4

Firouz could hear the sirens approaching.

The motorcade was almost there. It was time. He carefully poked his head up and looked across the street. To his left stood St. Bartholomew’s Church, at the corner of Park Avenue and East Fiftieth Street. Straight ahead he could see the Park Avenue entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria. Using a laser range finder, he calculated the front doors at precisely 110 meters away, near-optimum distance for the weapon at his side and the one now in Rahim’s hands.

Though his view was slightly obstructed by several trees growing in the median, there were no leaves on the trees this early in the year, which helped. When he had scoped out the twenty-five-story office building, he had briefly considered a higher office, above the trees and with a broader and arguably more commanding view of the street below. But in the end he had opted not to sacrifice distance for a clear sight line. He needed to be close. That was the primary issue. He couldn’t see perfectly, but it would do.

The mob of media types was obvious enough in a roped-off area on the sidewalk to the right of the main doors. Reporters, still photographers, TV cameramen, and producers—they were all there, making final preparations of their own as the first of the police motorcycles rolled in. With red and blue lights flashing everywhere, Firouz counted a half-dozen NYPD uniformed officers standing with or near the press and another fifteen to twenty officers in key positions on both sides of the street, holding back a small crowd and making sure the adjacent streets remained sealed off. He also counted at least a dozen plainclothes agents, a mixture, he assumed, of the Secret Service, the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service, and the city’s VIP protective unit, as well as Israeli Shin Bet and an Egyptian contingent.

Little did they know they were going to have a front-row seat.

* * *

The motorcade roared up East Forty-Seventh Street.

But Ramzy was not finished. As they turned right onto Park Avenue, the Egyptian leader explained that his intelligence services had two sources inside the royal palace in Riyadh. Neither knew the other’s identity, but that morning, each of them—unbeknownst to the other—had sent urgent messages back to Cairo indicating that the Ayatollah Hosseini, Iran’s Supreme Leader, had personally called the Saudi king twenty-four hours earlier and told him that Iran’s nuclear weapons were operational and that one would be detonated on Saudi soil within the month if His Excellency didn’t welcome the Twelfth Imam, show him proper deference, and prepare a lavish welcome ceremony in Mecca.

It was news to Naphtali, but Jackson was not impressed.

“The NSA picked up the same calls,” he replied. “But if I had a dime for every lie Hosseini has told, the US wouldn’t have a national debt.”

“That’s not the point, Mr. President,” Ramzy pushed back.

“Then what is?”

“The Saudis—keepers of Mecca, keepers of Medina, commanders of the faithful—are being blackmailed by their worst enemies, the Persians. Why? Is it because King Jeddawi, the most devout Sunni Muslim on the planet, has suddenly, secretly converted to Shia Islam? No. It is because he is terrified for his life, for his riches, for his kingdom. He’s convinced Iran has the Bomb, and that has changed everything. And now the neighboring nations will start to fall. First the Saudis, then the Kuwaitis, then the Emirates.”

The car was silent for a moment, save Agent Bruner issuing commands on his wrist-mounted radio. Then the specially designed Cadillac pulled up to the Waldorf’s famous art deco entrance and drew smoothly to a halt. A team of agents jumped out of two black SUVs in the rear of the motorcade and began taking up positions around Stagecoach and Halfback. Bruner issued more instructions, making sure all his men were in place, then turned and caught Jackson’s attention.

“We’re here, Mr. President.”

“In a moment, Mike,” Jackson replied. He had a question he wanted answered before they headed inside. Turning to Ramzy, he asked bluntly, “Abdel, tell me one thing. Why are you more obsessed than Asher here with this whole Twelfth Imam thing?”

Abdel paused for a moment, seeming surprised by the question. “I wouldn’t call it an obsession, Mr. President. I don’t think that’s a fair characterization. Am I concerned? Yes. Deeply. But even more than that, I believe the pharaohs are watching me. I believe all my forefathers are watching me. I will go to them soon. This I know all too well. And when I see them face to face in the afterlife, I don’t want to be received as the man who lost Egypt.”

Jackson pondered that answer, and as he did, he discerned something he had never considered before. “It was you who ordered the assassination of Dr. Saddaji in Hamadan the other day,” he said, looking Ramzy in the eye.

