Executive Power Part 9

Leaning forward, out of the shadows, Freidman placed his brawny forearms on the table and in a raspy voice asked, "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course." David maintained an almost disinterested att.i.tude.

He'd read the PLO's meager file on the man and had heard many stories.

Born in Jerusalem in 1949, Freidman went on to distinguish himself in the Six Day War of 1967. After the war he was transferred to AMAN, Israel 's military intelligence organization, and then later Mossad. At Mossad he became a very effective kid on or in the common parlance of the business, an a.s.sa.s.sin. He specialized in hunting down members of Ya.s.ser Arafat's Force 17. His tenacious ability to track people across multiple continents made him a greatly feared warrior in the struggle for his people's security.

"I have kept an eye on you," stated Freidman, "for many years, and have been looking forward to this day for some time."

David wondered if he meant simply meeting him, or meant wrapping his large hands around his throat and choking him to death. It was quite possibly a bit of both, for he had no doubt that Ben Freidman was cut from the same cloth as the militant terrorists who governed his own people. The enemy was the enemy, and there was no need to a.n.a.lyze it much further than that. There was no distinction or recognition of the individual. The condemnation was made of the entire Palestinian society, and conversely of all Israelis. It was this line of thinking that allowed these men to launch blunt attacks with no concern over who was killed. It was the rationale that allowed them to sleep at night and claim that their cause was the truly just one.

There were many directions David could take this. There were many questions in fact that he would very much like to ask the dark angel who was sitting across from him, but there were schedules to be kept, goals to be met and a country to be made. Besides, it was somewhat comforting to know that, during the course of the next two weeks, the man sitting across from him would feel pressure like he'd never felt before.

Eschewing anything controversial, and swallowing his pride, David said, "And I have looked forward to meeting you."

Freidman smirked as if to say he doubted the sincerity of the comment, and then said, "Tell me Jabril, and excuse me if I sound distrustful, but it is my nature. This meeting tonight, why would all of these people risk gathering in one place?"

David wondered how good Freidman's intelligence was. It was highly likely that he had a.s.sets who could give him pieces to the complex puzzle. Those pieces on their own would prove nothing, but they might raise or lower his level of cynicism. Truthfully, he answered, "It is not that unusual for them to gather under one roof."

The bald man looked skeptical.

"The leaders of Hamas, the head of the Palestinian General Intelligence and the leaders of Force 17 this is a common occurrence that they all get together to plot the destruction of my people?"

David stayed the course.

"Yes."

"I find it hard to believe they could stand the sight of each other."

"Let's just say they are united in their hatred of you and their desire for money."

Things began to make sense for the head of Mossad. At first he thought Jabril was invited to the terrorism summit as a mere financial representative, but now he saw there might be more to it. It was possible that with his fund-raising prowess, he was able to call such meetings himself, in order to distribute cash. A recent piece of intelligence clicked in the back of his mind and he reminded himself to look more deeply into something one of his people had told him just this morning.

Freidman eyed David and asked, "And what of you? What do you hate, or should I say who?"

"I try not to hate. It leads to poor decisions."

Freidman scoffed at the thought.

"It can also be a great motivator."

"Yes, it can," replied David, "but look where it has gotten us."

David watched as Freidman retreated back into the shadows, an expression of scornful disagreement on his face. Watching him react the way he did, David wished it was within his means to kill the man right this very moment. He could probably do it and forfeit his own life, or spend the rest of his days in an Israeli jail, being tortured and otherwise treated like a subhuman, but suicide was not in his plans. Maybe an opportunity would someday present itself, but for now he would have to make his deal with the devil. It saddened him, however, to know that Freidman would go on using his in discriminant weapons of war to kill the people of Palestine. Ben Freidman held much in common with the men David was meeting with this evening. It was too bad he couldn't talk him into coming along.

A black attache case appeared from under the table and then another.

Freidman placed them both in front of David and said, "As you requested." He laid one of the cases flat, opened it and spun it around.

"Each is lined with five pounds of C-4 plastique. You requested it, so I a.s.sume you know what you're doing."

There had been a debate between the top counterterrorism people and Spielman late into the evening yesterday. The question was, how would Spielman's a.s.set pull this off? Was he going to use the cases as a suicide bomb, or was he going to somehow leave the meeting place and remote detonate the devices? The debate was evenly divided with Spielman saying it was impossible that Jabril Khatabi would commit suicide, and the a.n.a.lysts saying that their money was on the Palestinian turning himself into a martyr. This split among his own people led Freidman to take several precautions.

