The Early Show

Oliver North's 'Jericho Sanction'

By Rome Neal

August 27, 2003 / 6:55 PM EDT / CBS

In "The Jericho Sanction," the second in a three-book fictional series of thrillers, Oliver North continues the story of Marine Lt. Col. Peter Newman, who has been assigned to the National Security Council to orchestrate the most sensitive covert action ever undertaken against America's adversaries. He visited The Early Show to discuss his new thriller.

In the book, Newman is a counterterrorist crusader, who finds himself on the pursuit of top terrorist leaders. And, his mission is to protect America from rogue states that might find themselves in possession of nuclear weapons stolen from the collapse of the Soviet Union.

North says "The Jericho Sanction" is totally fictional, but it is influenced by facts. The thriller, he explains, is based on a true possible scenario such as an Israeli response to an attack by weapons of mass destruction by terrorists. The country has said it would respond with nuclear weapons — mounted on Jericho 2 and Jericho 3 missiles — if attacked, according to North. The novel, he says, follows the deeds of a handful of people, who try to prevent that from being necessary.

North says he was inspired to write the book well before terrorists attack New York City and Washington, D.C. on September 11, 2001. He explains that the fictional work does have certain levels of authenticity because of his experience in the U.S. government's counterterrorism campaigns.

North's third book in the series, "The Assassins," is scheduled for a 2005 release.

Read an excerpt from "The Jericho Sanction":

Chapter One

Tracked Down!

CAFÉ AL-RABAT BAYRAM
63 Al-Wad Street
Old City of Jerusalem
Saturday, 7 March 1998
0730 Hours, Local

"How did you find me?" the startled, bearded man asked. He had just stepped out of the little Arab coffee shop onto the narrow, cobble-stoned street called Al-Wad when the athletic black man emerged from the long, gray, early morning shadows. The bearded man was clearly wary and, for just an instant, the fight-or-flight reaction of his adrenal cortex was evident in his eyes.

Sensing the bearded man's alarm, the younger black man replied in a voice barely more than a whisper, "I came here to find you and was told where to look, sir." Though a Chicago Cubs baseball cap covered his completely shaved head and shadowed his eyes in the colorless dawn, it couldn't hide his wide, white smile. He wore a black T-shirt, khaki slacks, Nike sneakers, and a lightweight gray-green jacket with no insignia of any kind on
it. Now that he was closer, the bearded man could see it was a U.S. Marine-issue windbreaker.

For an awkward moment, the two men stood in the open doorway of the shop, just out of earshot of the two Arab men inside. Above their heads, "Rabat Bayram" was printed in Arabic, Hebrew, and English on a battered Coca-Cola sign. In the bearded man's right hand was a brass tray with two glasses of boiling-hot, rich, black Turkish coffee and two glasses of water, in the custom of the region. In his left hand, he had hot rolls, wrapped in paper and smelling of yeast, almond paste, and anise. The coffee and bread were steaming in the early morning chill, and the aroma of both surrounded the two
men.

When the bearded man made no reply, the black man reached out with his left
hand, took the coffee tray out of the bearded man's right hand, and then gripped it firmly in his own right hand, leaned forward and whispered, "It's good to see you again, Lt. Col. Newman."

Newman smiled for the first time and just as quietly responded, "It's good to see you again too, Staff Sergeant Skillings."

"Yes sir…except now it's Gunnery Sergeant Skillings. You've been gone a long
time, Colonel."

At this reminder, Newman stepped back as if suddenly remembering where he
was, that there were photos of his clean-shaven face on Interpol "BOLO" posters all over the world. He quickly scanned the street, inspecting not just the sidewalk level, but the windows and tiny balconies above as well; they were decorated with clothing, bed sheets, and carpets of every color and description—and he saw the ubiquitous surveillance cameras of the Israeli security service.

Had it not been the Jewish Sabbath, the narrow avenue would have been crowded with pedestrians, even at this hour. As it was, the two men were alone on the shaded byway, and Newman could see a video camera in its protective casing, mounted on an electric utility pole, pointed directly at the intersection where they stood. He suspected that somewhere within an Israeli police station a digital record was being made of this unusual meeting between two men who were obviously neither Israeli nor Arab.

"Come on, we can't talk here, I live just a block away," he whispered to Skillings, pointing up the street Arabs call Al-Wad and Jews refer to as Haggai.

"I know."

* * *

SHIN-BET SECTOR HQ
44 Patriarchite Street
Armenian Quarter, Old City of Jerusalem
Saturday, 7 March 1998
0735 Hours, Local

Police Sergeant Ephraim Lev was bored. He had been on duty since midnight—
staring at the three banks of television monitors mounted on racks above the duty officer's console. The screen of each monitor carried four different images, transmitted by security cameras mounted on buildings, utility poles, and rooftops throughout this sector of the Old City—all part of the most sophisticated integrated law enforcement, security, and intelligence system in the world.

As Sgt. Lev drank his fifth cup of coffee on this watch, more than a hundred
cameras fed images into this command center. The digital signals had been multiplexed into video distribution amplifiers and sorted by sub-sectors within the fifteen city blocks that were his area of responsibility. With the use of a device that looked much like a TV remote, he could transfer any of the images to a 36" Sony flat screen monitor and zoom in on any scene that he deemed in need of closer scrutiny. A few strokes on the computer
keyboard in front of him would instantly record any of the images onto a DVD disc, information then sent to the Shin-bet headquarters on Helini Hamalka Street, about a kilometer outside the ancient walls of the Old City.

