Without Warning Read online

Not Saddam Hussein, the Butcher of Baghdad.

  Not Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and the forces of al Qaeda in Iraq.

  Not Abu Khalif and the forces of the Islamic State.

  No, in the president’s worldview, apparently it was the Jews—in Israel and the United States—along with the oil companies and also our “freeloading” Sunni Arab allies (presumably Jordan, Egypt, the Saudis, and the Gulf emirates)—who were responsible for every war the U.S. had ever fought in the region.

  The implications of the president’s remarks were far-reaching, but for the moment I couldn’t go there. I was still trying to understand the mind-set of an American leader—a Democrat backed by more than 70 percent of the American Jewish community—turning so harshly against people who had so wholeheartedly supported him.

  There was no time to think about any of it much further, however, for suddenly the taxi lurched onto some Tel Aviv side street and then down a series of ramps into the bowels of a dark parking garage, and before I knew it, we had screeched to a halt.

  My door was opened by one of several large, swarthy men, all wearing black leather jackets and jeans. “Excuse me, Mr. McClaire,” he said. “Would you please follow us?”

  For a moment I thought they had the wrong guy.

  “Mr. McClaire, please—your contact is a busy man, and he has a schedule to keep.”

  Finally I recognized the alias. I had used it, along with one of the fake passports Khachigian had left me, when I’d flown to Israel several days earlier.

  I stepped out of the taxi, hoping these men were connected to my source and that they weren’t going to double-tap me and stuff my body in the trunk of one of the dozens of cars and minivans parked all around me. Either way, there was no point resisting. I wasn’t armed. I wasn’t trained in self-defense. No one even knew I was here. Why not just get on with it?

  I followed my escorts through the garage, through a filthy exit door, into a putrid stairwell, and up several flights of concrete steps. The more steps we climbed, however, the less concerned I was about getting shot in the back of the head execution-style and the more certain I was that my fishing expedition had been successful after all.

  We soon exited on the ground floor. The air was chilly but fresh—almost sweet—as my handlers walked me across the street. Yesterday’s storm had subsided. We were in the heart of the ancient town of Jaffa, just south of Tel Aviv, and once we entered a park overlooking empty beaches and crashing surf, they told me to sit down on a wooden bench. One of them lit a cigarette. The other pretended to tie his shoes.

  “Mr. McClaire,” said a kindly, older voice just over my right shoulder. “What an unexpected pleasure. Welcome to Israel.”

  I turned and found Ari Shalit, the head of Israeli Mossad, coming around the far side of the bench, bundled up in a long navy-blue winter coat, a plaid Scottish cap, a scarf, and leather gloves.

  “Ari,” I said, standing to greet him and shake his hand, as surprised as I was relieved. “It’s so good to see you. Thanks for making some time.”

  “Of course—you didn’t really think I’d let you fly off to the Gulf without saying hello, did you?”

  I held my tongue. That was exactly what I’d thought, but I was glad to be wrong.

  “So,” he said, “how’s life in the Caribbean?”

  I was so stunned I didn’t know how to respond. My mouth opened, but no words would form.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “It’s my job to know such things, is it not?”

  It took me a moment to recover. “Is it really that easy?” I finally asked.

  “If you know what to look for, yes.”

  “Does Abu Khalif know what to look for?”

  “No, not yet,” said Shalit. “Besides, he has his hands full right now. For the time being, your brother and his family are safe.”

  I stared out at the whitecaps on the roiling Mediterranean, unsure whether to be relieved or worried.

  “There is one thing I don’t understand, and I must ask you,” Shalit said. “Why did Agent Harris let you come? I mean, your being here is quite a risk for someone in the Witness Protection Program.”

  “He didn’t let me,” I said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  For once, it was Ari Shalit who didn’t know what to say.

