The Mahdi, page 20
Guns shook his head. “Not hearing any chatter on his whereabouts. I’m looking for Masterson too, and he doesn’t appear to be in Morocco.”
“That’s bad news.”
“Yes.” According to Guns’s sources, Caitlin O’Connor was eerily quiet too, and Kufdani Industries in Tangier had been tightened up for combat ever since the incident involving her unknown attackers. The Algeciras facility appeared largely deserted if highly guarded—both conventionally and, interestingly, by a large, well-trained, well-armed group of older women.
“What’s your guess as to his tactics?” Pelzer asked. “Where will they attack next?”
“I believe they will await our next move and calculate their response accordingly. Cooch is trying to sell an appeasement program to liberal Jews here and in the diaspora. Tel Aviv should be safe for a while.”
The head of Mossad dropped her head to her hands. “I was a college professor. I was happy. How does this happen?” she asked. “What are we to do with this mess?”
“We Mossad?” Guns shrugged. “We do what we can.”
“No one in our government must decide to invade Morocco in an attempt to get to Caitlin. It’s too far, and the United States would defend it aggressively.”
“The logistics would be a nightmare, even without Cooch in the game—and he is in it, completely,” Guns agreed. “IDF needs to know that loud and clear.”
Pelzer nodded, looking more herself as she got warmed up. “We should figure out which US network became so interested, so quickly, that they would announce Mr. Kufdani’s interview with such fanfare. Someone is waving a publicity baton that we don’t know about, and our New York office is silent on the topic.”
“We also need to make nice with the White House.” Guns was only too aware that the Americans had been unhappy with the West Bank situation for some time. Only the New York diaspora had kept them from moving beyond bellyaching. “We should make sure the Jewish leaders in New York are with us. They have no love for the Haredim.”
“That all sounds like a good start.”
“I can arrange a call with Macmillan,” Guns said, “if only to gauge the mood. As Cooch’s ex-boss and mentor, he is quite familiar with the motivations of a stone-cold killer without a bunch of emotion to burden him.”
“Yes, I’ve always admired that about him,” Pelzer said. “And you’ll talk to Brooks Elliot?”
Guns raised one eyebrow. “You mean the husband of the woman whose stitched-up head is proof that one of us almost took her out? And what would you have me say to the special ambassador to the president?”
Pelzer’s eyes narrowed. “Fine, whatever. Let’s get to work. But we’ll both need to consider how we might deal with bad outcomes.”
Things are going to be a little busy around here, Guns thought. “Pretty sure bad outcomes are on their way.”
“But not on our watch.” Pelzer smiled slightly. “Not yet.”
WASHINGTON, DC
FRIDAY
“WHITE HOUSE SWITCHBOARD,” A VOICE SAID. “HOW MAY I DIRECT YOUR call?”
“Colonel Macmillan, in the National Security Advisor’s Office, please,” Pelzer said.
There was a pause, a buzz, and finally a gruff answer: “Macmillan.”
“Mac, it’s Sheila Pelzer.”
“My dear Madam Pelzer. It’s so nice to hear from you. Are we having lunch sometime soon?”
“Hello, Mac. It’s not a social call. I need some advice. I don’t know quite how Mossad is to handle the situation with Mr. Cuchulain or Dr. O’Connor. The attacks in Jerusalem and the West Bank are causing quite a stir.”
Mac snorted. “Straight to business, eh? Well, by forcibly imprisoning a friendly agent, Cuchulain, your compatriots have done long-term harm to Israel’s standing in even our dark world. That kind of thing resonates around the world and impacts trust. It certainly did with me. You’ll be unable to escape the repercussions of that—not only from us but from others as well. As far as I’m concerned, Mossad should be pushed to the fringe: no informal information sharing.”
That’s harsh, Pelzer thought. “As I think you know, Mossad had no prior knowledge of that incident.”
“Maybe not. Still, someone in your camp gave us the handle, so we’re gonna push on it.”
“And now? How are we to prevent further damage? What can you tell me about how to handle your Mr. Kufdani?”
