Larry Bond - Exit Plan

There were also articles on America’s role in the crisis. Some criticized the U.S. for not allying openly with Israel. The threat of a two-nation strike would surely deter Iran. Others complained about “American indifference,” and its refusal to restrain their ally. Many assumed Israeli compliance would be automatic if the U.S. gave the order.

As much as the U.S. tried to stay on the sidelines, it was already a major player in the crisis, based on past decisions and policies. If Israel attacked Iran, they would use U.S.-made planes and many U.S.-made weapons. Even if America did nothing, the country was involved.

And the Iranians made it clear they would do their best to involve the world if the Islamic Republic was attacked. Statements came from either General Moradi himself, or a government spokesman in Iran, and they seemed to be in a competition to see who could make the wildest claims or the darkest threat. Iran would make the Strait of Hormuz an “iron barrier” to the world’s oil tankers, and would “drown Israel in its own blood.”

Iran’s rhetoric wasn’t doing a thing to calm the situation. It fit with what Jerry had told them, but the Iranians routinely trash-talked their enemies. Still, with Israel hypersensitive about its national security, and Iran dedicated to a policy of confrontation and provocation, Patterson wondered if there was any way it could end well.

The pilot’s voice interrupted her reading. “We’ll taxi to the military terminal. The tower says we will be met.”

They had to wait after the door opened while the head of their security detail met with the Israeli security personnel, performed the proper rituals of greeting, and gave the “all clear.”

Hardy and Patterson stepped out into brilliant, almost blinding sunshine. A small, compact-looking man introduced himself. “My name is Adir Ben-Rosen. I’m Dr. Harel’s assistant. He cannot meet with you until later today. In the meantime, we’ve made arrangements for your lodging.” His English was heavily accented, but understandable.

Hardy shook his hand, but did not smile. “I hope Dr. Harel understands the urgency of our visit.”

“Two presidential envoys? In normal times, the deputy director would be here to greet you, but these are not normal times, Senator. Dr. Harel is not in Tel Aviv at the moment, and neither is the director. Dr. Harel is expected back this afternoon, and will meet with you as soon as he returns.”

Ben-Rosen greeted Patterson warmly but did not shake her hand, and gestured toward the waiting cars. As they got in, Joanna whispered, “Orthodox Jew?” to her husband, and he nodded. “Likely, unless you’ve got some history with Israel you haven’t told me about.”

The half-hour drive through Tel Aviv’s center was accompanied by a fascinating description of the sights along the way and the city’s history. Neither of them had been in the city before, and Ben-Rosen recommended restaurants, museums, shops, even plays that they might want to see.

Joanna answered for them. “Tel Aviv has many things we’d love to see, but that will have to be on our next visit. Like your boss, we have a tight schedule.”

The Daniel Hotel was on the west edge of town, almost on the water. The lobby was modern and almost tropical with lush greenery and a stunning view of the Mediterranean. It was located in Herzliya, a suburb north of Tel Aviv that was also the location of Mossad’s headquarters.

They were met by the Daniel Hotel’s manager and welcomed warmly. “Rooms for you and your security staff have been arranged. Your luggage is on its way up to your room. It has a lovely view of the Mediterranean, and there is an excellent outdoor breakfast buffet.”

Ben-Rosen was ready to leave, pleading a pressing schedule, but both Hardy and Patterson forestalled him. “You still haven’t told us when we’ll be able to meet with Dr. Harel,” she reminded him.

The assistant held up his smartphone. “I’m very sorry. I’d been hoping for an update on the deputy director’s arrival while we were driving to the hotel, but it hasn’t arrived. I’ll be back at my office in fifteen minutes, and I will send you a schedule as soon as it’s ready.”

Ben-Rosen hurried off, and Patterson and Hardy headed for the elevators.

7 April 2013

0215 Washington, D.C. Time/0715 Zulu/0915 Tel Aviv Time/

1015 Tehran Time

Daniel Hotel, Herzliya, Israel

Still unpacking, they’d turned on the TV as soon as they’d gotten into the room and found a news channel.

CNN had picked up the live feed from FARS about five minutes after the press conference began. English subtitles scrolled across the screen, but the Israeli news service relaying the CNN broadcast had added their own Hebrew subtitles. The two lines of text partially covered what was not a high-fidelity image.

Patterson recognized General Moradi at once. What else could he possibly say? she wondered.

Now, he stood in front of a battery of cameras and reporters, patiently answering questions. The press conference, according to FARS, the official Iranian news agency, was taking place at a hospital in Deyyer, a town on the Persian Gulf coast, where an unidentified body had washed ashore.

Without even thinking about it, she sat down and called to Lowell. “You need to see this.”

The questions, all from Iranian reporters, were prearranged setups. “When did you find the body? What injuries had it sustained? Have you identified it?”

Moradi was careful with the last question. “We do not know the individual’s identity or nationality. He was wearing an American-made watch, and his uniform is American issue.”

“What do you intend to do next?”

“We are sending his fingerprints and a copy of the autopsy report to the Red Cross in Geneva, to be passed on to the United States so they can determine if this man is one of their service members. He must have a family, and I’m sure they would like to know what has happened to him.”

Behind her, Lowell muttered cynically, “What a considerate guy.” She shushed him.

“There are also questions that must be answered about how he came to be in our territory. Certainly we cannot release a body to anyone until this mystery is solved.”

“What if he is not American?” a reporter asked.

“If the Americans do not claim him, then in several days we will post all the information: fingerprints, photographs, and the autopsy report, on the Internet so that others can examine it, and perhaps tell us who he is. Again, our first consideration is his bereaved family members, and understanding the circumstances of his death.”

Moradi continued, “We have a sketch of his features.” He paused and looked to one side, and a hospital worker held up two poster-sized drawings of a young man, one with a beard and one without.

“It’s Higgs,” she confirmed. She felt a pain in her chest. “I recognize him from the briefing.” She tried to remember what it said about his family.

“Lovely,” Hardy said grimly. “We can get the body back and explain why we were there, or disown him.”

“We can’t do that,” she protested.

“We won’t,” he answered, “but until we get Jerry and company get out of Iran, we can’t answer questions. And thanks to the kindness of General Moradi, Higgs’s family may have just gotten word that he’s dead. How long will it take for the news media to swoop in on them? Suddenly, I want to bomb Tehran.”

The secure phone rang, and Hardy answered. “Yes, Dr. Kirkpatrick, we saw it, too. I can’t predict how the Israelis will react, but it doesn’t reflect well on U.S. capabilities.”

Hardy listened for a minute, then answered, “The best way to fix it is to get Jerry and his people out, then have our own news conference, with an Iranian nuclear engineer and a boatload of files about a weapons program the Iranians say doesn’t exist.”