Intercept Page 6

  There was one big difference: The Mossad guys in London knew the original fax had come from Saudi Arabia, though not the precise location.

  There was however one aspect of the operation that bound both mobile ops teams together, and that was the sudden identification of the two men Josh Epstein was charged with freeing—the hitherto nameless Yousaf Mohammed and Ibrahim Sharif.

  The Mossad had their names and sketchy biographies because they had wrung the information out of three other terrorist “suspects” before coldly executing them in Syria shortly after their release. They also knew that these two villains, Ibrahim and Yousaf, had befriended two other inmates inside Guantanamo.

  They had descriptions and smuggled satellite photographs of the Guantanamo goalkeeper, Ben al-Turabi, and of his fellow Palestinian killer, Abu Hassan Akbar. Only the Mossad knew for certain that these four men were bound together, and that they were all on the CIA list of fourteen lethally dangerous jihadist hardmen.

  Now the men in the blue van fed their new information back to the Mossad cell beneath the Israeli embassy as fingers flashed over the computer keyboards, matching the information, fitting names to the images.

  Their expressions were grim. Six people in that embassy basement had friends, acquaintances, or relatives who had been killed as a result of Ben and Abu’s crimes—at the Park Hotel in Natanya, and the bar mitzvah in Be’er Shiva. As far as they were concerned, Yousaf, Ibrahim, Ben, and Abu, were all the same, and ought to be executed, not standing before a U.S. Court of Appeals.

  Tomorrow morning Josh Epstein’s legal jackals would begin circling the Guantanamo compound, making their plans, dreaming up well-rounded reasons explaining why the four prisoners had never done anything wrong in their lives, and how American justice had dealt them the cruelest of hands.

  There would be countless reasons why poor Yousaf, broken-hearted Ibrahim, blameless Ben, and innocent Abu should be freed instantly, with massive apologies from the White House, and sufficient reparation money to keep them living like rajahs for the next ten thousand years.

  At 4:15 p.m. Joshua Epstein summoned his team into the inner sanctum of his office, the most secure room in the entire building—except for the listening device that had been planted in the base of his desk lamp—a mini-bug powerful enough to re-route U.S. baseball scores to the International Space Station, never mind the blue van parked outside the front door.

  James Myerson, a thirty-five-year-old New Englander from Gloucester, Massachusetts, would head up the operation. Myerson had been made a partner after a sensational two years of almost superhuman billing that averaged seventy-eight hours a week, putting him at close to $40,000 a week, or $2 million annually. The incredible ambition of this unmarried graduate of Yale Law School placed him a cut above his peers, and the most important briefs from the Arab world were always offered first to him.

  Most people get better with practice, and with each passing month, James had grown to know and understand the Arab psyche more thoroughly. Over and over, James had gained the release of Guantanamo’s prisoners, mostly those held on questionable grounds. These days Arab clients usually requested James, and to Josh Bernstein’s mind, this was outstanding. And now James was about to be offered the most important case he had ever argued.

  “You must get these guys out of that jail, and send them on their way,” Epstein told James after a briefing. “Because that will gain us the gratitude and respect of the entire Middle East. Usual rules, low profile, deep research, and iron-clad arguments.”

  According to the brief, which had emanated in Saudi Arabia, via Islamabad and Peshawar, his concern was with Yousaf and Ibrahim. Only the listening Mossad knew that his client list would soon double, because al-Qaeda would surely demand the release of the two mountain men, plus their Palestinian best friends, Ben and Abu.

  The third man in the room was Tom Renton, the twenty-nine-year-old son of a North Carolina army colonel and a former judge advocate general who had presided as chief adviser over numerous disciplinary cases where standards had apparently fallen short of those required by the U.S. armed services.