  “Although,” I continued, “if you know I’m here, the CIA probably knows. And if the CIA knows, the FBI must know. And if they know, Harris knows. Am I right?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you did everything right,” Shalit said. “Flew to New York—not commercial but by private plane. Then changed planes. Flew to London. Bought a new iPhone. Changed planes again. Flew to Madrid. Changed again. Came here. All different tail numbers. Different names, different passports, different credit cards. You were careful. I’ve been impressed. It was like you’d been a spy all your life. I doubt the guys at Langley saw any red flags.”

  “But you figured it out.”

  “Yes, but we were expecting you to come,” Shalit said, staring out at the sea. “They were expecting you to stay.”

  53

  “You were expecting me to come here?” I asked, once again surprised.

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “We were right to do so, weren’t we?”

  “Yeah, but if you knew I was coming, why did you just let me sit alone at the Carlton for four days, doing nothing, without even responding, without even telling me you’d gotten my message?”

  Shalit shook his head. “You weren’t alone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Everyone in that executive lounge was Mossad,” he explained. “We were watching you. Testing you. Waiting to see if you’d start drinking again. To see if anyone was following you. See how you’d react to disappointment. And to see if you had a plan after us.”

  “And what did you learn?” I asked.

  “You booked a flight to Dubai. So you did have a plan. And you hadn’t been drinking. And you had been quite patient, after all. And no one was following you. So here you are.”

  “Then you know why I came?” I asked.

  “I think so,” Shalit replied. “But I want to hear it from you.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, then paused for a bit, watching the waves crash against the rocky Jaffa shoreline. “I want in.”

  “In?” he asked. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “You’re hunting for Abu Khalif,” I said in a hushed tone, even though at this early hour, and season and temperature, no one but the bodyguards was around. “He murdered your prime minister. You want to make him pay. But you’re getting almost no help from Washington. Or the Europeans. And ISIS is still on the move. They’re still slaughtering innocent people, still on offense, still planning bigger and more deadly attacks. You know they’re coming here, to Tel Aviv, to Jerusalem, to Haifa and Tiberias. You know they don’t just want to kill Americans. They also want to murder Jews—Israelis in particular—and as many as they can. So you need help, and you need it fast. That’s why I’ve come.”

  At this, Shalit turned and looked directly at me. “You came to help us?” he said, appearing genuinely perplexed.

  “Yes.”

  “To help us find and kill Abu Khalif?”

  “Exactly.”

  “This is why you’ve risked your life, and your brother’s and your sister-in-law’s and your niece’s lives, to crisscross around the world, to come all the way over here, to meet with me, to tell me you want to join the Mossad and help us assassinate Abu Khalif?”

  “Why else?”

  Shalit sat there for a long while, searching my eyes, trying to read me. It was rare to see him caught off guard. The fifty-seven-year-old spook had built his career on knowing everything about everyone, on knowing all secrets, large and small. This was what had made him one of the most interesting operatives I’d eve
r met in the Middle East. The fact that we’d been friends for almost two decades had made him an invaluable source. But right now I wasn’t looking for a story. I was looking for a job.

  “I am not easily surprised, Mr. McClaire,” he said, emphasizing my new alias. “But I must confess, today I am. I thought you were here for something else—something else entirely.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Honestly? I thought you were here for Yael.”

  “Yael Katzir?” I asked.

  “Who else?”

  “Well, who says I’m not?” I asked.

  “You haven’t brought her up.”

  “What are you, her father?”

  He laughed. “No, no, of course not.”

  “Then with all due respect, why would you care?”

  “I’m her boss,” he said.

  “I thought she was working for the prime minister.”

  “You thought wrong,” he said simply. “She turned that job down. You didn’t know?”

  “No,” I said. “Can’t say I did. Why didn’t she take it?”

  “Why didn’t she tell you herself?” he replied.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Then it’s not my place to say. For that, you’ll have to talk to her directly. But for this other topic, I can honestly say I did not see this coming.”

  “Clearly.”

  He turned back to the sea. “You’re not a spy,” he said after a long silence.