Mac chuckled. “I have no advice about that other than to say I view Cuchulain as a son. Keep in mind that Brooks F. T. Elliot the third, chair of the US Senate Foreign Relations Committee, is quite grateful to Cuchulain for saving his son’s life. And Brooks F. T. Elliot the fourth, the president’s security advisor, views him as a brother. I could go on, you know. If he is ambushed again, a great many people are going to be very angry.”
“What about Dr. O’Connor? That seems to be a more immediate and perhaps more serious issue. How do we deal with her?”
“My advice is to get the hell out of Dodge in case the NSA has its way and nukes Tel Aviv.”
So much for “safe for a while,” Pelzer thought. “Oh, dear. That bad?”
“Worse,” Mac replied. “The NSA is outraged, irrational. They want to bring O’Connor back from Tangier to the US by force. She has threatened all-out war if they try. The president values her enormously and is very angry with Israel.”
“And what do you advise?” she tried again.
“The last time we gave you planning advice, during our efforts in Iran—at some personal risk, I might add—you used it to slaughter radical Arab leaders with weapons we provided. Now you have taken the architect of that plan, drugged him, and threw him to the wolves in an Israeli jail. So, my advice is to get out of the way until the Bedouins get what they want. But failing that, bring your A team. It’s going to be a fascinating spectacle.”
“Perhaps Dr. O’Connor and I should sit down together and talk things through,” Pelzer suggested.
“Sheila, that might be a tad premature,” Mac said. “Right now, Dr. O’Connor is using just one collective word to describe the government of Israel.”
“And that is?”
“Motherfuckers.”
“Goodness,” Pelzer said. “A bit irrational, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps. I’ve known O’Connor well for years, as has the president. This is the first time I’ve seen her homicidally outraged. It will take her a long time to work it off, at your expense. Don’t expect Uncle Sam to kiss it and make it better; the NSA wouldn’t allow it, and the president is pissed.”
“We go back a long way, Mac,” Pelzer said. “This is sounding less and less like a domestic disturbance, and more like an international incident. I need your help.”
After a long silence, Mac sighed. “Get involved, Sheila,” he said. “This situation is evolving quickly, and it could change the nature of US-Israeli relations for a long time to come. Your Russian Jews are out of control; that will be expensive to fix. It’s safe to say you’re about to face a one-two punch: asymmetric electronic warfare combined with one of the finest minds extant on the subject of urban guerilla warfare.”
“Oh, dear,” Pelzer said. “I’ll have to sell our prime minister on the danger. He doesn’t scare easily.”
“He’ll be hard to convince until it’s too late, and then it’s your problem to solve.”
He’s right, thought Pelzer. She had no response to give.
“I must run, Sheila, but one more bit of advice,” Mac said. “Give up the Russians.”
NEAR GAZA CITY
MONDAY
KUFDANI WALKED ALONG A NARROW PATH IN A VILLAGE JUST OUTSIDE Gaza City until he met Amad, a former physics professor and one of his better students from Ktzi’ot. They embraced formally, then continued along the path, passing several other Palestinians who stopped in their tracks and just stared at Kufdani.
Over a week had passed since the prison break, and the brutal life of a prisoner was becoming a distant memory, fading as fast as an unpleasant dream or a distant mirage. A new vision was taking its place, slowly building from the legend and dust of the desert, and from the yearning of the people who lived there.
“My countrymen have heard about you.” Amad grinned, nodding at the gaping men and children. “You’re becoming famous. They know who planned and carried out our freedom, who delivered them into the light of Allah through learning and prayer. They know the truth, no matter what Yousef Salama says.”
“Amad, Amad, you’re not thinking this through,” Kufdani said. “Salama planned all of this. I just executed it. That is the story I want to tell.”
Amad replied with a knowing look. “Yousef Salama asked me to set up a meeting for you tomorrow, with one of his Hamas colleagues. He will hear a different story, maybe.”
“I hear the voice of Allah, and you hear stories. Amad, don’t disappoint me.”
