The Trident Deception Read online

  It was from Evans. Sent last night, just after midnight.

  Christine clicked to open the e-mail and was greeted with a white screen containing a single phrase: E DRIVE.

  e drive?

  Checking the TO: and CC: fields, Christine noted the e-mail had been sent only to her. Turning her attention back to the solitary phrase, she contemplated why Evans would send her this cryptic e-mail. Perhaps the message was incomplete.

  Or maybe it was everything she needed to know.

  Opening the My Computer icon on her desktop, she searched through the drive directory. The C and D drives were folders on the computer’s hard drive. The E drive was her CD drive. Christine pressed Eject, waiting as the drive tray slid out.

  There was nothing in it.

  She tapped her index finger on her desk, wondering if Evans meant his E drive. Stepping outside her office, Christine scanned the desks in the adjacent West Wing alcove where several interns and office staff worked, her eyes coming to rest on the computer beside Evans’s desk. Her intuition gnawed at her, warning her to consider carefully to whom she revealed Evans’s e-mail, as well as the results of her search. After verifying no one else was within view, she stopped by Evans’s desk, pressing Eject on his computer.

  A disk slid out.

  Christine placed the CD into a plastic case resting on Evans’s desk, and a moment later she was back in her office. When she slid the disk into her computer, a windowpane opened on her monitor, displaying the contents of the CD. There were several dozen files, their names consisting of random letters and numbers. Christine double-clicked on the first file, but nothing happened. She tried to open it with various applications, each failing to respond or returning a pane of gibberish.

  As she searched, a Recall notice from Evans appeared in her Outlook in-box, and a second later, the notice and Evans’s original e-mail were gone. Christine blinked at the screen in stunned silence, until two things became clear.

  The first was that whoever had killed Evans had his BlackBerry.

  The second was that there was something very important about his CD.

  Christine picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number to the office in Langley. A few rings later, the call was answered.

  “Director Ronan, this is Christine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  5

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Greg Vandiver’s eyes cracked open against their will, fluttering shut again in response to the bright shaft of sunlight streaming through the second-story bedroom window overlooking Rabin Square. Rolling to his side, Vandiver forced his eyelids back open again, the color of his bloodshot eyes matching the numbers on the digital clock next to his bed. A painful pounding reverberated through his head, and it took a moment for him to realize someone was banging on the bedroom door—Joyce, no doubt. Vandiver sat up quickly, immediately regretting it as his head began throbbing in sync with the vigorous knocks.

  Suddenly remembering he was not in bed alone, Vandiver turned and studied the young woman sleeping peacefully next to him, a thin sheet covering her naked body. Her straight, glossy black hair was spread across the white pillow as if it had been neatly arranged for a photo shoot. Almond-shaped eyes and caramel-colored skin rounded out her sensual beauty, a sharp contrast to the man admiring her. At five foot six and 180 pounds, U.S. Ambassador Greg Vandiver was not a particularly attractive man. Constantly on a diet that included too much wine and dessert, he had steadily added weight to his frame. Yet, at fifty-five, his smile retained its youthful exuberance and his thick black hair had yet to be invaded by the first strand of gray. His wealth and political influence compensated for his bland physical features—it never failed to amaze him how young women found money and power almost impossible to resist.

  The pounding on the door resumed, this time accompanied by a rattling of its hinges. Vandiver stooped down, pulling on a white cotton robe he had deposited on the floor the previous evening. “Enter!” he shouted, immediately regretting his loud response as his head pulsed. The woman next to him stirred in her sleep, licking her full, luscious lips.

  The door swung open, and Vandiver’s executive assistant entered the bedroom. It took only a second for Joyce Eddings’s eyes to take in the all-too-familiar scene. “You need to get moving, Ambassador. You have an unscheduled meeting with the prime minister in an hour and a half at his office in Jerusalem.”

  Vandiver studied Joyce’s face; as usual, she expressed neither approval nor disapproval. Glancing at the clock again, he verified he had thirty minutes before departing for his meeting. But first, he had to make arrangements for a token of appreciation for his female guest. “Can you send—”

  “Roses or carnations?” Joyce asked, pad and pen already in her hands.

