Jonathan Ransom looked directly at him.
The Ghost pulled the trigger.
Jonathan stared out the window. Something was there. A shadow. A form. He looked more closely. His eyes widened. A gun was pointed at his forehead.
Suddenly, a flame erupted, blinding him.
He flinched, turning his head away. There was the sound of crunching sand. Again, the same noise. He looked back as a spit of fire smeared the glass. The window bulged inward. He saw the starlike fractures where bullets had struck the glass but hadn’t passed through.
The glass was bulletproof.
He had no time to react. Just then, the car door opened and an arm pushed through the gap. All Jonathan saw was the pistol aimed at his cheek. Instinctively, he threw his head back and grabbed the wrist, forcing it up and away from his face before it spat something that tore into the roof. He grasped the wrist with both hands and wrenched it downward. He glanced toward the door and caught a glimpse of a face. Hooded eyes. An expression of cold concentration.
At that moment, the train passed into the wider section of the tunnel. The wall to his right disappeared and he had the impression of gazing into a subterranean cavern. Directly ahead, he saw a flickering light. The station at Kandersteg.
The killer yanked his arm free. Jonathan pulled the door closed and locked it. The shadow melted into the dark. Jonathan started the engine. But where to go? He couldn’t go forward or backward, and he couldn’t sit there waiting to be shot. He rammed a palm into the horn, then turned on the lights and hit the brights. The Xenon beams illuminated the cars in front of him with a diamond blue light. He noted for the first time that the safety railing didn’t extend between the railway cars. A sturdy chain two meters in length spanned the gap.
Just then, the train emerged from the tunnel. The tracks veered left, slotting beside the loading platform. Throwing the car into drive, he turned the wheel and pressed his foot on the accelerator. The Mercedes’ V-12 engine propelled the car forward, snapping the safety chain and carrying him onto the platform. Sleet spattered the windshield. He fumbled for the wipers as he pressed his face nearer the glass. Something squat and dark loomed in front of him. Finally, he found the proper control and the blades cleared the windscreen. A kiosk stood only ten meters ahead. Jonathan jerked the wheel and the car dodged the obstacle with only inches to spare.
He continued down the loading ramp and across the parking lot, coming to a stop at the red light that governed access to the highway. Behind him, the train was pulling to a halt, its iron wheels screeching and moaning. No cars had begun to disembark.
The traffic light turned green.
Jonathan turned onto the highway and drove at the speed limit for ten minutes before taking the nearest exit and guiding the car down a series of narrower roads that led as far from the highway as possible. Content that he hadn’t been followed, he pulled the car to the side of the road and killed the engine. He met his eyes in the rearview mirror. They were the eyes of a fugitive. His breath came in shallow gulps that left him light-headed and just this side of nauseous.
It wasn’t the first time that he’d been shot at. He’d come under gunfire in a general, “duck, you sucker” way. Working in a field hospital in Liberia, he’d found himself in a no-man’s-land caught between two warring factions. He was operating when the firing began. It was an amputation, a machete wound gone gangrenous. Even now, after seven years, he could see himself holding the saw as bullets suddenly began to tear into the whitewashed cement walls. Outside, there came the usual cries and whimpers. He remembered one man’s voice in particular calling out, “Cachez-vous vite. Ils vont nous tous tuer.” Hide quickly. They’re going to kill us all. But no one in the operating room budged. Not even after a round exploded an IV drip.
Turning, he stared at the driver’s side window. There was no spidering. No fractures. Just three star-shaped scratches in the glass. He ran his fingers over the surface. Not even an indentation. Amazing, he thought, wondering how a piece of glass could fend off a bullet fired at point-blank range. He figured that it wasn’t glass at all, but some kind of plastic. Whatever it was, he liked it. He liked it a helluva lot. He poked his finger into the rent in the ceiling fabric, seeking out the bullet, but found nothing.
He sat back in the seat, burdened by his predicament. Somewhere back there he’d crossed a line. He wasn’t sure whether it had been when he’d run from the police in Landquart or when he’d decided to track down Gottfried Blitz. It didn’t matter. He was no longer looking in, the grieving spouse seeking closure about his wife’s double life. Her clandestine activities. He was a part of it now, whatever it was.
Braving the rain, he got out of the car and examined the Mercedes for damage. The front fender was scraped and dented on the right underside, but otherwise the car was fine.
