Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (75 page)

Union Station was always crowded with travelers and tourists as well as locals who worked in the District of Columbia, mostly on Capitol Hill. The station was a large and beautiful building, built on multiple levels, with a classical stone and pillar entrance, dozens of restaurants, a movie theater, and a shopping center as well. The Amtrak station fed the busy eastern corridor between Boston, New York, and the District of Columbia, and the Metro provided easy access for commuted.

And though Union Station was a standard tourist location, it was popular with the locals as well. A couple of the restaurants were very good, and it was close enough to the Capitol and the congressional office buildings that it was an easy walk for lunch.

Neil Brighton and his guest sat at a small table on the third floor of the Americana restaurant. Their table, very private, was positioned in a small alcove looking over the main floor, surrounded by potted flowers and plants. Brighton was wearing a blue Air Force shirt, with his pilot’s wings on his chest and two stars on his shoulders, but not his formal blue overcoat. Sara was wearing a blue dress with white pearls. She looked younger than he did, he knew that, but he had grown used to the fact. “Is this your wife or your daughter?” How many times had he heard that line before? But he didn’t mind—in fact, it only made him more proud of his wife. He had wondered all his life why she had agreed to marry him, and the marvel of her enduring beauty only made him love her more.

So he gazed at Sara, her blond hair and white smile, and wished once again that he could go home with her. They could sit in the backyard by the pool and absorb the afternoon sun. She could talk. He would listen. That was all he wanted to do. He didn’t want to think, solve any problems, or make any decisions right now. What would he give to go home, throw on some shorts and sandals, squeeze some lemonade, and just sit and not have to think? What would he give to lie in the sun, close his eyes, and just listen to her voice? What would he give to spend an afternoon just watching the sun in her hair?

How much had he given up already? How much had his family sacrificed?

He forced a smile. But she didn’t buy it. She knew that he was concerned. She picked at her salad, piercing a cherry tomato and placing it in her mouth. “You look tired,” she said.

He nodded. He knew that, and he felt worse than he looked.

“I got an E-mail from Sam this morning,” he said, not wanting to talk about himself.

“Good. How is he? Anything new?”

Brighton thought of the Cherokees, knowing he couldn’t say anything. “He’s fine,” he answered simply. “He didn’t say much. You know, he’s a man of few words.”

Sara didn’t say anything, but her face lit up. Any mention of her three sons always made her smile.

She picked another tomato, and then said, “I was talking with Ammon this morning. Did you know Luke is planning on going to Europe after Christmas? He wants to go see some of his old friends from Germany during the break.”

Brighton’s forehead scrunched. “Is Ammon going with him?” he asked.

Sara shook her head. “He doesn’t think that he can afford it—”

“But Luke thinks that he can?”

“Neil, you know how he is.”

“He’s supposed to be saving his money to help pay for college.”

“He says he’s got it figured out. He can use some of our frequent flyer miles and stay with his friends. He told me it wouldn’t cost him more than a couple days skiing, which is what Ammon plans to do.”

“Hmmm,” Brighton said as he glanced at his plate. He looked up at Sara. “How do you feel about Luke? You know, is he doing OK?”

Sara hesitated, and then answered, “He reminds me of you.”

“Me?” Brighton cried.

“Of course. Try to remember. He is you through and through. You were a rancher from Texas, determined to see the world, determined to knock off the cotton balls that were stuck to your boots. If there was anyone less focused than you were at that age, I don’t know who that would be. I mean, look at our romance. I was ready to get married, but it took you three years—”

“I would have married you after the first date, except I had to finish college.”

“Yeah, that’s a responsible line. You’re responsible now, Neil, but it’s not the way you were then. You were terrified of getting married. It makes me laugh sometimes to think of how you used to act. Here you are now, a big-shot general in the White House, a fighter pilot who has flown as many combat sorties as maybe anyone in the world. And you were afraid of getting
married.
You were
afraid
of me.”

Neil took her hand. “You still scare me,” he said.

