The President’S Ultimatum

By John Cavi

In a final desperate attempt to establish his legacy, the forty-third president of the United states, Gerald W. Burke, issues an ultimatum to the leaders of Israel and Palestine to resolve their conflict on his termsor else. The ultimatum triggers a chain of unforeseen consequences that cause Burke to be marked for death by al-Qaedaor is it al-Qaeda? Thats the question Kathy Romano, Homeland Security Terrorism Analyst, has to answer as she follows a labyrinth of clues that lead to a shocking discovery that can forever shatter the friendly relations between Israel and the United States.

At the center of the action, is Ari Bugari, an Israeli undercover agent, recruited into al-Qaeda after Iraq is invaded and defeated by the coalition forces. On orders from the al-Qaeda leadership, Ari pursues President Burke across three continents. Caught between his Israeli and al-Qaeda masters, Ari, himself, becomes the hunted quarry and is forced into hiding when he learns the explosive truth that underlies his relationship with Mossad Director General Shalom Eitan.

In this tale of adventure, betrayal, and redemption, President Burke must do everything in his power to salvage the peace agreement and his presidency.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9780595617715

John Cavi

JOHN CAVI, the pen name of John Cavaiuolo a retired Citicorp executive, was born in Brooklyn, New York and now lives in Southport, Connecticut. He and his wife Ellen enjoy spending time with their two daughters, Tricia and Kris and their two grandchildren, Kate and Matt. This is his first novel. Visit John’s website at www.johncavi. com

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ThePresident’s Ultimatum

Copyright © 2008, 2011, 2014 by John Cavi

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-9766-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5955-0256-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-5956-1771-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/29/2014

CONTENTS

Prologue

Book One The Early Years 1987–2003

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Book Two The Middle Years 2004–2006

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Book Three The Later Years 2007–2009

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Author’s Notes

This is for:

My brother, Tony, who saved my life

Dr. Stuart Seropian and his associates and caregivers at the Yale New Haven Hospital Cancer Transplant Unit, who orchestrated the battle and won

My wife, Ellen, who gave me hope and whose love, unselfishness, care, nourishment, and support never wavered

Then the Lord said to Moses:

I have seen how cruelly my people are being treated in Egypt … and so I have come down to rescue them from the Egyptians and to bring them out of Egypt to a fertile and spacious land, a land of milk and honey in which the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites now live.

—EXODUS 3

PROLOGUE

MOSUL, IRAQ

MARCH 1998

Whop, whop, whop, whop—the helicopter circled the landing area, a macadam road in the desert, thirty kilometers southeast of Mosul. The downdraft, propelled by the rotor blades, peppered the work crew with swirls of sand. From his vantage point in the chopper, Ari Bugari could see in the distance the oil wells pumping the liquid gold from Iraq’s most productive oil field.

Salaam, he shouted as he alighted from the aircraft with his bodyguards in tow. At six foot two and 190 pounds, he towered over most of his crew as they gathered around him to hear the latest news. Ari Bugari, brilliant communications network engineer, was recruited in December by the Iraqi interior minister to design and implement a communication network that would withstand enemy attack. Ari recommended a network of six command-and-control centers tied together by a series of interlocking grids that would assure full redundancy.

He and his crew had been on the road for six weeks, surveying areas that were appropriate locations for the six command-and-control centers. Five centers had been approved in five different regions of the country. Now the six men were waiting to hear the news on the northeast or sixth center. They had laid out the perimeter markers, and if the soil samples passed muster, they could finally go home.

Gather around, he said. Clean-shaven and in Western attire—designer jeans and a light mauve polo shirt—Ari stood in stark contrast to his crew of bearded engineers and land surveyors in their drab Arab attire. I received word an hour ago that the soil samples are adequate for the construction of the sixth site, so you can wrap it up here and go home to your families. A chopper will pick you up in one hour to fly you home. I’ll see you at the ministry tomorrow morning.

The men hooped and hollered at the news and slapped Ari on the back as he embraced each of them. He boarded the chopper with his bodyguards and wondered why the interior minister felt that he needed protection. The six weeks had gone without incident, and Ari began to suspect that the guards’ real mission was to keep him under surveillance. A half hour later he landed at the Mosul army base. There, in the headquarters building, he finalized the report he would give the interior minister in the morning. Call for the chopper, he said to one of his bodyguards as he logged off his laptop and packed it in its case.

The silence was marred by a whoosh followed by an explosion and a flash of distant light. From his training, he recognized that it was a mortar shell. Before he could move, his bodyguards sitting nearby grasped his arms and literally carried him out the door. There they encountered sporadic machine gun and small-arms fire, the bullets raising plumes of sand as they dug into the ground, spraying their bodies with the damp sand. The orange and yellow flames raging in the nearby barracks area illuminated the night. The barracks had been the first area that had come under fire. Soldiers were streaming out, some jumping from the second-floor deck in an attempt to escape the carnage.

