Bennett glanced in the ambulance’s side mirror and saw a black Ford Expedition about half a kilometer behind them.
“That’s one of yours?” he asked.
“It is,” Doron confirmed.
“How many men?”
“In that vehicle?” Doron asked.
“Yes.”
“Four.”
“All armed?”
“Heavily.”
“And is that all?” Bennett wanted to know.
“Hardly.”
“Did you have Mossad agents inside the camp?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“On the loading docks, in the mess hall, in the infirmary — you name it,” Doron explained. “At the end of every day, Avi Zadok personally sends me a report assuring me that you both are okay.”
“I had no idea,” Bennett said.
“That was the point,” Doron said. “We didn’t want to interfere with your humanitarian work. We just wanted to keep you safe. But I must say, Jonathan, I am more impressed with the depth of your and Erin’s faith than ever before.”
“We thought no one was watching,” Bennett said.
“That’s what impressed me so much,” Doron said.
Bennett, still trying to process all this, ran his hand through his hair and glanced back again at the SUV trailing them. “You actually had agents inside the medical clinic?”
“Of course.”
“Like who?”
“For starters, the man who’s sitting beside you,” Doron replied.
Bennett turned to Dr. Kwamee. “You?” he asked in disbelief.
The man nodded.
“You’re not really from Ghana?”
“Ethiopia, actually,” Kwamee explained.
“Falasha?” Bennett asked.
Dr. Kwamee nodded again, saying, “My wife and I escaped to Israel on November 21, 1984.”
“Operation Moses?” Bennett asked.
“Yes,” Kwamee said. “We were part of the first airlift, and because I was a doctor and spoke English and French and several African dialects, I was quickly recruited by… well… you know who. The rest is history, as they say. We’ve been working for them — mostly undercover — ever since.”
“But you really are a doctor, aren’t you?” Bennett asked, suddenly wondering about the medical care Erin had been receiving.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Kwamee assured him as he continued driving southward, trying to get to Amman by noon. “Board certified, trained originally in Paris, worked in a number of refugee camps in Africa in the early eighties, then was assigned to work for a while at Hadassah when I first got to Israel as I learned Hebrew.”
Relieved that his wife had been treated by a professional medic, not merely a spy, Bennett exhaled and then turned back to the satphone.
“Well, Mr. Prime Minister, I’m afraid saying thank you doesn’t seem to suffice, but I need to say it anyway. Thank you. For both of us. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Doron said. “I’m just sorry that our men weren’t able to help you faster when Erin became so sick. They were about to change shifts and were all on a conference call with the director of the Mossad. But I’m grateful everything seems to have turned out okay.”
“As am I,” Bennett said. “But I must ask you something.”
“What’s that?” Doron asked.
“You said you’re aware of the operation I’m involved in now?” Bennett asked.
“Absolutely. In fact, we helped the NSA track the call and are assisting the DOD in putting together a strike team in Bangkok even as we speak.”
“So you think whoever’s calling me is telling the truth and is really involved in the attacks?”
“Honestly, Jonathan, I couldn’t say yet,” Doron conceded. “He clearly knew the attacks were coming. That suggests to me he’s deeply involved. But whether he can actually stop the next attacks, I don’t know. It’s just too early to say.”
Bennett felt a wave of guilt come over him. “I should have called the White House or Langley or the FBI or somebody the minute I got that first call.”
“That’s okay,” Doron said. “My team did it for you.”
“Did what?” Bennett asked.
“As soon as we intercepted the call and heard the threat, Avi Zadok immediately tried to contact Danny Tracker at Langley, may he rest in peace. Unfortunately, by the time they connected, it was too late. The missiles were inbound.”
Bennett leaned back in the passenger seat and stared out the window, emotionally drained and feeling exhausted.
“Mr. Prime Minister?” he asked finally.
“Yes, Jonathan?”
“How much danger do you really think Erin and I are in?”
“You don’t want to know,” Doron said.
41
“Orlando Police Department, how may I help you?”
“I need to speak to Chief Williams, please.”
“Now? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m aware of that, ma’am. My name is Bobby Caulfield. I’m a special assistant to the president. It’s quite urgent.”
“The president of what?”
“The president of the United States, ma’am.”
“Oh, my… well, I suppose I could connect you to his cell phone.”
“Thank you.”
“One moment, please.”
As Caulfield went on hold, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He felt awful — physically, emotionally. He was having to force himself not to watch any of the umpteen TV monitors throughout the NORAD complex. The news was too grisly. And all he was hearing from the president and the commanders around him suggested the world was about to go from bad to worse. He didn’t know if he could make it through the day. Perhaps the end of the world really was at hand. What future did any of them have? He was trying to stay focused on small, measurable tasks. Things he could have control over. Ways of putting one foot in front of the other. But it wasn’t working. He’d had no luck tracking down any of his own family. He didn’t have much hope of finding Bennett’s. He didn’t have much hope at all.
A sleepy voice finally came on at the other end of the line. “Hello?”
“Chief Williams, please.”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“Sir, my name is Bobby Caulfield. I work for the president of the United States. I’m calling you from NORAD Operations Center in Colorado Springs on behalf of the president.”
“What can I do for you?”
Caulfield’s eyes were blurring. His head was pounding. His mouth was dry. It was all he could do to stay focused, but he tried desperately to sound professional and get this task done, if for no other reason than to keep his mind off the millions who lay dead and dying on both coasts.
“The president has asked me to track down a woman who lives in the Orlando area. I have phone numbers for her — home and cell — but no one is answering. I’m wondering if you could send a patrol car over to her home, see if she’s there, talk to the neighbors. We need to find her. It’s very important.”
Mustafa Al-Hassani’s entire demeanor had changed.
After starting out so poorly — indeed, almost disastrously — his meeting with the U.N. secretary-general had actually turned out far better than he had ever expected. Salvador Lucente not only seemed to be on board with his vision to work together to craft a new world order in their own image, he had all but committed himself to invading Israel and seizing control of Jerusalem and the Temple itself, albeit, “when the timing was right.”
When Kalid Tariq, Al-Hassani’s chief of staff and senior political strategist, had pressed him on the details of that timing, Lucente suggested that if a comprehensive peace treaty between Israel and the United States of Eurasia could be signed, sealed, and delivered within the next six months or so, he could foresee “dealing” with the Zionists in the next three to four years, perhaps even sooner. That would seem like an eternity to Al-Hassani’s governors and chief advisors.