Chapter 2075 - 851: For Survival?

March 24, 1998, 3 a.m., Jerusalem office.

The lights had been on all night.

Shamir stood at the window, looking at the sleeping ancient city outside. Two thousand years of stone, three thousand years of grudges, all silent at this moment.

But his phone had been ringing nonstop.

The third call from the Minister of Defense.

"Shamir, something's happened on the Lebanon Border."

Shamir didn't turn around.

"I know."

The Minister of Defense's voice was pressed very low. "Men from Hezbollah have crossed the Blue Line, at least two battalions. They're advancing in the direction of Shatura."

Shamir's fingers tapped the window frame.

Shatura.

That was the edge of the buffer zone Squid had established on the Lebanon Border. If Hezbollah took Shatura, they could push their rocket launchers to within less than five kilometers of Squid's Northern towns.

"What does Moses say?"

Moshe Ya'alon, commander of the Northern Military Zone.

"He's already ordered the 91st Division into combat readiness. But he needs your authorization—to enter Lebanese territory."

Shamir was silent for three seconds.

In those three seconds, many things flashed through his mind: that old man on Temple Mount yesterday shouting "SZ," the cruise ship seized off Mexico's coast, and the intel he'd just received before dawn—the faces of three hundred Chechens appearing in a YL military base in Syria.

The ones who came off the Black Mamba.

The ones Hendrick had sent into Europe.

The ones who were supposed to be scattered in the Alps.

Now they were at the edge of the Golan Heights.

"Authorize," Shamir said.

He hung up, turned around.

Three maps were spread out on the desk. The first was Southern Lebanon, every Hezbollah stronghold marked in red pen. The second was the Golan Heights, the Syrian Government Army's defensive lines marked in blue. The third was the entire Middle East—from the Mediterranean to the Persian Gulf, from the Red Sea to the Black Sea, crammed full of arrows.

The secretary pushed the door open and came in.

"Prime Minister, the Americans are here."

Shamir nodded.

The man who walked in was Dennis Ross, White House envoy, sixty-two years old, who'd been mixed up in the Middle East for thirty years, could speak accented Arabic, and could curse in Hebrew.

"Shamir," Ross didn't sit down, "what are you about to do?"

Shamir looked at him.

"We're trying to stay alive."

Ross stared at him.

"Do you know what they're saying outside? That you're about to open a second front in Lebanon, that you're going to move on the Golan Heights, that you even want to touch the West Bank of Jordan River—you've lost your mind?"

Shamir said nothing.

He walked over to the maps and pointed at that red dot in Southern Lebanon.

"This is Hezbollah. Behind them is YL. Behind YL—guess who?"

Ross didn't guess.

Shamir pointed at the blue dots over by the Golan Heights.

"This is the Syrian Government Army. Behind them is also YL. Behind YL—it's still the same man."

He turned around.

"Mr. Ross, on your way here, did you see those people holding signs on Temple Mount?"

Ross nodded.

"Three thousand rabbis shouting I'm 'SZ.' Do you know who paid to bring those three thousand people here?"

Ross shook his head.

"I don't know either," Shamir said, "but I know one thing—the money that paid them came from the same account that paid the Black Sea Wolf to transport Chechens."

Ross's expression changed.

"You're sure?"

Shamir looked at him.

"I'm not sure. But my intelligence services tell me the Cayman Islands shell company behind that account has the same legal representative as the company that funded the anti-Mexico protests in Ecuador three months ago."

The room was quiet for three seconds.

"Victor Reyes?" Ross frowned. "He's running a game in the Middle East too?"

"It's not him." Shamir shook his head. "He's still in the dark. That old man cursed him as the Anti-Christ, his ship was seized by us, his men on the Mediterranean almost got taken as hostages—right now he wants to find that man even more than I do."

He walked up to Ross.

"Someone wants to muddy the waters. Make Mexico hate me, make me hate Mexico, make Hezbollah hit Squid, make the YL people think they can win. When everyone is fighting, that man will come out and clean up."

Ross stared at him.

"Who?"

Shamir was silent for two seconds.

Then he spoke a name:

"Moscow."

3:40 a.m., Lebanon Border, Shatura

The gunfire had started half an hour earlier.

At first it was sporadic, like firecrackers at New Year. Then it turned into sheets of fire, like a rainstorm drumming on a tin roof. Then came the explosions—mortars, rockets, and those heavy bombs that could make the ground shudder three times.

The 91st Division's armored vehicles were lining up along the border.

Brigade commander Avi Ben Abraham stood beside his Merkava Tank, holding night-vision binoculars, looking north. In that direction, Hezbollah's rockets were streaking across the night sky with burning tails, landing in collective farms a few kilometers inside Squid's territory.

"Brigade commander, the Chief of Staff on the line."

He took the headset.

"Avi," Chief of Staff Moses's voice was very calm, "your mission: cross the Blue Line, take Hiam Town. Then—push north until you see the Litani River."

Ben Abraham froze for a moment.

The Litani River? That was twenty kilometers deep into Lebanon. That was where they'd fought in 1982, and later pulled back from.

"Chief of Staff, that's—"

"That's a Cabinet order." Moses cut him off. "Execute."

The headset clicked off.

Ben Abraham took a deep breath and picked up the intercom.

"All units, attention. Objective: Hiam Town. Move out."

The first Merkava crossed the border at exactly 4 a.m.

The armored vehicles behind formed a long dragon, all headlights off, only the muffled rumble of engines rolling through the night.