Jericho 3 (38 page)

The Mossad agents looked over at Reuven and Omid. Omid only slightly wondered if this was where his life would finally end. Camp and Finn were not so sure either.

Reuven moved closer as Omid raised his eyes to meet those of the Israeli.

“Ahkh,”
Reuven said.

“It’s the same in Arabic and Farsi…
ahkee
,” Omid said.

Camp looked back as Reuven and Omid embraced and bid each other farewell, as brothers.

“Reuven, I’ll be in touch with you,” Camp yelled from the car.

Reuven waved goodbye and yelled back, “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”

LyonBio

Lyon, France

C
amp and Finn got a good night’s rest at the Hilton Lyon Hotel before arriving at LyonBio shortly before noon. Camp’s mind was racing with the frenetic exit from Jordan, a quick flight back to France, and the taxi ride back to the hotel.

Raines was sitting in her lab, grinning like a Cheshire cat, with a dozen long-stemmed roses standing in a crystal vase in the middle of her desk when Camp and Finn walked in.

“Hey, its Tom and Jerry…welcome back, boys.”

Camp couldn’t see past the roses to greet Raines.

“What’s this?” Camp said with newfound disdain.

“Guess I have a secret admirer. Not sure if he’s here in France or one of my old boyfriends back at Fort Detrick.”

Camp walked over to the vase and ripped the card out of the arrangement.

“Help yourself by all means, Captain Campbell,” she said as he pulled the card out of the tiny envelope. Camp read the note out loud.

“Congratulations, Leslie…you did it! Manufacturing is underway and five million sublingual doses will be ready to ship on October 5th. Just let us know where they’re going. Your friend, Thierry and Rochelle Gaudin.”

Camp rolled his eyes and teased Raines.

“Very funny, Les, I hope you got a good laugh at my expense.”

“Thank you. I did. But you seem a bit too tense to enjoy it.”

“We’ve been to Armageddon and back. Literally.” Camp explained.

“Twenty-one hours a day in this lab wasn’t exactly a trip to Miami Beach either. Lighten up, sailor.”

Camp walked over and reluctantly kissed her forehead.

“Congratulations, Les. You’re a rock star.”

“I’ve got some good news and bad news, one for each of you. Which do you want first?”

“Bad,” Finn said as he took a seat.

“General Ferguson called, and he wants you to return to Kabul, Billy. Your work is done here.”

“Thank God,” Finn said. “I could use some
bad
news like that. Your sailor is going to get me into trouble if I keep hanging around him.”

“The good news is for me?” Camp asked.

“Actually it’s good for us. You’ve been detailed back to Washington, Camp…Walter Reed National Medical Center.”

“Are you serious? When?”

“As soon as you can get on an airplane.”

“What about you, Les?”

“I’ll stay here and babysit the vaccines. They’ll ship to Tel Aviv on 1 October. I’ll head home when they’re out the door.”

Raines drove the boys back to their hotel after lunch so they could re-pack their small backpacks and book their travel arrangements. Camp leaned in through the open window of Raines’ rental car as Finn went inside the Hilton.

“Got any plans for dinner tonight, sailor?” Raines asked.

“Well, actually I’ve grown tired of waiting for my lab rat friend to find some social time so, yeah, tonight I think I’m open for dinner.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Qazvin University of Medical Sciences

Ghods Hospital

Markazi Province, Iran

O
mid parked his car in the small parking lot at Ghods Hospital, a lot that had been recently overflowing with tularemia-infected villagers from the Bourvari District. The hospital and university classrooms were all quite familiar to him. He didn’t spend as much time at Ghods as Kazi did, but it was a second home nonetheless.

Omid was six, and Kazi was one when they, along with four sisters between them, came to live with Qazvin after an abrupt and terrifying exit from Pakistan. Their grandfather’s house was located in the neighborhood just behind the hospital. At first the boys would join their grandfather in his lab every day after school. Qazvin was a chemist by trade but had added advanced life science degrees to his
curriculum vitae
along the way.

He had picked up a lot of radical thought as well. Qazvin joined a secret society in the 1950’s called Hottajieh. He was obsessed with moving Islam in a different direction.

