Hashimi did not see the death of his comrade. The passion of the moment was overwhelming. The consternation on the faces of the two invading rabbis was manifest. He could not see the faces of the police behind their masks, but their actions, their movements, made their feelings clear. In a brilliant moment of clarity, he knew that he was winning, and he shouted again to his people to redouble their efforts. This they did in the face of fire and death.
Captain Benjamin Zadin stripped off his helmet and walked forcefully towards the Arabs, past the rabbis who had suddenly been struck with incomprehensible indecision. Would the Will of God be upset by the discordant singing of some dirty savages?
“Uh-oh,” Pete Franks observed, his eyes streaming from the gas that had blown over his face.
“I got it,” the cameraman said without bidding, zooming his lens in on the advancing Israeli police commander. “Something is going to happen — this guy looks pissed, Pete!”
Oh, God, Franks thought. Himself a Jew, himself strangely at home in this barren but beloved land, he knew that history was occurring before his eyes yet again, was already composing his two or three minutes of verbal reporting that would overlay the tape his cameraman was recording for posterity, and was wondering if another Emmy might be in his future for doing his tough and dangerous job supremely well.
It happened quickly, much too quickly, as the captain strode directly to the Arab leader. Hashimi now knew that a friend was dead, his skull caved in by what was supposed to be a non-lethal weapon. He prayed silently for the soul of his comrade and hoped that Allah would understand the courage required to face death in this way. He would. Hashimi was sure of that. The Israeli approaching him was a face known to him. Zadin, the name was, a man who'd been there before often enough, just one more Israeli face most often hidden behind a Lexan mask and drawn gun, one more man unable to see Arabs as people, to whom a Muslim was the launcher for a rock or a Molotov cocktail. Well, today he'd learn different, Hashimi told himself. Today he'd see a man of courage and conviction.
Benny Zadin saw an animal, like a stubborn mule, like — what? He wasn't sure what he saw, but it wasn't a man, wasn't an Israeli. They'd changed tactics, that was all, and the tactics were womanly. They thought this would stand in the way of his purpose? Just as his wife had told him that she was leaving for the bed of a better man, that he could have the children, that his threats to beat her were empty words, that he couldn't do that, wasn't man enough to take charge of his own household. He saw that beautiful empty face and wondered why he hadn't taught her a lesson; she'd just stood there, not a meter away, staring at him, smiling — finally laughing at his inability to do what his manhood had commanded him to do, and, so, passive weakness had defeated strength.
But not this time.
“Move!” Zadin commanded in Arabic.
“No.”
“I will kill you.”
“You will not pass.”
“Benny!” a level-headed member of the police screamed. But it was too late for that. For Benjamin Zadin, the deaths of his brothers at Arab hands, the way his wife had left, and the way these people just sat in his way was too much. In one smooth motion, he drew his service automatic and shot Hashimi in the forehead. The Arab youth fell forward, and the singing and clapping stopped. One of the other demonstrators started to move, but two others grabbed him, and held him fast. Others began praying for their two dead comrades. Zadin turned his gun hand to one of these, but though his finger pressed on the trigger, something stopped him a gram short of the release pressure. It was the look in the eyes, the courage there, something other than defiance. Resolution, perhaps… and pity, for the look on Zadin's face was anguish that transcended pain, and the horror of what he had done crashed through his consciousness. He had broken faith with himself. He had killed in cold blood. He had taken the life of someone who had threatened no man's life. He had murdered. Zadin turned to the rabbis, looking for something, he knew not what, and whatever he sought simply was not there. As he turned away, the singing began again. Sergeant Moshe Levin came forward and took the captain's weapon.
“Come on, Benny, let's get you away from this place.”
“What have I done?”
“It is done, Benny. Come with me.”
Levin started to lead his commander away, but he had to turn and look at the morning's handiwork. Hashimi's body was slumped over, a pool of blood coursing down between the cobblestones. The sergeant knew that he had to do or say something. It wasn't supposed to be like this. His mouth hung open, and his face swung from side to side. In that moment, Hashimi's disciples knew that their leader had won.
Ryan's phone rang at 2:03 Eastern Daylight Time. He managed to get it before the start of the second ring.
“Yeah?”
“This is Saunders at the Ops Center. Get your TV on. In four minutes, CNN is running something hot.”
“Tell me about it.” Ryan's hand fumbled for the remote controller and switched the bedroom TV on.
“You ain't gonna believe it, sir. We copied it off the CNN satellite feed, and Atlanta is fast-tracking it onto the network. I don't know how it got past Israeli censors. Anyway—”
“Okay, here it comes.” Ryan rubbed his eyes clear just in time. He had the TV sound muted to keep from disturbing his wife. The commentary was unnecessary in any case. “Dear God in heaven…”
“That about covers it, sir,” the senior watch officer agreed.
“Send my driver out now. Call the Director, tell him to get in fast. Get hold of the duty officer at the White House Signals Office. He'll alert the people on his end. We need the DDI, and the desks for Israel, Jordan — hell, that whole area, all the desks. Make sure State's up to speed—”
“They have their own—”
“I know that. Call them anyway. Never assume anything in this business, okay?”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Yeah, send me about four hours' more sleep.” Ryan set the phone down.
“Jack… was that—” Cathy was sitting up. She'd just caught the replay.
“It sure was, babe.”
“What's it mean?”
“It means the Arabs just figured out how to destroy Israel,” Unless we can save the place.
Ninety minutes later, Ryan turned on the West Bend drip machine behind his desk before running over the notes from the night duty staff. It would be a day for coffee. He'd shaved in the car on the way in, and a look at the mirror showed that he'd not done a very good job of it. Jack waited until he had a full cup before marching into the Director's office. Charles Alden was there with Cabot.
“Good morning,” the National Security Advisor said.
“Yeah,” the Deputy Director replied in a husky voice. “What do you suppose is good about it? The President know yet?”
“No, I didn't want to disturb him until we know something. I'll talk to him when he wakes up — sixish. Marcus, what do you think of your Israeli friends now?”
“Have we developed anything else, Jack?” Director Cabot asked his subordinate.
“The shooter is a police captain, according to the insignia. No name on him yet, no background. The Israelis have him in the jug somewhere and they're not saying anything. From the tape it looks like two definitely dead, probably a few more with minor injuries. Chief of Station has nothing he can report to us except that it really happened, and we have that on tape. Nobody seems to know where the TV crew is. We did not have any assets at the site when all this happened, so we're going exclusively from the news coverage.” Again, Ryan didn't add. The morning was bad enough. “ Temple Mount is shut down, guarded by their army now, nobody in or out, and they've closed access to the Wailing Wall also. That may be a first. Our embassy over there has not said anything, they're waiting for instructions from here. Same story for the others. No official reaction from Europe yet, but I expect that to change within the hour. They're at work already, and they got the same pictures from their Sky News service.”
It's almost four,“ Alden said, wearily checking his watch. ”In three hours people are going to have their breakfast upset — what a hell of a thing to see in the morning. Gentlemen, I think this one's going to be big. Ryan, you called it. I remember what you said last month.'
