the point, Mr. Kufdani,” Sachs said. “What do you want?”
“The answer is more than a single point. It has texture, Ms. Sachs,” Kufdani replied. “We are Israeli citizens. We want our stolen lands back, and what is on them is ours to keep. Israel must walk away from this bigotry, this theocratic tragedy it has created, where the Hebrew god rules all of the world to his profit. Let’s put this injustice to rest and get on with life.”
“And if Israel does not reply to your satisfaction, Mr. Kufdani? Do you plan to destroy what remains of Jerusalem?”
“We will continue to respond, with more vigor and bloodshed—within reason. After all, what further we destroy of Jerusalem, we may have to rebuild ourselves. In any case, we have made our point and, so far, with little bloodshed. But if you shed our blood, we will no longer hesitate to shed yours.”
“How can you hope to win?” Sachs said.
Kufdani shrugged. “Right now, our quarrel is with the Haredim and the petty, lying theocrat they have elected. We see no reason to target our retaliation at the thinking people of Israel, those who are able to examine facts and draw conclusions about their own interests in the face of this perfidy. Not yet.”
“I sense a ‘but’ here.”
“But if you deploy Shin Bet to fight us, we will respond in kind. If you send the Netzah Yehuda against us, we will respond ruthlessly. I can assure you that we will not be unarmed, and they may not survive. The world’s Muslims outnumber Israeli Jews by more than three hundred to one. You would run out of bullets before you could stop us.”
“And down the road?” Sachs ventured.
“We’ll see. We will redefine Jerusalem, of course, perhaps as a Muslim city with rights for Jewish and Christian visitors and worshippers. We all are Semites, after all—part of the ancient, monotheistic Abrahamic religions. We share prophets and differ only on the nature of God and redemption. So, Jerusalem is easy.”
Sachs squinted at him, a dubious look on her face.
“The rest is harder. But we will attempt to find support for our thoughts and actions, particularly among progressive, logical Jewish thinkers.”
“Easy enough,” she said drily. “Any final words?”
Kufdani looked directly into the camera. “Give up this brutal charade, good people of Israel. Keep the life you have, and send the Haredim back to the kibbutz. If you let it get ugly, it will get very ugly. None of us will like that.”
Kufdani stood, and the cameras shut down.
“Put that story out in the world, and you’ll be famous,” he predicted. “Treachery, maniacal theocracy, and nasty, nasty people … you’ll be a journalistic idol. I’ll be responsible for earning you a Pulitzer. I know a guy that will get you on the US news.”
“Yeah, right,” Sachs muttered. “You figure that out, and I’ll go down on you for a week.”
“An hour or two would be fine.” Kufdani grinned. “It’s a deal.”
The young journalist smirked back at him. “That’s science fiction, too.”
“We’ll see,” he replied, still grinning. “In the meantime, have fun with this. I’ll get someone to give you a call about arranging our next interview. By remote webcast if necessary, but naturally I hope to see you in person.” He turned and walked through the glass doors to the elevator.
Outside, a small white truck awaited his arrival. He climbed into the back seat and was handed a bundle of traditional Bedouin attire, slightly soiled. As the truck drove off, the Western clothes went out the window.
Kufdani was invisible.
OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER, JERUSALEM
SUNDAY
THE CONFERENCE ROOM WAS CROWDED. AT THE BACK WALL, SEATED around three sides of an oblong table, was a gaggle of staffers, officers, cabinet members, and agents. Among them, Nabov Dayan—the director of Shin Bet, the Israeli internal security agency and special forces—noticed Guns Epstein of Mossad and Yakov Bernstein, the newly appointed minister of defense, sitting side by side. Dayan couldn’t think of two men who were more different. And yet all were there at the behest of the prime minister.
Also at the table sat the commanding general of the IDF; the director of Aman, Israel’s military intelligence service; and Sheila Pelzer, the director of Mossad. As Shin Bet’s director, Dayan was responsible for tracking down terrorists and ferreting out other sovereign threats within and beyond Israel’s state borders. He had acceded to this post after recently commanding the Sayeret Matkal, which was modeled after the famed British SAS and sometimes compared to the Delta Force of the US military. Whereas the other branches of the security services were responsible to the Knesset, the national legislature, he reported directly to the prime minister.
At this moment, Dayan noticed, the prime minister sat at the head of the table, his face flushed and a vein in the center of his forehead bulging. And no wonder.
In Jerusalem the previous evening, beginning at 5:00 sharp, the small sewage treatment plant at Aomat, which mainly serviced the Haredim community, suffered a bombing that breached its walls. A second blast fried its electronic controls and all circuits within two hundred yards. Raw sewage began to run from cracks in the plant’s infrastructure and into the streets. Ten minutes later, another explosive blast ripped a new hole in the sewage retaining wall, turning a trickle into a flood that filled the streets.