Why does he believe he can choose where to place his loyalty? Kufdani wondered, knowing that Amad was asking him to lead them. But he had absolutely no interest in ruling Palestine or in politics generally.
As a scholar of Islam, he recognized this moment as an opportunity to get some of this Shi‘a–Sunni split thing out of the way, through his plans for a literal and figurative offensive that would require all Muslims to speak with one mighty voice—and he did not wish to squander that opportunity. But if he could get the Israelis to roll over within a few weeks as planned, that would be the end of his foray into geopolitics.
“Listen to me,” Kufdani insisted, “and learn algebra. I despise arithmetic and fail at it often. But I know this much: Salama must use the credit for these actions to gain political power. I am defending Allah’s flock. It is the will of Allah I seek to carry out.”
“Inshallah,” Amad conceded.
Kufdani stopped at the entrance to a small hut. “Credit is interesting, Amad. Unlike in physics, it can be subdivided without losing mass. Take the case of our prison experience: Yousef gets credit for planning it and gets more power from that credit to become the Palestinian leader. I get credit among the masses as a follower who both thinks and kills, thus giving more power to the will of Allah. The sum of the two is more than their total, not less.”
Amad nodded. “You have thought things through yet again, Kufdani.”
Kufdani opened the door. “Make them ready to take orders, Amad. Make them want to kill for me. I demand that, as a messenger of Allah. You will tell the others. All must conform aggressively to the orders of Yousef Salama.”
Amad met his eyes, nodded, and then turned to leave.
In the small room, Yousef Salama sat with a Kphone on the wooden table in front of him. Kufdani smiled when he saw the teapot and the vacant chair awaiting him: it had new green cushions.
Salama stood, and they embraced warmly.
“Yousef,” Kufdani said. “I see you got the Kphone I sent.”
“I did,” Salama said, bowing his head briefly. “And I thank you for it. I envied its capabilities when we were together as guests of Israel. Now this Kphone knows my name as it does yours. Can it also teach the classes?”
“Your Kphone can do anything mine can do, as long as you’re authorized for it,” Kufdani replied.
He had ordered delivery of additional Kphones for Amad and the other leaders, who needed only to register with their name and credentials to gain access. All directions to control the upcoming battle would come from Kufdani through the Kphone, to be shared as though coming directly from the leaders themselves.
“Things are warming up,” Kufdani continued. “If you want to lead Palestine, I’d like to help, but there are more immediate issues.” He explained that Shin Bet was preparing to take another run at the Gaza Strip, with the IDF in full support, sometime in the next week or so. “You and the others do the on-the-ground planning and take the public credit, but promise obedience to the agreed plan. It’s the method we will use to work together. Amad has arranged a meeting with your Hamas colleague for tomorrow.”
Salama himself would control the largest group of warriors, in teams of three with each team handling the shoulder-fired Mk19 40mm that they had been studying in videos, along with a loaded six-round belt for each weapon. The videos, which would continue to be shown and reshown within each group until the Israelis attacked, described how to load and how to be accurate at one hundred yards against soldiers who dismounted their carriers and attacked with air support from drones and helicopters.
“No one is to engage until you give the order to Amad and the other leaders. We hope to take care of the helicopters and the drones separately, so no one should need to engage them. Your targets are men, and men only. Well, if we hit a few women, that’s okay. We weren’t the ones who drafted them.”
Kufdani winked.
“Your people will have only razor rounds, as we discussed at Ktzi’ot,” he continued. “We don’t want them killed, just wounded and scared.”
Salama bowed his head again. “You have made your message clear. And thank you for your kind words to the press about me,” he said. “Is there anything more you need in return?”
Kufdani leaned forward and took a sip of his tea. “I’d like you to start the conversation about Palestine becoming a single political entity again. Fatah, Hezbollah, Hamas—all these warring factions are in the way of that. They must eventually become our allies in Allah, working together in pursuit of this monster that Israel is becoming. You must entice them, letting Allah lead the way.”