  Tom’s father was an expert on all forms of military legality, had advised the United Nations, and was considered an authority on the Geneva Conventions and Protocols. He understood the complex ramifications of men fighting in civilian clothes, and the illegality of such actions during which they identified themselves neither to their enemy, nor the public at large. Generally speaking Colonel Renton handed out short shrift to these international hooligans. Tom had attended a challenging law school in North Carolina, but the one at home in Raleigh was even more so, with the colonel drilling into his son the ramifications of surrender, capture, brutal actions against civilians, treaties, legal definitions of armed forces, guerilla fighters, and prisoners of war and their rights. Tom also learned much about military tribunals, courts-martial, and civilian courts involved in military matters.

  But Justice Kennedy had hammered out a brand new set of rules, codes, and standards, and both Tom Renton and James Myerson had been engrossed in them for weeks. Tomorrow morning, subject to the acquisition of the correct papers and visas, both would put their considerable intellects and experiences to the test.

  There was a wide smile upon the slightly sweaty face of Joshua Epstein as his boys prepared for the opening assault on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, right there on Third Street and Constitution Avenue, one block from the Capitol. He handed them the communiqué from Howard, Marsh, and Cuthbert, and warned the two attorneys there may be difficulty in identifying them since several of the most dangerous inmates of Guantanamo had always refused to reveal their identities.

  “I think we may assume, James,” he said, “that if the jihadists are prepared to spend millions of dollars to free these men, they will be on Guantanamo’s equivalent of Death Row. You may have to interview several men to locate them. Also there may be others in precisely the same predicament as Yousaf and Ibrahim. Do not hesitate to increase the client list to three or four, if you can, because that will mean larger fees in the end. These people have endless money. When it suits them.”

  Epstein told both men he would immediately open up the channels with the State Department to facilitate a trouble-free entry into Cuba, which could still be quite awkward for American visitors.

  “Flights to Havana?” asked Tom. “Same as last time.”

  “Correct,” replied Josh. “Washington to Nassau, then Air Cubana or whatever the hell it’s called.”

  “Of course it’s still about five hundred miles to Guantanamo,” said James. “What do we do? Get a car and drive it?”

  “I think we might do a little better than that,” grinned Josh. “We won’t get any help from the military who, generally speaking, think we’re all crazy. But I’m pretty sure State will fix up a local flight from Havana. Tell you what—leave all that to me. I’ll get Charlie on the case. We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning 5 a.m. That JetBlue flight takes off at eight o’clock. Dulles.”

  James and Tom headed for the door, but before they exited, James hesitated, and then asked, “Josh, I know the Pentagon doesn’t agree with any of this, but are you sure the State Department will help us get there and get us into the prison? You remember all that bullshit last time. Took us nearly a week.”

  “Things are very different now,” said Josh. “This president is a left-wing guy with a big agenda. Guantanamo is an embarrassment to him. He wants the goodwill of the Middle East and he can’t get it while all those wild men are banged up without trial. He’d shut it all down and let ’em all out tomorrow if he could.”

  “I guess the military won’t have that?” said Tom.

  “Correct. Right now, we’re his main hope. So I’m assuming you guys will get a nice ride into Guantanamo, courtesy of the State Department. No problems.”

  “Leave it to you, Big Guy,” concluded James. “See you at five.”

  CIA DIRECTOR BOB BIRMINGHAM picke
d up his secure line and requested the Israeli ambassador. Less than thirty seconds later he heard the polished tones of General David Gavron—“Hello, Bobby, this is a nice surprise,” he said. “And I could not begin to guess what you need!”

  “Well, I am assuming you know a whole lot more about our business than we do, so I’m just checking in. Anything shake loose?”

  “Did it ever. The Arabs just hired Epstein’s to get two of the most dangerous jihadists in the world out of Guantanamo. Money, I’d say no object.”

  “You get their names?”

  “We did. Try identifying one Yousaf Mohammed and Ibrahim Sharif. We think we know who they are, but you guys have never gotten even a squeak out of them.”

  “That assumes you guys could have done a better job, eh?” chuckled the big American.

  “No, not really, Bobby. We’d have shot them both. A very long time ago.”

  As far as Director Birmingham was concerned, Ambassador Gavron was the best Israeli ever appointed to the United States. He was a wounded veteran of the Yom Kippur War in 1973, a tank commander who had fought alongside “Bren” Adan in that monstrous battle in the Sinai, when the fate of Israel had hung in the balance.