Another explosion disabled the bus terminal along with 525 buses within a three-hundred-yard radius, plus hundreds of cars, trucks, and service vehicles in the area. Rush hour traffic came to a complete halt. Two of Jerusalem’s elevated train terminals were also disabled, causing a permanent interruption of that service. The telephone exchange most used by the Orthodox community was hit with another EMP blast; the city’s main exchange was spared—some said graciously.
The prime minister did not agree. “These pipsqueak Bedouin terrorists have destroyed half of southern Israel, and no one can tell me how,” he snarled, grinding the words out through his teeth. “More than six thousand Palestinians of the worst sort managed an escape from one of our most secure prisons, and we killed or captured only eleven of them. They have utterly destroyed our communication system. Nearly two days have passed, and only now have we figured out where the escapees went. They have heaped humiliation on us. And what have you done? Nothing. Nothing!” he screamed.
Dayan was paying close attention to his boss, yet he couldn’t help but notice that Guns sat calmly on his back row chair. Well, that sums it up nicely, Dayan thought. Why doesn’t Epstein look at all rattled? He’s supposed to be the Cuchulain expert.
Dayan, too, was familiar with the legendary Cooch of CIA fame, of course, particularly his understanding of urban tactics and his profound intimacy with violence. Dayan knew enough to find Jerome Masterson and keep an eye on him. He and Cooch seemed to have outdone themselves on their opening gambit. And he anticipated that things were about to get far worse.
The prime minister was shaking a finger at him. “You find these no-good bastards and kill them! All of them!” He pointed around the table. “The rest of you, figure this out. These bastards are threatening our country, our people, our religion, our way of life! Provide everything that Shin Bet asks. Then do your jobs and get me some answers.”
He turned back to Dayan.
“Now, you find that Bedouin bastard Kufdani and kill him. You figure out how these terrorists demolished much of Jerusalem and Beersheba. Find the people who did this, and kill them. Kill them all!”
He turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, Dayan stood and shuffled some papers. “I think I’ve been given my marching orders. I’ll be in touch.” He gathered his papers and walked out the door, the prime minister’s words echoing in his head.
Kill them all!
TANGIER
SUNDAY
CAITLIN O’CONNOR LEANED BACK IN HER DESK CHAIR, WATCHING THE prime minister’s meeting. The two cameras covering the conference room in Jerusalem had been easy for Emilie to hack. Caitlin had taken the sound from Yakov Bernstein’s cell phone—not the best quality of the seven phones recording there, but Emilie had cleaned it up a little to make it more tolerable. Alex had told her to start pointing the records of anything leaked at Bernstein, so he would be the obvious culprit when the Israelis sorted out the leak. Emilie had been instructed to modify other Israeli records accordingly, and Caitlin had left instructions for future opportunities of the same type.
Her face still hurt like hell. The cracked ribs hurt too. Under her bandages, the stitches along her jaw itched like mad. Worst of all, Tang was dead. Thinking about it, she felt the rising tide of a new emotion: rage. She hadn’t yet figured out how to mitigate its impact.
Her Kphone lit up with a call from the United States: her NSA boss, sort of. Colonel Marilyn Ann Rieber of the US Air Force was the person who administered the NSA contracts with Axial and thus the relationship with Caitlin. LuAnn did the business part with Rieber.
Caitlin got along with Rieber, who was better than most. She had a master’s degree in physics from MIT and a decent brain, as far as Caitlin was concerned. She was an Air Force Academy graduate who had been in and out of the NSA for fifteen years. She knew the rules and played by them broadly, which had made her safe to promote.
“This is Dr. O’Connor,” Caitlin said. “What’s up, Rieber?”
“Or what’s down,” Rieber said, laughing. “That was very nice work in the West Bank. EMP?”
“Cool, huh?” Caitlin said. “It was a bitch, but I figured out how to downsize it. Rocks, 40mm ammunition, whatever. I’m thinking a lot about new shit. This could be a hitter. I see good business in our future.”
“EMP ammunition, huh?”
“Yeah. Fusible, blast adjustable. Cool shit. I’m thinking how to make smaller shit, like aircraft arms.”
“We’ll maybe talk about that,” Rieber said. “We probably already own that technology in one contract or another that you’ve signed over the years. Now, we really have to talk about your security.”
”My security? Get real, Rieber,” Caitlin retorted. “I live in the most secure environment anyone could ask. Full-time armed guards, a monitored living and working space, sheer granite walls, all of it. All run by my true love, who is a gifted badass.”