“Only show me the way and, as an elder of Hamas, I will be delighted to do my part,” Salama agreed. “The schism, as you call it, of Shiite and Sunni greatly reduces our economic and military impact. We must work together. I’ve come to respect your planning abilities. Bringing down the border crossing software at the Egypt-Gaza border was a stroke of genius. Our people just eased back into Gaza, carrying the arms and ammunition you provided, on the trucks that were modified as you specified. I’m told your man on the ground in Egypt was quite useful in figuring out how to move that much equipment into Gaza.”
“Jerome is quite a useful man,” Kufdani said. “I assume you have secured our packages until we need them?”
“As we agreed,” Salama said. “The packages await an opportunity to be useful.”
“Good. The tactics we discussed are important. The battlefield leaders will need to keep their troops under control and review the training on weapons use within the next week, using the Kphones I sent.”
“We await our next move. Things are coming together. My leaders are enthusiastic.”
“Great,” Kufdani said. “And I’ll do what I can to make you attractive as their leader, the one who can secure for them a better future. So don’t get yourself killed.”
Salama sat back and looked at him thoughtfully. What an interesting man you are, Kufdani! So focused on the problem for our people, and not on your role in solving it. But do you not want to rule? Are you not destined to be the one who restores justice, the Mahdi?
Kufdani denied this title once again, as he had at Ktzi’ot. But as he left the hut and returned to the narrow village path, local residents began to cluster around them, some shy, some clamoring for Kufdani’s attention. The crowd grew, slowing his progress, and he shook the hands of some, patted the backs of a few others, even kissed a baby. He heard the whispers: Mahdi. Mahdi.
Flashing a mysterious smile, he instructed them to prepare for the coming battle, to have courage and follow the orders of their true leader, Yousef Salama. “Since death is our one sure destiny,” he called out to the crowd, “why die a coward when you can be brave?”
The cries of Mahdi followed him all the way down the path.
HAARETZ ONLINE, TEL AVIV
TUESDAY
REGINALD EDGEWORTH. THE REGINALD EDGEWORTH IS GOING TO BE calling. Elsa still couldn’t believe it. She had decided to remain skeptical until she actually heard his voice, the one she’d heard on TV countless times. But so far, what Caitlin offered was pure gold, so Elsa was cautiously hopeful.
“I call him Edgie,” Caitlin had said on the phone, “but you know him as Reginald Edgeworth. He’d like to meet with you.”
“Reginald Edgeworth? Reggie fucking Edgeworth?” Elsa had shouted. The scent of a Pulitzer grew suddenly stronger. “I can make time for him at his convenience, of course. He just about owns the worldwide news and opinion business.”
Caitlin had asked him to call at 3:00 Tel Aviv time, and Elsa had promised to wait by her phone. It was all moving so fast, and she had recruited a few staffers and stringers to help her work on the big stories facing Israel at this critical moment. This was career-making journalism.
The scheduled time was almost here. Elsa peered out her office window at the afternoon traffic beginning to build on the Tel Aviv streets below. Her stories on Jerusalem and Kufdani had been good and had attracted lots of attention. But the “Kill them all!” story had gone viral. She was getting calls from everywhere. Ad revenue was going up—way up.
Inevitably, she would be interrogated about her sources. How did she get inside the prime minister’s secret meeting? She would have to defend herself without blowing up her only source: Caitlin O’Connor.
More important right now, however, was figuring out the next story and the one after that. It struck Elsa that the fastest way to do this was to get Edgeworth to commit to a plan, if he had one. And if he helped her learn more about this Kufdani person, all the better.
The best head on the planet, Elsa thought yet again. Who the hell is this guy? He was sort of handsome, she supposed, but sort of creepy too …
Her phone rang. She glanced at it and saw that the number was unlisted. “HOL, Elsa Sachs. How may I help you?”
“Ms. Sachs, this is Reginald Edgeworth. How nice to make your acquaintance, if only by phone. Is this a convenient time?”
“Now is convenient, Mr. Edgeworth. What can I do for you?” She hoped her voice wasn’t shaking.
