The Mark of the Assassin

He had
    consistently voted against the national missile defense program.
    Beckwith had put him in a box and nailed down the lid. If Sterling
    supported Beckwith, it would look like a flip-flop. If he opposed him,
    the Republican attack machine would wheel out the "soft on defense" ads.
    There was a more important factor: California's defense industry would
    be rejuvenated if the missile defense system was built. If Sterling
    opposed it, Beckwith would jump all over him. California would slide
    back into the GOP's column. The election would be lost. "Now, that's
    what I call an October fucking surprise," Sterling said, when Beckwith
    finished speaking. Rogers rose and shut off the television. "We'll need
    to issue a statement, Senator."
    "Fucking Vandenberg. He's one smart son-of-a-bitch."
    "We can support Beckwith on the air strikes against the Sword of Gaza.
    Politics stop at the water's edge and all that happy horseshit. But
    we'll have to oppose him on missile defense. We have no other choice."
    "Yes, we do, Bill," Sterling said, staring at the blank television
    screen. "Why don't you go downstairs and get us a twelve-pack. Because
    we just lost the fucking election."
    MICHAEL OSBOURNE WATCHED the first cruise missiles strike their targets
    while the President was still speaking. In Iran, at Shahr Kord, they
    must have been listening to the speech on shortwave radio, because a
    dozen men burst from the largest building of the compound as Beckwith
    announced imminent action. "Too late, boys and girls," murmured Clark. A
    few seconds later ten cruise missiles, fired by the Aegis cruiser
    Ticonderoga in the Persian Gulf, struck the camp simultaneously,
    igniting a spectacular fireball. A similar scene played out in Syria, at
    Al Burei, with the same results. The Libyan camp was the largest and
    most important. For that target the Pentagon chose Stealth fighters
    armed with laser-guided bombs, so-called SMART weapons. The aircraft had
    actually penetrated Libyan airspace before the President's speech began.
    They were over their targets when Beckwith delivered the key line of the
    speech. Seconds later the Libyan desert was aflame. Ronald Clark rose
    and strode silently from the room, Tyler and her acolytes trailing after
    him. Carter looked at Osbourne, who was gazing at the monitors. "Well,"
    Carter said, "so much for peace in the Middle East."
    THOSE WERE the very same sentiments of the trim gray-haired man seated
    on the top floor of a modern office block in Tel Aviv. The building
    served as headquarters of the Central Institute for Intelligence and
    Special Tasks, better known as the Mossad or, simply, the Institute. The
    gray-haired man was Ari Shamron, the Mossad's deputy director for
    operations. When Beckwith finished speaking, Shamron switched off the
    television. An aide knocked and entered the room. "We have reports from
    Syrian radio, sir. Al Burei has been attacked. The camp is ablaze."
    Shamron nodded silently, and the aide went out. Shamron pressed his
    thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and tried to rub away the
    fatigue. It was 4:15 A.M. He had been at his desk for nearly twenty-four
    hours straight. The way things were going, he would probably be there
    for another twenty-four. He lit a cigarette, poured black tea from a
    thermos, and went to the window. Rain rattled against the thick window.
    Tel Aviv slept peacefully below him. Shamron could take some personal
    credit. He had spent his entire career in the secret services,
    destroying those who would destroy Israel. Raised in the Galilee, Ari
    Shamron entered the Israeli Defense Force at eighteen and immediately
    transferred to the Say-eret, the elite special forces. After three years
    of active duty he moved to the Mossad. In 1972 his fluent French and
    proficient killing skills landed him a new assignment. He was sent to
    Europe to assassinate the members of the Palestinian terror group Black
    September who took part in the kidnapping and murder of the Israeli
    athletes at the Munich Olympic Games. The assignment was simple. No
    arrests, just blood. Revenge, pure and simple. Terrorize the terrorists.
    Under the command of Mike Harari, the Mossad team assassinated twelve
    Palestinian terrorists, some with silenced guns, some by
    remote-detonated bombs. Shamron, deadly with a handgun, killed four
    himself. Then, in April 1973, he led a team of crack Israeli troops into
    Beirut and assassinated two more members of Black September and a