An explosion knocked them off their feet. When Ari looked back, the headquarters building, which housed an ammunition dump in the basement, exploded and burned wildly in a mass of red, orange, and yellow flames. He looked for his bodyguards. One was moaning and the other was lying still with a big gash across his scalp, blood covering his face and streaming down his neck. Ari realized that he couldn’t stay in the open field. The fighting on his left was fierce, and the mortar rounds and artillery shells were continuing to pound the camp. It would be only a matter of minutes before they would target his area.

He crawled over to the bodyguard with the head wound. He had stopped bleeding; he was dead. Ari rose, lifted the other wounded bodyguard over his shoulder, and ran to the shelter of the drainage ditch on the side of the road thirty yards away. He examined the wounded man. He was bleeding profusely from a leg wound, and a piece of shrapnel had severed an artery. He wrapped the man’s belt around the leg to stem the flow of blood. Dragging the wounded man, he crawled his way to the road where a three-foot culvert ran the length of the crossroad. He eased the wounded man into the culvert.

Ari was spent. Although he was in excellent physical condition as a result of his recent training, the weight of the wounded man had worn him down. He needed a few minutes to rest. Except for a few minor cuts, he had escaped unscathed. No sooner had he settled in the culvert than he remembered the laptop. He had laid it down when he checked the dead bodyguard. He had to retrieve it. The entire command-and-control system plan and specifications were stored on its hard drive, among other data that could be compromising if discovered by the Iraqis. He surveyed the area. Mortar fire was still pelting the terrain that he had just vacated. He spotted the firing pattern. The rounds were falling from right to left and were now falling about ten yards in front of the drainage ditch.

After the next mortar round, he ran to the spot where he had left his laptop. The only light was from the yellow and orange flames dancing in the sky above the camp, but it provided adequate illumination. He heard moaning and gunfire coming from his left but couldn’t see anything. Miraculously, he managed to locate the laptop. He retrieved it and ran toward the cover of the drainage ditch. About a yard from his destination, he felt a sharp thud in his right leg that sent him and the laptop sprawling. He crawled to the laptop, grasped it in his hand, and continued crawling. When he reached the safety of the drainage ditch, he took off his belt, wrapped it around his leg tightly, and began to crawl to the culvert. A few feet ahead, a loud explosion rocked his body. The last thought he had was of Hannah, and then there was nothing.

He woke up in a strange place, his head spinning, his eyes unfocused, blinking rapidly and generating multiple images. It took him several seconds to focus. He sensed another person nearby, but he saw no one. Where am I? he uttered to no one in particular.

You’re in the military hospital in Mosul.

It took several seconds to regain his bearings. And who are you?

I’m Doctor Aziz. You have been here for two days with a concussion and a leg wound. You are fortunate to be alive. If the skirmish had lasted a few more hours, you’d have bled to death.

Ari’s head was spinning, and it took him even longer to ask the next question. What happened?

The Kurds attacked the army barracks and caused many casualties. When the attack ended, we cleaned up the mess. We recovered you and your laptop in the ditch by the main road.

And my bodyguard?

He went into shock. We tried to save him, but he didn’t make it.

When can I leave? Ari said wearily.

Not for a few weeks, Mr. Alireza. You have been slipping in and out of consciousness with periods of intense hallucinations. We want to make sure you’re stable before we release you. By the way, who’s Hannah?

A rush of adrenalin flushed Ari out of his haze, causing a moment of alertness. What else had he revealed in his stupor? he thought.

The doctor caught the reaction. There was a long moment of awkward silence as doctor and patient suspiciously scrutinized each other.

The love of my life, Ari said wearily as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

AIR FORCE ONE

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

DECEMBER 24, 2004

Air Force One, the presidential aircraft, lumbered to runway one, guided by a lone jeep with half-blacked-out lights, its four whining turbo jet engines disquieting the stillness of the vast airport. The runway lights at Baghdad International Airport had been extinguished by order of John Romano, the chief of the president’s Secret Service detail. Except for the red taillights of the jeep, the pilots were operating in total darkness. Now, on Romano’s order, the pilots cut the engines and docked the aircraft on the edge of the runway. Except for the lights in the interior of the aircraft, the entire area was in total darkness.

Gerald Winthrop Burke, the forty-third president of the United States, was resting in his private suite in the nose of the aircraft after the grueling forty-eight-hour trip to celebrate the holiday season with the troops in Afghanistan and Iraq. He had enjoyed the interaction with the troops and was delighted that he’d made the trip. But he was tired and was looking forward to sacking out as soon as they were airborne.

Outside the president’s suite, the big frame of John Romano, the former Boston College All-American left tackle, a foreboding look on his face and ringlets of sweat forming on his forehead, paced back and forth from the galley to the president’s suite. He had begun this ritual at 9:30 pm when Burke had boarded the aircraft. He looked at his watch; it registered 10:00 pm. If we can get through the next hour, we will be home free, he thought. Romano possessed a sixth sense and had an uncanny facility to anticipate problems. He had tried to dissuade the president from visiting the troops because he felt that he couldn’t guarantee the president’s safety in the war zones. But he’d lost that battle, and now all he could do was wait and pray. Isn’t that what the Jesuit fathers taught him at Boston College?

