JULY 16, ‘25 // black operation,” the Defense Secretary finally said, leaning forward for emphasis. “Under no circumstances will I tell the Mexicans about our plans.” The Secretary of State wasn’t surprised. He and the Secretary of Defense were at opposite ends of the political spectrum. The Defense Secretary felt that American interests were of prime importance and that the government should not concern itself with other countries if their interests collided with American interests. The Secretary of State insisted that the United States, as the leader of the Free World, had a moral obligation to protect the interests of the less powerful countries. “Martin is correct,” the Secretary of State defended his assistant. “We have no right to take military action in another country without first receiving their permission, or at the very least, informing the other government of what we’re about to do.” “And did Osama bin Laden ask anyone’s permission before taking military action on American soil?” the Defense Secretary asked sardonically. “Does bin Laden give you the right to break all diplomatic agreements?” the Secretary of State retorted hotly. “Are you entitled to break international law? Is there any justification for stooping to that level? Then you will be assisting bin Laden in his task of promoting anarchy and terror in the world!” The Defense Secretary responded quietly, trying to contain his fury. “No. I am not planning to break international law. I am not about to assist bin Ladin, as you so aptly described it. Mexico will undoubtedly express their gratitude when they discover that we removed this cancerous growth from their midst.” The Secretary of State decided to put a stop to their argument before it escalated and got completely out of hand. “I suggest we let the President decide,” he quickly stated. “Acceptable,” the Defense Secretary agreed. He knew the President well, and he was certain that his view would prevail. A military helicopter was waiting on Kitty Hawk’s deck with the first rays of morning light. Rachamim and Naomi were led up to the deck. The soldiers accompanying them glanced toward the opposite end of the deck, as if they were waiting for someone to appear. Rachamim followed their gaze. In the dim predawn light, he could discern four figures approaching. The four men were involved in a heated discussion about something. As they came closer, he realized that it was his two sons accompanied by two men in street clothes. The man walking next to Yosef extended his hand to Rachamim. “I’m Bruce Weisel. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency, commonly known as the CIA.” “Nice to meet you,” Rachamim responded with forced friendliness. He felt uncomfortable being in close contact with people in government service. Fear of the government was an ingrained trait from the time he was a child living under the corrupted officials of the Shah. “Your sons were a real help to us,” Bruce said enthusiastically. “The information they gave us in the short time that we have been together will prevent many future terrorist attacks.” “One night is not enough. We’ve been members of the organization for years,” Yechezkel pointed out. Rachamim noticed the exhaustion on his sons’ faces. “I apologize for keeping them the entire night,” Bruce continued. “We need to take advantage of every possible moment to get the most information in the least amount of time. Most of the information that they gave me has already been transferred to Washington.” (To be continued) 182
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