The King’s Gambit: Chapter 1 (The Immigrant)

Tel Aviv, Israel: Yesterday 11 p.m.
The city streets were empty, except for a few teen-aged boys throwing rocks against the walls of the small shops. A warm desert wind, blowing in from the west, had created an intolerable humidity. The chauffeur/bodyguard leaned backwards over the front seat of the car, and almost commanded in his crisp military voice, “Air conditioning, Sir.” The temperature was the last thing on the mind of the back seat occupant. He barely nodded, and continued staring into the black leather folder laying besides him. The cover of his folder had an inscription of the Star of David; the official seal of the Department of Defence of the State of Israel. The inside contained a stack of maps marked, “Top Secret;” one for each country that could be considered a threat to his homeland. On the back of every map were the encrypted code names of the Mossad contacts that were active in these countries.
It had been a hectic month. The election victory celebrations had been followed by the successful post-Sept. 11 negotiations. Those were followed by guest visits to almost every capital of the Western world. Photograph sessions, talk shows, formal dinners, even a cameo appearance on MTV. He didn’t enjoy any of these, “duties”, but they came with the job. However, all that was yesterday’s news. Tonight was a different night, and Ari Ben Shariel had the look of an extremely worried man. In a hastily called emergency cabinet meeting, the newly elected Prime Minister of Israel was about to announce the most daring and difficult decision he had ever made in his whole life.
Palo Alto, CA, USA:
Rafi Qureshi picked up the magazine, and leaned back into his comfortable lay-z boy chair. His picture on the cover of Forbes didn’t do him justice. Then again, he wasn’t there for his looks. The slightly built 5’4” bespectacled and bearded man looked more like an under-nutritioned cross country runner, than the CEO of the most successful venture capital firm in Silicon Valley. “A long, hard and exhausting journey”, he whispered to himself. But it had been well worth the effort. The forty-six year old Pakistani-American software engineer turned financier had finally made into the coveted Forbes 400 list. With a personal net worth of 822 million dollars, he was now officially one of the 400 richest individuals in America.
He glanced over at his wife. As usual, she was working diligently in the kitchen. He never imagined it would last this long. They had been married for twenty-five years. He had planned to divorce her immediately after he received his citizenship papers. But he could not force himself to do it. She had given him so much. Two beautiful kids, a loving home, financial and emotional support when he needed it most.
They met twenty-six years ago, of all places, at a Led Zeppelin concert. He had dropped her off at the concert in his taxicab. What had she seen in him? A twenty-year old part time cab driver/part time gas station attendant/part time waiter who could barely speak English. He didn’t know, and she wouldn’t tell him. They fell in love, and were married a year later. Actually, she was the only one in love. For him, it was just a career decision. The best decision he would ever make. She completely transformed him. Taught him how to speak the language, worked day and night to put him through college, changed his heavy accent, and gave him the confidence to define his own destiny. She had converted to Islam for him, and had even agreed to wear hijab. “Yes”, he said to himself, if it hadn’t been for Mary Heatherton, now Mrs. Maryam Qureshi, he would still be an illegal immigrant driving a cab somewhere in the freezing Denver suburbs.
Her question brought him back to reality. “How long will you be gone for”, she asked. “Six days”, he replied. “We have enough, you know”, she said softly. “I know”, he mumbled. It was her subtle way of telling him they had more money than they could ever use, and he should spend more time at home, with the kids. “It’s not the money sweetheart, you know it’s not the money”, he replied. In his case, this was absolutely true.
Rafi Qureshi had not built his gigantic technological empire for the money. No doubt, he enjoyed being wealthy, but money was not the motivating force behind his success. It was all for, “The Struggle.” He didn’t like using the word, “Jihad.” In America, jihad had become synonymous with crime. Even he, himself had begun to detest this Arabic word. It was all for his, “Struggle.” That is what drove him. It was the reason for his being. The long nights, followed by even longer days, the great financial risks, the ruthless business practices , the reason he changed his name, his wife, even his children; every single decision he had ever made was dictated by what he considered his ultimate destiny. Even Maryam was not aware of this side of his life.