Until just a moment ago, Jackson had been convinced that Naphtali and the Mossad had been responsible for the car bombing that had killed Iran’s top nuclear scientist just two weeks earlier.

Ramzy motioned out the window at Agent Bruner, ready to open the limousine’s back door and usher them past the crowd of journalists and inside the Waldorf to greet the 1,500 guests eagerly anticipating their arrival. “They’re waiting,” the Egyptian said softly.

“So am I,” the president said.

Ramzy looked back at both of them with a twinkle in his eye. “I actually don’t know who did it exactly,” he demurred. “It was a beautiful hit, I agree. But whoever ordered it waited too long. It should have been done six months ago.”

There it was, Jackson realized. A classic nondenial denial. Ramzy wasn’t formally accepting credit or blame, and yet he was. Six months earlier, Jackson remembered, the eighty-two-year-old Egyptian had been undergoing open-heart surgery. He had been bedridden nearly ever since. This was his first foreign trip in almost a year. But just because he hadn’t been traveling didn’t mean Abdel Mohammad Ramzy hadn’t been on the move.

* * *

Firouz summoned Jamshad on his radio.

“Make sure the stairwell is clear.”

“I’m on it.”

“And make sure Navid is in place.”

“Of course—absolutely.”

Firouz then turned to his closest friend and nodded. Each man pulled a black balaclava ski mask over his face and donned protective eyewear.

“Are you ready, Rahim?”

“I serve at the pleasure of the Promised One, Firouz. And you?”

“Yes, my friend, and I count it an honor to complete this mission with you, of all people.”

* * *

Agent Bruner saw Jackson give him the signal.

Immediately he opened the back door of the limo, which at nearly eight inches thick was as impenetrable as a vault door.

“Look sharp, everyone,” he said into his radio, once again scanning the faces in the media section and the crowd across the street. “Renegade’s moving.”

The president stepped out of the car and smiled for the cameras. Then he turned back and helped President Ramzy out of the car as well, carrying his portable oxygen tank for him.

In the harsh glare of the TV lights, Ramzy looked even older than he was, Bruner thought. He moved slowly and with a limp. But to his surprise, even though he knew Ramzy hated the media and typically dodged the press at almost all costs, tonight the Egyptian president seemed drawn to the blizzard of photographs being taken. Indeed, even before the detail of Shin Bet agents could run up from the back of the motorcade, take their positions, and help Prime Minister Naphtali out of the limo, Ramzy hobbled over to the press section and actually took a question shouted out by the New York bureau chief for Al Jazeera.

“What is Sphinx doing?” one agent asked over the radio.

“I don’t know,” Bruner said, “but get two men up at his side—now.”

* * *

Firouz poked his head up one more time.

It was a risk, he knew, but he had no choice. He had brought with him a portable Sony TV and a small satellite receiver. He’d been hoping to watch live coverage of the president’s arrival. He’d hoped that would enable him to see precisely what was happening across the street. But none of the networks—American or foreign—was carrying it live, including Al Jazeera, and he was out of time.

Through a pair of high-powered binoculars, Firouz could see Ramzy talking to the press. It was a shocking sight. Firouz had grown up watching television coverage of Abdel Ramzy ruling Egypt with an iron fist. But he couldn’t remember a single time the man had willingly spoken to the press corps. Still, it was a good development. It meant the three leaders would be motionless for a few moments, at least, and that was all they needed.

Firouz scanned further and could see President Jackson a few steps to the Egyptian’s left, closer to the front door of the hotel, which someone was holding open. He could see two Secret Service agents beside the president and several more just a few steps back. There were other men in suits standing there too. One of them looked like Prime Minister Naphtali. Firouz couldn’t be sure, not with the trees obstructing his vision. He desperately wanted absolute confirmation. He realized he should have positioned someone on the ground, another spotter who could have given him more information from a better vantage point. But this was it. He didn’t dare wait any longer. They’d never have a better opportunity than the one now before them.

“Now!” Firouz shouted.

Both men yelled praise to Allah. Then, across the room, Rahim detonated two small packages of explosives the two men had installed on the windows, blowing them out instantly. In a seamless motion, Rahim jumped to his feet. Ignoring the shattering glass, he aimed his RPG-7 at the crowd across the street and pulled the trigger.