“How much time do we have?”
“Any one of these missiles could be airborne in a matter of minutes.”
“Get me Doron and Gogolov on the line—now.”
“He’s out of the car,” said Hamid.
“Good,” said Bennett quietly. “Now don’t forget…”
“I know, I know,” whispered Hamid. “Cut the lights and stall him.”
Bennett nodded, then cracked open his door, slipped out onto the shoulder, and gently closed the door behind him. It was dark. The mass of oncoming traffic was deafening, but he—
“Stop. What are you doing?”
Bennett froze. The words were Russian. He looked up and saw the patrolman coming around the passenger side of the car. He was reaching for his gun.
“Jonathan!” Hamid screamed.
The night suddenly exploded with gunfire. He heard the first shot smash through the window above him. Bennett squeezed off two rounds of his own and rolled left, down a small embankment. The officer fired again and ducked behind the car.
Bennett was five or ten yards from a wooded grove. His instinct was to bolt for cover, but he feared being shot in the back.
Another shot whizzed by him.
Bennett rolled left and fired, taking out the back window of the Mercedes in the process and keeping the Russian off balance.
Bennett couldn’t stay where he was. He was out in the open and exposed. He aimed toward the car, feverishly looking for signs of movement. But the oncoming headlights were blinding him.
Where was Hamid? Had he been hit?
And then, to his left, Bennett heard a hammer cock.
“Drop the gun and don’t move, or I’ll blow your head off!” the man screamed in Russian, adding a string of curses along the way.
Bennett dropped the gun and froze.
The officer started moving toward him, a pistol in one hand, a flashlight in the other, now shining directly in Bennett’s face.
The man started muttering excitedly, and Bennett knew instantly he’d been ID’d.
How long had they known? How many cops were hunting for him? If the price for McCoy was ten million rubles, how much would Gogolov pay for his head on a platter?
The officer was now three feet away. Bennett tried to think of options. If he struggled, he was dead. But wasn’t he dead either way?
“Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Bennett,” the officer said in English.
The man clicked off the flashlight and dropped it to the ground, then put both hands on his sidearm and took aim at Bennett’s face.
Bennett closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he’d come so close only to lose everything. But for the first time in his life, he had no regrets. He only hoped the Lord would have mercy on Erin, on Hamid and his family, and on his mother. He was ready to die. He held his breath and heard the man say, “Sweet dreams, Mr. Bennett.”
And the gun went off.
Bennett’s heart seemed to stop. But he didn’t feel any pain.
Was he dead?
Trembling, his body soaked with sweat, Bennett opened his eyes and couldn’t believe what he saw. There, no more than ten yards away, stood Hamid, trembling as smoke rose from the barrel of the pistol in his hands.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
The door flew open. Mordechai’s head whipped around as the general in charge of Israeli military intelligence burst into the war room.
“Mr. Prime Minister, a Russian missile just went airborne,” shouted the general.
“Out of the Urals?”
“No, Siberia — a missile base near Tobolsk.”
Mordechai shot a look at Doron—Tobolsk? — but said nothing as the rest of the prime minister’s inner circle poured into the room: Defense Minister Chaim Modine, the IDF chief of staff, and the current head of the Mossad.
“Should I leave?” asked Mordechai, getting up to go.
“Where would you go, Eli? We have less than thirty minutes.”
“Twenty-eight minutes, nineteen seconds to impact, sir,” said the intelligence chief. “What do you want to do, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Doron pressed.
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s no chance this is a satellite or computer error?”
“No, sir.”
“Have the Americans confirmed it?”
Defense Minister Modine took that one. “I’m on it, sir,” he said, already on the hotline to the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon. A moment later he nodded his head. “They confirm the launch, sir.”
“Target?”
“Not clear, but it is definitely coming south.”
Doron scanned the satellite feeds and a digital map showing the site of the launch and the trajectory of the inbound ICBM. “We have no choice, gentlemen. Initiate the countdown sequence, and get me the list of the final target packages.”
“Sir, you don’t have time to change them now.”
“How much time do I have?”
“Twenty-six minutes.”
62
“Mr. President, the Russians just launched.”
All eyes turned to the computer track from NORAD. Sure enough, an SS-18 was entering the atmosphere out of Siberia.
“Target?” MacPherson demanded.
“It’s southbound, sir. Too early to say, but there’s no doubt it’s Israel.”
“Is Doron on the line?”
“I’ve got Defense Minister Modine,” Burt Trainor responded. “He says Doron’s not available.”
“They’re going to unleash,” said Corsetti.
“Wouldn’t you?” asked Trainor.
“They’ve got ABM systems — the Arrow, the Patriot — they could shoot it down,” said Marsha Kirkpatrick.
But MacPherson shook his head. “They’re going with The Samson Option.”
“What do you want to do, Mr. President?”
To misunderstand the nature and threat of evil is to risk being blindsided by it, MacPherson said to himself. And evil, unchecked, is the prelude to genocide. How many times had he heard Mordechai say it?
“We have no choice,” the president said aloud. “Take us to DefCon 1.”
Bennett grabbed his gun and the Russian’s.
He checked for a pulse, but the man was dead.
He could hear sirens approaching from the distance.
“We can’t stay here, Hamid; we need to move.”
Bennett pulled the officer’s badge, hat, and leather jacket off the body and shoved them into Hamid’s arms. “Put them on and get in the car. You’re driving.”
Hamid didn’t move. He just stood there shaking.
Bennett feared Hamid was slipping into shock. He grabbed Hamid and dragged him back up the embankment.
The body of the Mercedes was riddled with bullet holes. Its windows were shattered. Bennett turned to the police cruiser. It was still running.
“Hamid. Put them on and let’s go.”
Still nothing, and the sirens were getting closer. They were almost out of time.
Bennett turned and without warning reared back and punched Hamid in the face, sending him crashing to the pavement.
“What was that?” Hamid demanded, his lower lip now bleeding.
“I need you in the game, Hamid. Now, get in the police car. You’re driving.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be in the backseat.”
“What?”
Hamid scrambled to his feet, but Bennett grabbed him again and slammed him against the hood of the cruiser. “I love you, Hamid, but I don’t have time for this. If we’re not out of here in the next sixty seconds, both of us are dead. So get in the car, hit the siren, and get us into Moscow. I’m your prisoner. Now move.”