Back in his own apartment Giorgio Felici punched a code into the scrambler in his study and dialled a number for Hamas in the Gaza Strip.
CHAPTER SIX
Langley, Virginia
M ike McKinnon closed the door to his office, put the file marked ‘Top Secret – Special Atomic Demolition Munitions’ on his desk and walked to the window of his office that overlooked the lawns and the fishpond of the New Headquarters courtyard in the CIA’s complex.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. ‘The world is going fucking mad!’ Osama bin Laden and God knows how many of his mad mullahs had the means to destroy Western civilisation, and now some equally wacky Bible basher from his own side had enough pull with the White House to have the President concerned about the recovery of a mythical Dead Sea Scroll. Hans Christian Andersen had moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he thought ruefully. Religion had a lot to answer for, and so did the politicians. At least his latest assignment would give him the opportunity to get out of Washington for a while. It had been years since he’d been to Jerusalem and apart from the constant bombings, neither the city nor his favourite hotel, the American Colony, would have changed. He made a mental note to look up his old buddy Tom Schweiker. They had got to know each other well during the years Mike had been posted to the Middle East, and Schweiker owed him one. After all, if it hadn’t been for him carrying on about a Dead Sea Scroll on CCN the White House knickers would still be in reasonable order. If there was anything to this scroll, he mused, journalists were often a good source of intelligence, particularly those of Schweiker’s calibre.
Mike McKinnon rubbed his eyes wearily and went back to his desk. Since the arrival of the new Director, the Central Intelligence Agency had been under siege and his own boss, the head of the powerful and covert Operations Division, had resigned. At fifty-four, Mike had also thought about chucking it in. With the wreckage of a couple of marriages well behind him, and being ruggedly fit and healthy with no ties, perhaps it was time to enjoy life. Yet he had decided to stay on, armed with the knowledge that this time the human race seemed to be on the brink of destruction. He reached for the top file in his tray. Unusually for Langley, it was a buff-coloured folder marked ‘Unclassified,’ containing a summary of Osama bin Laden’s speeches and remarks, aired on the Arab channel Al-Jazeerah as well as through major Western media outlets. Praise be to God, who says, ‘O Prophet, strive hard against the unbelievers and be firm against them. Their abode is hell – an evil refuge indeed…’ I tell you the American, and your hypocritical allies, we will continue to fight you… You attacked us in Somalia; you supported the Russian atrocities against us in Chechnya; the Indian oppression against us in Kashmir; and the Jewish aggression against us in Lebanon… It is the Muslims who are the inheritors of Moses (peace be unto him) and we are the inheritors of the real Torah that has not been changed. Muslims believe in all the prophets, including Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon them all)… If we are attacked, we have the right to attack back… It is the duty of Muslims to prepare as much force as possible to terrorise the enemies of God, and I thank God for enabling me to do so.
Mike McKinnon felt a chill run down his spine. The last statement had been issued under the heading ‘The Nuclear Bomb of Islam’. McKinnon had no doubt that bin Laden had not only gone nuclear, he planned to attack at the first opportunity. At the top of his list were the United States of America and her two principal allies, Britain and Australia.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jerusalem
T he taxi dropped Dr David Kaufmann on the busy corner of King George V Street and Ha Histradrut. Just over six foot, olive-skinned, with blue eyes and thick, black curly hair, he strolled casually through the Friday night crowd and into Numero Venti, which took its name from nothing more imaginative than the street number. The small, intimate restaurant had not changed since the British mandate over seventy years before.
‘Good evening, Dr Kaufmann. Your table is waiting. I trust you’ve had a pleasant week?’
‘Not bad thanks, Elie. It’s been a pretty long one, so it’s good to have a night off.’
The wizened old waiter with the large hooked nose smiled. His smile held genuine warmth, his old grey eyes matching the colour of his receding curly hair.
‘Your colleague, Dr Bassetti. She is coming later?’ Elie asked, pulling out a chair.
‘At the hairdresser’s,’ David said, rolling his eyes.
‘Something from the bar while you’re waiting?’
‘A beer thanks, Elie.’ David stretched his long legs under the table and smiled to himself. Elie had been the head waiter for as long as David had been coming to Numero Venti and he never failed to make you feel as if you were the most important person in the restaurant. David had introduced Allegra on a very busy night and the next time they had come in Elie had greeted her as if he’d known her for years. He took the first mouthful of his favourite Maccabee lager and looked around. The restaurant was beginning to fill up. Over at the bar one or two members of the Knesset, as well as the odd prominent businessman, were in animated conversation. David glanced casually at the solidly built Arab reading at a table in one corner.
‘Shalom!’ The couple at the next table clinked their glasses. A toast of ‘peace’ in a land that had known only centuries of bloodshed and war. Always lurking behind the laughter and the camaraderie was a noise of a very different kind; the shattering sound of death and destruction at the hands of Hamas and the Palestinian Arabs.
Yusef Sartawi made it look as if he was engrossed in his book. The lone Arab at the corner table worked with Cohatek, the Israeli events company, but in reality he had a far more sinister role, of which neither Mossad nor the CIA was yet aware. He was now one of Hamas’s most experienced operations planners. It had been over twenty-five years since the Israelis had murdered his family in the small village of Deir Azun. The nightmares were still with him.
Were it not for the large sum of money being offered, Dr Allegra Bassetti would not normally have interested Hamas, especially given the curious origin of the contract. It had come from somewhere high up in the Vatican, but if the Christians wanted their own killed that was their business. What had caught his attention was the target’s partner, Dr David Kaufmann, the son of Professor Yossi Kaufmann. Both men were already on the Hamas target list. It was Hamas policy to become thoroughly familiar with the target of an assassination and Yusef Sartawi’s planning was always meticulous. Tonight’s reconnaissance was just the first step.
David Kaufmann took another sip of beer and reflected on Allegra’s breakthrough. Her DNA analysis had been nothing short of outstanding, but they were still only halfway through sorting the fragments. David glanced towards the door where Elie was taking Allegra’s coat. Allegra was slender with round, dark brown eyes and an oval face. In the lab Allegra normally wore her hair up, but tonight she had let it tumble to her shoulders, black and glistening in the light of the restaurant.
‘You look even more stunning than usual,’ David said, giving her a kiss as he pulled her chair out from the table.
‘Thank you, Sir. That sort of flattery will get you a long way.’
‘Beer? Gin and tonic? Champagne?’
‘I think champagne,’ Allegra replied, looking pleased with herself.
‘Better make that a bottle, Elie,’ David said, taking the menus.
‘Have you heard from your folks lately?’ Allegra asked.
‘Both fine. Yossi’s still juggling mathematics at the university with politics and Marian is quietly supportive, although sometimes I think she would rather Yossi just remain a professor.’
‘An impressive woman your mother. And neither of them look much older than sixty.’