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Authors: Rick Campbell

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BOOK: The Trident Deception
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“I see,” Rosenfeld said tersely.

Kogen joined the conversation. “Ambassador Vandiver, I noticed your choice of words. You said the United States would not
authorize
the transfer of the weapons we seek. What is the United States willing to transfer to Israel
without
official authorization?”

Vandiver straightened his back. “It appears I’ve chosen my words poorly. Let me rephrase, to be perfectly clear. The United States will
not
provide Israel with additional offensive weapons, either officially or unofficially. Am I speaking clearly enough now?”

Kogen leaned back in his chair, the friendly expression on his face fading to an impassive mask. “Clear as crystal, I believe the saying goes in your country.”

Vandiver turned back to Rosenfeld, whose face was slowly reddening as he absorbed the ambassador’s response. More than thirty years earlier, President Reagan’s use of the term “evil empire” in characterizing the Soviet Union, and later, George W. Bush’s coinage of “axis of evil” had been ridiculed by many, their overly simplistic view of the world failing to reflect the complexity of modern politics. But Vandiver knew Rosenfeld shared that view, that he believed the two American presidents had assessed the situation with remarkable clarity—right versus wrong, good versus evil. And Israel’s war against Islamic fanaticism was a quintessential example of the struggle between good and evil. A struggle the United States was now refusing to support.

“You claim to be Israel’s closest ally,” Rosenfeld fumed, his frustration bleeding through as he spoke, “yet you abandon us in our hour of need. Let me make something perfectly clear to
you,
Ambassador. Israel has the means to defend herself, and the fallout”—Rosenfeld hesitated for a moment as if reconsidering his choice of words—“the blood we shed will be on
your
hands if you do not provide us with the conventional weapons we need.”

There was an uneasy silence as Vandiver assimilated the prime minister’s last statement. Rosenfeld’s choice of words did not go unnoticed, but they couldn’t possibly mean what Vandiver thought they did. “Are you saying Israel will use nuclear weapons to destroy the Iranian facility?”

Rosenfeld greeted the ambassador’s question with an icy stare.

The hair stood up on the back of Vandiver’s neck. This was not just another diplomatic drill, putting a face on the administration’s policies. Israel was
actually
contemplating the use of nuclear weapons in a proactive attack to defend itself. The Arab and world response would be unpredictable; a half dozen scenarios played out quickly in Vandiver’s mind, all of them bad. Very bad. But one thing was clear—no matter what followed Israel’s use of nuclear weapons, the outcome would be catastrophic for Middle East peace and stability. Israel could not be allowed to conduct a nuclear first strike.

Vandiver’s eyes narrowed. “The support you have within the United States, both from its people and government, not to mention the four billion dollars in defense aid you receive each year, will evaporate if you attack Iran with nuclear weapons.”

Rosenfeld stood suddenly. “Thank you for coming, Ambassador. I presume you know the way out?” His hands remained at his sides. No warm handshake and friendly smile would follow this morning’s meeting.

U.S. Ambassador Greg Vandiver stood, glaring at Rosenfeld, then turned abruptly and left.

*   *   *

Barak Kogen rose and closed the door to Rosenfeld’s office, locking it. Turning back toward the older man, he waited as the prime minister collapsed into his chair. The meeting had gone exactly as he had expected. The Americans could no longer be counted on to defend Israel, and now his foresight would prove valuable. The Mossad’s operation had been tabletopped a hundred times, and after the addition of a few contingency plans, the outcome was always the same. All that stood in the way was the prime minister’s approval.

Assessing the older man’s crestfallen appearance, Kogen decided to press Rosenfeld again for approval. “It appears the only way to defend Israel is through the use of nuclear weapons,” he began. “And who do you want the world to blame for this attack? We have the opportunity to defend ourselves and pin the blame on our so-called ally, who abandons us when we need their assistance the most.”

After a moment, Rosenfeld replied, “We cannot defend our people by unleashing a nuclear holocaust, Barak. You seem unable to recognize that moral restriction.”

“No, Levi, I disagree. You seem unable to recognize the choice you face. You must choose either Israel’s
survival
or
destruction
.”

