The Spear of Tyranny Read online

  Turning to face the others, Sarah lowered her voice as she stirred her coffee. “I couldn’t imagine surrendering my child for such a cause. They say the first child was born in ’98. There have been several others since.”

  Clearing his throat, Melman pulled himself off the wall. Sarah tossed her spoon into a basket, knowing she should change the subject. Religious talk always seemed to disturb the deputy director. He was a secular Jew, a proud citizen of Israel, and he did not like to be reminded of the religious activists who routinely brought media attention to the country. But everyone in Shin Bet knew the background of the Temple fanatics.

  Religious zealots had always been eager to rebuild the Temple, and the red heifer was but one detail on their list of preparations for the project. Detailed blueprints for the third Temple, carefully derived from the Bible, Josephus, and the Middot commentary, had existed for years. Beginning in 1987, a group of rabbinical researchers, designers, and craftsmen busied themselves creating what they called a “Temple in waiting.” Their efforts resulted in the production of seventy-five ritually qualified vessels and hundreds of priestly garments for Temple service, including the eight-layered woven robe, golden crown, and breastplate worn by the high priest, the special blue-purple dye for the priestly tsitsit, or fringes of the prayer shawl, and the eleven sacrificial incense spices. And while the Temple Institute’s visitors’ center prominently displayed a replica of the ark of the covenant, spokesmen for the Institute insisted that the ark would not be replicated. The original, they insisted, would be revealed at the appropriate moment and placed in the rebuilt Temple.

  “Sarah.” The deputy director’s gaze turned toward her. “I need to see you in my office as soon as possible.”

  Sarah nodded and reached for a napkin, allowing the director to slip out of the room before her. When Melman had gone, Peres stepped closer and waggled a brow at her. “What’s up, Sarah? Something we should know about?”

  “Probably nothing you should know about,” she answered lightly, wrapping a napkin around her coffee mug. She paused by the sink and glanced at the fragrant liquid. She usually drank two cups of coffee in a morning, but judging by the serious look in Melman’s eye, today that second cup might not be a good idea.

  Peres backed off, grinning, then Sarah left the lounge area and walked the short distance to the director’s office. Melman was seated at his desk, with several files stacked in front of him. Sarah recognized the violet stripe that marked them as classified material.

  Melman wasted no time on common courtesies. “Did you go through the dossiers I sent you yesterday?”

  She nodded as she lowered herself into the chair before his desk.

  “What did you think? What sort of operation would you assign to Romulus and his entourage?”

  Sarah lifted a brow. Since the Europeans were already in the country, it was a safe bet that a Shin Bet team was already tracking their movements. Probably someone from the Tel Aviv subsection of the non-Arab department. “Excuse me, but I don’t understand. Aren’t they already under surveillance?”

  “Only for the short term. We’ve got orders to put them under permanent watch as long as even a single member of Romulus’s force remains within our borders.”

  She digested this information. From what she’d heard this morning, Romulus intended to station members of his Universal Force on the Temple Mount as long as the Temple was under construction. That meant the director was talking long-term surveillance and possibly even penetration— “Were you given a time line for this operation?”

  “It will be an open-ended action. This is classified, but Romulus has told the prime minister that he intends to maintain an office here, ostensibly to support the new peace-keeping force. The prime minister has agreed that such an action is . . . prudent.”

  Sarah inhaled swiftly, then blew out her cheeks. Israel had remained fiercely independent since the state’s founding in 1948—she could never recall a previous government throwing open the doors to what sounded suspiciously like foreign occupation.

  She set her mug on the edge of Melman’s desk and leaned toward him, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “How worried are the powers that be? Surely we won’t require a high-level team for a man who’s made himself a reputation for peacekeeping.”

  A familiar softness settled around Melman’s mouth, the way he looked just before he smiled. “We trust no one, Sarah, you know that. I wouldn’t trust Romulus if he were a card-carrying messiah.”

