“Two men getting ready to open the gate, one coming downstairs. Looks like he’s carrying a gun.”
“So much for Arab hospitality,” said Gabriel, and lowered the phone.
They were about fifty yards from the compound and closing at a moderate speed. The headlamps now shone directly on the gate. It was a two-leaf swing model, stainless steel. A cloud of dust settled around them like fog as Yaakov slowed to a stop. For several seconds, nothing happened.
Gabriel raised the Langley phone to his ear. “What’s going on?”
“Looks like they’re unlocking it.”
“Where’s the third man?”
“Waiting outside the entrance of the house.”
“And where’s the entrance relative to us?”
“Your two o’clock.”
Gabriel lowered the phone again as a crack appeared between the leaves of the gate. He relayed the satellite information to the other three men in the car and issued a terse set of instructions.
Keller frowned. “Mind saying that again in a language I can understand?”
Gabriel hadn’t realized he was speaking in Hebrew.
All at once the gate began to swing away, drawn by two pairs of hands. Yaakov balanced the Uzi Pro atop the steering wheel and aimed at the pair of hands to the right. Mikhail leveled a Kalashnikov at the hands on the left.
“Never mind,” said Keller. “No translation necessary.”
At last, the gate was sufficiently open to accommodate a car. Two men, each cradling an automatic rifle, stepped into the breach and waved Yaakov into the compound. Instead, he unleashed a torrent of fire through the windscreen toward the man on the right. Mikhail, in the front passenger seat, squeezed off several rounds with the Kalashnikov toward the man on the left. Neither guard managed to fire a shot in return, but as Yaakov accelerated through the open gate, a gun opened up from the entrance of the main building. Mikhail answered through the open front passenger window while Gabriel, directly behind him, fired off several rounds with the Jericho .45. Within seconds, the gun in the entranceway fell silent.
Yaakov braked hard and rammed the shift into park while Mikhail and Gabriel tumbled out of the car and started across the outer yard of the compound. Mikhail quickly drew away from Gabriel, and after a few paces Keller overtook him as well. The two elite soldiers paused briefly at the entrance, next to the body of the third gunman. Gabriel glanced down at the lifeless face. It was Nazir Bensaïd.
Beyond the entrance was an ornate Moorish courtyard, blue with moonlight, with cedar doors on all four sides. Keller and Mikhail pivoted through the doorway on the right and crossed a foyer to a stone flight of steps. Instantly, they were met with automatic weapons fire from above. The two operatives dived for cover, right and left, while Gabriel remained pinned down outside in the courtyard. When the gunfire ceased, he slipped into the foyer and sheltered next to Mikhail. Keller, directly opposite, wedged his Kalashnikov into the stairwell and blindly fired several shots into the darkness. Then Mikhail did the same.
When they paused to reload, there was only silence from above. Gabriel peered around the edge of the wall. The landing at the top of the steps appeared empty, but in the darkness he couldn’t be sure. Finally, Keller and Mikhail mounted the first step. At once, there was a piercing scream. A woman’s scream, thought Gabriel—two religiously significant Arabic words that left little doubt as to what would occur next. He grabbed the back of Mikhail’s shirt and pulled with every bit of strength he had left in his body while Keller hurled himself down the steps toward safety. A second too late, the bomb exploded. Saladin, it seemed, had lost his sense of timing.
Gabriel was carrying two mobile phones in the pocket of his jacket, one connected to Adrian Carter, the other to Natalie and Dina. Carter and the rest of the officers gathered in the Black Hole had the advantage of the satellite’s cameras and sensors, but Natalie and Dina had been privy only to the audio. The quality was muted. Even so, they had no trouble making out what was taking place inside the compound. A brief but intense firefight, a woman screaming “Allahu Akbar,” the unmistakable sound of a bomb exploding. After that, there was only silence. Dina quickly started the engine. A moment later they were racing along the main street of Zaida. The little town in the shadow of the Middle Atlas Mountains was now wide awake.
