The Jerusalem Assassin Read online

  PRAISE FOR JOEL C. ROSENBERG

  “Joel Rosenberg has an uncanny talent for focusing his storytelling on real-world hot spots just as they are heating up. He has done it again in The Kremlin Conspiracy.”

  PORTER GOSS, former director of the Central Intelligence Agency

  “Marcus Ryker rocks! Breakneck action, political brinksmanship, authentic scenarios, and sharply defined characters make Joel C. Rosenberg’s Kremlin Conspiracy a full-throttle and frightening ride through tomorrow’s headlines.”

  BRIGADIER GENERAL (U.S. ARMY, RETIRED) A. J. TATA, national bestselling author of Direct Fire

  “Joel C. Rosenberg writes taut, intelligent thrillers that are as timely as they are well-written. Pairing a fast-paced plot with an impressive understanding of the inner workings in the corridors of power of the Russian government, The Kremlin Conspiracy is a stellar novel of riveting action and political intrigue.”

  MARK GREANEY, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Agent in Place

  “The Kremlin Conspiracy is my first Joel C. Rosenberg novel, and I am absolutely blown away by how good this guy is. The story moves at a blistering pace, it’s crackling with tension, and you won’t put it down until you reach the end. Guaranteed. Simply masterful.”

  SEAN PARNELL, New York Times bestselling author of Outlaw Platoon

  “If there were a Forbes 400 list of great current novelists, Joel Rosenberg would be among the top ten. . . . One of the most entertaining and intriguing authors of international political thrillers in the country. . . . His novels are un-put-downable.”

  STEVE FORBES, editor in chief, Forbes magazine

  “One of my favorite things: An incredible thriller—it’s called The Third Target by Joel C. Rosenberg. . . . He’s amazing. . . . He writes the greatest thrillers set in the Middle East, with so much knowledge of that part of the world. . . . Fabulous! I’ve read every book he’s ever written!”

  KATHIE LEE GIFFORD, NBC’s Today

  “Fascinating and compelling . . . way too close to reality for a novel.”

  MIKE HUCKABEE, former Arkansas governor

  “[Joel Rosenberg] understands the grave dangers posed by Iran and Syria, and he’s been a bold and courageous voice for true peace and security in the Middle East.”

  DANNY AYALON, former Israeli deputy foreign minister

  “Joel has a particularly clear understanding of what is going on in today’s Iran and Syria and the grave threat these two countries pose to the rest of the world.”

  REZA KAHLILI, former CIA operative in Iran and bestselling author of A Time to Betray: The Astonishing Double Life of a CIA Agent inside the Revolutionary Guards of Iran

  “Joel Rosenberg is unsurpassed as the writer of fiction thrillers! Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe as I read one of his novels because I find myself holding my breath in suspense as I turn the pages.”

  ANNE GRAHAM LOTZ, author and speaker

  “Joel paints an eerie, terrifying, page-turning picture of a worst-case scenario coming to pass. You have to read [Damascus Countdown], and then pray it never happens.”

  RICK SANTORUM, former U.S. senator

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Joel C. Rosenberg’s website at www.joelrosenberg.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers.

  The Jerusalem Assassin

  Copyright © 2020 by Joel C. Rosenberg. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of dome copyright © Piero M. Bianchi/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of explosion copyright © Alexyz3d/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of sniper copyright © Getmilitaryphotos/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of Jerusalem map copyright © 2019 Google. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  The Jerusalem Assassin is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected] or call 1-800-323-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Rosenberg, Joel C., author.

  Title: The Jerusalem assassin / Joel C. Rosenberg.

  Description: Carol Stream : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019041032 (print) | LCCN 2019041033 (ebook) | ISBN 9781496437846 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781496437860 (kindle edition) | ISBN 9781496437877 (epub) | ISBN 9781496437884 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Political fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3618.O832 J47 2020 (print) | LCC PS3618.O832 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019041032

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019041033

  ISBN 978-1-4964-4605-3 (International Trade Paper Edition)

  ISBN 978-1-4964-3787-7 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-3786-0 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-3788-4 (Apple)

  Build: 2020-02-20 11:44:44 EPUB 3.0

  To my nephew, Luke,

  for whom I have the deepest love and the fondest hopes.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Americans