In his private cabin, President Burke poured himself a cup of coffee and, while waiting for the aircraft to depart, reviewed the events of the past two months. His grueling victorious reelection campaign mustered enough votes for him to win and give the Republicans a majority in both houses of Congress. However, it was evident during the campaign that support for his policies on the global war on terrorism was dwindling. After 9/11, his approval rating was in the high seventies. Now it was barely in the low fifties and on a downward trend. Burke was aware that the people were weary of the Iraqi war, and for good reasons. After the defeat of Saddam and the disintegration of his army, his administration made some egregious tactical errors in the occupation of the country. The disbanding of the Iraqi army and discharging Baath party members from their jobs were the two key decisions that lost the peace after winning the war. While his subordinates made those decisions, Burke assumed full responsibility for this fiasco.

Burke believed that his second term presented an opportunity to make his mark on history and leave a legacy behind that future historians would see as the single initiative that led to victory on the global war on terrorism. He was certain that the resolution of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict would be the catalyst that would finally bring peace to the region and result in harmonious relations between the Muslim and non-Muslim world. Moreover, he would forever be known as the president who finally had the courage and the tenacity to solve this thorny problem that had been plaguing the Middle East and the civilized world for sixty years. He envisaged that when the history of the twenty-first century was written, he would be placed in the top tier of world leaders, among the likes of FDR, Churchill, and de Gaulle.

And what better way to establish his independence from his department heads and the vice president? he thought. He would show them who was really running the show. Burke felt that his motives weren’t entirely selfish. He firmly believed that the Muslim community had a legitimate gripe against the United States.

He recalled the November 20 meeting with the Israeli Prime Minister, Ariel Sharon. Apparently Sharon thought that the meeting would be business as usual—a promise to the president to negotiate with his Palestinian counterpart, a reward of additional military aid from the United States for that promise, a return to Israel with the assurance that the United States had been appeased, and finding or fabricating a myriad of excuses to delay, abort, or prolong negotiations. Burke had experienced two such cycles, and he wasn’t about to experience a third repetition of the charade.

The president began, As you know, this administration and all prior administrations have been supportive of Israel. We have a long history with Israel, and over the years we’ve declared our neutrality on the Palestinian issue. In all honesty, looking at the record, I’ve concluded that while our words spoke neutrality, our actions in this and past administrations said otherwise. I’ve concluded that we must change our policy if we are ever to have credibility and achieve harmony with the Muslim world.

Sharon, caught off guard by the president’s opening remarks, moved forward in his chair. The president continued, Mr. Prime Minister, the reason I asked for this meeting is to inform you that our policy dealing with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has changed. I’ve gone through a great deal of soul searching on this issue, and I believe that there will never be peace if we follow the current paradigm.

The president stopped, locked his laser eyes on Sharon, and was about to continue when Sharon said indignantly, What do you mean?

For starters, I don’t think that you’re committed to the peace process. At this point Sharon tried to interrupt the president. Burke raised his hand to stop him and continued. Frankly, Mr. Prime Minister, you say the right words, but your actions belie your words.

Are you calling me a liar?

Burke wanted to say yes but thought better of it and adopted a more conciliatory tone. Let’s look at the facts. When I agreed to isolate Arafat, whom you said you didn’t trust enough to deal with, and the Palestinians appointed Habbas as prime minister, you killed that relationship by continuing to build settlements on the West Bank and East Jerusalem contrary to the UN resolution. When Qurei replaced Habbas, you aborted that discussion by building the wall in Palestinian territory in violation of your own courts and the world court. Surely you don’t think your obfuscation was lost on the Palestinians or on the rest of the world?

Mr. President, the fact remains that neither of these two so-called leaders was capable of stopping the terrorist attacks, and until they disarm all the terrorists, I won’t talk about peace.

The president moved forward in his chair. That’s just the point; there will never be peace with that frame of mind. One Palestinian could frustrate the peace process for years on end. I’ve decided that the only option for negotiations to bear fruit in our lifetime is to force the issue by giving both Israel and Palestine an ultimatum to adopt my version of the Road Map. Burke then proceeded to outline in detail the terms of the mandated agreement.

Sharon was furious. He felt betrayed by Burke and the United States, and he made a futile attempt to change Burke’s mind. The exchange got so heated that at one point they were arguing toe to toe, and for a moment, it seemed that they would come to blows.

Sharon moved to the edge of his chair, his face a crimson red, the veins on his neck pulsating. I can’t accept your plan, and I reject it out of hand. The Israeli people will not accept it, he shouted.

They both rose, Burke towering over the short squat frame of the prime minister. Jabbing his index finger in the direction of Sharon’s chest, he said, Think again, Mr. Prime Minister. The latest polls show that 72 percent of Israelis are willing to trade land for peace; it’s the ruling elite that haven’t come to grips with reality.

