LITMIR.BIZ

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you gentlemen give me a few minutes alone with Agent Stone?”

* * *

      “Luke, are you out of your mind?”

      The other men, and all of the Secret Service, had gone.

      “I wouldn’t send my worst enemy on this mission. You’re supposed to parachute into Iran, and then wander around the country with people trying to murder you, until you find nuclear weapons?”

      He smiled. “Well, I hope it’ll be a little better thought out than that.”

      “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

      He stood then, and went to her. He tried to hug her. She was stiff for a moment, then melted into his embrace.

      “Do you know how ridiculous it looks for the President of the United States to be overly worried about the life of one special operative, who’s been doing exactly this type of thing his entire adult life?”

      She shook her head. “I don’t care. This is different. I can’t sign off on a mission where you might get killed. It’s nuts.”

      He looked down at her. “Are you telling me that in order to be with you, I have to give up my job?”

      “No. You’re the head of your own agency. You don’t have to take this on. You don’t have to volunteer for this. Send someone else.”

      “You want me to send someone else even though you think this is a suicide mission?”

      She nodded. “That’s right. Send someone who I don’t love.”

      “Susan, I can’t do that.”

      She turned away then, and abruptly, miserable tears started to flow. “I know. I know that. But for the love of God, please don’t die over there.”

      CHAPTER TEN

      4:45 p.m. Israel Time (9:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)

      Samson’s Lair – Deep Underground

      Jerusalem, Israel

      “Tell them to shut up.”

      Yonatan Stern, the Prime Minister of Israel, sat in his customary chair at the head of the conference table in the Israeli crisis command center, his chin in his hand. The room was a cavernous egg-shaped dome. All around him, his military and political advisors were in a state of chaos, shouting, recriminating, jabbing fingers at one another.

      How had it come to this? seemed to be the prevailing question. And the answer upon which most of these brilliant strategic minds had landed was, It’s someone else’s fault.

      “David!” he said, staring at his chief-of-staff, a burly former commando who had been his right-hand man since their military days. David looked back at him, big dark eyes baleful, teeth biting the inside of his cheek, as he did when he was nervous or distracted. Once upon a time, the man would kill enemies with his bare hands, and yet somehow appear apologetic while he did so. He still looked apologetic now.

      “Please,” Yonatan said. “Bring the place to order.”

      David shrugged. He stepped to the conference table and slammed a giant fist down on its surface.

      BOOM!

      He didn’t say a word, but brought his fist down again.

      BOOM!

      And again. And again. And again. Each time the fist landed, the room became a little quieter. Eventually, all the men in the room stood and stared at David Cohn, Yonatan Stern’s organizer and enforcer, a man none of them respected intellectually, but also a man none would ever dare cross.

      He raised his fist one last time, but now the room was silent. It paused in midair, like a hammer. Then it floated slowly back to his side.

      “Thank you, David,” Yonatan said. He looked at the other men in the room. “Gentlemen, I would like to begin this meeting. So please, take your seats and enthrall me with your acumen.”

      He looked around the room. Efraim Shavitz was here, always boyish, much younger than his years. People called him the Model. He was the Director of Mossad. He wore an expensive, custom-tailored suit and Italian black leather shoes with a high polish. He looked like he was heading out to a nightclub in Tel Aviv, and not currently overseeing the destruction of his own people. In a room full of aging military men and frumpy thinkers, Shavitz the dandy looked like some sort of exotic bird.

      Yonatan shook his head. Shavitz was one of his predecessor’s men. Yonatan kept him on because he came well recommended and seemed like he knew what he was doing. Until today.

      “Efraim, your assessment, please.”

      Shavitz nodded. “Of course.”

      He pulled a remote control from his jacket pocket and turned to the large screen at the end of the conference table. Instantly, a video of a missile launch from a drab green mobile platform came on.

      “The Fateh-200 has come to Lebanon. We have suspected this might be the case – ”

      “When did you suspect that?” Yonatan said.

      Shavitz looked at him. “I’m sorry?”

      “When did you suspect that Hezbollah had obtained the Fateh-200 weapon system? When? I have never read such a report, nor has anyone mentioned to me that such a report might be coming. The first I heard of it was when long-range, high-explosive missiles began toppling residential buildings in Tel Aviv.”

      There was a long, drawn-out silence. The other men in the room stared, some at Yonatan Stern, some at Efraim Shavitz, some at the table in front of them.

      “In any event, they have them,” Shavitz said.

      Yonatan nodded. “Yes, they do. Now about Iran… what do they have?”

      Shavitz pointed at Yonatan. “Don’t conflate Hezbollah acquiring powerful conventional weapons with the Iranian nuclear threat, Yonatan. Don’t do that. We’ve told you that the Iranians were working on nuclear missiles. We know the suspected locations. We know the people involved. We have a sense of the number of warheads. You’ve been warned of these dangers for years. We’ve lost a lot of good men to obtain this information. That you took no action is not my fault, or the fault of Mossad.”

      “There are political considerations,” Yonatan said.

      Shavitz shook his head. “That’s not my department. Now, we believe the Iranians may have as many as fourteen warheads, salted in three locations, and likely fairly deep underground. They may not have any. It may be a lie. But no more than fourteen.”

      “And if they do have them, all fourteen of them?”

      Shavitz shrugged. A piece of hair above his forehead slipped out of place, very uncustomary for him. He’d better comb it back before he reached the nightclub. “And they manage to launch them?”

      Yonatan nodded. “Yes.”

      “We’ll be annihilated. It’s that simple.”

      “What are our options?”

      “Very few,” Shavitz said. “Everyone in this room already knows what they are. Everyone here well knows our own nuclear, conventional missile, and air force capabilities. We can launch a massive preemptive attack, all out, against all known Iranian and Syrian missile sites, and against all Iranian air force bases. If we act with total commitment, and with all of our forces in perfect concert, we can utterly destroy Iranian and Syrian military capabilities, and set Iranian civil society back to the dark ages. Those in this room with political considerations don’t need me to tell them what the worldwide backlash would be.”

      “What about a lesser strike?”

      Shavitz shook his head. “For what? Any strike that leaves Iran with missile capabilities, with fighters or bombers in the air, or that leaves even a single nuclear missile operational, will spell disaster for us. While some of us have been sleeping, Prime Minister, or rewarding our friends with government contracts, the Iranians have been working like termites,

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