Ambush at Osirak: A Novel

by Herbert Crowder

Genres: War & Military; Military Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Fast-paced and authentic, Herbert Crowder's dramatic thriller draws on modern events from the heart of the Middle East--where the specter of nuclear confrontation lurks just beyond the horizon. A gripping novel.

Release date: November 28, 2012

Publisher: Presidio Press

Print pages: 364

Sample

chapter one
 
 
 
The Mossad public relations man dried his hands meticulously, casting an appraising look at the image in the mirror. He ran a comb several times through the wiry mop of brillo-pad hair with no visible effect. Picking up a manila folder, he stepped out of the men’s room. He paused at the water cooler to fill a small paper cup.
 
It wasn’t like him to dawdle. But this was the part he hated most, informing the next of kin. And what he had seen in the folder made him relish it even less. The young woman waiting in his office was already an orphan, having lost her father to the Arabs in the Yom Kippur War, her mother to cancer scarcely a year later. And now he had to tell her that her closest surviving relative, her older brother, was missing and presumed dead.
 
He could see her through the window of his office, sitting in the chair next to his desk, her hands in her lap. Her appearance was not exactly reassuring. She was a pretty thing, dark haired, light skinned, soft and feminine. And vulnerable. There would be no way to break it to her gently.
 
Entering the office, he introduced himself and got the bad news out in a hurry, bracing himself for the histrionics that were certain to follow. But the only sign that she had understood him was the slow nodding of the head, the immense brown eyes, unmoistened, continuing to regard him with the same penetrating look.
 
“Of course,” she responded in a calm, well-modulated contralto that was much too big a voice for the body that went with it. “Why else would you have gotten me down here? Now tell me the rest of it, please. How was he killed? Where did it happen?”
 
“I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to reveal—” He stopped himself in midsentence of the customary disclaimer, realizing that he would have to level with her on several particulars. Among other things, he would have to explain why there would be no body to claim.
 
“I can only say this much. Your brother was killed in line of duty in a foreign country. Unfortunately, because we do not have diplomatic relations with this country, there is no procedure for returning the remains. He was in the country illegally, you see. He was aware from the beginning that if anything went wrong, we would be forced to deny that he was one of ours, that we had sent him there.”
 
“What you’re telling me is that he was killed by the Arabs in one of the countries where he was sent to spy.” At his raised eyebrows, a note of impatience crept into her voice.
 
“That is what you do, isn’t it? Spy on Arabs? So the question is, which Arab country?”
 
Her intensity and directness were too much for the PR man. He avoided her eyes.
 
“No, I didn’t really expect you to answer. I have a pretty good idea what country it was and why he was there.”
 
The eyebrows shot up again. “My dear Miss—”
 
“Oh, don’t worry, Itzhac didn’t tell me. My job in the government, you see; it gives me some insight into— But you could never get anything like that out of my brother.”
 
Her tone softened again. “He believed in what he was doing. He believed that what he did would save the lives of others. You can’t live a better life than that, can you? Or die a better death.”
 
He watched the first tears stud the dark eyes, saw her blink them away impatiently. “You can be very proud of him,” he said. “He gave his life for Israel. He’ll be decorated for it.”
 
“How?” she asked. “There won’t even be a grave to decorate.” She bit her lip.
 
“Can you at least tell me how he died? Was he shot, stabbed, hanged—?”
 
He hesitated, but finally acquiesced. “Blown up, we think.”
 
“Oh, God! Those bloodthirsty—!” A shudder wracked her small body. “I don’t know why I asked that. What I really wanted to know was whether his mission was successful—that it wasn’t all for nothing.” She searched his face.
 
“Young lady, I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew. The issue is apparently still in doubt. I’ve been instructed to ask for your cooperation in keeping your brother’s death a secret. We don’t want the enemy to know that we are aware he was killed, at least not for the moment. We’re asking that any memorial services and any overt expression of mourning be postponed. Will that be difficult for you?”
 
“Not really,” she answered. “I’ll sit Shiva alone, in my apartment. There are no other close relatives anyway; no one to say the kaddish. I was all he had.”
 