  “True.”

  “You haven’t got the training.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And you already have a job.”

  “Had,” I corrected him.

  “You quit?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Fired?”

  “Let’s just say I’m on an extended leave of absence.”

  “Paid?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you afford not to work?”

  “Again, Ari, with all due respect . . .”

  “You think that’s none of my business?”

  I shrugged.

  “Think again. If you want to work for me, Mr. McClaire, everything is my business.”

  There was no guarantee he was going to let me in if I told him, but I was guaranteed to be shut out if I refused to say anything. So I explained as concisely as I could what Robert Khachigian had done for my brother and me.

  “J. B.,” he sighed, finally abandoning the pretense of my alias. “If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t even be giving you the time of day. You have no training. You have no security clearances. You’re not Israeli. You’re not Jewish. The list of reasons I should be putting you back on your private jet to the Caribbean is a mile long.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Make the case,” he said. “Sell it to me.”

  “It’s simple,” I said. “I’m the only Westerner on the planet who has ever met Abu Khalif. I’m the only Westerner to have ever spoken with him at length. I know what he looks like. I know what he sounds like. I’ve met his closest advisors and spoken to them. I’ve read everything ever written about him. I know how he thinks. I know what he wants. I speak Arabic. And he thinks I’m in hiding. That’s my competitive advantage. I’m in his blind spot—he doesn’t see me coming.”

  “Maybe not,” Shalit said. “But I’ve got a pretty sharp team. They’ve studied him too. They’re trained. They’re experienced. They’ve been doing this a long time. How are you going to find him if they can’t?”

  “They can, and they will, but they need my help—and so do you,” I said. “Before Bob Khachigian died, he wrote me a letter. He made it clear that his final wish was for me to track down Abu Khalif. And he gave me several leads.”

  “What kind of leads?”

  “Names,” I said. “Three of them, to be exact.”

  “What names?”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “First you agree to put me on your team.”

  “But why come to us? Why not go to the CIA?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the acting director’s hands are tied.”

  “By whom?”

  “By a man blaming your country for all the wars in the region.”

  “No comment,” Shalit said.

  I nodded.

  “To be fair, your president says he wants to take down all the ISIS leaders. He’s authorizing drone strikes, bombings. And ISIS leaders are dying—two more just yesterday.”

  “The president wants headlines,” I snapped. “I want Abu Khalif’s head.”

  Shalit said nothing.

  “We’ve known each other for a long time, Ari. You trust me, and I trust you. That’s why I’m here.”

  Again Shalit looked out at the Mediterranean. “Do you really understand the risks you’re taking, my friend?”

  “I’m willing to die for my country,” I said as though I meant it, though I wasn’t entirely sure I did. The truth was, death flat-out terrified me. I had no idea what the afterlife really held or how to determine my eternal fate. Maybe my mom and Josh were right. Maybe Pastor Brooks was. Maybe not. But that was all a different subject for a different time.

  “Perhaps you are willing to die for your country, J. B., but are you willing to die for mine?” Shalit asked.

  “Honestly? No. But this isn’t about me dying for anyone’s country; it’s about making Abu Khalif die for all he’s done.”

  “So you’re here for vengeance?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really.”

  “Justice, then.”

  “In part,” I said.

  “What else?” Shalit asked. “Why do this? Why take such risks?”

  “I want my life back, Ari,” I said. “But even more, I want Matt and Annie and Katie to have their lives back. I want them to live free and safe and without a care in this world. I owe them that. Actually, I owe them much more. But I have nothing else to give them than this. Now what do you say? Are you going to let me help you guys hunt down Abu Khalif or not?”

  54

  The Mossad chief abruptly stood.

  “It’s time,” he said, adjusting his scarf and collar to protect himself from the wind.

  “Time for what?” I asked, standing as well.