  Vandiver pondered for a moment, recalling his late-night escapade. “Roses. And get her phone number.”

  “Her name?” Joyce asked, the corners of her mouth turning slightly upward as she prepared to wait patiently while the ambassador struggled to answer the simple, yet always difficult, question.

  Vandiver’s eyes fell to the young woman still asleep in bed, trying to pull her name from last evening’s fog. While he never forgot a face or a body, names were another matter altogether. Finally, he located the first memory of last night’s encounter—her warm, firm handshake, the movement of her eyes as she quickly surveyed his body, her glistening lips parting as she introduced herself. Aah, yes.

  “Alyssah.” A beautiful name for an even more beautiful girl.

  Ambassador Vandiver lifted up the bedsheet, admiring Alyssah’s exquisite body one last time before beginning his day. Letting out a heavy sigh, he let the sheet fall.

  * * *

  An hour later, the harsh morning sun reflected off the flat desert landscape as a black Mercedes-Benz sped southeast along Highway 1, following the path of the ancient Roman highway connecting the coastal plains of the Mediterranean and the sandstone buildings of Jerusalem. Vandiver relaxed in the backseat of the armored S600 as Joyce, seated beside him, shuffled through several folders on her lap, searching for the answer to his last question. Vandiver knew it was unlikely the issue of foreign military financing would come up at this morning’s meeting. However, he preferred to be prepared. While showering and shaving, he had narrowed the list of potential topics, with this being the seventh and least probable on his list.

  Joyce succeeded in locating the desired brief, pulling it from the folder with an exaggerated gesture. As she traced her finger down the sheet looking for the amount of economic and military aid provided by the United States to Israel and its neighbors each year, Vandiver reflected on how the U.S. government, not unlike himself, routinely used its wealth and influence to seduce or, to more accurately describe the process, procure reluctant friends.

  The 1979 Israel-Egypt peace treaty was hailed by many as a historic turning point, bringing the long-awaited peace desired by both Arabs and Israelis. But most people didn’t know this international agreement had been, in part, procured by the United States. Each year the treaty remains in effect, Egypt receives two billion dollars in aid and Israel four billion, the bulk of which is foreign military financing—a grant that must be spent on U.S. military equipment. A clever way, Vandiver had to admit, to buy friends and influence their behavior while simultaneously feeding the American defense industry.

  As Vandiver reflected on the tactics employed by the powerful United States against its weaker enemies and friends alike, he found it ironic they were passing the Route 38 interchange, taking travelers south to the Valley of Elah, the site of David’s epic biblical battle against Goliath. Only fourteen miles from Jerusalem and flanked by rolling Judean hills, the verdant valley slopes gently downward to a carpet of red anemones and multicolored lupines, through which wanders the seasonal brook where David gathered the stone used to slay Goliath.

  Israel, despite its size, was no David, easily fielding the most capable military in the Middle East and the only country i
n the region with nuclear weapons. The outcome of a conflict with any of its neighbors, or even a multinational coalition, was not in doubt. However, Vandiver had learned from his lead Diplomatic Security Service agent that Israel’s National Security Council had met unexpectedly late last night. The prime minister’s request they meet so quickly after the Security Council meeting worried him. It was likely America’s assistance would be requested. What could possibly be beyond Israel’s capability?

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Vandiver’s car rolled to a halt outside a building that looked more like a run-down factory on the side of a highway than the headquarters of Israel’s executive government. Vandiver knew that aside from the luxurious Aquarium, the accommodations in the prime minister’s headquarters matched the building’s outward appearance. Climbing out of the sedan, Vandiver was greeted by Hirshel Mekel, the prime minister’s executive assistant, and another man, Mekel’s aide. After the requisite introductions, the young aide guided Joyce toward the Media Situation Room as Mekel escorted Vandiver into the Aquarium.

  Entering Levi Rosenfeld’s office, Vandiver crossed the room, extending his hand. “Good morning, Prime Minister.”