After a moment’s thought, Rosenfeld shook his head slowly. “I disagree, Barak. I’m prepared to authorize conventional strikes to protect our people, but not a nuclear attack. We will monitor Natanz closely, and if they move their weapon from the facility, we will strike quickly.”

Kogen’s eyes glowered, his frustration increasing as the hope Rosenfeld would authorize the Mossad operation faded. “We may not be able to detect the weapon’s movement and strike before it is used against us. We have the opportunity to destroy this bomb and eliminate the risk to our people, but you must authorize the operation soon. Think this through carefully, Levi, before you let this opportunity pass.”

 

6

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

 

It was just before noon as a black BMW 7 Series sedan navigated the busy Jerusalem streets, fighting its way toward the original walled city in the heart of the Israeli capital. The previous week’s storm had left behind a plain blue sky from which hung a solitary yellow disk, spreading welcome warmth across the city. Tables from roadside cafés spilled out onto the sidewalks, nearly every chair occupied as the city’s population celebrated the sun’s reemergence after a weeklong hiatus. The crowded sidewalks had dried for the most part, and pedestrians skirted the few shallow puddles that remained as Rosenfeld’s sedan passed by unnoticed.

In the backseat of the armored car, Rosenfeld tried unsuccessfully to relax. He had slept fitfully, his dreams filled with images of Hannah, and had awoken tired and irritable. If that weren’t enough, his meeting with Ehud Rabin this morning had been contentious, their conversation focused on military options available to destroy the Iranian nuclear facilities. His defense minister and old friend continued to insist the only way to destroy the facility at Natanz was with a nuclear strike.

As the BMW turned left onto Agron Street, Rosenfeld checked his watch. He was looking forward to a temporary distraction from his duties as prime minister, having decided to join his children for lunch at Sandrino’s, just inside the ramparts of the Old City. As his face brightened with the thought of seeing his twin daughters, he couldn’t help but think how much they resembled Hannah and how much she would have enjoyed watching them grow up.

It had been three years since Hannah died, killed indiscriminately by a rocket launched from Gaza. He should have spent more time with Sarah and Rachel after Hannah’s death, but his duties as prime minister consumed him. He poured his efforts into retaliation against the Palestinians who murdered his children’s mother, hoping the justice he wrought would lessen the sorrow of their loss. But he realized too late that what his daughters needed most wasn’t revenge, but simply him. Now he scheduled time in his busy week for his children, attending their school activities and dropping in on them when he could. He looked forward to enjoying the simple and satisfying role of father this afternoon, temporarily setting aside the complicated and frustrating role of prime minister.

*   *   *

Just inside the Jaffa Gate of the original walled city of Jerusalem, sixteen-year-old Khalid Abdulla stepped off a Number 20 bus onto the busy sidewalk, his six-year journey almost complete. As he walked east along David Street, pedestrians passing by failed to register the rage smoldering inside the young man, noticing instead his polite smile. Nor did they note his lean build as they hurried by, because today he carried thirty extra pounds of weight under his loose-fitting jacket.

After a short walk down David Street, Abdulla stopped just inside one of the street-side cafés, his attention drawn toward two girls sitting at a table near the front of the restaurant, each girl wearing her long black hair draped over the front of her left shoulder. One of the girls looked at him and smiled, the radiant stare of her large brown eyes soon joined by her twin sister’s. For just a moment, Abdulla forgot why he’d come, mesmerized by the girls’ beauty. But then his hatred broke the spell, pulling his thoughts six years into the past.

Abdulla was only ten when he heard the gut-wrenching scream from the adjoining room, a mother’s unmistakable wail of grief and unspeakable loss. Moments later, his mother swept him into her arms, her damp face pressed against his, whispering the words that ignited his hatred. His only brother was dead, killed by Israeli soldiers forcing their way into Gaza, their tanks crushing everything in their path. As she pulled away, she appeared older; frail and broken. Abdulla wiped his mother’s tears from his cheek, and with them, his childhood. His purpose in life, and death, for that matter, had crystallized that instant.

*   *   *

Sitting at a table near the front of the café, Sarah followed her sister’s eyes across the crowded restaurant. She knew before she turned her head what had caught her sibling’s attention. Rachel’s widening eyes, the faint blushing of her cheeks, her lips parting into an inviting smile—she’d spotted an attractive boy. It had never seemed unusual to Sarah that they could read the subtle changes in each other’s facial expressions and mannerisms, communicating without uttering a word.