David nodded and examined the cases. They were basic black Samsonite attache cases. He would weigh them when he got back to his apartment, and had little doubt that he would discover the Israelis had put more than five pounds of explosives in each. David extended his hand.

"The detonator?"

"As you requested." Freidman handed over a black digital Casio watch.

"Press the split reset b.u.t.ton to arm the cases and then the start-stop b.u.t.ton twice within three seconds to detonate."

"Thank you." David took the watch and studied it briefly before placing it inside the first case.

"Just so you know, Mr. Freidman, I plan on making more than one stop."

Freidman frowned, not quite understanding what was meant by the remark.

David grinned.

"I am not so naive as to think this watch is the only detonator. I also know that my life means nothing to you. So don't get any ideas about detonating the cases on your own. I will be led on a long journey tonight, changing cars often, and stopping at many houses until I reach my destination. Only I will know when the time is right, and although I know it is impossible for you to trust a Palestinian, believe me when I tell you that I want these men dead every bit as much as you do."

Freidman accepted the statement with a nod and said, "It's your operation. However you want to handle it is up to you."

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

Freidman hesitated. He had many questions, but now was not the time. If this Palestinian proved himself tonight and managed to survive the blast they could sit down later. He shook his oversized head and said, "No."

As David gathered the cases he heard the tired voice of his friend who was still sitting, observing the two strange allies.

"Why, Jabril?"

David turned to look at Spielman. There seemed a genuine sadness in his eyes.

"You do not know?"

"Maybe, but I would like to hear it from you."

David nodded thoughtfully. His mind rested upon the truth and he said, "These men who I am going to see do not want peace, and as long as they are the leaders of my people, we will only know hatred and death." With that, David grabbed the cases and left the room.

NINETEEN.

The U.S. Air Force Special Operations helicopter streaked across the calm moonlit waters of Leyte Gulf. Up ahead loomed Dinagat Island and the site where two of their fellow warriors had been gunned down just days earlier. Only one of the men in the helicopter was on active duty but that didn't matter. Once a SEAL always a SEAL.

Coleman and his team were coming to settle the score, but somewhere else in the interior of the island, under the thick jungle cover, was an American family that was undoubtedly scared witless. The former commander of SEAL Team 6 wished he could do something to help them, but right now that was out of his hands.

Coleman and his men had moved to the side doors of the bird, two men to each side, their feet dangling over the edge, each man clipped to a safety harness in the event the helicopter had to make a drastic, evasive maneuver. They were all wearing night vision goggles, giving their eyes ample time to adjust.

In addition, Coleman was plugged into an in-flight headset so he could communicate with the pilots. As he peered out the port door he listened to the chatter. The pilots were reporting four contacts on the FLIR moving toward the island from the east. They were right on time.

To help mask their insertion Coleman had asked that choppers from the Belleau Wood make an overflight of the island while they were being inserted. The big CH-53 Sea Stallions would fly just south of the target area while the Pave Hawk came in from the north under a ridge line. Coleman wasn't at all worried about being picked up on radar.

They would be flying too low for that. The problem was that when the sun came up they needed to be in position a little less than a mile from the general's camp.

In order to do that, the Pave Hawk would have to drop them off closer to the target than he would have liked. The sentries at the field command post would probably never hear the Pave Hawk's rotors in the heavy, humid tropical air, and if they did, they might think nothing of it, but if the general decided to send out scouts it could be a problem. Coleman wasn't in the business of taking unnecessary risks when a solution as simple as arranging a fly over was available.

The calm water vanished from beneath them and was replaced by a light sandy beach and then the thick jungle canopy. Coleman looked straight down, peering over the toes of his jungle boots. They were so low he felt as if he could reach down and grab a leaf. The helicopter began to climb as they worked their way up a ravine using their terrain-avoidance, terrain-following radar to hug the treetops. The pilot calmly called out one minute to insertion as the chopper weaved to the left and then back to the right as if it were meandering its way upstream.

Coleman tugged on his leather gloves to make sure they were tight and placed a hand on the heavy coil of rope that lay between himself and Kevin Hackett. The pilot called out thirty seconds to insertion, his voice just a touch tighter this time, and then asked his door gunners to report in. The men, one on each side of the bird, looked out past their ominous 7.62mm miniguns and scanned the area, reporting all clear after just a moment. One by one Coleman and his men undid their safety tethers and grabbed on to hand straps on the sides of each door.