“I think we may be able to do things for each other in support of my client, Sheik Kufdani,” he said.
“That’s bad news.”
“Yes.” According to Guns’s sources, Caitlin O’Connor was eerily quiet too, and Kufdani Industries in Tangier had been tightened up for combat ever since the incident involving her unknown attackers. The Algeciras facility appeared largely deserted if highly guarded—both conventionally and, interestingly, by a large, well-trained, well-armed group of older women.
“What’s your guess as to his tactics?” Pelzer asked. “Where will they attack next?”
“I believe they will await our next move and calculate their response accordingly. Cooch is trying to sell an appeasement program to liberal Jews here and in the diaspora. Tel Aviv should be safe for a while.”
The head of Mossad dropped her head to her hands. “I was a college professor. I was happy. How does this happen?” she asked. “What are we to do with this mess?”
“We Mossad?” Guns shrugged. “We do what we can.”
“No one in our government must decide to invade Morocco in an attempt to get to Caitlin. It’s too far, and the United States would defend it aggressively.”
“The logistics would be a nightmare, even without Cooch in the game—and he is in it, completely,” Guns agreed. “IDF needs to know that loud and clear.”
Pelzer nodded, looking more herself as she got warmed up. “We should figure out which US network became so interested, so quickly, that they would announce Mr. Kufdani’s interview with such fanfare. Someone is waving a publicity baton that we don’t know about, and our New York office is silent on the topic.”
“We also need to make nice with the White House.” Guns was only too aware that the Americans had been unhappy with the West Bank situation for some time. Only the New York diaspora had kept them from moving beyond bellyaching. “We should make sure the Jewish leaders in New York are with us. They have no love for the Haredim.”
“That all sounds like a good start.”
“I can arrange a call with Macmillan,” Guns said, “if only to gauge the mood. As Cooch’s ex-boss and mentor, he is quite familiar with the motivations of a stone-cold killer without a bunch of emotion to burden him.”
“Yes, I’ve always admired that about him,” Pelzer said. “And you’ll talk to Brooks Elliot?”
Guns raised one eyebrow. “You mean the husband of the woman whose stitched-up head is proof that one of us almost took her out? And what would you have me say to the special ambassador to the president?”
Pelzer’s eyes narrowed. “Fine, whatever. Let’s get to work. But we’ll both need to consider how we might deal with bad outcomes.”
Things are going to be a little busy around here, Guns thought. “Pretty sure bad outcomes are on their way.”
“But not on our watch.” Pelzer smiled slightly. “Not yet.”
WASHINGTON, DC
FRIDAY
“WHITE HOUSE SWITCHBOARD,” A VOICE SAID. “HOW MAY I DIRECT YOUR call?”
“Colonel Macmillan, in the National Security Advisor’s Office, please,” Pelzer said.
There was a pause, a buzz, and finally a gruff answer: “Macmillan.”
“Mac, it’s Sheila Pelzer.”
“My dear Madam Pelzer. It’s so nice to hear from you. Are we having lunch sometime soon?”
“Hello, Mac. It’s not a social call. I need some advice. I don’t know quite how Mossad is to handle the situation with Mr. Cuchulain or Dr. O’Connor. The attacks in Jerusalem and the West Bank are causing quite a stir.”
Mac snorted. “Straight to business, eh? Well, by forcibly imprisoning a friendly agent, Cuchulain, your compatriots have done long-term harm to Israel’s standing in even our dark world. That kind of thing resonates around the world and impacts trust. It certainly did with me. You’ll be unable to escape the repercussions of that—not only from us but from others as well. As far as I’m concerned, Mossad should be pushed to the fringe: no informal information sharing.”
That’s harsh, Pelzer thought. “As I think you know, Mossad had no prior knowledge of that incident.”
“Maybe not. Still, someone in your camp gave us the handle, so we’re gonna push on it.”
“And now? How are we to prevent further damage? What can you tell me about how to handle your Mr. Kufdani?”
