The Fist of God

“Before it is over many young Americans may well be dead, fine young men who do not deserve to die.

We must all do what we can to keep that number as low as humanly possible, wouldn’t you say? More wine?”

“I could not agree more.”

What on earth was the man driving at? Israel’s Deputy Foreign Minister genuinely had no idea.

“Saddam,” said Nathanson, staring at the fire, “is a menace. He must be stopped. He is probably more of a menace to Israel than to any other neighboring state.”

“We have been saying that for years. But when we bombed his nuclear reactor, America condemned us.”

Nathanson made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

“Nonsense, of course, all cosmetic nonsense for the face of things. We both know that, and we both know better. I have a son serving in the Gulf.”

“I didn’t know. May he return safely.”

Nathanson was genuinely touched.

“Thank you, Bibi, thank you. I pray so every day. My firstborn, my only son. I just feel that ... at this point in time ... cooperation between us all must be without stint.”

“Unarguable.” The Israeli had the uncomfortable feeling that bad news was coming.

“To keep the casualties down, you see. That’s why I ask for your help, Bibi, to keep the casualties down. We are on the same side, are we not? I am an American and a Jew.”

The order of precedence in which he had used the words hung in the air.

“And I am an Israeli and a Jew,” murmured Netanyahu. He too had his order of precedence. The financier was in no way fazed.

“Precisely. But because of your education here, you will understand how—well, how shall I phrase it?—emotional Americans can sometimes be. May I be blunt?”

A welcome relief, thought the Israeli.

/> “If anything were done that could in some small way keep the number of casualties down, even by a handful, both I and my fellow-countrymen would be eternally grateful to whoever had contributed that anything.”

The other half of the sentiment remained unsaid, but Netanyahu was far too experienced a diplomat to miss it. And if anything were done or not done that might increase those casualties, America’s memory would be long and her revenge unpleasant.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked.

Saul Nathanson sipped his wine and gazed at the flickering logs.

“Apparently, there is a man in Baghdad. Code name—Jericho. ...”

When he had finished, it was a thoughtful Deputy Foreign Minister who sped out to Dulles to catch the flight home.

Chapter 9

The roadblock that got him was at the corner of Mohammed Ibn Kassem Street and the Fourth Ring Road. When he saw it in the distance, Mike Martin was tempted to hang a U-turn and head back the way he had come.

But there were Iraqi soldiers stationed down the road on each side at the approaches to the checkpoint, apparently just for that purpose, and it would have been crazy to try and outrun their rifle fire at the slow speed necessary for a U-turn. He had no choice but to drive on, joining the end of the line of vehicles waiting for check-through.

As usual, driving through Kuwait City, he had tried to avoid the major roads where roadblocks were likely to be set up, but crossing any of the six Ring Roads that envelop Kuwait City in a series of concentric bands could only be done at a major junction.

He had also hoped, by driving in the middle of the morning, to be lost in the jumble of traffic or to find the Iraqis sheltering from the heat. But mid-October had cooled the weather and the green-bereted Special Forces were proving a far cry from the useless Popular Army. So he sat at the wheel of the white Volvo station wagon and waited.

It had still been black and deepest night when he had driven the off-road far out into the desert to the south and dug up the remainder of his explosives, guns, and ammunition, the equipment he had promised to Abu Fouad. It had been before dawn when he made the transfer at the lockup garage in the back streets of Firdous from the jeep to the station wagon.

Between the transfer from vehicle to vehicle and the moment when he judged the sun to be high enough and hot enough to send the Iraqis to seek shelter in the shade, he had even managed a two-hour nap at the wheel of the car inside the garage. Then he had driven the station wagon out and put the jeep inside the garage, aware that such a prized vehicle would soon be confiscated.