As young boys, Kazi and Omid saw their grandfather grow more extreme. Kazi was young and impressionable. He learned advanced chemistry as a very young boy and Qazvin took Kazi to several of his religious meetings to show him off. Omid was not interested in the lab, or chemistry, or science. His heart was broken over the loss of his parents. He was old enough to remember his own father explaining why the family had left Iran after the Shah was overthrown and why young Omid needed to pretend that his grandfather was dead. Omid turned to writing and literature. He studied world philosophies and the history of war. He knew more about the Middle East and the Persian Empire than any of his counterparts. Omid was a student of Aristotle and examined every detail of Alexander the Great, Darius I the Persian conqueror and Genghis Khan. He understood world religions and was particularly interested in the impact Martin Luther had on the Catholic Church.

Kazi was born and raised for revolution.

Omid was born and raised for reformation.

Qazvin was sitting at his desk, reading some papers, when Omid walked in and tapped on his door.

“Hello, grandfather,” Omid said quietly so as not to startle Qazvin.

Qazvin moved his head far enough to look over his reading glasses and see Omid standing at the door, dressed in his military uniform.

He did not answer Omid.

Omid moved in closer and leaned against the wall just a few feet from Qazvin’s chair.

“Kazi’s portion of the revolution will start very soon. I suppose you are very proud of him.”

Qazvin continued to read his papers.

“I have news for you, Qazvin. I just received word from Islamabad. My father – your son – has finally died.”

Qazvin put his papers down and removed his glasses.

“Thirty-one long years, grandfather…31 years he suffered in that house, sitting in his wheelchair, waiting to die…that’s a long time to wait for death.”

Qazvin said nothing.

“I want to talk with Kazi…I want to tell him about my father, his uncle.”

Qazvin turned sharply and stared at Omid.

“You will not speak with Kazi…he is the gifted one. That’s why you were removed from him 20 years ago. Kazi has been blessed with the power to change the world. You have been cursed with the confusion of too much thought, too many ideas. You are as your father was…worth nothing.”

Omid felt the heat of anger flush across his face. He had almost forgotten the yelling and the beatings grandfather Qazvin had given to him when he dared to offer a different opinion, a different thought, or something he learned in a book from history.

“Perhaps you are correct, Qazvin, you are a wise elder. Still, I would like to speak with Kazi…he will want to know that his uncle has finally died.”

Qazvin returned to his papers. He had no love or compassion for Omid.

“Kazi has left…the Shoeib and the council have new concern that the Zionists will strike us first…we would have to spend years rebuilding before we returned to this same place…the plan will launch early…before the Zionists can launch their Jerichos.”

The air from Omid’s lungs was sucked out as Qazvin’s words rattled around in his mind. He was numb and powerless. He had to make a call.

“Kazi has gone to Beirut…already?”

“The Unity Festival has been moved up…the wind of torment will blow earlier…all praise to Allah,” Qazvin said as he opened a new page on his computer screen.

“Allah? Grandfather, you honestly believe that this is what Allah wants for his children? To kill the innocents, to slaughter the elderly, to bring about war so that the Twelfth Imam, the Mahdi can bring about peace? We are Persians, grandfather. Darius was ruthless when war was the only option, but he built things, he gave us common currencies and trade, magnificent buildings and art, he opened passageways for trade. We are a great people, Qazvin, look what we have built with our own hands. Look at our technology, our science, even the great universities that you and others have built. But you…look at you, grandfather…you have spent your entire life consumed with hate…you have taught Kazi to hate…and now, at the end of your life, you continue to search for ways to kill, while the children of Islam seek ways to live.”

Qazvin pulled his reading glasses down and put them on his desk. He pushed his office chair back slightly and then rested his chin on his clasped hands. Omid watched his grandfather’s eyes fill with tears.

“You sound like your father, Farid…I remember him saying these words as well…he was so different than me…his brother was so different…they both left Iran…left me…and moved to Pakistan…they dishonored me, Farid…they dishonored Islam…now you dishonor me.”

Omid moved in closer.

“Qazvin…baba…I have always loved you…I cherish my grandfather…you know the holy scriptures like no other…I still respect you…I just disagree with you…is that a sin? Am I evil because I hold a different opinion?”