  Rosenfeld rose, stepping out from behind his desk to greet his American friend. “I’m glad you could meet this morning on such short notice.”

  Vandiver shook Rosenfeld’s hand vigorously. “No problem at all.” Glancing to his left, Vandiver noticed a man sitting in a chair against the wall.

  “Barak Kogen,” Rosenfeld said, “my intelligence minister.”

  Vandiver eyed the head of Israel’s Mossad warily for a second before returning his attention to Rosenfeld. “What can I do for you today, Prime Minister?”

  “We have a serious situation,” Rosenfeld said, “and we need the United States’ assistance.”

  “How can we help?”

  “Please, sit.” Rosenfeld returned to his seat and Vandiver sat in a chair across from Rosenfeld’s desk. A steward knocked, then entered with a tray of coffee and pastries, which he deposited on the end table next to Vandiver’s chair. After pouring the ambassador a cup of coffee, the steward retreated, and Rosenfeld waited patiently while Vandiver’s hand hovered over the pastries, finally selecting the most appealing one. Now that Ambassador Vandiver had a cup of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other, he devoted his full attention to Israel’s prime minister as he spoke.

  “We have been concerned, Ambassador, that Iran will develop nuclear weapons, fearful they will be used against Israel. We have discovered that Iran is less than ten days away from completing the assembly of its first nuclear bomb.”

  Vandiver interrupted the prime minister, waving the pastry in his hand in the process. “Iran wouldn’t dare use nuclear weapons against you. They know the United States wouldn’t stand by—that we’d retaliate.” Vandiver paused, realizing how his last statement, meant to reassure their ally, might have sounded to the Israelis. After Iran wipes out part, if not your entire country, we’ll teach them a lesson.

  Thinly veiled disgust spread across Rosenfeld’s face. “We cannot let Iran obtain nuclear weapons. Unfortunately, the Iranian weapon complex is deep underground, protected by hardened bunkers. The conventional weapons in Israel’s arsenal aren’t powerful enough to destroy this facility, so we need your assistance. We need four of your newest bunker-busting bombs…” Rosenfeld glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk, “the Massive Ordnance Penetrator, by the end of this week.”

  Vandiver placed the half-eaten pastry back onto the tray, his friendly demeanor transitioning to a cool façade. “I’m afraid I already know the answer to your request, Prime Minister. I’ve discussed this topic extensively with Washington, and the answer is no. Our administration is committed to peaceful negotiations with Iran, and will not authorize the transfer of any weapons to Israel that could disrupt that process.”

  “I see,” Rosenfeld said tersely.

  Kogen joined the conversation. “Ambassador Vandiver, I noticed your choice of words. You said the United States would not authorize the transfer of the weapons we seek. What is the United States willing to transfer to Israel without official authorization?”

  Vandiver straightened his back. “It appears I’ve chosen my words poorly. Let me rephrase, to be perfectly clear. The United States will not provide Israel with additional offensive weapons, either officially or unofficially. Am I speaking clearly enough now?”

  Kogen leaned back in his chair, the friendly expression on his face fading to an impassive mask. “Clear as crystal, I believe the saying goes in your country.”

  Vandiver turned back to Rosenfeld, whose face was slowly reddening as he absorbed the ambassador’s response. More than thirty years earlier, President Reagan’s use of the term “evil empire” in characterizing the Soviet Union, and later, George W. Bush’s coinage of “axis of evil” had been ridiculed by many, their overly simplistic view of the world failing to reflect the complexity of modern politics. But Vandiver knew Rosenfeld shared that view, that he believed the two American presidents had assessed the situation with remarkable clarity—right versus wrong, good versus evil. And Israel’s war against Islamic fanaticism was a quintessential example of the struggle between good and evil. A struggle the United States was now refusing to support.

  “You claim to be Israel’s closest ally,” Rosenfeld fumed, his frustration bleeding through as he spoke, “yet you abandon us in our hour of need. Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Ambassador. Israel has the means to defend herself, and the fallout”—Rosenfeld hesitated for a moment as if reconsidering his choice of words—“the blood we shed will be on your hands if you do not provide us with the conventional weapons we need.”