They went at it for another hour—Sharon attempting to talk Burke into modifying his stance and Burke trying to get Sharon to see the light. Finally, Burke looked at Sharon and said in a conciliatory tone, Mr. Prime Minister, you know that, up until now, the United States has vetoed every Security Council resolution that would mandate a settlement adverse to Israeli interests. My timeline is to bring Israel and Palestine to the table for meaningful negotiations by January. If I don’t receive a positive response from your government for the whole package by January 2, I want to make it clear that the United States won’t use its veto power to block any future UN resolutions that address the peace process, and that includes a mandate for a two-state solution.

He let that thought lie there for a long second and then stood, indicating that the meeting was over. Sharon stalked out of the office seething with fury, ignoring the president’s extended hand.

Now looking back at his meeting with Sharon, Burke chuckled. Perhaps last month he should have been less blunt, more conciliatory. Threatening Sharon with an embargo and a cessation of eight billion dollars in aid was probably too harsh and perhaps counterproductive. He poured himself another cup of coffee. The presidential seal on the cup caught his attention. He viewed it from several angles and thought of the power that the seal represented. Had he gone beyond the normal conventions of diplomacy in his dealings with Sharon? He took another sip of coffee, reflected on this last thought, and shook his head. The arrogant son of a bitch deserved to be humiliated, he concluded.

When he had shared his strategy with his advisors—Chief of Staff Drew Crotty, Domestic Policy Advisor Carl Anders, and National Security Advisor Samantha Robins—prior to meeting with Sharon, they forewarned him that forcing a solution would be a long hard slog with a slew of unintended consequences. He had bet the ranch that he would succeed in resolving the conflict where others had failed. However, he now realized that there was no turning back. Since that fateful day in November, as predicted by his advisors, he had lost the support of part of his conservative base, infuriated the Israeli lobby, jeopardized his domestic programs, and placed the second term of his presidency at risk. After his discussion with John Romano before boarding the aircraft, he realized that he also had placed his life at risk.

Burke looked at the clock on the wall. It registered 10:30 pm in Baghdad and 2:30 pm in the nation’s capital, eight hours earlier. If all went well, he would be home in time to celebrate another Christmas with his family.

At exactly 10:30 pm, John Romano gave the pilot permission to take off. Prepare for takeoff, and buckle your seatbelts, came the pilot’s voice over the intercom. Burke eased his six-foot frame into his captain’s chair molded to fit his lithe body. A shock of steel gray hair hung over his handsome angular face. Now, at the direction of the pilot, he buckled his seat belt for takeoff. Even the president has to follow directions, he thought with a bemused expression on his face. He thought of his Italian grandmother’s favorite saying. Che sarà, sarà, he said to no one in particular as Air Force One roared down the runway.

As the aircraft, with the four turbo jet engines at full throttle, sped down the unlit runway, Romano thought of the last-minute defensive move he had made to protect the president. And as the aircraft began to climb, he prayed that he’d made the right decision. He was unaware that his massive hands were tightly squeezing the armrests—his white knuckles in stark contrast to his damp red face.

AL-HUSSAN MOSQUE

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

DECEMBER 24, 2004

Four kilometers from the airport, al-Zarqawi, the commander of al-Qaeda in Iraq, paced the floor in the basement of the mosque, which at the moment served as his headquarters, oblivious to the damp fetid odor. Back and forth he paced, from the table that he used as a desk to the improvised communications center located on the opposite wall. And with each trip, as he looked at the clock on the wall, he became more agitated.

He had planned carefully for this moment. When he heard of the American president’s visit, he assigned Hassam Ali Alireza, one of his brightest men, to plan the assassination. He had only hate for the infidels, and he placed the American president at the top of the list because of America’s unconditional support of Israel. While the Palestinians were being systematically slaughtered by the Israelis, the Americans refused to support the UN resolutions that called for sanctions if the Israelis didn’t comply. Assassinating the American president would send a message to the world that no one was beyond al-Qaeda’s reach.

He eyed the clock one more time—10:30 pm. He should have heard by now. He had informants at the airport and in the green zone. It was odd that there was no word. Hakim, he called out to his communications man, any news yet?

The commander from Mosul reported a successful IED detonation, at least five American casualties. Hakim didn’t get the usual ebullient reaction from Zarqawi at such good news. Instead, Zarqawi grabbed Hakim by the lapels of his shirt and slammed him against the stone wall. Zarqawi, a volatile man, could be both brutal and charismatic, and Hakim, confused and hurting, wondered what news Zarqawi was expecting that caused such a violent reaction.

After a few more paces Zarqawi barked again, Hakim, get me Ali.

A few minutes later, one of his men came running down the steps from the mosque.

Did you want to see me, Sheikh? he said.

Not you, he roared. I want Alireza.

MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

DECEMBER 24, 2004

Two hundred sixty miles southwest of Baghdad, in Tel Aviv, the director general of the Mossad, Shalom Eitan, a nondescript, short, soft-spoken man with thinning gray hair and a cherubic red face, sat at his desk, his rheumy gray eyes glued to the CNN news station. With the massive ring on his finger, he beat a rhythmic chant on the mahogany desk. While he could pass for someone’s grandfather, he was not the benign man he appeared to be but was a ruthless, shrewd, noncompromising leader of perhaps the most effective intelligence organization in the world.

The volume was on mute, his interest centered on the streaming captions on the bottom of the screen conveying the latest breaking news and on the screen of the laptop on his desk reflecting his e-mail window. He was the only one remaining on the executive floor, the last of his colleagues having departed hours ago. Usually they didn’t leave until he left, but tonight he had encouraged them to go home to their families. He wanted to be the sole occupant of the executive floor.

Tap … tap … tap … The incessant sound from the ring striking the mahogany table radiated around the room. Eitan was oblivious to the cadence, his eyes riveted to the screen and his ears tuned to the laptop. He turned and looked at the clock on the console—10:30 pm. He was a patient man, perhaps his only virtue, but even he had his limits. He would give it another hour; Ari Bugari had not disappointed him yet.

BOOK ONE

THE EARLY YEARS

1987–2003

CHAPTER 1

1987–1996

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

PRINCESS NADIA YACHT

SEPTEMBER 1987

The sun glinted off the Bell-260 private helicopter as it slowed and then hovered over the yacht Princess Nadia, one of the largest yachts in the world, docked in the exclusive Tel Aviv marina. The noise of the rotors echoed off the shimmering water, the docks, and the superstructures of the other yachts, growing louder as the pilot eased the chopper down onto the landing pad of Princess Nadia’s aft deck. Ibrahim Bugari, the patriarch of the two-trillion-dollar Bugari family empire, stood to the side of the pad and craned his neck upward, the downdraft from the rotors blowing back his fine, white hair. All morning he had awaited the arrival from Jerusalem of his youngest son, Gamel. Ibrahim and Gamel planned to review the grants that the Bugari Foundation had earmarked for the various charities for the following year. Ibrahim followed the aircraft with an anxious gaze until it touched down on the deck. Gamel Bugari popped open the chopper door and half trotted to the edge of the landing pad, where his father greeted him with a smile that engulfed his weathered face. As they embraced, Gamel said, Father, Ari sends you his love.

And how is one of my two favorite grandsons? the patriarch asked as they locked arms and walked to the main deck. Ari and Silvio were the patriarch’s only grandsons. Silvio, almost a year older than Ari, was the son of Rosano Bugari, the patriarch’s eldest son and the CEO of Bugari Limited—a precious stone and metal business empire that spanned six continents with an estimated value of over two trillion dollars generating a profit of fifty billion dollars annually. The patriarch had turned the business over to Rosano five years earlier but felt, as did his predecessors, that he had the responsibility to assure that the Bugari clan was properly educated in order to supply a steady stream of managers into the business. Now he was ready to turn the Bugari charitable foundation over to Gamel.

Fine, Father. Ari had a great vacation in Sharm this summer, and he really misses Silvio, Gamel replied.

I’m pleased that they get along well together. I hope their relationship carries over into adulthood, the patriarch said.

Where’s Mother? Gamel asked.

In Tel Aviv, shopping as usual, the patriarch replied.

They sat at a table on the main deck. The steward poured each a glass of sweet iced tea and took their order. The patriarch continued. Gamel, I want you to assume the chair of the Bugari Foundation. I’m retiring from active management of the foundation by year’s end, and you are the logical successor. Gamel, a university professor, the youngest and the rebel of the family, lived in Jerusalem with his wife Noria and son Aristotle, or Ari as he was called by all. In truth, the patriarch admired Gamel for his idealism and individualism. He was the perfect choice to lead the Bugari charitable foundation.

Gamel was surprised; he hadn’t expected his father to give up the foundation, even though he was approaching his seventy-fifth birthday. I’ll be happy to run the foundation, Father, but is there anything the matter with your health?

No, no. It’s time for the younger generation to assume the mantle of leadership. The patriarch picked up his glass and said, To the younger generation, as they tipped glasses.

Over lunch, they finished discussing the foundation business. They sat for a moment gazing at the blue-green sea dotted with distant white sails fading into the cerulean sky. It made a perfect seascape and setting. The patriarch broke the spell. Gamel, it’s time to make plans for Ari’s secondary education. My wish is to enroll Ari and Silvio at Eton. Rosano has agreed, and now I need your agreement.

Father, Ari will obtain an equivalent education in the Jerusalem public school. He’s looking forward to attending secondary school with his current group of friends, and he has no desire to attend Eton. What Gamel didn’t say was that he and his wife, Noria, preferred to have Ari home for another four years before he went off to the university. If he acquiesced to his father’s wish, Ari would virtually be gone from of their lives in another year.

The curriculum is only a part of one’s education. It’s my responsibility to make sure that Bugari Ltd. has a steady stream of capable managers. In our business, contacts and friendships with the right people are as important as the curriculum.