And vice versa, her tearstained eyes added. He pushed a form toward her. “I’ll need your address, and your signature. There’ll be a small pension check coming to you. And certain personal effects to be forwarded.”
 
She scrawled out the address and signature and got up to leave. He stood up with her. “If there’s anything we can do—I can do—”
 
She shook her head, moving toward the door. In the doorway she hesitated, then turned back.
 
“Perhaps there is one thing.”
 
“Yes?”
 
“Can you tell me, please. How does one go about applying to become a Mossad agent?”
 
 
“This way, Mr. Llewellyn. The President will see you now.” The presidential aide was not a tall man, but neither was he as short as he appeared beside the visitor he was escorting. If it hadn’t been for the touch of premature gray at the temples of his dark, wavy hair, the visitor could have passed for an Ivy League athlete. The striped tie and casual cut to the suit smacked of Harvard or Princeton, the drape of the suit coat revealing a lithe, yet muscular frame beneath, with a breadth to the shoulders that would have made padding superfluous. There was a bounce to his step that bespoke boundless energy within, bottled-up energy waiting to be released.
 
David Llewellyn had been in the Oval Office only once before. It had been years ago, on a White House tour arranged by the Department of State for some of the more promising newcomers to the diplomatic corps. He remembered it as something of a letdown. Without a live president sitting there it had been like a room in a museum, impressively ornate but stuffy, sterile, devoid of personality. No ghosts of presidents past had exuded from its filigreed woodwork, and the awe he had felt at visiting “the place where the buck stops” had quickly dissipated.
 
But this time was different. As he was ushered into the West Wing sanctuary, a flood of impressions and emotions rushed to the surface, triggered by the sight of the Chief Executive at the massive desk across the expanse of lush, flag-blue carpeting with its imbedded presidential seal in gold. For the face of the man who rose to greet him was even more familiar to him than the likenesses of the presidents etched on U.S. currency; the face of a man whose friendship he and his family had cherished since his school days. The newly elected forty-first president of the United States—about to assign him to what could be the most important post of his diplomatic career.
 
“David, my boy!” The president took his hand in both of his own and shook it warmly, the tired campaign lines in the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection. “How long has it been?”
 
“Just over two years, Mr. President. The dinner in London.”
 
“Yes, yes. Dinner at Claridge’s, the theater. You had Katherine with you, and I was batching it. What was the name of that show—?”
 
The president caught the warning glint in Llewellyn’s eye, and some of the sparkle went out of his own. “Sorry. That was just before it happened, wasn’t it.” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “There’s no forgetting someone like Katherine. Trudy and I speak of her often. What a tragedy it was—”
 
“Tragedy?” Llewellyn’s lips formed a tight, grim line. “ ‘Travesty’ would be a better word. A travesty on everything this country stands for, that an innocent life can be snuffed out with such—impunity.”
 
The president avoided the smoldering eyes. “They never caught up with the killer?”
 
“The man who pulled the trigger?” Llewellyn shrugged. “He was only a tool—manipulated, programmed by their spooks, just as ours tried to program me. Before I told them where they could—”
 
He looked away, his face guilt-ridden. “Those bullets were meant for me, you know. Because of my infernal past affiliation with those—”
 
“Come on, now, David.” The president tightened his grip on the muscular shoulder. “Blaming yourself won’t bring her back. It’s time to let go. You have the rest of your life, a promising career, ahead of you. Why don’t we zero in on that?”
 
The president motioned him into a silk brocaded sofa and sat down on its twin, facing him. “You’ve been making quite a name for yourself in Stockholm. I’ve been reading your file, the reports of some of your superiors. The former Swedish ambassador’s—I forget his name—was positively glowing.”
 
“Sorenson.” David supplied the name of the little bald man with the big smile and bigger heart who had treated him like a son during his stint in Stockholm. Attending Sorenson’s funeral two months ago had been like losing his father all over again.
 
“You’ve learned all the Scandinavian languages,” the president went on, staring at the floor as though reading from an invisible resume. “You speak Swedish like a native.” David’s hopes soared. The post of ambassador to Sweden was a coveted one. He had been performing it in an acting capacity ever since the ambassador’s death. All the president had to do was make it official.