“Only when you really make me angry,” she laughed. “But you know, Neil, you are so determined now, so focused and single-minded, but you don’t remember that you weren’t always like that. How many summers did you spend backpacking through Europe, going
anywhere
but home? You stayed away from West Texas like everyone there had the plague. You wanted to see everything that was out there, to experience the world. That’s how Luke is, Neil, but it’s not a bad way to be. Even after we were married, we were pretty free spirits, you know. Do you remember what we did for our honeymoon?”

Brighton smiled as he thought. “Wasn’t that great!” he said.

“Yes, it was the most, how would you say,
entertaining
two weeks that we’ve ever had. And now Luke wants to go roam through the Alps for a while. I say we let him. Besides, we couldn’t stop him. He will do what he wants.”

Brighton nodded while he thought, picking up the lemon in his water and sucking it between his teeth. “I just hope—” he said softly.

“Luke will be OK. He has a good heart. He cares more about other people than anyone I know. He isn’t focused right now, but he’s still young. This thing with Alicia has really strung him out. I say let’s let him stretch his wings for a few weeks.”

Brighton nodded and relaxed. He trusted her intuition more than he trusted anything. “All right, then,” he told her. “I guess it would be OK.”

Sara squeezed his fingers lightly, and then pulled back her hand. “I’m really, really glad that we could have lunch,” she said. “I appreciate you getting away from the White House. I know how difficult it is.”

“Sara,” he answered, “I would rather be here with you than anywhere in the world. I am busy right now, but someday things will be better, I promise. One day I’ll retire and then we’ll have lots of time to spend together. After a while, you’ll be so sick of having me around that you’ll beg me to leave.”

“I think not,” Sara answered, “but it will be fun to see.”

The two were silent for a moment. Brighton took a huge bite of his sandwich while Sara poked at her fish.

“Neil, I’ve got to ask you a question,” she said.

Brighton stopped chewing. There was something serious in her voice. She looked up at him. “Were you ever going to tell me about Sam’s picture in the papers? Or were you going to always try to hide it from me?”

Brighton swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight.

Sara watched him struggle, and then continued. “I know you were only trying to protect me, but it really doesn’t help. I mean, if one of the largest papers in the country has a story about my son, alleging that he and some other U.S. soldiers were involved in some atrocities, don’t you think that I’d like to know that? And I’d like to hear it from you, not my neighbor, and certainly not from the peace activist, military-hating, goober of a Greenpeace feminist who lives down the street.”

Brighton swallowed again. He didn’t know what to say. “The story wasn’t true,” he mumbled very feebly.

“Of course. I know that. Everyone knew.”

“I thought—I was worried—I just wanted to—”

“Protect me. That’s very sweet, dear, but I’m a big girl now. I can take it. I take things like that better than you do. So don’t ever do it again.”

She smiled at him sweetly, but then cocked her head to the side. That was his signal to say “I’m sorry,” and he quickly fell into line. She was right. He was wrong. It had been a dumb thing to do. It belittled her strength and courage, and though his heart was in the right place, it had been a mistake. “I’m sorry,” he told her humbly. And he meant every word.

“That’s OK, Neil,” she said. She smiled at him brightly. “This is very good,” she said as she took a bite of her fish.

It was a single shot to the head. The prime minister’s brains exploded out of his skull. He hit the floor in a heap, his knees buckling mid-step.

His wife screamed in terror as she fell to his side. And though his arms and legs twitched and jerked, she knew he was dead.

The young Palestinian followed his instructions perfectly.

“Do not get caught!” they had told him. “Do not be taken alive. Do you understand us, Imir, you are not coming home! No man can resist them; they will force you to talk. So
do not
let them take you! You must follow the plan!”

Reaching to his side, the young Palestinian felt the beveled grip of the small handgun stuffed in the holster at his hip. He pulled it out, shoved it to his temple, and pulled the trigger one last time.

But before he squeezed the trigger, a final thought rolled through his head, “If I cannot go home, I shall go to Allah instead.”

