The Disciple

Ah, if only Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would step onto that patio with a cup of tea. If he did, Hyman Fineberg would be delighted to see if he could cut him in half with a 100 mm shell.

He took his eye from the sight and looked again at his watch. Three of the shooters were just off the lobby, in the room behind the front desk. The desk clerk was bound and gagged in one corner. The fourth man, named Moshe, was behind the desk, casually keeping an eye on the elevator that serviced only the penthouses on the top floor.

“Turn up the radio,” Fineberg told Ari Zameret. “If this new tanker gets on the horn to headquarters, we have another problem.”

Inside the Hilton, Moshe looked at his watch. Still fifty-seven minutes before Ahmadinejad’s limo was due to arrive to take him to his appointment with the local Islamic clergy. He pursed his lips and whistled silently as he played with the reservation computer on the desk below the countertop. A Japanese man came out of the regular elevator and crossed toward the desk.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I wish to check out.”

Moshe was all business. “Your room number, please?”

The minutes crept past, and the radio in the tank remained silent. Of course, Fineberg thought, that captain could be calling headquarters on his cell phone. He used the periscope to examine each tank in turn, ensuring he knew their precise locations. Each had shut down its engine, which he thought was a good sign. If they restarted their engines, however…

Automatically he checked the ca

“Yes, sir.”

In the Hilton, Moshe was checking out an Australian couple when his telephone rang. He picked up the instrument from its cradle and tucked it between his shoulder and his ear. “Front desk,” he said.

“Red, red, red. Soldiers are getting out of a bus in back and going into the basement. They are armed. I thought I saw the general.”

“Roger.”

Moshe hung up and said to the couple at the counter, “Please wait a moment. I’ll be right back.” He stepped into the room behind him and said, “Red. Soldiers are coming in the basement in back.”

One of the men tossed Moshe an Uzi.

Fineberg’s cell phone rang, and he answered.

“Red, red, red. Soldiers going into the back of the hotel. Looks like Darma’s with them. They came in a bus.”

“It’s blown. Let’s try to get our guys out of there.”

Behind the hotel in a car parked in a service area, the man who made the call reached behind him and pulled an AT-4 light antitank weapon from under a blanket on the backseat. He stepped out of the car, pulled the telescoping tube to full extension, aimed the weapon at the bus and pulled the trigger. The 84 mm warhead shot across the hundred yards that separated the car from the bus and hit it dead center. The explosion knocked down the two soldiers standing at the front of the bus.

The man who fired the antitank rocket dropped the empty tube and pulled an M-16 from the backseat. He opened up on the soldiers in semiautomatic aimed fire. He dropped them both before they could find cover. By now a hot fire was burning in the middle of the bus, giving off a lot of smoke.

General Syafi’i Darma found Ahmadinejad in the presidential suite dressing for his daily appointments. He was admitted by one of Ahmadinejad’s security team, who carried a pistol in his hand even though Darma was in uniform.

Darma delivered the message in a rush. “The security ministry has uncovered an assassination plot aimed at Your Excellency. The assassins are in the lobby.”

As Ahmadinejad stared, Darma turned and motioned with an arm, directing a squad of soldiers to enter the suite. All were armed with assault rifles. They arranged themselves in front of every window and the sliding glass door that led to the huge patio and pool. Two men went out onto the patio and looked toward the street twenty-four floors below. Two more soldiers carried a light machine gun out onto the patio and set it up on a tripod. Men carrying ammo boxes followed them. In less than a minute, the gun was in position to shoot down any helicopter that might approach the building.

While all this was going on, Ahmadinejad asked, “Who are these assassins?”

“Israelis, we believe,” said General Darma. He started in on a convoluted tale of how he and his men uncovered the plot to murder the president of Iran, but Ahmadinejad turned away, apparently uninterested.

Israelis!

“They’re going in. Start engines,” came the command over the tank’s radio.

Hyman Fineberg swung the turret until the optical sight of the 100 mm gun rested on the side of the tank to his right. He pulled the trigger, and as the tank recoiled, the armor-piercing round blew up the target tank.

“Reload,” he roared as he spun the turret, and Davidoff, who had anticipated him and dropped down into the turret, slammed another round home.

Fineberg settled the crosshairs on the tank to his left across the square, which was facing him almost head on. He lowered the crosshairs to rest on the forward right tread wheel and pulled the trigger. The tank rocked under the impact.

Davidoff opened the breech, the spent shell was ejected and he slammed home another round.

The four Israelis in the lobby managed to get out just as soldiers came rushing in from the stairwell. One of the Israelis paused in the door and triggered a burst at the first three soldiers he saw in order to slow them. Then he let the door slam shut and followed the others along the hallway past the administrative offices toward the employees’ entrance on the side of the building.

Moshe opened the door a crack and looked out. Soldiers in uniform, at least a dozen, were ru

“Grenades,” he said to the men behind him. Each took a grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin.

“We are going to have to fight our way out. I’ll open the door, you throw the grenades, then we go. Now!”

He banged the door open, and the grenades sailed through. Someone outside fired a short burst into the doorway, which tagged one of the men. He took two bullets in the chest and one in the neck. He fell, bleeding profusely.

Moshe and the other two charged through the door with Uzis blazing just as the grenades exploded. Moshe was shot as he ran; then the man who had blown the bus shot three of the Indonesian soldiers, turning them around to face this new threat.

Bullets spanged into cars and skipped off pavement and tore at flesh. Another Israeli went down. The survivor ran like the wind.

With the door to the patio open, the sounds of small-arms fire, grenade explosions and 100 mm tank gu

He was the first one to spot a tank coming at a good clip around the corner of the building, diesel smoke pouring from its exhaust.

Someone was standing in the turret, and he opened up with the swivel-mounted machine gun.

Almost at the same instant, the barrel of the tank’s big gun swung toward the hotel and a belch of fire and smoke erupted. Through his feet, Ahmadinejad felt the building absorb the blow of the huge shell at point-blank range. What he couldn’t see was the carnage the shell caused among the eight soldiers who were in the hallway off the lobby trying to get out of the employees’ entrance. That outside door was obliterated, and bricks rained down into the yawning chasm the shell’s explosion had caused.