They attempted to find common ground that would break the deadlock, but to no avail. Finally, Gamel said boldly as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, Perhaps Ari doesn’t want to join the business. He should make that decision. It shouldn’t be made by you, Father.

The patriarch looked at his son and shook his head from side to side before he replied. Did I force you to join the business? When you decided to study philosophy and pursue a career in teaching, didn’t I support your decision? Gamel averted his father’s laser glare and didn’t reply. The patriarch continued. Fine. Let Ari decide, but don’t forget to mention that Rosano has already enrolled Silvio. The patriarch knew that Ari looked up to Silvio. Since they were toddlers, they had spent every summer at his seaside villa in Sharm el-Sheikh, and for the time they were there, they were inseparable. Ari will follow Silvio; of that I’m certain, the patriarch thought.

It was time to depart, and father and son walked to the launching pad on the aft deck and the waiting helicopter, its spinning rotors and its coughing engine emitting flashes of blue light, disturbing a flock of blackhead gulls loitering on the adjacent dock. The gulls scattered in different directions, one gull skirting the left shoulder of the patriarch. He froze for a moment, uneasy, a white pall blanketing his face. Seeing the troubled expression, Gamel asked,

Is there anything wrong, Father?

No no, son, nothing. He pulled his son close and they embraced, and when Gamel turned away, the patriarch gazed at his son, Salaam, Gamel. They embraced again, longer this time, holding each other closer.

Salaam, Father, Gamel said as he released his hold and walked to the waiting helicopter. The copter, rotors whining, slowly lifted off the pad, clearing the superstructure of the Princess Nadia, hovered for a long moment, and then thrust forward. The patriarch gazed apprehensively at the helicopter long after it had disappeared over the horizon.

On to the flight back to Jerusalem, Gamel replayed the discussion he had with his father. The confrontation made him sad. It seemed that every step he took without his father’s prior approval resulted in conflict. He thought back to the Sorbonne. Had he followed the path laid out by his father, he would not have majored in philosophy and Greek history. And consequently, he would not have secured a teaching position at Jerusalem University College, where he met his wife—Noria Hussain, a student in his philosophy class. He was attracted to her not only for her beauty but also for her independent nature not normally seen in Arab women.

Although she was a fervent Muslim, Noria didn’t conform to the dress and other visual codes required by Muslim Shira law. She was truly a liberated woman, an anomaly at that point in time. They fell in love, married, and led an ideal life in Jerusalem with their only child, Aristotle. Had he chosen the business world, he wondered what his life would have been like. He couldn’t imagine a life without Noria and Ari. Notwithstanding their differences, he and his father always parted friends, and when he departed today, their embrace lasted a great deal longer than usual. I wonder what that was about, he thought.

When the helicopter left to transport his son back to Jerusalem, Ibrahim remained on the deck gazing at the horizon, The bright yellow ball moved slowly over the blue-green sea, sinking ever so slowly until the last yellow light disappeared, leaving an interval of red, orange, and purple sky before the horizon morphed into darkness. He had seen hundreds of sunsets, and they had never failed to amaze him. Now he was in his sunset years, and when the sea finally swallowed the sun, his thoughts turned to his family. His wife, Nadia, the former king Farouk’s grandchild, had blessed him with two sons and one daughter. Rosano, the CEO of Bugari Limited, managed the business and would become the fifth patriarch upon his death. Rosano was prominent in the Italian political arena. He was pleased with Rosano, the consummate politician. He saw in Rosano some of the qualities that had made him successful. And Gamel, the idealist, was the perfect choice to lead the Bugari charitable foundation.

During his stewardship, he had sustained the Bugari tradition promulgated by Jacob Bugari—his great-great-grandfather—the founder and first patriarch of the Bugari dynasty. For the most part he was satisfied that he had succeeded in his role as patriarch. He regretted that he did not imbue his offspring with the religious fervor that Jacob, an Orthodox Jew, had faithfully practiced. He relinquished that part of their education to his wife Nadia, a Muslim. Perhaps his disinterest was due to the irreparable dilution of the Jewish bloodline emanating from Jacob by him and his father, who married non-Jews.

The whop, whop, whop of the helicopter settling on the landing pad nudged him out of his thoughts. As the crew secured the helicopter, the Princess Nadia resumed its journey; by tomorrow morning, they would arrive at his villa on the Mediterranean Sea, fifty miles east of Cairo.

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

A few days after Gamel returned from Tel Aviv, he, Noria, and Ari were having lunch on the veranda of their villa high in the hills overlooking the city of Jerusalem. The vista of red tiled roofs and the glinting white limestone houses bathed by the sun and dotted by the green umbrella cypress trees presented a vibrant and picturesque view. An array of jasmine and azalea bushes edged the pool and the surrounding area, and the gentle breeze filled the air around them with the scent of jasmine.

Ari, you’re entering the last year of school, and we’d like to know if you prefer to stay in Jerusalem to continue your education or attend Eton as your grandfather wishes.

