“And would Eisenstadt have known, as well?”
“Assume he didn’t. Assume he handed Gamma over to Rasin unaware himself of the whole story.”
Isser wasn’t convinced. “We have no way of knowing there is any more to the story. Truman could simply have changed his mind.”
“It’s possible, but in my mind the sinking of the Indianapolis indicates more was involved than that. The question is what, and Rasin has no better idea of the answer than we do. Hell, he doesn’t even know the question.”
“So what do you suggest we do under the circumstances?”
“All we can do is take one step at a time. For now that means finding Eisenstadt and rounding up Rasin before he can unleash the Gamma Option forty-five years late.”
“That’s two steps, my friend, not one.”
“Math was never my best subject. Besides, the third step’s the most important one of all.”
“I’m listening.”
“We bury whatever’s left of Gamma so deep that nobody will ever be able to dig it up again.”
During the last leg of the flight to Tel Aviv, Isser at last managed to drift off to sleep, leaving Blaine and Johnny Wareagle awake facing each other.
“You gotta make me a promise, Indian.”
“If the spirits allow, Blainey.”
“It’s like this. We might walk the same path, but we do it with different steps. I’ve always relied on luck and God knows I’ve had plenty, while you, well, I don’t know, I just think the odds of you getting out of this are better than me. Luck’s gotta run out sometime, right?”
“There are those who don’t believe in luck. There are those who call it fate instead, and fate is ruled by the spirits. It was what guided us through the hellfire and reunited us those few years ago when we at last relented to the truth of our souls.”
“Then look at it this way, Indian. I’ve got a bad feeling; that’s all. Maybe I’m hearing the words of your spirits at last and I don’t like what they’re saying. What matters is the boy, Johnny. If things don’t work out, you’ve got to get him back. You’ve got to handle things just the way I would have.”
“It will be done, Blainey.”
“And if you’re too late, if the boy is—”
“The balance will be preserved,” Johnny Wareagle broke in assuredly. “Those who took the gift of the spirits will lose whatever they hold most precious.”
“So long as it hurts, Indian. So long as it hurts.”
Click …
The harmless strike of the pistol hammer sent a whooossssh of air through Evira. She could barely recover her breath.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Hassani taunted. “The revolver has six chambers, but only one has a bullet. Your odds are one in five now, decreasing all the time, Evira. Or should I say the boy’s odds? If you just tell me where I can find McCracken’s son, I promise to let the boy live. Simple as that.”
“Why does it matter to you? Why does McCracken matter to you at all? He’s helping you, goddamn it, you said so yourself.”
“It’s you who does not see, Evira. You are missing the big picture. It’s right before you and you’re missing it.”
Something struck her. “Somehow you and Rasin are working together. Why? How?”
Hassani almost laughed. “I’m waiting.”
“Don’t force me to make such a choice. You can’t!”
“Life is full of choices. I’ve made my share, plenty of them painful. You too. Now both of us must make another. You first. Tell me where I can find McCracken’s son or this boy dies.”
She looked through the bars of her cell at Kourosh, who was so desperately trying to stay brave. Their eyes met and locked, his telling her so much.
It’s okay. I understand….
But it wasn’t okay, not in any sense.
“Kill him and you’ll get nothing from me,” she spit at Hassani. “You know that.”
“My dear lady, if you make me kill him, your punishment will be done. I would not dare kill you and put you out of your misery. Make your choice and live with it. McCracken’s son or this boy. Choose!”
“I can’t!”
“This is your last chance.”
“No!”
Distressed, Hassani turned and nodded once again to the guard holding the pistol against Kourosh’s head. Evira’s face contorted in agony as he began to squeeze the trigger.
“General!” a voice called from the area of the stairs.
A quick hand signal from Hassani and the guard eased his pressure off the trigger.
“I have a message for you, General!” a guard announced as he made his way purposefully toward Hassani.
Reaching him, the guard handed over a piece of paper which the general read quickly, crumbling it in his hands with a smile when he was finished.
“It seems you have been spared the necessity of choosing,” he announced to Evira. “Blaine McCracken was killed while following the trail of Rasin’s weapon. I no longer require his son.” Then he said to his guards, “Put this boy in the cell with her. Let them die together.” He turned back toward Evira. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid my presence is required elsewhere….”
The prime minister heard Isser’s entire report without interruption while standing by his bay window. When the Mossad chief finished, the prime minister made no sound or move, just stood as if transfixed by the day as it began over Jerusalem.
“Rasin has this weapon. You’re convinced of that?” he responded at last.
“McCracken’s convinced. That’s good enough for me, sir.”
“So we are surrounded by madmen on all sides. One would destroy everything we are from the outside. Another would destroy everything we stand for from within. The lesser of two evils is what it comes down to, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t under—”
“Yes, you do, Isser. It was in your voice as you relayed the story to me. McCracken knew nothing of the immediacy of Hassani’s plot or of his apparent possession of a superweapon of his own, did he?”
“I told him nothing.”
“Then he has no reason to suspect.”
Isser grasped the intent of the prime minister’s words and returned to his feet. “Operation Firestorm is barely twenty-four hours away.”
“And so is the first stage of Hassani’s strike, and given what we know we can’t trust Firestorm to prevent it, can we?” Isser remained silent. “Answer me, Isser.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Then have your people put out the word. I want to meet Rasin. His terms. Anything.”
The chief of Mossad just looked at him. “What have we become, sir?”
“We become what we have to, Isser. In the end we become whatever it takes to survive.”
“Would you like me to repeat my terms again?” Yosef Rasin asked as the sun’s warmth burned away in the afternoon sky.
“No,” the prime minister replied to the younger man. “I believe I understand them.”
Rasin leaned forward and dabbed the sweat from his bronzed face with a napkin. He smiled slightly and poured a glass of fresh orange juice from a glass pitcher before him. He had agreed to this meeting on the condition that it be held between only the two of them on his kibbutz in the Negev. Rasin liked the symbolism of that. Without asking, he refilled the old man’s glass and then drained his own in a single gulp, leaving a pulpy residue behind from bottom to rim. Around him, the trees of the orange grove blew in the wind. To Rasin it sounded like the applause of an approving people. His people.
“But do you accept them?”
“Accept you as my minister of defense and my heir apparent? I’m not sure which fate is the worse for Israel.”