  Marcus Ryker—special operative, Central Intelligence Agency

  Richard Stephens—director of the Central Intelligence Agency

  Martha Dell—deputy director of intelligence (DDI), Central Intelligence Agency

  Peter Hwang—special operative, Central Intelligence Agency

  Andrew Clarke—president of the United States

  Barry Evans—U.S. national security advisor

  William McDermott—deputy national security advisor

  Margaret “Meg” Whitney—secretary of state

  Kailea Curtis—agent with the Diplomatic Security Service

  Geoff Stone—special agent in charge, Diplomatic Security Service

  Carl Roseboro—deputy director, U.S. Secret Service

  Robert Dayton—U.S. senator (D-Iowa), member of the Senate Intelligence Committee

  Annie Stewart—senior foreign policy advisor to Senator Robert Dayton

  Carter Emerson—pastor, Lincoln Park Baptist Church, Washington, D.C.

  Maya Emerson—wife of the pastor

  Russians

  Oleg Stefanovich Kraskin—son-in-law to the late President Aleksandr Luganov

  Mikhail Borisovich Petrovsky—president of the Russian Federation

  Nikolay Vladimirovich Kropatkin—head of the FSB

  Iranians

  Grand Ayatollah Hossein Ansari—Supreme Leader of Iran

  Yadollah Afshar—president of the Islamic Republic of Iran

  Mahmoud Entezam—commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps

  Dr. Haydar Abbasi—Iranian ballistic missile scientist and director of Iran’s missile program

  Israelis

  Reuven Eitan—prime minister of Israel

  Asher Gilad—director of Mossad

  Tomer Ben Ami—deputy director of the Shin Bet

  Palestinians

  Ismail Ziad—president of the Palestinian Authority

  Amin al-Azzam—Grand Mufti of Jerusalem

  Hussam Mashrawi—director of the Waqf and son-in-law of the Grand Mufti

  Saudis

  Faisal Mohammed—monarch of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  Abdulaziz bin Faisal—heir to the throne and minister of defense

  Abdullah bin Rashid—director of the General Intelligence Directorate


  Turks

  Ahmet Mustafa—president of the Republic of Turkey

  Hamdi Yaşar—producer, Al-Sawt satellite television network

  Others

  Abu Nakba—commander of Kairos

  Mohammed al-Qassab—member of Kairos

  Maxim Sheripov—member of Kairos

  Amina Sheripova—member of Kairos

  Dr. Ali Haqqani—member of Kairos

  “What enables the wise sovereign and the good general to overcome others and achieve things beyond the reach of ordinary men is foreknowledge. Now, this foreknowledge cannot be elicited from ghosts and spirits, nor by analogy with past events, nor by deductive calculation. It must be obtained from men who know the enemy situation.”

  SUN TZU, THE ART OF WAR

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Part 1 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 2 Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Part 3 Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Part 4 Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—15 NOVEMBER

  They were coming, and he knew they were coming, and he knew why—they were coming to kill him and to kill the president and to kill anyone else who got in their way.

  They were coming to settle scores.

  The United States had inflicted too much damage in too short a time. Such actions could not simply be ignored. They had to be avenged. They had to be repaid at the highest levels, starting with the man responsible for issuing the strike orders.

  What wasn’t clear was when or where the attacks would come or how many were coming or precisely how they would strike. Despite vacuuming up untold terabytes of phone calls, emails, text messages, and other electronic communications over the past month, America’s seventeen intelligence agencies had precious little to show for their efforts, and what few leads they had uncovered were infuriatingly inconclusive.

  Yet why let threats of murder and chaos ruin a perfectly good evening? thought Marcus Ryker as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He had never been one to let himself become paralyzed by fear, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Growing up on Colorado’s Front Range, he had lived to push the boundaries, especially as a teenager, to experience the rush of the unknown, to suck the marrow out of life. He wasn’t repelled by danger; he was drawn to it, electrified by it. His sisters accused him of being an adrenaline junkie, and that was probably true. Still, he was no longer as reckless as he had been in his youth. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Time and experience and loss and immense pain had, he hoped, refined his most foolish instincts and perhaps tempered them with a bit of wisdom.