The two shots, less than three seconds apart, reverberated through the enormous hangar like rolling claps of thunder through the air. The echoes bounced off the metal walls, making it impossible to detect from which direction the shots had emanated. As the prime minister mortally fell to the floor, the security men sprang into action. Weapons extended from their bodies and steadied in their hands, they contracted the circle, closing in on their charge. Machine guns appeared out of nowhere. Shouts and screams filled the air. The security men moved constantly, their eyes searching, ready to shoot instantly. The prime minister’s terrified wife fell at his side, her voice choking on a scream. Two of the bodyguards fell on top of her, driving her to the floor, the guards placing their bodies between the woman and the shots. Another guard fell on the prime minister to protect him as well, but he quickly saw and knew he was lying on a dead man.

Another body fell from the rafters with a sickening thud. Sirens wailed from outside the hangar, and the doors rolled open again. Security men began to swarm through the hangar, seeming to emerge from everywhere, armed with machine guns and rocket launchers, grenades, shotguns, and radios.

Less than fifty seconds after the first shot had been fired, an ambulance screeched through the half-closed hangar doors, retrieved the prime minister’s body, and then screeched out again. Another ambulance followed, but this one was a decoy that would take another road. Both of the ambulances were escorted by dozens of wailing sirens and police, some on motorcycles, some in cars. The prime minister’s wife was shoved into one of the waiting sedans, which made its way to the hospital by yet a third route.

Twelve minutes after being shot, the prime minister of Israel’s body arrived at Tel Aviv’s closest hospital.

General Brighton’s cell phone went off, then his emergency beeper. Sara hesitated, mid-bite, as he punched a small button to quiet his beeper and flipped open his cell. “Brighton,” he answered in a no-nonsense voice.

He listened a moment, his face growing tight. “Are you certain?” he demanded, then listened again. “How long ago did it happen?” He looked at his watch. “Do they know who did it?” he asked. Then he gritted his teeth. “All right,” he said grimly. “You know what to do. Tell Grison I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep the recall going. Get everyone in. No, no, no, don’t send an escort, I’ll catch a cab instead. Be there in five minutes. Keep this line open and call if you get any word.”

The general flipped the phone shut, pushed back his chair, and stood. His face was ashen and though he was looking right at her, Sara knew he didn’t see her anymore. “What’s going on?” she asked timidly. She recognized that look, and it scared her now.

“Let’s go,” Brighton answered.

“What is it?” she said.

Her husband dropped a couple of bills on the table, took her by the hand, and pulled. “You had Ammon drop you off, right?” he asked her.

She nodded as they ran.

“OK. Take the Metro home and turn on the television. It should be on the news by then.”

“Neil, you’re scaring me,” she told him.

He pulled hard on her hand. “It’s OK,” he answered.

Then he came to a sudden stop beside her.

He knew. He didn’t know how he knew, it didn’t make any sense, but he knew that it had started. The final war was here. He shivered and looked at his wife, staring into her eyes. “Go home,” he said simply. “Don’t worry. It’s OK. Everything will turn out all right. If I come home, it will be late, but I’ll call when I can.”

They had stopped at the bottom of the winding marble stairs that led down from the Americana Restaurant. He had to go right to the street. She had to go left to the Metro station. He turned and started walking, then came back to her. He held her shoulders tightly, looking into her eyes. “I love you,” he told her.

“I know you do,” she said.

Brighton kissed her and then turned and ran through the enormous brass doors that led out to the street. A small taxi turnout had been built in front of the station and he ran immediately to the front of the line. Two older men, both of them foreigners, were climbing into the first cab, but Brighton held their door open and bent down to them. “I must have this cab,” he said.

The two men scoffed at him. “Get lost,” one of them said, his English halting but self-assured.

“Please, I work for the White House. There is a problem. I really need this cab.”

The foreigner took in Brighton’s uniform and scoffed again. “Are you military?” he asked.

Brighton nodded eagerly.

“Then forget you,” the other sneered, and both of them laughed. One of the foreigners slapped the Plexiglas. “Let’s go!” he said.

The cabbie looked back and frowned. He was a huge black man with arms as thick as tree limbs and he didn’t look happy. He glared at Brighton’s uniform and then scowled at the men. “Get out,” he told them in a heavy Jamaican accent.