  Sarah leaned back, relieved by Melman’s business-as-usual attitude, but she winced inwardly at the blasphemous statement. The daughter of a Reform rabbi could not shed years of religious training even if she no longer observed a religious way of life.

  She picked up her mug and took a slow sip, then looked at Melman over the rim of her coffee cup. They’d worked together for nearly eight years, and this conversation was proof of his trust in her. “I’ll put together a long-term team. We’ll tap phone lines, install cameras, and insert an agent into their organization. And if one of his people wants to defect, we could arrange an exfiltration.” She made a face. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, Romulus’s people will be here while he’s in Europe.”

  A smile gathered up the corners of Melman’s stubborn mouth. “I knew I could count on you.”

  As Isaac’s superior officer, Col. Meir Barak, droned on about the need for improved security throughout the Old City and along the walls of the Temple Mount, Isaac looked out the high reinforced window and studied the shape of a cloud moving slowly across the sky. The lecture was old material, rehashed and repackaged to suit the new situation on the Temple Mount. Isaac had heard the same speech for the past five years, but back then the emphasis had been on improving security at military bases in the occupied territories and along Israel’s borders.

  He had been part of the IDF Liaison Unit for nearly five years. His branch, stationed at the Allenby Bridge, was a comparatively small force dedicated to liaison with the Jordanian Liaison Unit and the United Nations Truce Supervision Organization. His duties consisted of protocol, diplomatic dinners, and altogether too much pencil pushing. He had thought of himself as a professional peacekeeper for years, but not until this morning had he believed worldwide peace might actually be possible. To think that the Temple might actually be built—and that the Arabs would not only allow the project, but bless it—staggered his imagination.

  The colonel called for questions—there were none—then dismissed the meeting with a curt nod. As his fellow officers scraped their chairs and hurried to leave the stuffy room, Isaac stood and walked to the colonel’s side.

  “May I have a word with you, sir?”

  Colonel Barak gave him the barest glance, then jerked his head toward the clock on the wall. “Only a moment, Major. I’m due in Tel Aviv for a lunch appointment.”

  Isaac stood in what he hoped was a relaxed, yet respectful pose as he framed his question. “Sir, I was most impressed by the press conference this morning.”

  The colonel placed a pipe in his mouth and proceeded to light it. “Quite a spectacle.” He puffed on the pipe for a moment, then hooked it in the corner of his mouth and tilted his head. “What do you need, Major?”

  Isaac felt a flush of nervousness. “I was thinking of Adrian Romulus, sir. Has anyone from the IDF been assigned to him as a liaison officer? If not, I’d like to apply for the position.”

  Barak puffed on his pipe, his eyes narrowing as they seemed to search Isaac’s countenance for signs of personal ambition or religious mania. “Why you, Major? And why Romulus?”

  “I was impressed with him, sir. The man seems truly committed to peace, and I’d like to see how he manages it. And if we were going to appoint an official liaison as a matter of course—”

  The colonel interrupted with a brusque nod, then took his pipe from his lips and pointed in Isaac’s direction. “I’ll send your request up the line. A good position for a bright young man, I should t
hink. And your communication skills are exemplary. Yes, I’ll send your request along with my recommendation. You should hear from HQ before too long.”

  Isaac smiled. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your help.”

  Barak grinned, his sudden smile temporarily erasing the stern lines of his face. “I’m not promising anything, Major. A position in Paris? I’m guessing there will be a dozen applications for that slot on the chief of the general staff’s desk before noon.”

  Isaac lifted his chin. “All the same, sir. I’d like to try for it. It’s . . . personal with me.”

  The colonel’s smile faded, but his eyes held Isaac for a long moment before he nodded. “All right, Major. Best of luck to you. I’ll see what I can do.”

  That night, in between bites of the roasted lamb Sarah had picked up at the grocery, Isaac told her that he had spoken to his commanding officer about serving as a liaison officer for Romulus’s Universal Force.

