The Trident Deception (52 page)

Someone would be held accountable. That much was clear. And having come within seconds of losing her life, Christine believed she was vested in that retribution.

The president sighed. “What are the details?”

Christine handed him a manila folder. “It’s ready to implement, pending your approval.”

The president opened the folder, skimmed the first page, then lifted it up to read the second. Halfway down the page, his eyes shot toward Christine. “You’re not serious?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

He turned to his chief of staff. “What do you think, Kevin?”

“I have my reservations, sir. But considering the circumstances, I agree with Christine’s plan.”

Christine’s eyes went from Hardison to the president, and as Marine One landed, the president seemed on the verge of committing.

The president stood to transfer to Air Force One, then shook Christine’s hand. “Good luck. And be careful.”

88

EIN KAREM, ISRAEL

3 DAYS LATER

It was almost noon, the sun climbing into a clear blue sky above the rolling Judean hills west of Jerusalem, when a black Mercedes S600 turned onto a narrow gravel driveway lined with towering umbrella pines. After a two-hundred-yard drive down the winding path, the car’s heavy suspension swaying over the uneven surface, the sedan pulled to a stop in front of a sprawling hilltop villa, the lunchtime destination for the American national security adviser and her driver, William Hoover.

Earlier this morning, as Christine stepped onto the tarmac at Ben Gurion International Airport, she had been surprised when she was greeted by the same man who had threatened to kill her if she ever tried to track him down. However, circumstances had changed somewhat over the last three days, and the “agreement” the United States had dictated to its ally in the Middle East required she be met by a man of Hoover’s background. After reviewing how things would unfold at lunch, she had stepped into the back of the sedan for the short trip to her destination. Hoover sensed her nervousness and tried to ease her apprehension, talking incessantly the entire trip, his eyes flitting between the road and the rearview mirror. However, he fell silent as he climbed out of the sedan, opening the rear door for his quiet passenger, who had not said a word in response.

*   *   *

On the flagstone patio behind his villa, Israeli intelligence minister Barak Kogen sat at a table neatly prepared with two place settings. As he waited for his guest, he leaned back in his chair, looking west over the patio’s waist-high limestone wall. The heavy rain that had quenched the parched countryside a fortnight earlier had left behind a bright green carpet of new flora, and in a few weeks the rockrose and thorny broom would turn the hillsides a pastel pink, white, and yellow. However, with the departure of the overcast skies, the days had turned unseasonably warm, the heat almost uncomfortable. Thankfully, a glass pitcher of iced tea, resting in the center of the table, would quench his thirst once his guest, Ariel Bronner, head of the Metsada, arrived.

The doorbell rang and Kogen called out, “In back. Come join me.”

A woman appeared around the corner of the villa, following a stone pathway to the back of the house. Kogen stood abruptly. “Who are you? And where is Ariel?”

“I’m Christine O’Connor,” the woman replied in English, “national security adviser to the president of the United States. Ariel was called away and he asked me to meet with you instead.”

Kogen suddenly recognized Christine, eyeing her suspiciously. His unexpected guest was attractive, although she wore her makeup a bit too heavy for his taste, concealing faint black circles under her eyes.

“Ariel’s waiting for your call,” she said. “He’ll confirm.”

Pulling out his cell phone, Kogen dialed Bronner’s office.
CALL FAILED
appeared on the display, and he noticed the antenna had no signal strength. He looked up at Christine. “I’ll have to use a landline to call Ariel. I’ll be back shortly.” He entered the villa and returned a moment later, his shoulders relaxed, a friendly smile on his face.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the table. Christine took the proffered chair while Kogen settled in beside her. “So what brings you to my villa in place of my Metsada chief, Miss O’Connor?”

“This is unusual,” she answered, “but one of the conditions for continued good relations between our two countries, considering what just transpired, was that I meet with you.”

“What are you referring to?” Kogen feigned ignorance for the moment, unsure how much his unexpected guest knew.

“I wanted to meet the mastermind behind the plot that almost resulted in one of our ballistic missile submarines completely destroying another country.”