Coleman's heart quickened and his chest tightened a bit as the helicopter started to slow. He'd gone through this drill hundreds of times and it never changed. He'd seen men die fast-roping in near perfect conditions. It was not something to be done half-a.s.sed. It was a task that needed to be performed with great care and focus.

The second Coleman heard the Go word from the pilot he chucked the thick rope out the door and tore off his in-flight headset.

Without hesitation he reached for the rope with one hand and then the other. Coleman launched himself out the door, pulled the rope close to his chest, and then loosened his grip. He dropped like a stone for the first thirty feet and then with ten feet to go he put on the clamps and slowed his descent.

His boots broke the surface of the stream and he stopped knee deep in water. Coleman moved away from the rope, bringing his suppressed MP-10 up and sweeping the banks of the stream, his NVGs piercing the dark recesses of the area. Over his earpiece, he heard each of his men call out as they hit the ground, announcing they were clear.

In the wake of the rotor wash the men moved quickly through the water to a predetermined rallying point on the east bank of the stream.

The Pave Hawk rotated 180 degrees as the ropes were pulled back up, and then started its descent back toward the ocean. Normally the ropes would have been dropped and left behind, but Coleman and his men didn't have the time to gather and bury them. They needed to get to their mountaintop before the sun came up.

The entire insertion took less than ten seconds. Coleman and his men moved out immediately, never looking up at the chopper as it left the area. Wicker took the point, followed by Coleman and then Hackett and Stroble. They moved in the stream carefully, picking their way through the rocks, their eyes and ears receptive to the slightest sign that they were not alone; their first order of business, to put as much distance between themselves and the infiltration point as possible.

The Philippine Army helicopter approached the island from the southwest, the edge of the rising sun casting an orange glow across the thin horizon. Rapp sat in the back of the Bell UH-1 Huey with a Special Force's colonel from General Rizal's staff. Rizal did not like the idea of sending Rapp into General Moro's camp unaccompanied, so he had sent along his most trusted aide to make sure nothing happened to the mysterious American.

Rapp wasn't crazy about having someone looking over his shoulder, but he had to admit, if anything went wrong it would be nice to have a high-ranking Philippine Special Force's officer around to settle things down. Rizal had a.s.sured him that Colonel Barboza was not a fan of General Moro. Barboza had served under Moro and was highly suspicious of his actions. The proof that Rapp had brought with him had confirmed some of what he suspected and much more.

Fortunately, Colonel Barboza wasn't a big talker. Rapp had been with him now for over two hours and the officer had scarcely spoken a word. They'd boarded General Rizal's jet back in Manila just before 4:00 A.M. and flown to Surigao in the Central Philippines. They then jumped onboard the Huey for the relatively short flight over to Dinagat Island.

Rapp had made only two calls on his secure satellite phone during that time. Both had been to Irene Kennedy. One confirmed that McMahon was in position to keep an eye on Amba.s.sador c.o.x and the second confirmed that Coleman's team had been successfully inserted.

Whether or not they were in place was still unknown. Rapp had the ability to contact them directly, but resisted the urge. Having spent most of his career in the field, he understood that they'd let him know their situation as soon as they were able. The plan was for Coleman to call him when he was in position.

TWENTY.

David had been given very simple instructions. At 6:00 P.M., when the narrow streets of Jerusalem were choked with traffic, he was to be dropped off at the All Nations Church on Jericho Road and then walk north. His Range Rover pulled up in front of the church fifteen seconds early. David took a moment to gather himself and then after thanking his driver he stepped from the vehicle and onto the curb. He was resplendent in an expensive, dark-blue four-b.u.t.ton Italian suit, white dress s.h.i.+rt, sans tie, and black shoes.

His eyes were covered with chic black sungla.s.ses and his thick black hair was slicked back behind his ears.

David's cla.s.sic good looks ensured that he always stood out in a crowd, but waiting in front of the church, within view of the Al Aqsa Mosque, holding two identical attache cases, he drew even more looks than usual. He set the two cases down, and fished out a pack of cigarettes.

After lighting one, he stood there trying to look relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the cigarette. He took a few earnest drags and surveyed the area. The church that he was parked in front of was a favorite tourist spot for Christians. The All Nations Church, or The Church of the Agony, as it was known by the old-timers, was not the ideal place to start such a journey.