Abba, I am happy here with you and Mom. And besides, all my friends are here. Ari had a large and varied group of friends; he was captain and leading scorer of the soccer team, and he was very popular with the boys and girls. He was reluctant to give up his current lifestyle and friends to attend Eton. Gamel and Noria were delighted with Ari’s decision; however, Gamel didn’t mention to Ari that his cousin Silvio had agreed to attend Eton.

Ari would remember that day forever. The happiness of his parents, the serenity of the villa’s garden, the panoramic view, the gentle breeze, the scent of jasmine, the peace and solitude, and a happy family—that’s how he perceived the moment. He considered himself fortunate that he had such loving and caring parents.

The next day his parents celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Gamel took Noria to the opera. Pavarotti was making a rare appearance in Il Rigoletto. The matinee performance had sold out months in advance. His parents had reservations for dinner at 7:00 PM in one of the finest restaurants in Jerusalem. Ari planned to join his parents for dinner to celebrate the event with them.

When the performance was over, Noria called Ari. Ari, we are on our way to the restaurant. It’s a lovely evening so we’ve decided to walk; it should take us about forty-five minutes.

How was the performance, Mom?

It was great, even better than we expected.

I’m happy that you and Dad had a good time. See you and Dad in about an hour. I love you, Mom.

We love you too, Ari.

Buoyed by the afternoon event, they strolled to the restaurant hand in hand. When they arrived, the maitre d’ sat them at an outdoor table for four. It was a beautiful mild October evening, the full moon bathing the hills around the city with an ochre hue made for a romantic setting. The waiter took their beverage order and removed the fourth place setting.

As Ari stepped from the car, the odor of food from the restaurant across the street carried on the warm evening breeze. The street was crowded with pedestrians, but Ari could see his mother and father seated at the outdoor table. He smiled and raised his arm to wave at them as the chauffeur pulled away in the Mercedes. Ari’s father glanced over, saw his son, and leaned across the table. They both turned to Ari, their faces bright, their smiles wide. No one noticed the thin frail teenager making her way through the maze of tables. As Ari stepped off the curb, a flash of orange and red blinded him, and simultaneously a deafening explosion blotted out all else. He felt himself lifted off the ground and tossed backward with stupendous force. Gasping, he struggled to his feet and discovered that he was covered in blood and gore. His head spinning, he stared across the street. The restaurant was gone, disintegrated in the blast of the suicide bomber. He was stunned and for a moment immobilized. Then he reacted, running across the street to where he had last seen his parents. He fought through the mass of debris and acrid smoke until he reached the vicinity of the table his parents had occupied moments before. They were a mass of raw flesh and shattered bones, unrecognizable. He lifted what remained of his mother in his arms and began to run back across the street. Four powerful hands grasped his arms and legs and wrestled him to the ground. Despite the shouting and the wail of sirens, he heard nothing. An eerie quite enveloped his being. He wretched and gagged on his own vomit until there was nothing left to eject. His last memories were of his parents waving at him from the restaurant table and the medic with a syringe. It wasn’t until the next evening, when the drugs wore off, that he realized the enormity of what had transpired. He had no inkling that that day would change him for the remainder of his existence.

Five days after the tragic death of his parents, Ari was discharged from the hospital and went to live with Omar Hussain, his mother’s brother, who assumed responsibility for Ari after his parents’ death.

The morning after Ari’s arrival, Omar and his wife Nadia were having breakfast on the veranda of their villa. The table was set for three; Ari’s chair was unoccupied. Is Ari up and about? Omar asked as he poured a second cup of coffee.

No, I haven’t seen him since last night, He hasn’t eaten anything since he was discharged from the hospital, Nadia replied with a concerned look. Perhaps we should make sure he’s all right.

They rushed to Ari’s room and knocked on the door. No one answered. They knocked a second and third time with no answer. Beyond the door, Ari lay on the bed fully clothed in the fetal position, his arms wrapped around a pillow, which he held tightly to his chest. His room was in total darkness except for a crack of sunlight that filtered in from the edge of the wooden shutters covering the windows. Ari, his aunt called softly.

Go away, came the shrill reply. I want to be alone.

But you haven’t had any nourishment in two days, his aunt said.

I said leave me alone, Ari shouted as he rocked back and forth. Leave me alone.

After several more attempts to reason with Ari failed, Omar said to Nadia, Let him be. Leave the food next to the door. When he’s hungry he’ll eat.

Ari spent most of each day in bed in a perpetual haze, rarely leaving his room, shunning interaction, and barely eating anything of substance. Each day his uncle and aunt went through the same ritual, but Ari wouldn’t respond with any degree of civility. After a few days they noticed that some of the food on the dinner tray was missing, and they hoped that this was a sign that Ari had started to turn the corner.

