Zyuganov’s aides then distributed copies of signed confessions by each of the alleged Mossad agents.
“The CIA got a heads-up on this about twenty minutes ago,” Marsha Kirkpatrick told the president after muting the television. “I just spoke to Prime Minister Doron. He denies that any of the three men are Israeli, much less Mossad.”
“You believe him?” asked MacPherson.
“I don’t know. It could be a tactic by Gogolov to justify his military buildup. But I doubt we’ll ever know for sure. And even if the three really are Israelis, Doron can’t possibly admit it without handing Gogolov the trump card.”
David Doron was furious.
The Mossad had not tried to assassinate Gogolov. They didn’t have enough resources in Moscow to begin with. Nor would Doron have been so stupid as to authorize an act of war at such a delicate moment. Very likely the whole assassination attempt had been a farce, a clever ploy designed to turn world opinion against Israel.
This was classic Soviet-era disinformation. It was designed to give the Russians a pretext for war. And Doron and his senior aides had to admit it was as effective as it was insidious. Denials — while true — would merely sound like a smoke screen to a world that seemed increasingly determined to subject Israel to the same fate as Iraq.
Doron had no clue as to the identity of the three poor souls Gogolov had arrested and forced to confess to crimes they hadn’t committed. But they were dead men. Of this he had no doubt.
Bennett landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
It was just before noon. He had no checked bags. He’d brought no security detail with him. He was no longer a VIP, and though fear for Erin’s safety consumed him, he’d never felt so free. He quickly cleared through Passport Control, rented a car in his own name, and hit the open road.
It felt good to drive again.
With a mixture of clouds and sunshine and no rain in the forecast for the next few days, the late-September air was crisp and cool. Bennett jammed the two-seater into fifth gear and headed north out of Paris, following A13 to Caen and passing through Versailles. He was soon proceeding north by northwest on N13 toward Bayeux and Saint-Lô. By late afternoon, Bennett had reached Château de Balleroy.
Pronounced “bell-wah,” the sprawling, seventeenth-century French castle was about twenty minutes from the beaches of Normandy. Until recently, the exquisite property had been owned by the sons of Malcolm S. Forbes, the late American publishing magnate. So far as the locals knew, it was now owned by an eccentric Belgian widower who’d made his money in pharmaceuticals and was often scuba diving at a Club Med or somewhere in the Caribbean. No one had the faintest clue it was actually a Mossad safe house.
The “widower” met Bennett at the door with a bear hug.
“Jonathan, I am so pleased to see you.”
“Good to see you again, Dr. Mordechai. Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure. Please, please, come in. We do not have much time.”
A giant mounted boar’s head greeted the two in the foyer, as did a six-foot figure wearing a hand-forged suit of French armor from the Middle Ages. And that was just the beginning. As Bennett and Mordechai headed up the cantilevered staircase, the first of its kind in France, Bennett caught glimpses of room after room of untold treasures. Mordechai pointed out a few of them. There was the Salon Louis XIII, decorated with oak paneling and paintings by Count Albert de Balleroy, the late Parisian aristocrat who’d once shared a Paris studio with Manet. There was the Queen Victoria’s Suite, decorated in the style of Louis XVI. There were formal dining rooms, exquisitely appointed guest rooms, and an English-style library whose shelves were stacked to the ceiling with thousands of tomes of European literature.
But Bennett had no interest in the history or a tour. He had one mission and one mission only: to find McCoy, whatever the cost. Nothing else would get in his way.
He followed Mordechai through the old servants’ kitchen, where Mordechai pushed aside several dusty trunks, uncovering the entrance to a hidden staircase. The stairs descended into a narrow, dimly lit shaft that appeared to go all the way to the basement of the château.
Mordechai went first, instructing Bennett how to replace the trunks in the kitchen and close the door behind them. As they descended, they swapped the latest news. Mordechai assured Bennett that the Mossad had nothing to do with the attempted assassination of Gogolov. Bennett described more fully how badly his meeting with the president had gone.
“Your job is not to convince anyone the prophecy is true, Jonathan,” Mordechai assured him. “Just to make sure they understand what it says — and what it means.”
From there the talk was all about McCoy.
Mordechai explained he’d been working his sources for the past few weeks to track her down. There were still no leads, but he was hopeful.
The two finally reached a subterranean antechamber, where they faced a steel door with a state-of-the-art security system. Mordechai punched in his access code, and ten seconds later Bennett found himself staring into a high-tech Mossad operations center, comparable to the one under Mordechai’s own home in Jerusalem.
“Welcome to the French underground,” the old man smiled.
“Après-vous,” Bennett replied.
Inside the room, Mordechai introduced Bennett to two Israeli operatives from the Mossad’s Caesarea Unit, Carlos and Claude. Bennett assumed these were not their real names. The elite of elites of the Israeli special services, the Caesarea Unit had been responsible for capturing Adolf Eichmann in the 1960s and hunting down radical Islamic terrorist leaders since then. They were masters of infiltrating enemy territory and carrying out lightning-quick operations without leaving a trace.
Carlos spoke first. “I must make two things clear from the beginning: First, this is not an official Israeli mission. We are doing a favor for Dr. Mordechai, an old friend, nothing more. No Israeli government official above us has any idea what we are doing, and given the current situation, we would be court-martialed if they found out.
“Second, we will help you get into Russia, Mr. Bennett, but we cannot help you get out. And I must be candid. For someone with no training in covert operations, your chances of survival are minimal. Your chances for success are worse.”
Bennett swallowed hard but said nothing. He had no illusions about what lay ahead, though he’d have appreciated some encouragement, at least.
The mission would be called “Operation Rahab.” Rahab, Mordechai reminded Bennett, was a woman in the Old Testament who was rescued from the doomed city of Jericho.
Mordechai opened a folder and pulled out a map of Russia and its neighbors.
“We cannot get you in through Europe, Jonathan,” he began. “Those borders are all closed. We looked at sending you to Japan and getting you in through Vladivostok, but crossing Siberia and the Urals is out of the question at the moment. You cannot fly. The airports are filled with Russian troop transports preparing to fly to Beirut, Damascus, and Riyadh. You cannot go by train. The rail lines are full of freight cars transporting tanks, trucks, and artillery.”
“How about through China?” Bennett asked.
“Sorry. The Chinese border is the one border the Russians are actually reinforcing right now, prompting the Chinese to reinforce their side of the border as well. The blood feud between the Russians and the Chinese goes back centuries. What do you know about the Golden Hordes?”
“Nothing.”
“Too bad. You should. The Mongol forces were known as the Golden Hordes. When they invaded Rus—it was not even called “Russia” yet — in AD 1223, they occupied the Russian heartland for almost three hundred years. During that time, most of what we know as the Great Wall of China was built by the Ming Dynasty. What most people do not know is that the Great Wall was built to prevent an invasion by the Russians. Arab writers have long called it ‘the Wall of Al Magog.’ ”