  “Let’s go for a little ride,” he said, pointing to a black sedan that had just pulled up, followed by two black Chevy Suburbans.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What about my luggage, my briefcase, my laptop?” I asked, picturing them in the trunk of the taxicab in the nearby parking garage.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “All your belongings are safe. But I will need your new mobile phone.”

  When I asked why, he explained he was going to take the battery out of it so no one could track our movements.

  “We’re going someplace no one can know about,” he added. “Now come. We don’t want to be late.”

  Our driver worked his way out of Tel Aviv’s morning gridlock and got us on Highway 2, heading north along the coast toward Haifa. Just before we reached Herzliya—the elite seaside community filled with enormous overpriced homes owned by high-tech Israeli CEOs and former government ministers now serving on their boards—he took a right on Highway 5, then turned north on Highway 6.

  Eventually we arrived at the Ramat David Air Base in the Jezreel Valley. This was the country’s main air base in the north and home to some of Israel’s most advanced fighter jets, including the new F-35i stealth fighters.

  I pulled out my pocket watch. It was a little before ten. Our driver turned off the main road, pulled to the first guard station, and came to a halt. Young soldiers holding machine guns watched us carefully as we all handed over our photo IDs—even the acting director of the Mossad.

  A few minutes later, we were cleared to proceed. The gates opened, and our driver eased us f
orward.

  We took a quick right and wound around the inner perimeter of the base. In the distance I could see rows of F-15s and F-16s being cleaned and refueled, and I could hear several taking off and landing. Then we reached the far side of the base and stopped in front of a nondescript, unmarked concrete building with a few cars parked out front and a sentry standing post.

  Two of Shalit’s bodyguards got out, surveyed the area, nodded to each other that the coast was clear, and then opened Ari’s door and mine. The base was remarkable in how unremarkable it looked. All the buildings were badly in need of fresh paint and basic repairs. The pavement on the roads and tarmacs was cracked, and weeds were growing everywhere. The barracks for the rank-and-file soldiers looked like they hadn’t been spruced up since the Independence War, and even the accommodations for the pilots and other officers were largely unimproved. The reason was obvious enough. The Israelis had no money to spend on improving their bases. They were funneling every shekel into the planes themselves, their weapons, their avionics, and the training of the men and women who flew and serviced them. Little else mattered, so little else got funded.

  Inside the nondescript building we were greeted by a major who led us through a series of electronically locked doors, down a long hallway, and onto an elevator.

  “Okay, Mr. McClaire,” Shalit said as the doors closed and we descended, “you asked for it. You got it. You’re in.”

  “Thank you, Ari,” I said, suddenly feeling the weight of such an honor and enormous responsibility.

  “Don’t thank me now,” he said. “You have no idea what you just signed up for, my friend.”

  The elevator door opened, and Shalit led me into a rather spacious but windowless office. “Have a seat,” he said. “The major here will help you fill out some paperwork. I’ll be back to get you when you’re done.”

  Shalit wasn’t kidding about the paperwork. The waivers and nondisclosure forms and all kinds of other legalese took me almost an hour to read through carefully. The short version was that I was not an employee of the State of Israel. I was not an employee of the Mossad. I was not an independent contractor for Israel or the Mossad or any other government or private institution in Israel. I was not being paid or compensated in any way by the State of Israel, the Mossad, or any Israeli entity. I was not receiving from Israel any medical insurance or any life insurance or any of two dozen other listed benefits. What’s more, I agreed to completely indemnify the State of Israel, its citizens, and its agents from all future claims of liability related to my volunteer services. I would not disclose the names, ranks, or other personal or professional details of any Israeli citizen or resident I met during the course of my volunteer work. I would treat all paperwork and electronic documents as the property of the State of Israel, handle it all as highly confidential and sensitive, and not share, give, pass, transfer, transmit, or in any other way communicate their existence or their substance, even in a redacted or summary fashion, to any unauthorized foreign national, including my own lawyers, family members, or friends, without express written permission—which I would never receive. Ever. And on and on it went.