  Unlocking the wall safe in his bedroom closet, he removed his Sig Sauer P229, inserted a full magazine, chambered a round, and put the automatic pistol in his shoulder holster. Next he withdrew two spare magazines and clipped those to his belt before closing and locking the safe. Though there was plenty of disturbing chatter out there, there was no credible intel indicating attacks were imminent anywhere in the homeland, much less here in Washington. But one could never be too careful.

  Opening the front door of his apartment building, he scanned the street. Traffic seemed light, but it was still early. Other than a few teens huddled on a stoop across the street, he saw nothing suspicious. Satisfied that all was clear, Marcus walked briskly down the street and around the corner to where his 1986 Nissan Stanza was parked. It was ugly and brown and rusty and almost as old as he was, but somehow it still ran, and—best of all—it was paid for. He got in and started the engine.

  Two blocks away, Marcus pulled over at a florist and spent far longer than he should have picking out an appropriate arrangement. Too many varieties. Too many colors. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d bought flowers. He finally settled for a bouquet of daffodils and paid the clerk in cash.

  They’d agreed to meet at seven. By the time he got to the town house, it was almost twenty minutes past. And there was no place to park. He eventually found a spot several streets away. He’d be even later now, but it gave him a chance to walk a bit, and that helped settle his nerves.

  Finally reaching his destination, he stepped onto the front porch, knocked on the metal screen door, and waited under the porch light. The night was chilly, and there was a brisk breeze coming off the Potomac River. In faded blue jeans and boots, a black crewneck sweater over a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, he wasn’t exactly cold. But he suddenly wondered if he should have worn a suit or at least a shirt with a collar. In all that had happened over the past few years, there were some things he could not forget, no matter how hard he tried. There were others he struggled to remember, and social graces were among them.

  Marcus knocked again, harder this time, but still no one answered. The longer he stood there on the cre
aky wooden porch, the more he wished he were home, ordering Chinese food, throwing on sweats, and falling asleep on the couch watching ESPN. Pete Hwang kept saying he needed to get out more. Then again, Pete was an idiot. A friend, of course. The best one Marcus still had. But an idiot nonetheless. Divorced. Estranged from his kids. Living alone in a new city. Yet insisting he was enjoying his newfound “bachelor’s life” and trying to get Marcus off his rear end and “back in the game.”

  And then, just as he was contemplating walking back to his car, the front door finally opened.

  2

  “You made it,” Maya Emerson said in her distinctive Southern drawl.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Marcus replied. “But I brought you these.” He held out the bouquet, and the old African American woman’s face lit up.

  “Ooh, I love ’em—aren’t you sweet? And Marcy will be thrilled. She’s been talking about you all week, and she just loves daffodils. How did you know?”

  As Marcus shrugged—he most certainly hadn’t known—the large woman stepped out on the porch and gave him a hug, kissed him on both cheeks, and insisted, as she always did, that he return the favor. Only then did she lead him inside. As Maya disappeared around a corner, Marcus took off his jacket and hung it in the front closet. At the same time, he removed the magazine from his pistol and cleared the chamber, slipping both the mag and the round into his jacket pocket.

  The aromas wafting down the hall from the kitchen were heavenly, and they were beckoning him. Pot roast. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Sweet corn on the cob. Homemade chocolate chip cookies and a pot of freshly brewed coffee. From the family room, Marcus could hear the roaring fire and smell the crackling pine logs. And someone was playing the piano beautifully. That, he had no doubt, was Marcy.

  Heading to the kitchen, he finally began to relax. He loved this home and he loved these people and he knew it was silly of him to have been anxious even for a moment. Somewhere in their midseventies now, Maya and Carter Emerson had been married for more than fifty years. Carter, a decorated Vietnam vet, had been pastoring Lincoln Park Baptist for at least forty. And since Marcus had started attending, they had effectively adopted him, constantly inviting him over for dinner on Wednesday nights before church and for lunch on Sundays after church. Given his schedule, he couldn’t always accept, and even when he was free, he didn’t always come. Mostly he didn’t want to be a bother. These two had so many others who needed their time and affection. Yet his periodic refusals never stopped them from inviting him, and he never regretted coming. The Emersons were the only family he had east of the Mississippi, and they had walked with him through the darkest days of his life.