“Thank you,” replied Captain Simon. “Any more on the U.S. end of the call?”
“Not much. But NSA trackers are nearly certain it’s New York rather than Boston or Washington. Still trying. We’ll come back.”
At this point the full translation jumped onto the captain’s screen, with broad suggestions.
“First line may refer to Jewish special forces, or even Mossad.
Top-class one
euphemism for ‘very important.’
Abe’s Place
unknown. Could be anywhere.
Caged songbirds
possible Pakistani ex-inmates of Guantanamo Bay. There are many.
The mountain
indicates some address.
Sleepers
could be reference to al-Qaeda sleeper cells, bin Laden’s favorite subject. See references.
‘Canst proceed’
obviously military shorthand.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. GCHQ confirmed they had sent the signal through to the U.S. National Surveillance Office, the NSA, and the CIA. There was a cryptic note from the NSA requesting both Cheltenham and Cyprus to update Fort Meade throughout the night at the first sign of a crack in the signal.
Nailing down that phone call to a major government building in Islamabad was critical because Pakistan is a powder-keg of hidden nuclear weapons, which Taliban and al-Qaeda dissidents covet with all of their hearts.
A national military, of the power and efficiency of Pakistan’s, should have been more than a match for a turbaned rabble trying to cause some kind of a world war in the Middle East. But it was not. And it kept proving it.
Alex Simon stared out of the door of the Cyprus surveillance bunker. In his mind he held his usual visions of evil jihadist cutthroats, in their mountains, in their caves, handling their high-explosives, and now, apparently, hunkered down in clandestine government offices. It occurred to him that killers like these would ultimately be stopped by the thoughtful space-age detectives in England’s damp, green Cotswold Hills; men and women whose predecessors had located much darker forces and far greater villains than any of these modern Holy Warriors.
8
CAPTAIN JAMES RAMSHAWE
had an uncanny feeling he was breaking one of Admiral Morgan’s cardinal rules:
Kid, never waste your time chasing goddamned shadows.
Before him was his ever-present, lined legal pad upon which he recorded his thoughts, theories, facts, and strategies. Right now the page that stared up at him resembled the ramblings of a madman.
He had tried to assemble all the clues and evidence that had surfaced since those four terrorists had been freed. And he had to admit the trail had more or less gone cold.
They’d gone to England and somehow gotten out. They’d also gone to Andalucia in Spain, and also gotten out. They’d most definitely shown up in Mexico, and
may
have killed two border guards while re-entering the United States. This Penn Station bullshit in New York was a total red herring without yielding one scrap of evidence.
And now there was this quasi-Mata Hari signal from Islamabad to some contact who
might
have lived in Manhattan, droning on about King Saul and God knows what else. Okay, there may have been something in it, but that was someone else’s task, not his.
Call in the bloody cryptologists,
he muttered,
but don’t bother me till there’s something tangible
. In his heart he knew that Admiral Morgan would have laughed at him if he’d sought advice on this one.
Also he had a whole lot of far more important matters to deal with. The Chinese were again suspected of being involved in Pakistan’s nuclear agenda; both countries were secretly speaking to Iran, which was infuriating the Pentagon; and the Russians were refusing to admit they’d mislaid a Typhoon-Class ICBM submarine somewhere in the North Atlantic.
There was also intense pressure on the NSA to tap into the SATCOMS systems of the stupid Brits, who were once again threatening to abandon their expensive Trident submarine fleet.
And yet, Jimmy Ramshawe could not dismiss the activities of Ibrahim, Yousaf, Ben, and Abu Hassan from his mind. He believed they were somehow in Manhattan, mostly because of the hand grenade.
He e-mailed Mack Bedford the signal from Islamabad and then called him. The two men spent a half-hour exploring the ramifications.
Was it them? Are they in New York? What if they are? What if they’re not. And, as the
New York Post
so succinctly wondered, Who Bombed the John?
At the end of their talk, Mack Bedford made one crucial observation. “That signal from Islamabad,” he said, “came, likely as not, from a person associated with the rebel forces in Pakistan—Taliban or al-Qaeda. Those nutters from the Swat Valley who have a lot of government support.
