Read Online Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff
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you should save your anger for your buddies there who haven’t brought you anything on Fawzi.”
“I didn’t deliver the body to CIA. They don’t have carte blanche to roam Palestinian territory and beat information out of anyone who knew Fawzi.”
“Seven dead already,” Rossett said. “Fawzi made eight. How many of Safady’s cell group have you taken down yourself? That’s not good enough?”
“I assume that’s rhetorical. Or the first symptoms of early onset dementia.”
“What can I do?” Rossett said. “We need the Mossad more than they need us.”
“Still,” Quinn said, “two months. Fawzi was probably as close as anyone to Safady. Two months to learn enough about Fawzi to give us something on Safady. Instead, we get Mossad silence. You of all people know how bad I want Safady.”
“I lost my family to Palestinian terrorists too,” Rossett said. “You’re not the only one burning to stop them.”
Quinn fell silent. Rossett’s first wife and their three children had died in the late eighties while Rossett was on a tour here. The same sad story, grief not diminished in the least by how common it was. Suicide bombers in a public place.
“I shouldn’t have thrown that at you,” Rossett said, easing the tension with a lopsided grin. “How about we kiss and make up.”
Quinn sat down. “The thought of kissing to make up makes my stomach turn. You looked in any mirrors lately? What you’d see is a bulldog sucking a lemon.”
“Glad we’re friends again.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that Safady is still a ghost to intel agencies. After five years of tracking him, still no one knows what he looks like. Fawzi did. That means people who knew Fawzi might be able to help. Even a scrap is better than what we have.”
Safady called himself the Black Prince in homage to Ali Hassan Salameh, the equally internationally notorious Palestinian terrorist who became known as the Red Prince for masterminding the murder of Israeli athletes at the Olympic Games in Munich. Salameh, a close friend of Arafat, had headed the Black September organization in the 1970s, until the Mossad finally assassinated him by car bomb in 1979.
Black September was gone, but Safady had effectively resurrected it, calling it Red September for blood and again to link it to its founder, still a hero among Palestinians.
“Someone’s going to find Safady,” Rossett said. “You. CIA. Mossad. He can’t stay hidden forever. Eventually he’s bound to make a mistake.” Rossett gave Quinn a direct stare. “But if nailing Safady means you’re going to retire from the business after you get him, I won’t have much incentive here to keep helping you look for him.”
“From the day I left the CIA, I’ve been in it for the money, Roz. You know that.”
“Right,” Rossett said, equally deadpan. “Glad we’re clear on that.” His expression softened with concern. “You go to Acco today, don’t you?”
Quinn nodded. They both knew why.
“You’re going to stick with procedure?”
Quinn nodded again. He now traveled with a bodyguard who also doubled as his driver.
“There is something,” Rossett said. “About Fawzi. It’s not much, but it could be important.”
Quinn waited.
“He’d been in Iran a couple times in the six months before. The Mossad’s got him linked to money from there. But Fawzi was low-level. Delivery boy.”
“So the money was going to Safady?”
“That’s our best conclusion so far. Iran would love to cause as much trouble as possible in Israel.”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Iran’s either got nuclear capacity already or they’re on the verge. Safady’s caused enough trouble with C-4. If he ever got his hands on any WMDs . . .”
Rossett rubbed his face. “I know.”
“When did you find out the Iranian connection?” Quinn asked.
“This morning. Why do you think I bought Starbucks?”
“You couldn’t tell me before my rant?”
“Had you opened with a question
“I didn’t deliver the body to CIA. They don’t have carte blanche to roam Palestinian territory and beat information out of anyone who knew Fawzi.”
“Seven dead already,” Rossett said. “Fawzi made eight. How many of Safady’s cell group have you taken down yourself? That’s not good enough?”
“I assume that’s rhetorical. Or the first symptoms of early onset dementia.”
“What can I do?” Rossett said. “We need the Mossad more than they need us.”
“Still,” Quinn said, “two months. Fawzi was probably as close as anyone to Safady. Two months to learn enough about Fawzi to give us something on Safady. Instead, we get Mossad silence. You of all people know how bad I want Safady.”
“I lost my family to Palestinian terrorists too,” Rossett said. “You’re not the only one burning to stop them.”
Quinn fell silent. Rossett’s first wife and their three children had died in the late eighties while Rossett was on a tour here. The same sad story, grief not diminished in the least by how common it was. Suicide bombers in a public place.
“I shouldn’t have thrown that at you,” Rossett said, easing the tension with a lopsided grin. “How about we kiss and make up.”
Quinn sat down. “The thought of kissing to make up makes my stomach turn. You looked in any mirrors lately? What you’d see is a bulldog sucking a lemon.”
“Glad we’re friends again.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that Safady is still a ghost to intel agencies. After five years of tracking him, still no one knows what he looks like. Fawzi did. That means people who knew Fawzi might be able to help. Even a scrap is better than what we have.”
Safady called himself the Black Prince in homage to Ali Hassan Salameh, the equally internationally notorious Palestinian terrorist who became known as the Red Prince for masterminding the murder of Israeli athletes at the Olympic Games in Munich. Salameh, a close friend of Arafat, had headed the Black September organization in the 1970s, until the Mossad finally assassinated him by car bomb in 1979.
Black September was gone, but Safady had effectively resurrected it, calling it Red September for blood and again to link it to its founder, still a hero among Palestinians.
“Someone’s going to find Safady,” Rossett said. “You. CIA. Mossad. He can’t stay hidden forever. Eventually he’s bound to make a mistake.” Rossett gave Quinn a direct stare. “But if nailing Safady means you’re going to retire from the business after you get him, I won’t have much incentive here to keep helping you look for him.”
“From the day I left the CIA, I’ve been in it for the money, Roz. You know that.”
“Right,” Rossett said, equally deadpan. “Glad we’re clear on that.” His expression softened with concern. “You go to Acco today, don’t you?”
Quinn nodded. They both knew why.
“You’re going to stick with procedure?”
Quinn nodded again. He now traveled with a bodyguard who also doubled as his driver.
“There is something,” Rossett said. “About Fawzi. It’s not much, but it could be important.”
Quinn waited.
“He’d been in Iran a couple times in the six months before. The Mossad’s got him linked to money from there. But Fawzi was low-level. Delivery boy.”
“So the money was going to Safady?”
“That’s our best conclusion so far. Iran would love to cause as much trouble as possible in Israel.”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Iran’s either got nuclear capacity already or they’re on the verge. Safady’s caused enough trouble with C-4. If he ever got his hands on any WMDs . . .”
Rossett rubbed his face. “I know.”
“When did you find out the Iranian connection?” Quinn asked.
“This morning. Why do you think I bought Starbucks?”
“You couldn’t tell me before my rant?”
“Had you opened with a question
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