“They called it Division. Austen ran it out of a little-known office called the Defense Human Intelligence Service, whose official job is to manage military attachés assigned to our foreign embassies. He moved fast. Within a year, he had five teams in the field. We’re talking the blackest of black ops. Clandestine. Deniable. Operating without any oversight from Congress, or even the president. The kind of blanket authorization any intelligence officer would kill for. Me included. They did some good work. I won’t deny it. Took out that murderous lunatic in Bosnia, Drako, and a couple of warlords in the Sudan. The successes went to Austen’s head. He started overstepping his bounds. Got his fingers dirty in that affair with the Lebanese prime minister. Got mixed up in the insurgency in Iraq. We are intelligence officers. It’s our job to gather information and pass it on. It’s not our job to be judge, jury, and executioner. That’s policy, and the last I looked, it was run out of the White House. Anyway, by God, Phil, after a while I’d had enough.”
“But, sir, they’re American agents.”
“They’re not American. Quitab’s an Iranian. Lammers is Dutch. Foreign born and foreign bred.”
“Even so, sir, why didn’t you go to the president?”
“And say what? I’d only look like a jealous suitor. It was the president who authorized all this. Only he can pull the plug.”
“I don’t think he would authorize U.S. agents working in concert with an Iranian illegal to take down an airliner.”
“I agree, but he wouldn’t authorize me running a mole in Austen’s network either. What with his beliefs pinned on his sleeve and all those shiny medals on his chest, John Austen is what passes for a saint on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was in the fight since the beginning. By that I mean our holy war against Jihad, Incorporated. Austen set up the plan to rescue our hostages in Iran back in 1980. He organized the first Special Ops teams. And like our commander-in-chief, he burns for Christ. What’s a whiskey-drinking pagan like me to do?”
“But that rescue attempt in Iran was a fiasco,” said Palumbo. “We crashed and burned. We lost eight men.”
“It doesn’t matter, Phil. John Austen is a hero. Like being on the hill at Calvary way back when. Whatever he says, goes…until proven otherwise.”
“With due respect, Admiral, I can’t just stand by and let him take down a plane.”
“There’s no other way, Phil. This country can’t have two separate espionage services conducting operations without one talking to the other. For too long now, the boys at Defense have been out of control. Once this thing blows up in their face, it will be over. John Austen will never be allowed to put a team in the field again. The Pentagon will be permanently out of the espionage business.”
“So you sent over Reyes to put a stop to it?”
“I sent Ricardo Reyes to show that we weren’t just sitting around with a thumb up our ass while this was going down. If we get caught flatfooted on something this big, it will just go to prove that everything Austen’s been saying to the president about the CIA is true. But if we can get within a hair’s breadth of knocking down that drone…if we can take out members of the plot…we will look like the heroes.” Lafever crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. “Mr. Reyes won’t be able to stop the attack, and frankly, I don’t want him to. Once that plane goes down, I can go to the president with proof of who did this and show him just how badly things got out of hand. I can also show that I tried to stop it. The president will have no choice but to back me to the hilt. Division will be shut down in a second. At the end of the day, those pricks at Defense will have their asses handed to them, and the Agency will be back on top.”
Palumbo had nothing to say. He stood rooted to the spot, stunned and saddened.
Lafever stepped closer. “I can’t have any flag-waving officer of mine running off at the mouth about what he thinks he’s discovered. I need your word that you’re going to keep quiet.”
“But, sir, the plane…all the passengers…”
“I need your word.”
“But, Admiral…”
“But nothing!” said Lafever. “It’s a small price to pay to make sure that Austen doesn’t do anything else even more foolish.”
Palumbo sighed. He knew then how it was going to turn out. “I’m sorry. I just can’t allow it.”
Lafever looked at him like he was a poor, dumb rube just off the farm. “Neither can I.”
When he raised his hand again, he was pointing a compact, nickel-plated revolver at Palumbo’s heart. It was a throwaway piece with its registration filed off, loaded with standard ammo he’d probably gotten from the armory. The old man’s tradecraft was strictly by the book.
The gun fired twice. The bullets struck Palumbo in the chest and knocked him to the ground. He lay there a moment, eyes wide, the wind knocked out of him. Lafever advanced a step and stood over him, shaking his head. Then Palumbo coughed and Lafever realized that he was wearing a vest. Hurriedly, the deputy director of operations of the Central Intelligence Agency brought his gun to bear. This time, he was too slow.
Palumbo’s shot struck him in the forehead.
Admiral James Lafever was dead before he hit the ground.
61
Twenty-four hours had passed since the war council had convened on Balfour Street. In that time, phone calls had shot back and forth across the Atlantic with the savagery of a spring lightning storm. The Foreign Ministry to the U.S. State Department. Iran Command to the Centcom headquarters. The Mossad to the CIA.
At eleven p.m., the prime minister of Israel stood in his office, one hand behind his back, the other clutching the telephone to his ear. Like any other courtier seeking the emperor’s company, he’d been told to wait his turn. The president of the United States would be with him momentarily.
Zvi Hirsch stood at the PM’s side, seething with impatience. “Momentarily” had run out five minutes earlier. Every added second worsened the insult to his congenitally insecure heart.
Suddenly, a woman came on the line. “The President of the United States.”
Before the prime minister could respond, a cold technocrat’s voice filled the earpiece. “Hello, Avi, good to hear from you.”
“Mr. President. I wish it were a happier occasion.”
“I wanted to convey my thanks for consulting with us,” the American president said. “These developments have caught us off guard. We didn’t see this coming so soon.”
“We were both caught off guard. I’m sure you can empathize with our position. We cannot tolerate the presence of nuclear weapons in the hands of a regime that has unequivocally stated their commitment to seeing Israel wiped from the map.”
“Statements are one thing. Actions another.”
“Iran’s actions are a matter of record. For years they have been financing the terrorist activity of Hamas, Islamic Jihad, and Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. Their participation isn’t limited to Israel. I don’t need to tell you about the havoc they’ve wreaked in Iraq. They have two goals: to gain de facto control over the Middle East and to destroy my country. They are well on their way to the first. I will not allow them to succeed at the second.”