Mac chuckled. “I have no advice about that other than to say I view Cuchulain as a son. Keep in mind that Brooks F. T. Elliot the third, chair of the US Senate Foreign Relations Committee, is quite grateful to Cuchulain for saving his son’s life. And Brooks F. T. Elliot the fourth, the president’s security advisor, views him as a brother. I could go on, you know. If he is ambushed again, a great many people are going to be very angry.”
“What about Dr. O’Connor? That seems to be a more immediate and perhaps more serious issue. How do we deal with her?”
“My advice is to get the hell out of Dodge in case the NSA has its way and nukes Tel Aviv.”
So much for “safe for a while,” Pelzer thought. “Oh, dear. That bad?”
“Worse,” Mac replied. “The NSA is outraged, irrational. They want to bring O’Connor back from Tangier to the US by force. She has threatened all-out war if they try. The president values her enormously and is very angry with Israel.”
“And what do you advise?” she tried again.
“The last time we gave you planning advice, during our efforts in Iran—at some personal risk, I might add—you used it to slaughter radical Arab leaders with weapons we provided. Now you have taken the architect of that plan, drugged him, and threw him to the wolves in an Israeli jail. So, my advice is to get out of the way until the Bedouins get what they want. But failing that, bring your A team. It’s going to be a fascinating spectacle.”
“Perhaps Dr. O’Connor and I should sit down together and talk things through,” Pelzer suggested.
“Sheila, that might be a tad premature,” Mac said. “Right now, Dr. O’Connor is using just one collective word to describe the government of Israel.”
“And that is?”
“Motherfuckers.”
“Goodness,” Pelzer said. “A bit irrational, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps. I’ve known O’Connor well for years, as has the president. This is the first time I’ve seen her homicidally outraged. It will take her a long time to work it off, at your expense. Don’t expect Uncle Sam to kiss it and make it better; the NSA wouldn’t allow it, and the president is pissed.”
“We go back a long way, Mac,” Pelzer said. “This is sounding less and less like a domestic disturbance, and more like an international incident. I need your help.”
After a long silence, Mac sighed. “Get involved, Sheila,” he said. “This situation is evolving quickly, and it could change the nature of US-Israeli relations for a long time to come. Your Russian Jews are out of control; that will be expensive to fix. It’s safe to say you’re about to face a one-two punch: asymmetric electronic warfare combined with one of the finest minds extant on the subject of urban guerilla warfare.”
“Oh, dear,” Pelzer said. “I’ll have to sell our prime minister on the danger. He doesn’t scare easily.”
“He’ll be hard to convince until it’s too late, and then it’s your problem to solve.”
He’s right, thought Pelzer. She had no response to give.
“I must run, Sheila, but one more bit of advice,” Mac said. “Give up the Russians.”
NEAR GAZA CITY
MONDAY
KUFDANI WALKED ALONG A NARROW PATH IN A VILLAGE JUST OUTSIDE Gaza City until he met Amad, a former physics professor and one of his better students from Ktzi’ot. They embraced formally, then continued along the path, passing several other Palestinians who stopped in their tracks and just stared at Kufdani.
Over a week had passed since the prison break, and the brutal life of a prisoner was becoming a distant memory, fading as fast as an unpleasant dream or a distant mirage. A new vision was taking its place, slowly building from the legend and dust of the desert, and from the yearning of the people who lived there.
“My countrymen have heard about you.” Amad grinned, nodding at the gaping men and children. “You’re becoming famous. They know who planned and carried out our freedom, who delivered them into the light of Allah through learning and prayer. They know the truth, no matter what Yousef Salama says.”
“Amad, Amad, you’re not thinking this through,” Kufdani said. “Salama planned all of this. I just executed it. That is the story I want to tell.”
Amad replied with a knowing look. “Yousef Salama asked me to set up a meeting for you tomorrow, with one of his Hamas colleagues. He will hear a different story, maybe.”
“I hear the voice of Allah, and you hear stories. Amad, don’t disappoint me.”