Having grown up in the city, David couldn't help but be aware of the three religions. Each of them, he had noticed from an early age, loved to commemorate pain and suffering, but none of them more so than the Christians. David looked up at the ornate pediment that sat atop the church's colonnade. The gilded mosaic depicted the Agony of Christ as he prayed to his father the night before he was to be crucified.

David glanced to the north at the small Garden of Gethsemane and its well-tended olive trees. They marked the spot where Jesus was betrayed by Judas and arrested. As the believers of the fourth major religion would have said, he was surrounded by bad karma.

He had little doubt that his Palestinian cohorts knew little of Christianity and Judaism, and what they did know were mostly lies propagated by racist caliphs, imams and sheiks. The Jews were of course the most savaged. The Muslim leaders repeatedly told their flock that during Pa.s.sover Jews sacrificed young Palestinian children and drank their blood.

The ludicrous and unchallenged lies perpetuated themselves from one generation to the next. David looked to the place where Jesus had been betrayed. He knew of no Palestinian clever enough to intentionally start this journey from a place of such biblical importance. Besides, if they had the slightest clue that he had met with the head of Mossad, they would simply grab him and torture him until he revealed everything.

They would never play some elaborate game. It was not the way of his people. They were too driven by emotion.

The early evening sun was still fairly high in the sky as he looked up and down the street. They were out there watching him; Palestinians and Israelis alike. David hoped that Ben Freidman wasn't so dumb as to try to trail him for the entire journey. Security for such a meeting was very tight. If the people who were to transport him got even the slightest whiff that they were being followed, they might easily abort.

Tonight's meeting, though, would be a bit different from the usual.

They were all waiting on him this time, like greedy little children. They wanted their cash and that meant they would take risks to make sure he got there. Still, David wondered what Freidman and his spies from Mossad were up to. David had specified that no transponders be placed in the attache cases. The reason for this was obvious. The security people in charge of the meeting would be carrying countermeasures that would detect just such a device. Freidman would know that, but David knew that Freidman would also never trust him enough to just let him wander off with fourteen pounds of plastic explosives.

He'd verified that weight as soon as he'd gotten back to his apartment that afternoon. Freidman's people had put seven pounds of the lethal explosives in each case rather than the five he asked for. The yield of each case had been increased by forty percent. This would make his mission all the more difficult to pull off, but he had a plan that would hopefully enable him to walk away unscathed.

After throwing his half-smoked cigarette into the street, David grabbed the two cases and started north. At the first intersection he crossed the street and continued on his way, pa.s.sing the Tomb of the Virgin Mary on his right. He'd walked almost another block when without warning a blue Toyota van came to a sudden stop next to him and the side door slid open. David, having done this many times before, casually veered to his left and stepped into the waiting van. They were moving again before he was seated. Someone from behind threw the door closed and then the man in the seat next to him began frisking every inch of his body, starting with his left ankle.

TWENTY ONE.

Each step was taken with great care. Smaller rocks lying at odd angles were avoided while the men searched for firmer footing.

They kept their separation at all times, Wicker setting the pace and each man in succession responsible for not falling too far behind or bunching up. This very act, this art form, of moving silently through total darkness, on an un blazed trail with a thirty-pound pack in hostile territory was perhaps the most difficult thing for a Special Forces soldier to master.

All four of the men picking their way through the jungle tonight excelled at this silent skill. They'd made steady progress since the insertion, but the terrain did not lend itself to a rapid pace. Coleman was beginning to doubt that they'd be in position by sunup. At the rare moments when the jungle canopy parted he could tell the sky was quickly going from black to dark gray. He checked his watch. The sun would be starting its crawl over the eastern horizon.

Clutching his MP-10 in his gloved hands, Coleman looked down through his NVGs, in search of firm footing so he could boost himself over a fallen tree. As he placed his right foot on the moss-slick tree he looked up to check on Wicker and froze. Charlie Wicker was standing completely still, his right hand held up in a fist. Coleman's own fist snapped up without hesitation, signaling the men behind him to freeze. The former commander of SEAL Team 6 searched in vain to see what had spooked his point man.

After several tense moments, Wicker gestured for Coleman to join him. He could have used his headset to call for him, but used hand signals instead. Coleman silently slithered over the log and carefully made his way to Wicker's position.

Wicker turned, cupping a hand over Coleman's ear and whispered, "There's movement up ahead."

Coleman's eyes strained to see what he was talking about, then whispered back, "I don't see a thing."

Wicker pointed to his ear, meaning he'd heard something.

"Animal?" asked Coleman.

Wicker shook his head.

"Definitely human. I'm going to go sneak a peek."