  For a moment astonishment struck her speechless. Isaac had never expressed discontent with his job or dissatisfaction in his present position, so what in the world had possessed him to do such a thing?

  She looked up to study his face and saw the bright gleam of idealism in his eyes. That same bright gleam had filled his eyes and his heart when they first met; in fact, his bright-eyed optimism was one of the qualities that attracted her. But then they married and had a child who died, and the light in Isaac’s eyes dimmed.

  Now the light was back, and she could not understand what had put it there.

  “Why?” The word slipped from her lips.

  Isaac shrugged and concentrated on cutting his meat. “There are new undercurrents in the country, Sarah. Haven’t you felt them? Though the earth itself seems to be restless and ill at ease, there are men who still believe in peace. Adrian Romulus has ensured peace for Israel, and the rabbis want to restore the glory of the Temple. I believe peace is at hand. Not everyone will warm to the idea of global unity, of course, but we have to unite to find peace, and we have to do it soon. The earth cannot continue in these dangerous crosscurrents much longer.”

  Sarah stared at her husband as if she’d never seen him before. Isaac Ben-David had always been a bit of a philosopher. From his archeologist father he had inherited a love of tradition, knowledge, and philosophy; from his mother’s untimely death he had been infected with a blood-borne grief that sent his spirit crashing with every report of a terrorist attack or random act of violence. He had remained in the IDF long after completing his time of compulsory service because he loved serving his country. He had risen in rank and authority because he was an odd pairing of traits—a visionary content to work behind the scenes.

  He had never, however, volunteered to place himself in the spotlight . . . or in the center of one of her investigations. Sarah closed her eyes. Isaac didn’t know, of course, that she’d been assigned to surveil Romulus and infiltrate the man’s organization. Nor could he know; she never discussed her classified missions, even with family members.

  She drew a breath, torn between speaking honestly and saying too much. “Did you talk to your father about this?”

  “Yes, I did. He said I should do whatever I want to do.” Isaac looked at her, his expression guarded. “He warned me to be wary, but he need not have bothered. I am not easily swayed by power. I really believe Romulus is a man who can change the world.”

  Sarah drew a deep breath. If Isaac had made a point of speaking to his father, he had already made his decision. He used to ask her opinion about things . . . but hadn’t in a long time.

  She looked down and idly dragged her fork through the chickpeas on her plate. “They say,” she said, “that one man who worked closely with Adrian Romulus is now locked in a Belgian psychiatric institution. He’s quite insane, I hear.”

  Isaac smiled, and from the shallowness of that smile she knew he hadn’t noticed the change in the tone of her voice. “That’s unfortunate. But mental illness can strike anyone, anywhere. I can’t fault a man if one of his aides loses his grip on reality.”

  Sarah stopped stirring her food. Isaac used to heed her subtle cautions, but that warning had flown right over his head. “They also say,” her voice flattened, “that the body of one of Romulus’s most trusted associates was found in a frozen wasteland in Canada. He’d been killed by a suitcase bomb rigged to explode upon radio command. According to rumor, the bomb could only have been triggered by one of two people . . . one of them being Romulus himself.”

  That one hit home. Isaac blinked, his handsome features hardening in a stare of disapproval. “Are you saying that Adrian Romulus personally executed one of his own men?”

  She shrugged. “The evidence is worth considering.”

  “But you can’t prove it.”

  “I can’t prove there’s no God, either, but I believe it’s true. And it makes a difference in the way I live my life. You won’t catch me muttering purposeless prayers in a synagogue.”

  He didn’t answer, but stared at her, his eyes hot with resentment. She knew she had raked a raw nerve. More than once she had chided him for his daily excursions to say the Kaddish, and some part of her knew her words wounded him. But she could not, would not, condone his foolish participation in a sentimental routine that did nothing to change the fact that they had lost their son forever.