Her words hit him in the chest like sledgehammer. Bronner had apparently told her everything. But why? The operation had been meticulously planned to ensure its genesis could not be traced back to Israel.

She continued, “I have to admit that you developed an exceptional plan. Ariel has given me the entire file, which I assure you we’ll thoroughly review. There are a few things we could no doubt learn from your organization.”

Kogen’s nervousness eased. Perhaps there was nothing sinister in her visit to his villa. Intelligence organizations around the world interfaced in a civilized manner, even though agents constantly strove to ensure their country gained at another’s expense. Perhaps that was the purpose for her visit; to discuss to what extent their two organizations could work together. However, he was guessing at her motive, and was not a fan of conjecture. “So why are you here, Miss O’Connor?”

“Did you ever watch the
Merrie Melodies
cartoons when you were a kid?” she asked.

He gave her an empty stare.

“I suppose not.” Christine’s eyes rested intently on him as she expounded. “There was this wolf who tried to steal lambs from a flock of sheep protected by a sheepdog, and they would battle each other all day long. The wolf constantly devised plots while the sheepdog consistently thwarted them, usually resulting in great physical harm to the wolf. But both the wolf and the sheepdog realized they were just doing their jobs, and when the lunch whistle blew, they sat at the table as friends, sharing their meal until the whistle blew again, putting them both back on the clock.

“That relationship is analogous to how our national intelligence agencies interact. We all have a job to do, and we constantly battle each other with the noble goal of benefiting our respective countries. But when the lunch whistle blows, you and I can sit at a table and discuss our disagreements in a civilized manner.”

Kogen nodded enthusiastically, the woman’s comments matching his thoughts exactly. The subterfuge their agencies employed to gather the vital information they needed was just part of the job, and she realized that.

“For example,” she continued, “you and I can sit here and discuss the death of Levi’s daughters, and how you were responsible for recruiting the suicide bomber who killed them.”

Kogen swallowed hard.

How did she know? How did
anyone
know?

Had Bronner learned of his duplicity in the death of Rosenfeld’s daughters and told her? And if he’d told Christine, he must have also told …

His throat felt parched from the day’s heat. He reached for the pitcher of tea, filling the glasses in front of him and his guest, taking a sip of the refreshing liquid as his guest raised her glass to her lips.

“But don’t worry,” she said. “Ariel promised me that neither he nor Levi would take retribution against you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that’s my privilege.” The woman’s eyes hardened. “Lunch is over. We’re back on the clock.”

Kogen returned his glass to the table, uncertain of the meaning behind Christine’s last comment. He felt warm; perspiration collected on his brow. He went to wipe his forehead, but his hand didn’t release from around the glass. He stared at his hand, unable to relax his fingers.

His chest tightened.

He glanced at Christine, realizing too late that the woman had only held the glass to her lips; she hadn’t taken a drink. There was a faint bitterness in the tea’s aftertaste, contrasting with the subtle sweetness of the raspberry flavor. His stomach contracted violently, throwing him forward, his chest and face slamming onto the table. He remained there, his face turned to the side, staring at Christine.

Holding her glass out to the side, she slowly poured the liquid onto the stone patio. Kogen stared directly ahead, unable to move his eyes, unable to expand the muscles in his chest. His lungs screamed for oxygen, terror strangling his thoughts as he realized he would soon be dead.

“Ariel sends his regrets on not being able to attend our meeting,” Christine said as she stood. “I got the impression he would have enjoyed it.”

The woman exited his vision, her light footsteps on the rough stone fading away.

Intelligence Minister Barak Kogen’s heart strained, then beat one final time.

*   *   *

Christine walked around the corner of the villa, greeted by William Hoover. He holstered his pistol, which he had held ready in case something went wrong, and placed the mobile jammer he held in his other hand into his coat pocket. Jamming Kogen’s cell phone had forced him inside to call Bronner, giving Christine the opportunity she needed to poison the tea.

“Excellent job, Miss O’Connor. A professional couldn’t have done it better.”