  The scars of that war had never healed for David Gavron, figuratively and literally. The jagged one, slashed down his right cheek, was the result of an Egyptian shell that had blown him thirty feet through the air. The young Lieutenant Gavron had somehow climbed back into his tank and obeyed the immortal command of the towering Israeli hero, General Bren Adan: “FOLLOW ME!” Right fists raised, they flung the Egyptian army back from whence it came.

  David Gavron never got over that brief but murderous war. He and Adan had toured the Bar Lev line where they were still removing thousands of bodies of young Israelis who had fought and died. General Adan had famously broken down and wept at this hot and sandy scene from hell, and Gavron had wept with him.

  Even today, Ambassador Gavron visibly stiffened at the merest suggestion that Israel should somehow drop its guard. “We tried that in 1973, on our most holy day of the year,” was his standard reply to suggestions of compromise with the Palestinians, or the Syrians, or the Jordanians, or Hezbollah, or Iran and so forth. “It didn’t work terribly well then, and I’m not willing to give it another try.”

  Bob Birmingham, head of the CIA, was talking to the head of the Mossad, and the most uncompromising member of the Israeli government. They were blood brothers, each of whose concern was the safety of their respective countries. The potential freeing of terrorist madmen like Yousaf and Ibrahim was nothing short of pure anathema to them both.

  “David, did you get the feeling Epstein’s are moving fast on this?”

  “Extremely. They’re dispatching Myerson and Renton first thing tomorrow. Dulles to Nassau, then Cuba. You want the flight number?”

  “It would probably be judged politically incorrect if we took them out, so I don’t think we need that,” Bob jokingly remarked and then, more seriously. “David, I can’t help noticing there is a rather complacent tone to your voice at your obvious success on 12th Street.”

  “Complacent, Bobby? Me? Never.”

  “Just don’t forget who fixed the bug in that fat bastard’s desk lamp.”

  Both men laughed, but Bob quickly changed his tone. “Seriously, David. What precisely is the Mossad’s position if the U.S. Appeals Court liberates these guys?”

  “We don’t have a formal position,” said Ambassador Gavron. “But you may assume we will not like it. Not one bit. It’s like liberating a rabid pit-bull terrier onto a college campus.”

  “I don’t think our guys have given a moment’s thought as to where this goddamned Yousaf and his pal are going when they leave the courthouse,” replied Birmingham.

  “Well, they better start thinking, Bobby. Unless you’re planning to unclip their manacles right there on Constitution Avenue and tell ’em to catch a bus back to Afghanistan.”

  The CIA chief was thoughtful. “The real problem is,” he mused, “Most countries don’t want them and won’t let them in, and the airlines won’t fly them without massive security, plus guarantees they will be allowed to disembark at the other end.”

  “Well, if you let them go free, the Mossad will track them. Because we have to. There are people in Guantanamo who have committed shocking crimes against Israel. Guys on that killer list of fourteen.”

  “David, right now it’s more than my life’s worth to start impeding our peace-loving president’s wish to unload Guantanamo and everyone in it. But come the day, the day of freedom, when some judge lets these bastards loose, there’ll be a backlash in public opinion. And from that moment on, we’ll also follow them, to the ends of the earth if necessary, anything to keep them out of the USA.”

  “And for the rest of us?”

  “I think the good ole USA will be in your corner, the way we always have been.”

  JOSH EPSTEIN SMOOTHED the path to Cuba, just as he said he would. Myerson and Renton would fly privately from Havana down to Guantanamo, where the US Navy, with staggering reluctance, would meet them and drive them into the world’s most hated prison camp.

  On the way to Dulles they had discussed the overwhelming problem of the terrorists’ names. James said flatly, “First we have to identify them. Then get them to understand that they cannot set foot in a U.S. courtroom without a goddamned name and address.”

  “You sure you want them to be in the courtroom?”

  “Hell, yes, Tom. We want them in there, dressed like businessmen, looking like responsible citizens.”