“The bottom line is, someone got to you and messed you up. You’re still healing, for Christ’s sake!”
“Do you think you could manage to kidnap me, bring me back to live in a less secure gated community near Fort Meade?”
“Probably not,” Rieber said. “So I made that case to the director who was considering it, and I think I sold it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Rieber said. “I left out the part about your Bedouin lover and his unique skills. What I couldn’t and didn’t sell was your travel security. You come back here once a quarter, then galivant all over the country while you’re here. We can’t secure every airport.”
“What did you come up with, given that my schedule is my business?” Caitlin asked.
“Well, a US Air Force plane would be ideal, but that’s too visible. A private arrangement with NetJets or one of that bunch is not all that secure, given that tail number tracking is also public, at least from the contractor side.”
“You have a bunch of executive jets to ferry your generals around. Why not break one of those loose?”
“Not likely,” Rieber replied. “They are spoken for and vigorously defended as a perquisite.”
“Out with it, Rieber. What do you have?”
Rieber sighed. “I have a C-37B that was outfitted with all the new security goodies for the former First Lady, and then rejected as a budget buster by the new administration.”
“A C-37B, huh?” Caitlin said. “If my capable memory serves, that is one of the Gulfstream models, the 550. It fits my image of myself.”
“Yes to both,” Rieber said. “It was purchased new, and we’ve been working on it for two years. The Air Force wants it off their books as quietly as possible. They’re willing to write off the cost of the improvements.”
“Imagine that,” Caitlin said. “I have a secure transportation requirement, and you have a secure airplane that fits the bill. Let’s make something happen.”
Rieber said, “I’m going to figure out how to make the director happy and get this thing off my ass, but I’m not there yet. You have any ideas? After all, you’re supposed to be the smartest person in the world.”
“Fuck you, Rieber,” Caitlin said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Oh, joy. How long will that take?”
“I’m pretty busy right now. Let me talk to LuAnn. She may be able to make this work.”
She ended the call, then called LuAnn to explain.
“Well,” LuAnn said, “it’s an asset with long-term value, and we have a leasing company based in the US. A sale to us and leasing it back to them might work. How badly do they want this to work?”
“You propose a deal that makes public sense to the government, and I’ll sell it,” Caitlin insisted. “Keep in mind that the C-37B is used and junked up with enough superfluous security equipment that they can’t sell it on the public market without ripping it out—or facing a public shitshow for the cost of bringing it up to standard for a used Gulfstream 550.”
LuAnn chuckled. “You are preaching to the choir, but I’ll keep it in mind,” she said. “This could be a good deal for Kufdani.”
“And me,” Caitlin said.
“Of course, Caitlin,” LuAnn said.
Caitlin hung up and thought on it for a few moments. This approach to travel—having Air Force security enhancements as playthings in a playpen she was beginning to covet—would make it harder for anyone to bust her face next time. It might even have a bed. She scratched absently at the stitches on her jaw. The itch was annoying, but it fed her rage in a way that was strangely satisfying.
She touched her Kphone and replayed the end of the prime minister’s meeting. It seemed clear to Caitlin that the ball had been transferred to Shin Bet’s court. They certainly had the assets. She had a decent handle on their communications facilities, but they were good—and aggressive about protecting their information. She was getting a fair amount of interference from Shin Bet, and decided to tell Emilie to clean things up so they didn’t leave electronic footprints. Figuring out a whole new system would be a pain in the ass, so she and Emilie should hide from Shin Bet for now. A long history of major Shin Bet operations outside Israel’s borders made plain that they did not play nice.
Was it Shin Bet who arranged the attack on me? she wondered, running her tongue over her new molar implants. Most of the plastic surgeon’s work was still hidden under the bandages, and she didn’t quite know how it would turn out. I’m going to be careful around you guys, so I don’t miss a chance to hurt you.
Caitlin had an important phone call to make, but first she inputted the sequence for destroying the Shin Bet communications suite so that Emilie would make it look initially like a cascading series of electronic failures, something hard to fix. Alex would tell her when to execute the destruction. He had a better sense of timing, but she wanted to be the one to execute, particularly if these were the motherfuckers who knocked out her molars.
With Emilie’s help, she could make sure Shin Bet couldn’t talk to each other (or anyone else) when they needed to—and make sure Alex heard everything they said.
At least she wasn’t bored anymore.
HAARETZ ONLINE, TEL AVIV
SUNDAY
WHEN THE LIGHTS DIMMED—NOT JUST IN HER HOL OFFICE BUT ALSO far into the city outside her window—Elsa Sachs was not at all surprised that her cell phone rang immediately afterward. The caller displayed as Unidentified Sender, but this time Sachs knew exactly who it was.
“Caitlin?” she said into the phone.