She handed him a small metal vial she had concealed in her hand, then unclipped a beret from the back of her hair as Hoover removed the corresponding receiver from his ear. He took the beret from Christine, then opened the rear door of the car. She slid into the back as he eased into the driver’s seat and buckled up.

“If you ever decide to change your line of work,” he said while looking at Christine’s reflection in the rearview mirror, “give me a call.”

“I’m afraid this was a onetime deal,” she replied. “It’s back to a desk job for me.”

Hoover smiled. “Where to now?”

“Airport, please.”

Christine closed her eyes, leaning back against the headrest as the car rode slowly over the winding gravel driveway. It’d been a long two weeks, and the physical exhaustion combined with the mental stress of preparing for her meeting with Kogen had finally taken its toll. As Daniel Landau turned the sedan onto the smooth, paved road, headed east toward Ben Gurion International Airport, he looked into the rearview mirror. Although her slumber would be restless and her dreams troubled, Christine O’Connor was already asleep.

EPILOGUE

HER MAJESTY’S AUSTRALIAN SHIP (HMAS)
COLLINS

5 DAYS LATER

Twelve hundred feet underwater, a weak yellow light bobbed in the darkness, slowly making its round through the abandoned lower level of the
Collins
’s Forward Compartment. In the partially flooded Weapon Stowage Compartment, the fading light shone forlornly on sixteen green warshot torpedoes, still in their stows. Only three of the six torpedo tubes remained visible; the other three were submerged, casualties of the steadily rising water and the submarine’s thirty-degree list to starboard. The light turned abruptly and headed aft, sweeping back and forth across the darkened Galley before a quick trip through Junior Sailor Berthing, likewise deserted, the bottom starboard racks also underwater.

After climbing to the upper level of the compartment where the thirty-nine survivors shivered in the frigid air, the dim light paused in Senior Sailor Berthing to examine the injured in their bunks and the man who tended them. With a mournful shake of his head, the weary Corpsman, stretched beyond his means by the injuries, pulled the blanket over the face of one of the men, reducing the number of the living to thirty-eight. The dying light passed into Control, examining the filthy and sometimes bloody faces of the men and women who huddled together in small groups.

The light was set a moment later on the side of the atmosphere monitoring station. There was no power and the automatic air-sampling system was inoperative, so the light illuminated a handheld air sampler. It took five squeezes to suck in the stale air and deliver the unwelcome, but not unexpected, news. Bobbing through the compartment again, the light approached two officers sitting on the deck in Control, their backs against the Attack periscope. One of the men was the submarine’s Commanding Officer, who awaited the results of the latest inspection round. The second man, his American friend, wore a summer white uniform, the white cloth now marred with the ship’s grime and stained with the crew’s blood. The two officers stood to greet Chief Marine Technician Kim Durand as she approached.

*   *   *

Five days ago, the
Kentucky
’s torpedo had punched an eight-foot-diameter hole in the submarine’s Motor Room, flooding the Aft Compartment. The
Collins
’s stern sank as lights throughout the submarine flickered, then were extinguished as the ship lost power. The stern continued to tilt downward until the ship reached a ninety-degree angle, the crew holding on to equipment as best possible as they plummeted into the ocean depths. The hull groaned as the outside pressure increased, the crew waiting in the darkness for the hull to collapse around them.

Their descent halted abruptly, announced by the sound of screeching metal pierced by screams of terror and pain, as the
Collins
crashed into one of the thousands of submerged seamounts scattered across the Pacific. The bow careened downward, joining the stern on the mountain’s surface. The ship tilted slowly to starboard, then slid down the steep mountain incline, finally slowing and coming to rest on the edge of a cliff overlooking the abyssal plain three thousand feet below.

Battle lanterns flicked on, their bright beams illuminating the darkness as the crew frantically assessed the condition of the ship and the status of the injured. Two-thirds of the crew were still alive, the men and women lucky enough to be in the Forward Compartment. A fourth of those were injured, and they were tended to once the watertight integrity of the submarine was addressed. Water oozed past the Aft Compartment watertight door, a telltale reminder of what awaited them outside their fragile steel cocoon.