Why does he believe he can choose where to place his loyalty? Kufdani wondered, knowing that Amad was asking him to lead them. But he had absolutely no interest in ruling Palestine or in politics generally.
As a scholar of Islam, he recognized this moment as an opportunity to get some of this Shi‘a–Sunni split thing out of the way, through his plans for a literal and figurative offensive that would require all Muslims to speak with one mighty voice—and he did not wish to squander that opportunity. But if he could get the Israelis to roll over within a few weeks as planned, that would be the end of his foray into geopolitics.
“Listen to me,” Kufdani insisted, “and learn algebra. I despise arithmetic and fail at it often. But I know this much: Salama must use the credit for these actions to gain political power. I am defending Allah’s flock. It is the will of Allah I seek to carry out.”
“Inshallah,” Amad conceded.
Kufdani stopped at the entrance to a small hut. “Credit is interesting, Amad. Unlike in physics, it can be subdivided without losing mass. Take the case of our prison experience: Yousef gets credit for planning it and gets more power from that credit to become the Palestinian leader. I get credit among the masses as a follower who both thinks and kills, thus giving more power to the will of Allah. The sum of the two is more than their total, not less.”
Amad nodded. “You have thought things through yet again, Kufdani.”
Kufdani opened the door. “Make them ready to take orders, Amad. Make them want to kill for me. I demand that, as a messenger of Allah. You will tell the others. All must conform aggressively to the orders of Yousef Salama.”
Amad met his eyes, nodded, and then turned to leave.
In the small room, Yousef Salama sat with a Kphone on the wooden table in front of him. Kufdani smiled when he saw the teapot and the vacant chair awaiting him: it had new green cushions.
Salama stood, and they embraced warmly.
“Yousef,” Kufdani said. “I see you got the Kphone I sent.”
“I did,” Salama said, bowing his head briefly. “And I thank you for it. I envied its capabilities when we were together as guests of Israel. Now this Kphone knows my name as it does yours. Can it also teach the classes?”
“Your Kphone can do anything mine can do, as long as you’re authorized for it,” Kufdani replied.
He had ordered delivery of additional Kphones for Amad and the other leaders, who needed only to register with their name and credentials to gain access. All directions to control the upcoming battle would come from Kufdani through the Kphone, to be shared as though coming directly from the leaders themselves.
“Things are warming up,” Kufdani continued. “If you want to lead Palestine, I’d like to help, but there are more immediate issues.” He explained that Shin Bet was preparing to take another run at the Gaza Strip, with the IDF in full support, sometime in the next week or so. “You and the others do the on-the-ground planning and take the public credit, but promise obedience to the agreed plan. It’s the method we will use to work together. Amad has arranged a meeting with your Hamas colleague for tomorrow.”
Salama himself would control the largest group of warriors, in teams of three with each team handling the shoulder-fired Mk19 40mm that they had been studying in videos, along with a loaded six-round belt for each weapon. The videos, which would continue to be shown and reshown within each group until the Israelis attacked, described how to load and how to be accurate at one hundred yards against soldiers who dismounted their carriers and attacked with air support from drones and helicopters.
“No one is to engage until you give the order to Amad and the other leaders. We hope to take care of the helicopters and the drones separately, so no one should need to engage them. Your targets are men, and men only. Well, if we hit a few women, that’s okay. We weren’t the ones who drafted them.”
Kufdani winked.
“Your people will have only razor rounds, as we discussed at Ktzi’ot,” he continued. “We don’t want them killed, just wounded and scared.”
Salama bowed his head again. “You have made your message clear. And thank you for your kind words to the press about me,” he said. “Is there anything more you need in return?”
Kufdani leaned forward and took a sip of his tea. “I’d like you to start the conversation about Palestine becoming a single political entity again. Fatah, Hezbollah, Hamas—all these warring factions are in the way of that. They must eventually become our allies in Allah, working together in pursuit of this monster that Israel is becoming. You must entice them, letting Allah lead the way.”