The steps were strewn with the tattered remnants of a woman—smallish, about twenty or twenty-five, pretty once. Here a leg, here a portion of a torso, here a hand, the right, still clutching a detonator switch. The head had rolled to the bottom of the steps and come to rest at Gabriel’s feet. He lifted the black veil from the face and saw a set of delicate features arranged in a mask of religious madness. The eyes were blue—the blue of a mountain lake. Was she a wife or concubine? Or a daughter perhaps? Or was she just another black widow, a lost girl to whom Saladin had strapped a bomb and an ideology of death?
Gabriel closed the blue eyes and covered the face, and followed Keller and Mikhail silently up the stairs. A Kalashnikov lay on the upper landing where it had fallen from the woman’s hands, along with a magazine’s worth of shell casings. To the right a hallway stretched into the darkness. At the end of it was a door—and behind the door, thought Gabriel, was a room at the southeast corner of the house. A room facing Mecca. A room where an injured man now lay alone with no one to protect him.
They picked their way carefully across the landing so as not to disturb the shell casings and moved silently along the corridor. When they reached the door, Keller tested the latch. It was locked. He exchanged a few quick hand signals with Mikhail and motioned for Gabriel to move away, but Gabriel quickly overruled him with a signal of his own. He was an operational chief, and he preferred to deal with his enemies at a meter rather than a mile.
Keller didn’t argue, there wasn’t time. Instead, he kicked down the door and then followed Gabriel and Mikhail inside. Saladin lay on a bare mattress in the darkest corner, his face lit by the glow of a mobile phone. Startled, he reached for the Kalashnikov at his side. Gabriel sprinted toward him, the Jericho in his outstretched hands, and fired eleven shots into Saladin’s heart. Then he reached down and snatched up the fallen phone. It was vibrating with an incoming message.
inshallah, it will be done . . .
66
Morocco–London
Saladin had made his last stand not with a gun but with a Nokia 5 Android phone. There were more scattered around him, along with several Samsung Galaxies and iPhones, eight laptop computers, and dozens of flash drives. Mikhail and Keller quickly loaded the devices into a duffel bag while Gabriel snapped a photo of Saladin’s lifeless face. It was not a trophy. He wanted to prove definitively that the monster was gone and thus deliver a body blow not only to the Islamic State but to the entire global jihadist movement.
Dina and Natalie were turning through the open gate of the compound when Gabriel, Mikhail, and Keller exited the house. Yaakov was digging another Nokia 5 from the pocket of Nazir Bensaïd. The rented Peugeot was not fit for the road, not with the blown-out windscreen and the bullet holes from stem to stern, so they all piled into the Jeep Cherokee instead. In total, from forceful entry to hasty departure, they were inside the compound for less than five minutes.
Evidently, the sound of the gunfire and the explosion had reached the center of Zaida. As they sped along the town’s main street, they were met by a few stares, some curious, others manifestly hostile, but no one tried to stop them. It was not until they reached the tiny Berber hamlet of Aït Oufella, some ten miles down the mountain, that they spotted the first gendarmes coming up the valley.
The units swept past without slowing and continued on toward Zaida. In twenty minutes, perhaps less, they would enter the compound. And in a room on the second floor of the house they would find a large, powerfully built Arab lying alone, with eleven bullet holes in the front of his djellaba. Had he been capable of speech, he would have done so with a distinct Iraqi accent, and had he been ambulatory, he would have w
alked with a limp. He had lived a life of violence, and had died accordingly. But had he, in his final seconds, ordered another attack? One last curtain call.
Inshallah, it will be done . . .
It was possible the answer—along with other critical intelligence—resided somewhere in the mobile phones, computers, and flash drives they had taken from Saladin’s room. Therefore, it was essential that the devices not end up in the hands of the Moroccans, who would be more interested in solving the riddle of a long and violent night than in preventing the next attack. Still, Gabriel decreed that theirs would not be a fighting retreat. There had been enough bloodshed already. And now that Saladin was dead, the Moroccans were less likely to throw a diplomatic temper tantrum or do something stupid, like prosecuting the chief of the Israeli secret intelligence service for murder.
