out of control.
Worst of all was the guilt. It swirled around him, threatening to consume him in a maelstrom. The small, seemingly inconsequential failings first—if only he hadn’t arranged to meet his children for lunch today—then the larger, more complex issues: if only he had dealt with the Arabs more effectively, more harshly . But in the end, all that mattered was that it was his fault. He had failed, both as a father and as prime minister. He had failed Hannah three years ago, and now his children. Looking around at the dead and dying, he realized he had failed them all.
Kneeling in the middle of the street, his face turned up toward the godless sky, tears streaming down his face, he could not escape it. Like a black plague devouring everything in its path, his guilt consumed him.
7
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
A morbid quiet had descended upon the PMO building. The staff spoke softly among themselves, their voices falling silent in the vicinity of the prime minister’s office. Standing alone in front of Rosenfeld’s door, Kogen knocked softly, waiting for a response that never came. Opening the door slightly, he peered into the dimly lit office, illuminated by a small lamp on the credenza behind the prime minister. Rosenfeld was sitting at his desk, his shirt collar unfastened, his tie on the floor beside him. Although his features were shrouded in shadow, Kogen could see the hatred burning in the older man’s eyes.
Two hours earlier, the scene at the PMO building had been frantic once staffers realized the bombing had occurred at the prime minister’s lunchtime destination. A few minutes later, Rosenfeld’s security detail had called in, relaying his safety. The relief was short-lived, however, when they remembered Rosenfeld’s daughters were meeting their father for lunch. Soon, their worst fears were confirmed.
Rosenfeld returned to the PMO building an hour later, trudging through the Aquarium toward his office. The front of his white shirt was stained dark red, the side of his face coated with a thin sheen of dried blood. Kogen had stood at the forefront of Rosenfeld’s staff. But like the rest, he could find no words to express his sorrow. Rosenfeld hadn’t given them the chance, his eyes avoiding theirs as he made his way past them. But now, as Kogen looked into the prime minister’s eyes, it was easy to see—as well as understand—that something had changed.
Kogen stepped inside Rosenfeld’s office, closing the door quietly behind him. The Mossad had done its work quickly and had determined who was responsible. Who would be held accountable, however, was the more important question.
“Prime Minister.”
Rosenfeld stared across the room, giving no indication he noticed his presence.
“Levi.”
The older man’s eyes drifted toward him.
“I offer my deepest sympathy for your loss. Both of your daughters…”
Rosenfeld’s eyes fell away.
“We know who is responsible.” Kogen paused, waiting for a response before continuing.
Rosenfeld’s gaze shot toward him, his eyes displaying a clarity they lacked just seconds before. “Who?”
“We were able to trace the path of the suicide bomber using the security cameras along David Street, tracking him back to a Number 20 bus, then farther back to the Central Bus Station, where a car dropped him off.”
“Who is responsible?” Rosenfeld repeated, his rising impatience evident in the tone of his voice.
“The driver of the vehicle is Issa Nidal, a high-ranking member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades.”
“Hamas?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Rosenfeld jerked forward in his seat, startling Kogen. The prime minister spoke in a low voice, hatred dripping from his words. “I want this man and every Hamas leader eliminated by week’s end. Every one of them dead. Is that clear?”
Kogen nodded slowly. “Yes, Prime Minister. We’re already coordinating with Defense.”
Rosenfeld slumped into his chair, the fire extinguished
Worst of all was the guilt. It swirled around him, threatening to consume him in a maelstrom. The small, seemingly inconsequential failings first—if only he hadn’t arranged to meet his children for lunch today—then the larger, more complex issues: if only he had dealt with the Arabs more effectively, more harshly . But in the end, all that mattered was that it was his fault. He had failed, both as a father and as prime minister. He had failed Hannah three years ago, and now his children. Looking around at the dead and dying, he realized he had failed them all.
Kneeling in the middle of the street, his face turned up toward the godless sky, tears streaming down his face, he could not escape it. Like a black plague devouring everything in its path, his guilt consumed him.
7
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
A morbid quiet had descended upon the PMO building. The staff spoke softly among themselves, their voices falling silent in the vicinity of the prime minister’s office. Standing alone in front of Rosenfeld’s door, Kogen knocked softly, waiting for a response that never came. Opening the door slightly, he peered into the dimly lit office, illuminated by a small lamp on the credenza behind the prime minister. Rosenfeld was sitting at his desk, his shirt collar unfastened, his tie on the floor beside him. Although his features were shrouded in shadow, Kogen could see the hatred burning in the older man’s eyes.
Two hours earlier, the scene at the PMO building had been frantic once staffers realized the bombing had occurred at the prime minister’s lunchtime destination. A few minutes later, Rosenfeld’s security detail had called in, relaying his safety. The relief was short-lived, however, when they remembered Rosenfeld’s daughters were meeting their father for lunch. Soon, their worst fears were confirmed.
Rosenfeld returned to the PMO building an hour later, trudging through the Aquarium toward his office. The front of his white shirt was stained dark red, the side of his face coated with a thin sheen of dried blood. Kogen had stood at the forefront of Rosenfeld’s staff. But like the rest, he could find no words to express his sorrow. Rosenfeld hadn’t given them the chance, his eyes avoiding theirs as he made his way past them. But now, as Kogen looked into the prime minister’s eyes, it was easy to see—as well as understand—that something had changed.
Kogen stepped inside Rosenfeld’s office, closing the door quietly behind him. The Mossad had done its work quickly and had determined who was responsible. Who would be held accountable, however, was the more important question.
“Prime Minister.”
Rosenfeld stared across the room, giving no indication he noticed his presence.
“Levi.”
The older man’s eyes drifted toward him.
“I offer my deepest sympathy for your loss. Both of your daughters…”
Rosenfeld’s eyes fell away.
“We know who is responsible.” Kogen paused, waiting for a response before continuing.
Rosenfeld’s gaze shot toward him, his eyes displaying a clarity they lacked just seconds before. “Who?”
“We were able to trace the path of the suicide bomber using the security cameras along David Street, tracking him back to a Number 20 bus, then farther back to the Central Bus Station, where a car dropped him off.”
“Who is responsible?” Rosenfeld repeated, his rising impatience evident in the tone of his voice.
“The driver of the vehicle is Issa Nidal, a high-ranking member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades.”
“Hamas?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Rosenfeld jerked forward in his seat, startling Kogen. The prime minister spoke in a low voice, hatred dripping from his words. “I want this man and every Hamas leader eliminated by week’s end. Every one of them dead. Is that clear?”
Kogen nodded slowly. “Yes, Prime Minister. We’re already coordinating with Defense.”
Rosenfeld slumped into his chair, the fire extinguished
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