One glance at her sister at the end of the school day could tell Sarah many things; that Rachel had done well on her math test, that she’d spoken with Amir after English class, and that he had finally asked her out. Yet they talked incessantly, rattling on about how their day had gone, filling in the missing details. From the moment Sarah woke until her thoughts faded to dreams, she was never far from Rachel. God had designed them that way, she had concluded, connected to each other by an invisible, inseparable bond.

Off from school for the Lag Ba’Omer holiday, Sarah and Rachel had ventured into the Old City, shopping in the upscale stores along David Street, eventually arriving at Sandrino’s. Unlike most adolescents, who shied away from being seen with their parents in public, Sarah and Rachel looked forward to the occasional lunchtime rendezvous with their father. To others, he was the prime minister, but to them, he was simply abi, the Hebrew word for father. When translated to English, Sarah knew it meant “the one who gives strength to the family.” Now that the dark days following their mother’s death had passed, he was there for them, giving them strength when they missed their mother the most.

Tonight would be one of those times, as they gathered with their aunts, uncles, and cousins to celebrate the end of the plague that had killed Rabbi Akiva and twenty-four thousand of his students. Aaron would be there, an attractive boy not unlike the teenager standing just inside the café entrance. There was something about the strange boy who stared at them, a dark brooding in his eyes that captured Sarah’s attention. He had suffered a terrible loss, she could tell, the type of loss shared by many in Israel, for who had not lost a friend or a loved one in the bitter and pointless conflict between Jews and Arabs?

The boy’s eyes left the two girls, scanning the restaurant, evidently searching for a table. Sarah considered asking him to join them. After all, there were two empty chairs at their table and he was rather attractive. But she thought better of it. Rachel didn’t need any encouragement; she went through boyfriends like fashion accessories, and it seemed the boy across the café had suffered enough heartache. She noticed Rachel was about to rise and ask him over. A hand on her forearm and a quick look convinced her otherwise.

*   *   *

Abdulla turned away from the two girls; they were Jews, after all, and therefore their beauty should hold no appeal. Besides, his attraction to the twins would be irrelevant in a few minutes. Abdulla made his way to the back of the café, where, standing against the wall, the effect would be magnified. He stopped, turned around, then reached into his jacket pocket, his fingers sliding through the slit in the pocket lining.

*   *   *

Sitting at a table near the back of the café, Katherine Jankowski fed her six-month-old son as she waited for her antipasto to arrive. Matthew, strapped into a high chair, was waving his hands in the jerky and uncoordinated way infants do when they’re excited, his eyes locked onto the spoonful of pureed carrots his mother was pushing toward his open mouth. Katherine would normally have been accompanied by her friend Alanah, but as Shabbat gave way to Lag Ba’Omer, Alanah had joined the half million Jews who make the pilgrimage each year to Mount Meron in northern Israel. Katherine’s husband, Jonathan, had graciously volunteered to fill in during Alanah’s absence, but he was running late, which was not an unusual occurrence.

As the waitress dropped off the antipasto, a teenager passed by Katherine’s table. She watched him stop at the back wall and turn around and reach into his jacket pocket, searching for something. He surveyed the café in an odd way, and his thin face was somehow incommensurate with his girth. Her subconscious hammered at her, warning her that she was missing something important. As she studied the young man, searching for a clue to the uneasy feeling, he looked up toward the restaurant ceiling, his face radiating utter joy and contentment. His hand stopped fidgeting, evidently finding what he searched for. Katherine’s eyes widened as the pieces fell into place.

She reached for her son.

But it was already too late.

*   *   *

A bright orange flash illuminated the windows of Rosenfeld’s BMW. A second later, he lurched forward against his seat belt as the sedan screeched to a halt. Rosenfeld peered through the side window in an attempt to obtain a clear view of what had happened. Pedestrians were running toward and past his car, away from a mass of black smoke that spiraled upward less than a block away. Climbing out of the sedan, Rosenfeld strained his eyes to identify the location of the blast. He spotted the sign marking the restaurant Bellaroma. And there was the Essex. But he was looking for Sandrino’s, which was between the two.

BOOK: The Trident Deception
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