It was approaching seven when they reached Fez. They headed north through the Rif Mountains, toward the Mediterranean coast. The bolt-hole was at El Jebha, but it could not be utilized until after dark, when it would be safe to bring the Zodiacs ashore. That meant an entire day, perhaps longer, would be lost before the technicians could begin scrubbing the phones and computers for intelligence. Gabriel decided they would leave Morocco by ferry instead. The port of Tangier was the most obvious choice. There were regular ferries to Spain, France, and even Italy. But to the east was a smaller port with service directly to the British overseas territory of Gibraltar. They boarded the twelve-fifteen with minutes to spare. Gabriel and Keller stood at the railing in sunlight, Keller smoking a cigarette, Gabriel holding a mobile phone, as the white limestone cliffs of Gibraltar’s famous rock appeared before them.
“Home at last,” said Keller.
But Gabriel wasn’t listening; he was staring at the photo he had snapped of Saladin’s lifeless face.
“Best picture he’s ever taken,” said Keller.
Gabriel permitted himself a brief smile. Then he fired the photo securely to Adrian Carter at Langley. Carter’s reply was instant.
“What does it say?” asked Keller.
“Alhamdulillah.”
Keller dropped his cigarette into the sea. “We’ll see about that.”
From Gibraltar’s ferry terminal, it was only a short walk along Winston Churchill Avenue to the airport, where a chartered Falcon 2000 executive jet was waiting, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. Graham Seymour had stocked the plane with several bottles of excellent French champagne, but no one on board was in any mood for a celebration. Once the plane was airborne, they started switching on the captured phones and computers. All were locked, as were the flash drives.
It was late afternoon when they set down at London City Airport in the Docklands. Two vehicles were waiting, a panel van and a black Jaguar limousine. The van took Mikhail, Yaakov, Dina, and Natalie to Heathrow, where they would catch a late-departing flight for Ben Gurion. Gabriel and Keller rode in the Jaguar to Vauxhall Cross, along with the duffel bag.
They entered the building through the underground parking garage and carried the bag into Graham Seymour’s office. Seymour had arrived from Washington a few hours earlier. He looked only slightly better than Gabriel and Keller.
“Amanda Wallace and I have agreed to a division of labor regarding the phones and computers. SIS will take half, and Five will get the rest. Our respective labs are fully staffed and ready to go.”
“I’m surprised you were able to keep the Americans at bay,” replied Gabriel.
“We weren’t. The Agency and the FBI are sending liaison officers to look over our shoulders. In case you were wondering,” added Seymour, “it was really him. The Agency confirmed it with an eight-point facial analysis.” He offered a hand to Gabriel. “Honor is due. Congratulations, and thank you.”
Gabriel reluctantly accepted Seymour’s hand. “Don’t thank me, Graham, thank him.” He nodded toward Keller. “And Olivia, of course. We would have never been able to get close to Saladin without her.”
“The Royal Navy plucked her off that ersatz cargo ship of yours about an hour ago,” said Seymour. “Needless to say, it is essential we keep her role a closely guarded secret.”
“That might be difficult.”
“Quite,” said Seymour. “The Internet is already burning up with rumors that Saladin is dead. The White House is eager to make a formal announcement before the Moroccans beat them to the punch.”
“When?”
“In time for the evening news. They were wondering whether the Office wanted any of the credit.”
“God, no.”
“They were hoping you would say that. The Moroccans will eventually get over an invasion of their sovereignty by the Americans, but the Israelis are another matter entirely.”
“What about the British?”
“We’re legally forbidden to take part in targeted killing operations. Therefore, we will say nothing.” Seymour looked at Keller. “Even so, the debriefers are keen to have a word with you. The lawyers, too.”
“That,” said Keller, “would be a very bad idea.”
“Were you the one who—”
“No,” said Keller. “No such luck.”