A tank, he thought with a burst of misplaced pride.
He hurried back inside and cranked up the heat. He wondered about the man who’d tried to kill him. He was certain that it was the same man who’d killed Blitz. He must have been following Jonathan all day, biding his time, waiting for the right moment. But why had he waited so long? There had been plenty of moments, both on the mountain and in the city, when Jonathan had been vulnerable. He didn’t have an answer.
One thing was for sure: the killer must have been surprised about the armored car.
That’s right, buddy. A fuckin’ tank!
Jonathan touched his neck, feeling the Saint Christopher that lay against his skin. Patron saint of travelers. He had a desire to kiss the medal. The smile wilted after a few seconds, forced aside by a creeping sense of dread. He didn’t believe for a second that the killer was going to cut and run. He was back there somewhere, and he was coming, just like the relentless one-armed man in the old ghost stories.
Jonathan put the car in drive. Making a three-point turn, he headed back along the side roads until he reached the highway. He pointed the car north in the direction of Bern. Other automobiles passed him regularly. His eyes checked the rearview mirror frequently, but he saw nothing that caused him concern.
The mountains fell away, and the horizon glowed a dull orange. City lights.
An armored car, a hundred thousand francs, and a cashmere sweater…but who were they for?
42
Midnight in Jerusalem.
Heat hung over the ancient city like a worn blanket. The unexpected temperatures had brought the people onto the street. Voices rang from cobblestone alleys. Drivers honked impatiently. The streets buzzed with a boisterous, defiant energy that was Israel itself.
In the prime minister’s residence on Balfour Street, four men sat at a long, battered table. Barely twelve feet by fifteen, the office would be considered small for a head of state. Though recently painted, it still retained a scent of mildew and age.
The “red line” had been crossed. The Iranians not only possessed the means to manufacture weapons-grade uranium, they already had one hundred kilos of the stuff. It was no longer a question of preemption, but of self-defense.
Zvi Hirsch stood next to a map of Iran, the harsh overhead lights casting his skin with a greenish pallor, making him look more lizardlike than ever. Overlaid on the map were thirty distinctive yellow and black emblems denoting radioactive materials placed at locations of known nuclear facilities.
“The Iranians have ten plants capable of manufacturing weapons-grade uranium,” he said, using a laser pointer to indicate the various sites. “And an additional four where the uranium can be fitted to a warhead. The sites most crucial to their efforts are at Natanz, Esfahan, and Bushehr. And, of course, the newly discovered facility at Chalus. For a first strike to succeed, we must destroy all of them.”
“Four isn’t enough,” said a quiet voice.
“Excuse me, Danny,” said Hirsch. “You’ll have to speak louder.”
“Four isn’t enough.” General Danny Ganz, Air Force Chief of Staff and leader of the newly created Iran Command, charged with all planning and operations involving an attack on the Islamic Republic, stood from his chair. Ganz was a wiry man and restless, with a hawk’s nose and hooded brown eyes. Years of combat and conflict had etched deep wrinkles around his eyes and into his forehead.
He approached the map. “If we want to lock down Iran ’s nuclear efforts, we have to take out at least twenty, including the facility at Chalus. It won’t be easy. The targets are spread out all over the country. We’re not talking about single buildings, either. These are massive complexes. Take Natanz here in the center of the country.” Ganz rapped his knuckles against the map. “The complex is spread out over ten square kilometers. Dozens of buildings, factories, and warehouses. But size is only half the problem. Most of the crucial production facilities have been built at least twenty-five feet underground beneath layers of hardened concrete.”
“But can you do it?” demanded the prime minister.
Ganz fought to conceal his contempt. It wasn’t so long ago that the prime minister had been a vocal peacenik calling for the halt of all new settlements on the West Bank. To his mind, the PM was a turncoat, and just shy of a traitor. But then, he had the same opinion about most politicians. “Before we talk about striking the target, we have to figure out how we’re going to get there,” he went on. “From our southernmost airfields, it’s eight hundred miles to Natanz and a thousand miles to Chalus. To reach both sites, we have to overfly Jordan, Saudi Arabia, or Iraq. I don’t think we can count on the first two countries granting us permission to violate their airspace…which leaves Iraq.”
Ganz looked to the prime minister for comment.