The next night, Omar sat on a chair in the foyer next to Ari’s room. The glass of milk and the brisket dinner covered by a gleaming silver cover lay intact, just as the butler had left it two hours ago. He tried to engage Ari in conversation to no avail. In his room, Ari, as he had done each day since the tragedy, replayed the scene outside the restaurant over and over in his mind’s eye—his parents waving, the explosion, the flash of light, the acrid odor, the haze, the bits and pieces that were once his mother and father, and the medic with the syringe. Over and over he played the scene in his mind like a broken record that only ended when engulfed by that perpetual haze. I’ll kill them, Abba, I promise, he shouted. Omar had dozed off and was jolted out of his catnap by a scream and Ari yelling over and over again—I’ll kill them, Abba. I’ll kill them, Abba. I promise.

Ari, can I help you? Can I get you anything? Omar asked while standing outside the locked door.

Leave me alone, Ari screamed.

In the solitude of the night, Omar could hear Ari sobbing and calling out for his parents and promising to avenge their death. I’ll kill them, Abba. I promise, he murmured over and over again.

The next morning Omar called Ari’s grandfather and related the events of the past week; the patriarch said he would leave for Jerusalem immediately.

Ari was shaken out of his haze by the whop, whop cadence of the helicopter. He rushed to the window, eased aside a slat of the window shutter, and peered out to the field below. The copter slowly circled the grounds once at a forty-five degree angle, the bright sun glancing off its silver body. The copter hovered over the landing area for a minute, the downdraft scattering shards of petals from the flowering bushes to the far corners of the massive green lawn. As the pilot slowly eased the copter down, the noise from the rotors got louder and louder until the wheels touched the soft green lawn.

Omar walked to the helicopter and greeted the patriarch as he got out of the aircraft. Distracted by his grandfather and Omar, Ari at first didn’t notice his uncle Rosano and cousin Silvio. His heart skipped a beat when he saw them. What am I going to do? How can I face Silvio? he thought anxiously, anticipating the knock on the door.

Omar, walking briskly, led the group to Ari’s room. He looked at the patriarch and nodded. The patriarch knocked on the door and said gently, Ari, open the door. I want to talk to you.

Go away. I want to be alone, Ari yelled.

Ari, we came from Cairo this morning to see you, and we’re not leaving without talking to you. Ari didn’t reply. The patriarch tried again. Ari, Silvio is with me, and he would like to see you too. No reply from behind the locked door. The patriarch, blood vessels pulsating and face flushed, had clearly exhausted his patience. Ari, he said in a stern loud voice, open the door or we’ll snap the lock. There was silence for a few moments, and then they heard footsteps; a few moments later the door swung open.

The patriarch walked into the room and closed the door. Ari stood near the door, a stream of tears rolling down his cheeks. The patriarch put his arm around Ari’s shoulder and guided him to the foot of the bed, where they sat next to each other. I’m here to help you, son.

Ari didn’t reply. The patriarch tried again. Ari, I know that you’ve gone through a terrible time and that you’ve been devastated by the death of your mother and father. But after a period of mourning, you have to move on and resume a normal life. Do you understand, son?

Ari nodded, and his grandfather continued. Promise me that you’ll return to school next week and that you’ll treat your aunt and uncle with respect. Your parents would never condone your current behavior. The legacy they would want for you is not one filled with hate and anger. Honor your parents, Ari, by going on with your life in a way that would make them proud.

Ari nodded and then mumbled, Yes, Abba.

His grandfather then gave Ari the option to live in Cairo with him or in Rome with his uncle Rosano and cousin Silvio, but Ari declined.

I would rather live with my aunt and uncle in Jerusalem until I finish school. Then I’ll go to Eton with Silvio, Ari said.

The patriarch left that afternoon convinced that the worst was over, but he was disappointed that Ari had chosen to stay in Jerusalem rather than to live with him or with Rosano.

The week after the patriarch’s visit, Ari returned to school. He didn’t fare well, neglecting his studies and causing problems for the school administrators. One morning, instead of attending classes, Ari boarded the downtown bus heading to the shopping district. The day was unseasonably hot and humid with nary a breeze. A blanket of smog covered the valley, and Ari could smell the noxious diesel fumes seeping through the open window. He got off the bus at the shopping district and walked to the bazaar. He ignored the various stalls and walked purposely past the last stall into a narrow alley. He stopped before the pawnshop, looked furtively down and up the alley, and opened the door.

That afternoon, the principle of the school picked up the phone and dialed Omar’s private number. He wasn’t comfortable making this call. The Hussains and the Bugaris were his dear friends, but today’s episode was cause for concern. It’s about Ari, he said after exchanging the usual pleasantries. He has had three altercations with his fellow students since he returned to school; one more and we’ll have to suspend him. The last incident was particularly gruesome. The young man suffered two black eyes and a gash on his forehead. So far we’ve managed to diffuse the situation.

Omar hesitated for a second before he replied, Abe, thanks for your help and concern. Ari has been going through a rough time. I’ll speak to him about his behavior when he comes home.

One other matter, the principal said after a moment of awkward silence. "Ari wasn’t at school this morning. At noon, a student observed Ari placing a gun in his locker and came to me directly. I personally checked his locker and found a loaded 38 pistol. Fortunately I didn’t rely on the Security Department