  “Several intelligence sources also suggest,” she pushed ahead, “that Romulus may have been a silent conspirator in Gogol’s Invasion. It is rumored that he encouraged the Arabs to attack Israel, that he actually encouraged Gogol to launch the nuclear missiles that struck the United States. They say that he—”

  “Good grief, Sarah, stop playing games. I’ve heard the same rumors, and that’s all they are. Just rumors.”

  Her lips puckered with annoyance. “Some of the reports come from Mossad.”

  “Well, Mossad isn’t doing us much good these days, is it? And neither is Shin Bet.”

  Sarah dropped her fork as her mood veered sharply to anger. Ever since the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in 1995, the Shin Bet, known to most Israelis as Shabak, had taken heat for failures both real and imagined. No one ever knew about the organization’s successes, for those almost always remained classified, but whenever a plan failed or security lapsed, Shin Bet endured a storm of bad publicity. Isaac, however, worked in the very public Israeli Defense Forces, which operated in full view of friends and foes. He understood Shabak’s need for security, but sometimes Sarah wondered if he didn’t resent her for knowing more than she was allowed to share. She knew he resented her for not being home when the earthquake struck.

  She drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the rage that shook her. So that’s how it would be. If by some odd chance Isaac was appointed to the liaison position, his work wouldn’t hinder her team . . . in fact, he just might prove to be a valuable tool. She wouldn’t need to plant an agent in Romulus’s organization if her own husband worked closely with the man. She could use him. With or without his knowledge, he might well prove to be the most valuable asset Israeli intelligence had ever utilized.

  She lifted her gaze to find him studying her.

  “I hope you get the position,” she said, standing. Without another word, she lifted her plate and took it into the kitchen.

  After dinner, while Isaac sat in the courtyard with a cup of coffee, Sarah went into the bedroom, closed the door, and dialed her supervisor’s cell phone number. Director Melman answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Sarah,” she whispered, sinking to the edge of the bed. “I’ve had an interesting development on my end. My husband wants to work for Romulus. He’s applying for the position of liaison officer with Romulus and the Universal Force.”

  Melman did not answer for a long moment, then he asked, “If we arrange it—will the situation be difficult for you?”

  She wound the telephone cord around her fist. “I don’t think so. In fact, Isaac might be useful. Of course, we can’t know if Romulus will approve h
im. He’s bound to discover that I work for Shabak—”

  “We’ll try to keep that quiet. I’ll do what I can to make it happen from this end—if you’re sure it’s what you really want.”

  Sarah hesitated, knowing that Melman was giving her time to think like a wife instead of an intelligence agent. She had never manipulated her husband before, never hurt his pride by calling on her connections to advance or restrain him. She and Isaac had never allowed their careers to penetrate the marriage, but very little of that marriage seemed to remain . . .

  “It’s what I want,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Romulus’s people might reject him, and if that happens, so be it. But we may never have another opportunity like this.”

  “You’re right.” A note of satisfaction echoed in Melman’s voice. “We should have an answer by the end of the week.”

  SIX

  GEN. ADAM ARCHER, COMMANDER OF ROMULUS’S Universal Force, scowled as an aide dropped two folders on his polished desk. It was five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and he was ready to sample the famed nightlife of Paris. “What’s this?”

  Gregor Rahn, the youthful, clear-eyed German officer who served as Archer’s chief assistant, licked his lower lip. “Two files from President Romulus, sir. A report on a prospective Israeli liaison officer, and the latest on the two troublemakers we encountered in Jerusalem.”

  Archer picked up the first folder and opened it. To the inside cover someone had stapled a head-and-shoulders photograph of a striking Israeli officer in full dress uniform. The man had dark eyes and curly brown hair, and though Archer knew a photograph could be misleading, the set of the man’s chin suggested a stubborn streak.

  “Isaac Ben-David,” he muttered, glancing at the biographical information on the following page. “A career officer with the IDF Liaison. A decorated soldier who has served his country with honor and courage, particularly during Gogol’s Invasion . . .”