“And whenever those guys start talking about anything connected with Israel, they’re never peaceful objectives. I can’t decipher that conversation. But I’d bet the Mossad was interested. Remember the Israeli Secret Service was right in the thick of it on the night those guys were last in court.
“It’s not the worst thing in the world to play a hunch. I’ve saved my own life a few times doing that. And right now I think I might move down to Manhattan for a few days. See if I can locate those guys again—before they do something real bad.”
“Will you check in?”
“Uh-huh. Coupla days. Lemme know if anyone cracks that stuff from Islamabad.”
MACK CHECKED INTO
the Waldorf-Astoria the following day. He needed a place more like a city than a hotel, somewhere he could get lost. At lunchtime he strolled three blocks over to Second Avenue and then walked down to Forty-Third Street to the Consul General of Israel.
He walked through security and reported to the desk holding a small sealed envelope he had prepared at the hotel. The name on the outside was Colonel Benjamin Shalit, and old friend with whom Mack had served in Afghanistan.
Ben Shalit had been recruited to the Mossad five years ago, and had served in the Israeli Secret Police both in Tel Aviv and in various sections of the Middle East. They had appointed him to New York a couple of years before. Mack knew he was there but not what the former commando was doing.
He understood it would have been pointless to ask to speak to him because the Israelis would never dream of admitting there was a Mossad field officer anywhere near their sunny tourist front office. Number 800 Second Avenue was strictly for passports, advice, hotels, visas, and tourist destinations.
Men like Ben Shalit operated in the shadows, watching for danger, locating threats, observing suspected terrorists who might wish his nation harm. They had their own network, and in this building, even their own doorway, around the back of the building, because you never knew who might be watching.
Mack Bedford had simply left the envelope at the desk and asked the doorman to have it delivered. Inside was simply a note asking Ben to call the Waldorf. Then he strolled back to the hotel and waited.
At 4 p.m., the front desk called to inform him Mr. Shalit was here to see him, and to meet him at a table on the cocktail terrace.
Mack’s former comrade-in-arms was a medium-sized man who was heavyset with a swarthy complexion and an unmistakable twinkle in his dark, deep-set eyes. Ben Shalit, now in his late thirties, had never married, having lived a life of constant upheaval in the service of his country.
“I’ll say one thing, Benny,” said the American, “you look a whole lot better than you did last time I saw you.”
“So do you,” replied the Israeli. They both recalled the bomb blast on the roadside in Kabul, which had capsized their jeep and flung them both out, leaving them covered in blood and dust but relatively unhurt, considering that four other men had been killed.
Neither touched alcohol during working hours, so they settled for tea over a long talk about the situation in the Middle East, which neither of them thought was great.
It was almost a quarter to five when Mack told his old buddy what he’d come for. “Benny,” he said, “I need to plug into the Israeli network that deals with national or local threat right here in New York.”
“Well, I guess you’re in the right spot already,” the Israeli replied. “That’s my watch. My life, actually. What’s on your mind?”
“I am, unofficially, on the lookout for four former prisoners recently freed from Guantanamo.”
“Funny,” replied Ben. “So am I. But I have a special interest in two of them.”
“You mean Ben al-Turabi and Abu Hassan Akbar?”
“Correct. Two terrorists who committed two of the worst crimes in our history. And many more.”
Mack nodded carefully. “They are traveling with a couple of guys in whom we have a special interest.”
“That’d be Ibrahim Sharif and Yousaf Mohammed—coupla bombers from the mountains over there. Guess you guys were thrilled to bits when those judges let them go free.”
“Oh, sure. Trouble is we think they are planning to take their revenge. And we think they might be here in New York.”
“Did you pick ’em up in Mexico?”
“We did. And we think they shot those two guards at the border.”
“So do we. Which I guess brings us to the Penn Station bomb?”
“We haven’t made much progress with that. But we now have a transcript of a phone conversation that linked up Islamabad and New York.”
