I press the implant. "We lost our two fighters, but the guys are heroes. They shot the MOAB right out of the sky. It fell into the sea."
"Christ. What about Tarighian's complex?"
I turned back to look at the inferno below me. The remaining fighters had apparently suspended their attacks after the supergun fired. Now they swing back around and continue to bomb the shopping mall to smithereens. In fact, the supergun's barrel is no longer in view. It must have collapsed while my back was turned.
"You don't have to worry about it, Colonel," I say. "All gone."
I can see Lambert rubbing the top of his head and sighing with relief. The rest of the Third Echelon team is most likely pulling out the champagne.
"How did you get the Turks to cooperate?" I ask.
"Carly created a slideshow file that presented all the photos you took, backed with all the written evidence, and we sent it to the Turkish government. Needless to say, she did a convincing job."
"Of course she did."
"What about you? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Colonel. But now I have to get to the docks and catch a ride to save my daughter."
"Go for it, Sam."
39
I arrive in Tel Aviv that afternoon and have another twenty-four hours to acknowledge to Sarah's captors that I'm in Israel. Before making the call, though, I have a conversation with Captain Abraham Weiss of the Israel Security Forces in the back of an unmarked black Lexus. Captain Weiss met me at Ben-Gurion Airport, where I was whisked away as a government VIP without the rigmarole of Israel's tight security and Immigration checks.
"I've been in contact with your people," Weiss says as the car rolls out of the airport. "And we've been working around the clock to locate your daughter. I'm happy to say we know where she is. At least we think we do."
My heart nearly leaps out of my chest, for I was really sweating it out in the short plane ride from Cyprus. "Where?" I ask.
"We're nearly one hundred percent certain she's in an abandoned warehouse very near the small airport north of Jerusalem." Weiss speaks confident English with a heavy Israeli accent. I have a good feeling about him and did so from the moment we met. I have great respect for the Israelis' security personnel. They live day in and day out with the threat of constant danger. The pressure must be immense.
"We got lucky when we raided the Russian-Israeli Bank this morning," he continues. "At first it seemed as if the bank was completely legitimate and we'd hit a dead end until we began to examine real estate transactions. Most of them were perfectly reasonable, but then one of our analysts questioned the validity of a couple of buildings because of where they are located. One is this warehouse. The Russian-Israeli Bank owns it. However, our analyst happens to have performed some work in another building not far from this location, and he remembered that it's on a street full of derelict buildings. They're all due for demolition sometime next year. We made a leap of faith and posted a hidden surveillance team outside the warehouse. Within an hour Eli Horowitz was seen leaving the building. He returned almost an hour later. The surveillance team is certain there are others in the building with him, but it's not clear how many."
"I don't care how many assholes are in there," I say. "I'm going to wipe them clean."
Captain Weiss shrugged, not getting the poor attempt at humor. "I've been told by my superiors that this is really the U.S.'s show, although we'll be supplying you with a backup team. In other words, you're in charge. We'd like to arrest the men responsible for your daughter's kidnapping and for the murder of Rivka Cohen, but should an accident befall any of them, there would be no questions asked by our government."
That's his way of saying I'm free to do whatever the hell I want with the kidnappers. I probably have Lambert to thank for that.
"I want to go in tonight. Alone," I say.
"I assumed you would say that," Weiss says. "Let's meet your backup team first."
After a forty-minute drive we reach the northern outskirts of Jerusalem and stop at a staging point in front of an auto parts factory. We're in an industrial area, and the captain says the warehouse is two miles away. A team of ten Shin Bet Special Ops soldiers are here, equipped and ready to go. Shin Bet, or Shabak, is a branch of the ISF responsible for internal security. They spend a lot of time protecting government officials, preventing violent insurrection, gathering intelligence, pinpointing terrorist cells and dealing with them. Shin Bet's activities are always classified. Their job is a lot like mine, so I feel as if I'm with family.
They appear well equipped, too. I really like their replacement for the Uzi, the Tavor "Bull Pup" Assault Rifle, made by Israel Military Industries. It comes in a few different designs, each one suited for specific needs. One of the men shows me his weapon and says it's the Micro T.A.R., which is uniquely configured for security forces and special missions. They use a 30-round magazine of standard NATO 5.56mm ammunition.
Captain Weiss hands me a cell phone and tells me to call the kidnappers' number. He says the phone is untraceable just in case they try to figure out where I'm calling from. I bring up the stored number on my OPSAT and dial. I get a recorded message from a man with a heavy Russian accent.
"Mr. Fisher, if you are in Jerusalem, please indicate so at the sound of the beep, and we will be in touch with you shortly."
When I hear the tone I say, "This is Sam Fisher. I'm not in Israel yet but will be tomorrow morning. I'm traveling from a great distance. I will call again before noon and will await your instructions. Please keep my daughter safe." I disconnect, look at the captain, and ask, "Now what?"
"We wait until nightfall. The team will deploy around the warehouse, out of sight," he says. "I understand you have a subdermal implant for communicating with your superiors in Washington?"
My, my, nothing's sacred in the intelligence community. "That's right," I say.
"We will have your people configure the transmissions so the team can hear you. I've already spoken to your colonel about this. That way, you can call the shots should you be required to lead the assault team into the building."
"That's mighty accommodating of you."
Someone provides kosher turkey sandwiches for us, and we spend a few hours in the captain's Lexus. We talk about the security situation in his country and the different plans of attack for combating terrorism. Mid-evening I take the opportunity to grab two hours of sleep. When I wake I find it's just after ten o'clock. In the meantime, Carly St. John has provided me with the warehouse blueprints via my OPSAT. I now have a complete map of the building, showing entrances and exits, corridors, and rooms. I'm itching to get going, but I decide to wait two more hours, hoping to catch them in their pajamas. Finally, at midnight, I tell the captain it's time to move.
"You know they're probably setting a trap for you," the captain says.
I shrug. "Trap, Shmap. Let's go."
"You ready?"
"Absolutely."
He gives the order and we move out in separate unmarked civilian cars toward the site. A minute later we arrive at a crossroad. The captain points to the new road and says, "It's that way about a mile. We'll get out here and go the rest of the way on foot."
The drivers park the cars behind various empty buildings, and we proceed to hike through undeveloped terrain off-road. There's not a lot of trees and natural cover here. Israel is an arid country and it's hot and dry at this time of year. For a Mediterranean destination, I've never found Israel to be particularly pretty. I guess it is if you like sand and rocks. The land is fertile enough, although I can't imagine why it was once considered the "Promised Land."