No one could realize it. But behind the Armani suits and the silk ties, the shining Ferraris and the executive jets, the penthouse offices and the luxury mansions, the million dollar accountants and the multi-million dollar lawyers, Rafi Qureshi was still the little boy, whose only education, prior to America, had been in the village Islamic madrassah, where his father had been the local maulvi.
“My people must be freed from the chains of the infidels”, he almost screamed out loud. It was a promise he had made to his dying father, fifteen years ago.
Mohammad Rafi Kashmiri, a.k.a Rafi Qureshi had a complicated past. He was about to leave for a trip into an even a more complicated future.
The Knesset: Yesterday 11:25 p.m.
Ari Shariel entered the main compound of the Knesset through the big iron Polambo gate. His bodyguard was having difficulty keeping pace with him. The parliament’s undercover security guards rushed the Prime Minister into the main building through the tall bronze doors, past the Chagall state hall, and into his private conference room.
The ministers had already arrived, and were seated in their designated chairs. They had experienced numerous midnight emergency meetings, but the timing of this one had surprised even the most adventurous among them. The worried look on the face of their leader added to their curiosity. Things had been going well after the Wye accord. Peace was almost at hand. What could have caused the normally unemotional and patient Prime Minister to seem so restless?
Shariel took his seat at the head of the oval shaped table. He started his speech with the traditional, “Shalom.” “My friends, you must be wondering why I have gathered you here at this midnight hour. We should all be with our families, celebrating the peace that is about to embrace our homeland. Believe me, after I provide with you with the information I received today, this late hour of the night will be the least of your worries.”
He paused for effect, stepped out of his chair, and began pacing slowly in front of the large video screen, towards the eastern end of the small room. “We must act quickly, and we must act decisively. For, if we wait any longer, the survival of our beloved country will be at stake. In exactly thirty days, we will launch an aerial strike that will test the competence and resolve of even our great Air Force. The risks are high, but so are the rewards.”
With this statement, Shariel turned on the overhead computer projector. Everyone watched slowly as the screen behind the Prime Minister started filling up with a detailed map of the Middle East. Each country, color-coded to indicate its threat to the tiny Jewish nation. White indicated countries with which Israel had managed to work out a peaceful coexistence ; red marked a hostile enemy. Various shades of pink referred to countries, with threat perceptions, in between the two extremes. Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Libya; all appeared in dark red on the map. Jordan and Egypt in a light shade of pink.
The cabinet members did not seem overly excited. They had been through this exercise many times. Planning military strikes was not a new phenomenon for them. It had become a monthly routine. Predicting which country the next strike would be planned for had almost turned into an enjoyable guessing game. Each and every one of the male members of this Israeli cabinet had served in the Israeli military. Almost everyone of them had participated, in some capacity, in at least one military ground or air strike. This was the common bond that joined this small but elite group of people. All of them had fought the battles, and battled the fights. The Prime Minister himself, besides being a Stanford economics graduate, was a highly decorated retired Lieutenant General.
But this time something seemed different.
Shariel slowly moved the infrared mouse eastward across the computer. The projection on the large screen behind him changed accordingly, from Jordan to Saudi Arabia, , to Iraq, to the U.A.E. The cabinet members were convinced the country of choice today would be Iran. “The Israeli Air Force had never carried out a strike at such a distance before”, they thought; but it seemed doable. However, the Prime Minister passed Iran, and continued moving eastwards. Suddenly, to the amazement of his small audience, he stopped. With the thickest and loudest Hebrew accent he could muster, Ari Shariel screamed out, “We will strike here, we will strike hard, and we will strike convincingly. The future of the Jewish race depends on it.”
The awe-struck ministers could not believe their eyes. “No” yelled out one of them. We mustn’t, we can’t! Mister Prime Minister, you will start World War III.”
To be continued…………..