“Only show me the way and, as an elder of Hamas, I will be delighted to do my part,” Salama agreed. “The schism, as you call it, of Shiite and Sunni greatly reduces our economic and military impact. We must work together. I’ve come to respect your planning abilities. Bringing down the border crossing software at the Egypt-Gaza border was a stroke of genius. Our people just eased back into Gaza, carrying the arms and ammunition you provided, on the trucks that were modified as you specified. I’m told your man on the ground in Egypt was quite useful in figuring out how to move that much equipment into Gaza.”
“Jerome is quite a useful man,” Kufdani said. “I assume you have secured our packages until we need them?”
“As we agreed,” Salama said. “The packages await an opportunity to be useful.”
“Good. The tactics we discussed are important. The battlefield leaders will need to keep their troops under control and review the training on weapons use within the next week, using the Kphones I sent.”
“We await our next move. Things are coming together. My leaders are enthusiastic.”
“Great,” Kufdani said. “And I’ll do what I can to make you attractive as their leader, the one who can secure for them a better future. So don’t get yourself killed.”
Salama sat back and looked at him thoughtfully. What an interesting man you are, Kufdani! So focused on the problem for our people, and not on your role in solving it. But do you not want to rule? Are you not destined to be the one who restores justice, the Mahdi?
Kufdani denied this title once again, as he had at Ktzi’ot. But as he left the hut and returned to the narrow village path, local residents began to cluster around them, some shy, some clamoring for Kufdani’s attention. The crowd grew, slowing his progress, and he shook the hands of some, patted the backs of a few others, even kissed a baby. He heard the whispers: Mahdi. Mahdi.
Flashing a mysterious smile, he instructed them to prepare for the coming battle, to have courage and follow the orders of their true leader, Yousef Salama. “Since death is our one sure destiny,” he called out to the crowd, “why die a coward when you can be brave?”
The cries of Mahdi followed him all the way down the path.
HAARETZ ONLINE, TEL AVIV
TUESDAY
REGINALD EDGEWORTH. THE REGINALD EDGEWORTH IS GOING TO BE calling. Elsa still couldn’t believe it. She had decided to remain skeptical until she actually heard his voice, the one she’d heard on TV countless times. But so far, what Caitlin offered was pure gold, so Elsa was cautiously hopeful.
“I call him Edgie,” Caitlin had said on the phone, “but you know him as Reginald Edgeworth. He’d like to meet with you.”
“Reginald Edgeworth? Reggie fucking Edgeworth?” Elsa had shouted. The scent of a Pulitzer grew suddenly stronger. “I can make time for him at his convenience, of course. He just about owns the worldwide news and opinion business.”
Caitlin had asked him to call at 3:00 Tel Aviv time, and Elsa had promised to wait by her phone. It was all moving so fast, and she had recruited a few staffers and stringers to help her work on the big stories facing Israel at this critical moment. This was career-making journalism.
The scheduled time was almost here. Elsa peered out her office window at the afternoon traffic beginning to build on the Tel Aviv streets below. Her stories on Jerusalem and Kufdani had been good and had attracted lots of attention. But the “Kill them all!” story had gone viral. She was getting calls from everywhere. Ad revenue was going up—way up.
Inevitably, she would be interrogated about her sources. How did she get inside the prime minister’s secret meeting? She would have to defend herself without blowing up her only source: Caitlin O’Connor.
More important right now, however, was figuring out the next story and the one after that. It struck Elsa that the fastest way to do this was to get Edgeworth to commit to a plan, if he had one. And if he helped her learn more about this Kufdani person, all the better.
The best head on the planet, Elsa thought yet again. Who the hell is this guy? He was sort of handsome, she supposed, but sort of creepy too …
Her phone rang. She glanced at it and saw that the number was unlisted. “HOL, Elsa Sachs. How may I help you?”
“Ms. Sachs, this is Reginald Edgeworth. How nice to make your acquaintance, if only by phone. Is this a convenient time?”
“Now is convenient, Mr. Edgeworth. What can I do for you?” She hoped her voice wasn’t shaking.
“I think we may be able to do things for each other in support of my client, Sheik Kufdani,” he said.
