Our Sacred Honor

“We’re dealing with Israel here,” Tweedledee said. “They might have them, they might not. They’re not always forthcoming with information like that. In any event, if the Israelis bomb Iranian missile silos, there’s always the chance it will start World War Three. The Russians are close allies with Iran. Meanwhile, the Sunni countries hate the Iranian Shiites. But only until the Israelis bomb them. Then they’re all fellow Muslims and Israeli aggression must be avenged. If we do the bombing…”

He shrugged. “I think we can find a way to placate the Russians about this. And the Sunni countries will live with it.”

“Why don’t the Israelis send their own spies in to look for the bomb?” Susan said.

“We talked to their intelligence people. They think the mission is a sure failure. They would prefer to bomb Iran indiscriminately and destroy all of Iranian military bases and infrastructure, in the hopes of hitting any nukes they might have. We are encouraging them – encouraging them very strenuously – to refrain from that course of action. Obviously, the risk of bombing Iran and leaving even one nuclear missile operational is too high to contemplate what…”

Susan looked at Luke. “Hello, Agent Stone.”

He gazed directly into her eyes. This was the thing she hated, the thing she had been dreading. She wanted to stop time right here and not have him say another word.

“Madam President.”

“Do you intend to take this mission?”

He nodded. “Yes. Of course. It was my idea.”

“It sounds to me like a suicide mission, Agent Stone.”

“I’ve heard of worse,” Luke said. “In any case, it’s exactly the kind of thing the new Special Response Team was organized to do. I’ve already talked to my team. We can be ready to leave in a couple of hours.”

She tried a different tack. “Agent Stone, you’re the director of the Special Response Team. My records indicate that you’re forty-two years old. Wouldn’t this mission be better handled by a more junior operative from your agency? Someone a little younger, say? Someone a little more energetic?”

“I plan to go in with Ed Newsam,” Luke said. “He’s thirty-five. And anyway, I’m still pretty energetic for an old geezer.”

“Agent Stone and Agent Newsam both have extensive operations experience in the Middle East,” Tweedledum said. “Both are elite combat veterans, have been deep undercover, and are familiar with Israeli, Arab, and Persian culture. Both have some ability to speak Farsi.”

Susan ignored him. She glanced around the room. Everyone seemed to be staring at her. They wanted to talk about the design of the mission, she knew. They wanted her to green light it immediately, so they could gather the resources needed, come up with contingencies in case it failed, develop strategies for plausible deniability in case it went public. In their minds, who was going was not even in play anymore – the issue had already been decided.

“Can 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.”