Qazvin started to weep. His chest moved up and down with great emotion as his Pirahan Shalvar filled with moisture from his own tears. Qazvin tucked his fingers into the wide Kamarband belt as he tried to regain his self-control. Omid moved in and embraced his grandfather as he sat in his chair and wept.

“I am an old man now, Farid…I have done many things in my life…some good, some not so good. But I could not let my sons bring dishonor to our family name no matter where they lived…I am so sorry, my grandson. I’m sorry that your father lived so long in agony. He was supposed to die that night…just like his brother.”

Rage filled Omid as he held his grandfather. He was in total disbelief.

“You? You killed your own sons?” Omid whispered into Qazvin’s ear.

Omid’s arms moved slowly from around Qazvin’s chest and up toward his head and neck. He tried to fight the urge but he wanted to kill his grandfather.

“Yes,” Qazvin whispered as he thrust the tip of his 9-inch Pesh-kabz dagger, housed on the hip inside the Kamarband, deep inside Omid’s chest and quickly punctured his lung.

Omid gasped in utter disbelief as he heard Qazvin weep. Sharp pain engulfed his lungs and chest as his mind tried to comprehend what was happening.

With a quick twist, the Pesh-kabz turned clockwise and was pulled out as a mixture of blood, water and air covered Qazvin’s clothes. Omid felt life racing out of his body as Qazvin pushed the dagger in second time, another clockwise spin, then he pulled it out of Omid’s belly.

Omid could not believe what was happening. His hands fell down and back to his weeping grandfather’s side, then went limp. Omid bent his head down and kissed his grandfather’s cheek. The sounds of his grandfather weeping faded slowly as life poured out of Omid and finally into silence.

Beirut Luna Park

Beirut, Lebanon

A
n elderly woman walked through Luna Park in Beirut taking photographs of the 50 hot air balloons and flying teams that had arrived from all over the Middle East. The small, discreet camera was hidden in her hijab and triggered by a clicker in her hand. The woman was a common sight in Luna Park and throughout most of the public areas of Beirut since Mossad placed her in Lebanon 23 years before.

Most of the balloon teams were from Egypt. Three days of carnival rides, music, and food would open the Unity Festival after the Friday holy day. The balloons would race from Beirut, down the Mediterranean coast past Israel and the Gaza Strip before crossing the finish line in Port Said, Egypt. The winning team would receive 100,000 Egyptian pounds, more than $16,000 in US currency.

Organizers had moved the event up by two weeks, claiming that political unrest between Iran and Israel necessitated an earlier festival.

With the start of the festival still seven days away, balloon teams wanted plenty of time to practice, rig their equipment properly and get familiar with the tricky wind conditions that could change at a moment’s notice along the sea.

The woman took photos of the posters stapled to trees and taped to sign poles in Luna Park which had created excitement among the locals. She photographed TV news crews from around the Middle East as they were filming and reporting the preparations for the race.

But one thing caught her attention more than anything else. The date of the race had been moved up to October 1st. The woman left the park and headed back to her apartment. She knew this was information that Yitzhak would want to know about immediately.

Tel Aviv

F
ew things ever surprised Reuven, but the photos Yitzhak showed him and then the Al Jazeera News footage from Beirut left him stunned.

“They changed the dates,” Reuven said calmly as Yitzhak began to panic.

“I thought the plan was 10 days before Ali’s birthday…the 23rd?” Yitzhak asked.

“Perhaps we have been played. Get Shin Bet and Aman over here now. Tell them we advise going to ‘orange’ on the Jericho 3.”

Reuven started the call chain to Lyon, France. He needed to speak with Camp.

Lyon, France

R
aines uncorked a chilled bottle of Pinot Gris and placed it next to the bathtub in her apartment. The hot water was starting to fill the basin and the aromas of exotic oils and spices began to fill the steamed-up room as she lit four candles.

Most nights since she had been at LyonBio were filled with 20-hour days and a quick nap on her couch covered with Grandma Lydia’s hand-knitted Afghan blanket. She was relieved, almost giddy, to have 24 hours of unplugged time just to herself as LyonBio started to manufacture the sublingual vaccine.