  “What about the friggin’ manacles?”

  “The military will insist they wear them. And they’re still prisoners of the military. But I still want them in court.”

  “Well, I guess if they won’t reveal their names, there isn’t going to be an appeal, so the ball’s in their court.”

  “They either announce their identities or the service chiefs will keep them in prison forever. They don’t have any choice.” James Myerson had it simply worked out.

  “Guess not,” said Tom. “And that will apply to any other clients we pick up in there. Josh has got his big, flabby hands in that Arabian pot of gold. And he ain’t going to let up on these cases, not now, not ever.”

  “Yup. He got a green light from Riyadh. And we have to maximize the billing. That list of fourteen in your briefcase. They’re the ones to sign up. Then we just bang the court with the ole writ of habeas corpus—and stand back while the judiciary falls over backward to please the president.”

  Two cars behind them on Virginia’s Hirst-Brault Expressway, the two agents in the Mossad tracking car were listening intently to the conversation, thanks to the bug Bob Birmingham’s agents had so carefully fitted inside the roof of Epstein’s office car. As the CIA director himself had so shrewdly observed, the Mossad usually seemed to know a whole lot more about the business of the USA than the USA itself. And right now there was living proof of this, moving at seventy miles per hour along the highway to Dulles, transmitting the details of Epstein’s bid to set the villains free.

  STAFF SERGEANT BIFF RANSOM was hotter than hell, standing out on the sweltering tarmac of Mariana Grajales Airport. Biff, a thirty-five-year-old native of Dallas, Texas, was a guard supervisor at the Navy base on his second tour of duty in Cuba on behalf of the U.S. military.

  For an ex-auto worker in one of the General Motors plants in Detroit, Biff was a very smart man. He deliberately tried to befriend prisoners, sucking up every scrap of information, and then reporting it in carefully written e-mails to his colleagues. Ben al-Turabi was as close as he ever got to a friendship with a prisoner, and even Biff did not know the big goalkeeper’s name.

  Right now he was waiting for a small, private Cessna bringing a couple of Washington lawyers down to talk to a few prisoners regarding legal appeals to free them. And at this particular moment, he was certain of only three things: one, that the lawyers had no right to be fucking around down here a
nd ought to be in the slammer themselves; two, that Justice Kennedy was plainly out of his mind; and three, that if he, Biff Ransom, had been in charge, both these legal nutcases would have been made to walk the five hundred miles from Havana. Also the sons-of-bitches were an hour late, and Biff had a major interrogation in sixty minutes.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Biff, peering into the crystalline blue skies. “Where the hell are they?”

  He would have been slightly more comfortable waiting in the military airport, but that was where the Navy had drawn the line. They could not refuse to cooperate with the State Department, but they could obstruct the forthcoming legal process by refusing to allow a civilian landing, by Cuban pilots, on the military base. “Obvious security reasons,” the signal had read when it arrived in the Pentagon.

  Which was why Sergeant Biff was hanging around, sixteen miles north of the camp at the little local airport that served the town of Guantanamo, waiting for the two men he sincerely believed were traitors to the United States of America.

  To pass the time, he hummed the famous song made popular by the folk singer Pete Seeger, “Guantanamera!” written way back in the 1940s by Jose Fernandez, for the cheerful little town that had now been off-limits to U.S. military personnel for so long.

  Biff had been flown over by an elderly marine helicopter, since it was impossible to drive to town through the vast minefield that surrounds the inland border of the U.S. base. There is no land exit or entrance from the base to Castro’s Cuba. The helicopter was now parked on the edge of the runway that was so hot, you could have easily fried an egg on the fuselage. “Let ’em work up a little sweat, right?” muttered Biff to no one in particular. Adding, with a flourish, “Sons-of-bitches.”

  Another ten minutes and the Cessna came in. Staff Sergeant Ransom met the passengers with military precision. Not knowing whether either Myerson or Renton had ever served as commissioned officers in any branch of the military, he saluted them smartly and led the way to the helo, which was right now doing a passable imitation of a metal incinerator.