It was six that evening when the experts commenced work on the captured devices. MI5 was the first to break into a phone; MI6, a computer. As expected, all the documents were heavily encrypted. But by seven o’clock, technicians from both services were unbuttoning the documents at will and handing them off to the analytical teams to sift for vital clues. The first batch was low-grade stuff. But Gabriel and Keller, who were monitoring the search from Graham Seymour’s office, warned against complacency. They had seen the look in Saladin’s eyes as he was dispatching his final text.
At nine o’clock London time, the American president and CIA Director Morris Payne strode into the White House Briefing Room to announce that the ISIS terror mastermind known as Saladin had been killed overnight in a clandestine U.S. operation in the Middle Atlas Mountains of Morocco. It seemed his death was the result of a painstaking American effort to deliver justice to the man who had perpetrated the attack on Washington, and was evidence of the new administration’s determination to wipe out radical Islamic terrorism once and for all. The Moroccans had known of the operation in advance and had provided valuable assistance, but otherwise it was an American undertaking from beginning to end. “And the results,” boasted the president, “speak for themselves.”
“No regrets?” asked Seymour.
“No,” answered Gabriel. “I prefer to come and go without being seen.”
When the president and his CIA director were finished, the reporters and the rented terrorism experts quickly tried to fill in the many gaps in the official account. Unfortunately for them, most of their information came directly from Adrian Carter and his staff, which meant little of it bore even a passing resemblance to the truth. By half past ten, Gabriel and Keller had had enough. Exhausted, they climbed into the Jaguar limousine and headed across the river to West London. Keller went to his opulent home in Kensington; Gabriel, to the old Office safe flat on Bayswater Road overlooking Hyde Park. Entering, he heard a woman singing softly to herself in Italian. He closed the door and smiled. Chiara always sang when she was happy.
67
Bayswater, London
“Where are the children?”
“Who?”
“The children,” Gabriel repeated deliberately. “Irene and Raphael. Our children.”
“I left them with the Shamrons.”
“You mean you left them with Gilah. Ari can barely look after himself.”
“They’ll be fine.”
Gabriel accepted a glass of chilled Gavi and sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter. Chiara washed and dried a packet of mushrooms, and with a few deft movements of her knife reduced them to rows of perfect slices.
“Don’t cook,” said Gabriel. “It’s too late to eat.”
“It’s never too late to eat, darling. Besides, you look like you can use some food.” She
wrinkled her nose. “And a shower.”
“Hamid and Tarek said if I showered, I would disturb the jinns.”
“Who are Hamid and Tarek?”
“Unwitting employees of Israeli intelligence.”
“And the jinns?”
Gabriel explained.
“I wish I could have been there with you.”
“I’m glad you weren’t.”
Chiara tossed the mushrooms into a sauté pan and a moment later the smell of warm olive oil filled the air. Gabriel drank some of the Gavi.
“How did you know we were coming to London?”
“A contact inside the Office.”
“Does this contact of yours have a name?”
“He prefers to remain anonymous.”
“Of course.”
“He’s a former chief. Very important.” She gave the pan a shake, and the mushrooms began to sizzle. “When I heard you and the team were making a run for Gibraltar, I stowed away on a flight to London. Housekeeping was kind enough to put a few things in the fridge.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell the current chief about this?”
“I asked them not to. I wanted it to be a surprise.” She smiled. “Didn’t you notice my bodyguards down on Bayswater Road?”
“I was too tired to look.”
“Your tradecraft is starting to slip, darling. They say it happens to those who spend too much time behind a desk.”
“I doubt Saladin would agree with you.”
“Really?” Chiara glanced at the television playing silently on the counter. “Because the BBC says it was all an American operation.”
“The Americans,” said Gabriel, “were very helpful. But we were the ones who got him, with significant help from Christopher Keller.”
“And to think he tried to kill you once.” She drank some of Gabriel’s wine.
“How much did Uzi tell you about what happened?”