  There was an uneasy silence as Vandiver assimilated the prime minister’s last statement. Rosenfeld’s choice of words did not go unnoticed, but they couldn’t possibly mean what Vandiver thought they did. “Are you saying Israel will use nuclear weapons to destroy the Iranian facility?”

  Rosenfeld greeted the ambassador’s question with an icy stare.

  The hair stood up on the back of Vandiver’s neck. This was not just another diplomatic drill, putting a face on the administration’s policies. Israel was actually contemplating the use of nuclear weapons in a proactive attack to defend itself. The Arab and world response would be unpredictable; a half dozen scenarios played out quickly in Vandiver’s mind, all of them bad. Very bad. But one thing was clear—no matter what followed Israel’s use of nuclear weapons, the outcome would be catastrophic for Middle East peace and stability. Israel could not be allowed to conduct a nuclear first strike.

  Vandiver’s eyes narrowed. “The support you have within the United States, both from its people and government, not to mention the four billion dollars in defense aid you receive each year, will evaporate if you attack Iran with nuclear weapons.”

  Rosenfeld stood suddenly. “Thank you for coming, Ambassador. I presume you know the way out?” His hands remained at his sides. No warm handshake and friendly smile would follow this morning’s meeting.

  U.S. Ambassador Greg Vandiver stood, glaring at Rosenfeld, then turned abruptly and left.

  * * *

  Barak Kogen rose and closed the door to Rosenfeld’s office, locking it. Turning back toward the older man, he waited as the prime minister collapsed into his chair. The meeting had gone exactly as he had expected. The Americans could no longer be counted on to defend Israel, and now his foresight would prove valuable. The Mossad’s operation had been tabletopped a hundred times, and after the addition of a few contingency plans, the outcome was always the same. All that stood in the way was the prime minister’s approval.

  Assessing the older man’s crestfallen appearance, Kogen decided to press Rosenfeld again for approval. “It appears the only way to defend Israel is through the use of nuclear weapons,” he began. “And who do you want the world to blame for this attack? We have the opportunity to defend ourselves and pin the blame on ou
r so-called ally, who abandons us when we need their assistance the most.”

  After a moment, Rosenfeld replied, “We cannot defend our people by unleashing a nuclear holocaust, Barak. You seem unable to recognize that moral restriction.”

  “No, Levi, I disagree. You seem unable to recognize the choice you face. You must choose either Israel’s survival or destruction.”

  After a moment’s thought, Rosenfeld shook his head slowly. “I disagree, Barak. I’m prepared to authorize conventional strikes to protect our people, but not a nuclear attack. We will monitor Natanz closely, and if they move their weapon from the facility, we will strike quickly.”

  Kogen’s eyes glowered, his frustration increasing as the hope Rosenfeld would authorize the Mossad operation faded. “We may not be able to detect the weapon’s movement and strike before it is used against us. We have the opportunity to destroy this bomb and eliminate the risk to our people, but you must authorize the operation soon. Think this through carefully, Levi, before you let this opportunity pass.”

  6

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  It was just before noon as a black BMW 7 Series sedan navigated the busy Jerusalem streets, fighting its way toward the original walled city in the heart of the Israeli capital. The previous week’s storm had left behind a plain blue sky from which hung a solitary yellow disk, spreading welcome warmth across the city. Tables from roadside cafés spilled out onto the sidewalks, nearly every chair occupied as the city’s population celebrated the sun’s reemergence after a weeklong hiatus. The crowded sidewalks had dried for the most part, and pedestrians skirted the few shallow puddles that remained as Rosenfeld’s sedan passed by unnoticed.

  In the backseat of the armored car, Rosenfeld tried unsuccessfully to relax. He had slept fitfully, his dreams filled with images of Hannah, and had awoken tired and irritable. If that weren’t enough, his meeting with Ehud Rabin this morning had been contentious, their conversation focused on military options available to destroy the Iranian nuclear facilities. His defense minister and old friend continued to insist the only way to destroy the facility at Natanz was with a nuclear strike.