“They’re about to turn on East Forty-Second Street,” said the young woman, another member of his team.
Firouz hung up. “Four minutes,” he whispered to Rahim.
They checked their weapons one last time. This was it.
The president looked at Naphtali. “Did you two plan this little ambush together?” he asked, only half in jest.
The Israeli premier didn’t smile. “There’s no conspiracy; it wasn’t necessary,” Naphtali replied. “Abdel and I have been telling you for two years this was coming. We have both wanted you to hit Iran. We wanted your predecessor to hit Iran. Abdel’s actually pushed for it harder than I have. You haven’t been listening.”
“I have been listening,” Jackson insisted. “I just haven’t liked what I’ve heard. The Indians have nukes. The Paks have nukes. Pyongyang has nukes. It happens. We can’t always stop it. But nobody’s crazy enough to use them. They’re purely defensive. We can’t go starting a war every time another country joins the nuclear club.”
“Look, Bill, you and I have known each other for a long time,” Naphtali countered. “I’ve always been honest and direct with you. Now listen to me. First of all, you’ve promised publicly and countless times that the United States would never allow Iran to acquire nuclear weapons. Well, now they have. Second, Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali — this ‘Twelfth Imam’—just might be crazy enough to use these weapons. He’s not a Communist. He’s not an atheist. He’s not part of the Soviet politburo or some corrupt bureaucrat in Beijing. He thinks he’s the messiah. He might even think he’s a god. He just said he’s trying to build a unified Islamic government. If he’s successful, the Caliphate could stretch from Morocco to Indonesia. Who’s going to stop him if you don’t? Nobody. And remember: the Shias think the Twelfth Imam is supposed to use nukes. They believe that’s why he’s here — to bring an end to Judeo-Christian civilization, to end the era of the infidels, to bring about the end of days. He’s already got millions of Muslims following him, and he’s just emerged. Most of them think he’s doing miracles, healings, and he’s uniting Shias and Sunnis faster than any Muslim leader we’ve ever seen.”
Jackson looked out the window, unconvinced but trying to stay calm.
Agent Bruner turned and looked back at him. “Two minutes, Mr. President.”
Jackson nodded. They were almost at Roadhouse, the Waldorf-Astoria. But this was not the conversation he wanted to be having. He had scheduled a meeting for noon the following day with the director of central intelligence and his top Iran experts, including Zephyr, whom they had temporarily pulled out of Iran. They were going to review the latest intel and evaluate their options. But Jackson didn’t enjoy being pushed into a corner. He didn’t like to have his course of action dictated to him. He had come to New York to give a major address laying out a game plan for peace in the Middle East, not a new road map to war.
He turned back to Ramzy. “You’re a good Muslim, Abdel,” he said, looking the Egyptian Sunni in the eye. “You really think this guy wants to bring about the end of days?”
“There’s no question in my mind,” Ramzy replied. “Anyone who has studied Shia End Times theology — and I have in recent years because Hosseini and Darazi are so obsessed with it in Tehran; they seem to talk about it all the time — knows that the Twelfth Imam is going to hit Israel, the ‘Little Satan,’ first. Then he’s going to hit you, America, because you’re the ‘Great Satan’ in their view. He’s going to hit you when and where you least expect it, and he’s going to hit you in such a way that you’ll never recover, in such a way that you’ll be unable to ever hit back — which is why you need to hit Iran first. You have a very narrow window, Mr. President. History will not forgive us if we don’t act right now. This is a rare convergence. Think of it. Arab leaders, starting with me, are willing right now to unite with America, even with Israel, against the Shias of Persia for one brief moment. It’s never happened before in all of recorded history. But it’s happening now. And if this moment slips away, if we squander it, if we miss our chance to stop Iran from unleashing a genocidal apocalypse, then I fear we are about to plunge into a thousand years of darkness.”
4
Firouz could hear the sirens approaching.
The motorcade was almost there. It was time. He carefully poked his head up and looked across the street. To his left stood St. Bartholomew’s Church, at the corner of Park Avenue and East Fiftieth Street. Straight ahead he could see the Park Avenue entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria. Using a laser range finder, he calculated the front doors at precisely 110 meters away, near-optimum distance for the weapon at his side and the one now in Rahim’s hands.
Though his view was slightly obstructed by several trees growing in the median, there were no leaves on the trees this early in the year, which helped. When he had scoped out the twenty-five-story office building, he had briefly considered a higher office, above the trees and with a broader and arguably more commanding view of the street below. But in the end he had opted not to sacrifice distance for a clear sight line. He needed to be close. That was the primary issue. He couldn’t see perfectly, but it would do.
The mob of media types was obvious enough in a roped-off area on the sidewalk to the right of the main doors. Reporters, still photographers, TV cameramen, and producers — they were all there, making final preparations of their own as the first of the police motorcycles rolled in. With red and blue lights flashing everywhere, Firouz counted a half-dozen NYPD uniformed officers standing with or near the press and another fifteen to twenty officers in key positions on both sides of the street, holding back a small crowd and making sure the adjacent streets remained sealed off. He also counted at least a dozen plainclothes agents, a mixture, he assumed, of the Secret Service, the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service, and the city’s VIP protective unit, as well as Israeli Shin Bet and an Egyptian contingent.
Little did they know they were going to have a front-row seat.
The motorcade roared up East Forty-Seventh Street.
But Ramzy was not finished. As they turned right onto Park Avenue, the Egyptian leader explained that his intelligence services had two sources inside the royal palace in Riyadh. Neither knew the other’s identity, but that morning, each of them — unbeknownst to the other — had sent urgent messages back to Cairo indicating that the Ayatollah Hosseini, Iran’s Supreme Leader, had personally called the Saudi king twenty-four hours earlier and told him that Iran’s nuclear weapons were operational and that one would be detonated on Saudi soil within the month if His Excellency didn’t welcome the Twelfth Imam, show him proper deference, and prepare a lavish welcome ceremony in Mecca.
It was news to Naphtali, but Jackson was not impressed.
“The NSA picked up the same calls,” he replied. “But if I had a dime for every lie Hosseini has told, the US wouldn’t have a national debt.”
“That’s not the point, Mr. President,” Ramzy pushed back.
“Then what is?”
“The Saudis — keepers of Mecca, keepers of Medina, commanders of the faithful — are being blackmailed by their worst enemies, the Persians. Why? Is it because King Jeddawi, the most devout Sunni Muslim on the planet, has suddenly, secretly converted to Shia Islam? No. It is because he is terrified for his life, for his riches, for his kingdom. He’s convinced Iran has the Bomb, and that has changed everything. And now the neighboring nations will start to fall. First the Saudis, then the Kuwaitis, then the Emirates.”
The car was silent for a moment, save Agent Bruner issuing commands on his wrist-mounted radio. Then the specially designed Cadillac pulled up to the Waldorf’s famous art deco entrance and drew smoothly to a halt. A team of agents jumped out of two black SUVs in the rear of the motorcade and began taking up positions around Stagecoach and Halfback. Bruner issued more instructions, making sure all his men were in place, then turned and caught Jackson’s attention.