“I’ll talk to the Americans at the appropriate moment,” said the PM.
“That moment passed a few hours ago,” commented Zvi Hirsch out of the corner of his mouth.
The prime minister ignored the jibe. He directed his question at Ganz. “What about our planes? Are they up to the task?”
“Our F-15l’s can make the return trip, but our F-16’s are another question,” said Ganz. “They’ll need refueling en route. Iran has no air force to speak of, but they do have radar. Over the past few years, they’ve made big purchases of Russian-made ground-to-air missile systems. At Natanz, for example, the missile sites are to the north, east, and south of the complex. We’ll have to accept a high casualty rate going in.”
“How high?” asked Zvi Hirsch.
“Forty percent.” Ganz crossed his arms as a rustle of outrage and disappointment rose from the others. He wanted to make sure everyone present knew the price asked of his men.
“My God,” said the prime minister.
“It’s hard to dodge missiles when you’re delivering a bomb to target,” said Ganz.
“What about a preemptive strike to soften up the air defenses?” asked Hirsch.
“Not enough planes.” Ganz cleared his voice and went on. “If we want to sufficiently degrade the targets, we’ll have to strike repeatedly. And I mean right on top of their heads. I’ll need precise GPS coordinates of the production facilities. I know what you’re all thinking. We did it before. We can do it again. I’m sorry, gentlemen. But this will not be a repeat of Opera.”
Ganz was referring to Operation Opera, the surprise airborne strike launched against the Osirak nuclear plant near Baghdad on June 7,1981. On that day, fifteen Israeli aircraft flew from Etzion Air Base across Jordan and Saudi Arabia and destroyed Saddam Hussein’s maiden nuclear effort. All returned home safely. The planes had enjoyed help from an American agent who had placed transmitters along the route, allowing the Israeli planes to fly via instruments beneath Jordanian and Saudi radar. The same agent had been at the site, painting the target with a laser for the bombs to home in on.
“Which brings up our last issue,” the general continued. “Ordnance. Assuming that we do manage to fly twenty jets a thousand miles to each target, and that at least twelve of them make it through the air defenses, what are we going to hit them with? The best we can manage is the Paveway III. The bunker buster. Two thousand pounds of explosive with a warhead that can penetrate eight feet of concrete. Granted, that’s a helluva wallop, but what if the plant’s twenty-five feet down? Or fifty? Or a hundred, even? Then what? The Paveways will cause some dust to fall from the ceiling, and that’s it.”
“There are better weapons,” suggested Hirsch with a glance at the prime minister. “Something with more bang.”
“Paveway-N’s with a B61 warhead,” said Ganz. “A nuclear-tipped bunker buster carrying a throw weight of a few kilotons. Something a tenth the size of Hiroshima. The Americans conducted a sled test last year.” A “sled test” referred to the process whereby a missile is fired into concrete to measure its destructive force. “They achieved penetration to one hundred feet. The crater was five hundred yards in circumference.”
“Just enough muscle to take out the factory,” added Hirsch, the voice of caution. “We’re not barbarians, after all.”
All eyes fell on the prime minister. He was an older man, nearly seventy, at the end of a turbulent political career. His reputation had him as a deal maker, a negotiator. His enemies questioned his principles. His friends called him an opportunist.
The PM shook his head with disgust. “It’s always been our philosophy that we cannot allow the Iranians the means to produce weapons-grade uranium. Unfortunately, they’ve passed that barrier. It’s too late to go back. I’m of two minds about a strike. My first responsibility is the people’s welfare. But I can’t risk anything that might provoke a nuclear attack on our soil. I just wish we knew their capabilities better.”
“You’re forgetting something,” said Hirsch. “We do know their capabilities. They have a bomb and they’re going to launch it.”
The PM leaned back in his chair, his hands tented over his nose and mouth. Finally, he exhaled loudly and stood. “Once in our history we gave the enemy the benefit of the doubt. We cannot afford to do so again. I want a plan of attack on my desk in twenty-four hours. I’ll call the Americans and see what I can do about securing permission to use Iraqi airspace.” He looked at Ganz. “And about the other, God help me.”
Slowly, the men in the room rose. Zvi Hirsch was the first to clap. The others joined in. One by one, they pressed to shake the prime minister’s hand. All said the same words.
“Long live Israel.”