“Yup. Cyprus copied us on all that. We’re their nearest allies if push ever comes to shove. And you can bet when we saw the words ‘King Saul’ we stepped it up a few notches.”
“Any luck?”
“No more than you, I imagine. But we’re working on it.”
“What are you planning to do with them if you find them?”
“Us? We’ll take ’em out, no questions asked. All four. Save a lot of trouble. How about you?”
“Same.”
Mack poured more tea for them both. And then said, “How can I plug in? Follow you down the same road.”
“Well, we’re not very far along. But, Mack, when you suspect there is a major terrorist hit being planned, there’s always a trail that leads to a big hunk of cash. These operations cost money. And you sometimes run into property deals. Because big plans need some kind of HQ.
“And then there’s phones, air transport, other transportation, maybe cars to be bought and registered, meals, hotels, pay-offs, purchases of chemicals and electronics. It all adds up, ’specially if there’s four main guys and several assistants involved.”
“How can I get into that trail?”
“It’s hard for you. Easier for us.”
“Will you give me a hand?”
“Sure. We don’t care who kills them.”
“What do I do now?”
“You have to contact the Sayanim.”
“The who?”
“The Sayanim.”
“Who’s he?”
“Mack, it’s the world-wide Jewish brotherhood, the Friends of Israel.”
“They got offices right here in New York?”
“Not quite. It’s probably the most secretive network in the world. They don’t have offices anywhere. And they don’t speak to anyone except when they are spoken to. They don’t even speak to each other.”
“Sounds like a quiet group.”
“That it is. It’s our global organization, private Jewish people who hold positions of power, or wealth, or authority, or maybe just responsibility. They are people who live abroad but are still devoted to Israel and what it means to all of us.”
“Okay,” said Mack. “But what do they do?”
“Mostly nothing. But they are always there, prepared to do everything in their power to help Israel, no questions asked. Like us, they work in the shadows.”
“Then they are a secret society?”
“They are much more secret than that. They have no structure. They are unknown soldiers fighting for a common cause, treasured by the Mossad, priceless to Israel’s government.”
“How do we find them?”
“By being careful. There are two thousand of them in New York City alone. Someone always knows someone.”
“Are you a member of the Sayanim, Benny?”
“I am still a serving officer. They have not invited me—yet. But in time they will.”
“And what would happen if you refused?”
“No one’s ever refused.”
Mack sat in silence for a while, profoundly impressed by the enormity of Ben Shalit’s words. He’d served in Israel, worked with the Mossad, and he’d seen firsthand the atrocities committed against the nation of Israel. He understood their heartbreak and determination to live, and, if necessary, die, standing shoulder to shoulder against the Arab world.
But to him, that whole scenario had often seemed remote and isolated. Everyone knew Israel had its back to the wall. But the brotherhood, the Sayanim, well, that was amazing. No wonder Israel managed to get its own way almost all of the time.
“I am going to put you in touch with someone,” said Ben. “But you must be completely guarded in your questions to him. Remember, he will have only my word that you are safe and that we all fight on the same side against the scum of Gaza and the Afghan mountains.”
“I am grateful for that,” said Ben. “But I’m not sure what to ask him.”
“The man you will meet, right here in the city, will know more about a possible attack on New York than anyone else. The signal from Islamabad suggests a Jewish target—that bit about King Saul’s boys, and Abe’s place. Our man will have many lines of inquiry out there. If anyone can help, he can.”
Mack stood, and Ben told him he would call in one hour with a name, place, and time. They shook hands and parted.
IT WAS 8 P.M.
and Mack climbed out of a taxi on West Houston Street, Lower Manhattan, as instructed, and headed toward Wooster Street, a boutique, art, and restaurant throughway in trendy SoHo.
There was a buzz about the place but it was dark and the buildings, former industrial places that are now occupied as enormous loft apartments at astronomical rents, were tall and, to Mack, somewhat foreboding. But he was not a city boy. Indeed, he rarely went to cities without an express purpose of blowing out someone’s brains or capturing some restless, troublesome district by force of arms. Tonight he was not even armed, but as he stared up at the massive concrete and iron structures, he wished he were.