Sgt. Lev stood up, stretched, and glanced at the digital clock mounted on the
console. The 26-year-old Israeli Defense Forces veteran was looking forward to going off duty in less than half an hour. It had been a quiet night, one of the most tranquil since the Intifada had started again in February. Ever since the rock throwing, looting, and tire burning had begun, he had been wondering about his decision two years ago to join the police after six years in the IDF. He had considered making a career in the army, but his
wife had convinced him that the Shin-bet offered less danger to the father of two young children.

Perhaps she was right about this job's safety, he mused. At 0700 he had made an entry in the duty officer's computerized log that the Israeli government curfew was working—at least in his sector, the Arab quarter. Shortly after dawn, when it was legal to be outdoors, he had seen a handful of Arab shopkeepers moving down the streets and alleys, but no sign of any angry Palestinian youth or adult organizers exhorting violence or setting up street barricades as was so common in what the Arabs called the "occupied
territories."

As Ephraim Lev prepared to brief the sergeant who would relieve him, there was an electronic ping from the monitor console; he looked up to see a red border flashing on one of the four images labeled "Haggai #65A, B, C, D." He grabbed the remote and pushed a button. Instantly, the image from camera "Haggai B" appeared on the Sony preview screen mounted beneath the banks of smaller monitors.

The Israeli police sergeant watched as two men in western dress, one caucasian and one black, strode away together from a coffee house in the Arab quarter. He noted that the Caucasian carried a paper-wrapped package and that the black male balanced a traditional Arab coffee tray. As the two men walked out of the frame, he switched the image on the preview monitor to camera "Haggai #65C," covering the intersection of Via Dolorosa and Haggai Street. In more tranquil times, this corner would soon be crowded
with Christian pilgrims and tourists. But the new Palestinian Intifada had scared off all but the most devout. On this early Sabbath morning, the crossing was empty as the bearded man led the way toward an ornate, three-story limestone villa at number 35 Via Dolorosa. The house occupied almost half a city block.

As the two walked toward the stone steps at the front of the building, the police officer noted that they were striding together in step and not conversing. "Ah… what do we have here?" he muttered to himself. He sat down at the computer keyboard, activated the recording program, and zoomed in on the pair as they paused outside the arched stone entrance of the structure.

A kilometer away, at Shin-bet headquarters, a spinning DVD disc quietly
documented the image of the bearded man and the black man with the military bearing as they arrived at a heavy oak door. To the right of the portal was a polished brass plaque, and the high resolution camera, "Haggai 65E," mounted in what looked like a water cistern on the roof of the residence across the street, dutifully zoomed in on the words engraved on the plaque, "Hospice of St. Patrick."

As the two men entered the doorway and disappeared from view, Sgt. Ephraim
Lev made a computer entry that appeared on the DVD immediately over the date/time code: "Military men? Whose? What are they up to?" Then, another entry for the next watch officer: "Retrieve stored images from Haggai A, B C, and D to determine if recognition signals are used. What is in the package being carried by bearded, white male?"

* * *

HOSPICE OF ST. PATRICK
35 Via Dolorosa
Old City of Jerusalem
Saturday, 7 March 1998
0745 Hours, Local

When the outer door the door closed behind them, Newman and Skillings were in
an enclosed entryway, about ten feet square. The only other access was a locked heavy steel security gate. Above the gate, Skillings could see the probing eye of a fixed video camera, along with a button and speaker box mounted on the stone wall beside it. A sign in English, Arabic, and Hebrew instructed visitors to press the buzzer to announce themselves for admission. The two men had not exchanged a word since leaving the
coffee shop, and now the bearded man pushed the button and said into the speaker box, "Isa, open the door please…it's me, John."

Immediately there was a loud, buzzing clatter as someone, somewhere inside the building, activated the electronic gate lock. The heavy barrier groaned on its hinges as Newman opened it, motioning for Skillings to follow. Once they were through, the gate clanged noisily back into its secure, locked position behind them.

As they climbed the dozen stone steps, polished by decades of people ascending and descending, Newman put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Skillings nodded and looked at his surroundings. Flower boxes adorned the walls beyond sturdy, polished brass handrails. The building was obviously well maintained and meticulously cared for.

Compared to the street they had just left, it was an oasis.

On the main upper floor there was a small, ornate lobby, like that of a small hotel. A young couple, apparently European by their language and dress, stood in front of a chest-high mahogany counter. On the other side of the reception desk, a young man wearing a white shirt with an open collar was speaking with them in German. As the two men walked by, Newman waved and said in English, "Thank you, Isa."

"Yes, Mr. Clancy," the receptionist replied with a smile, then returned his
attention to the young couple.

The two men walked through the lobby and opened a heavy mahogany doorway
which led into a grand hallway with a high ceiling. The hallway ran the entire length of the building. Early morning sunlight poured through the tall window on the east end, dappling the long Persian carpet that covered the marble floor.

When the door closed behind them, Newman led the way into a small parlor on
the front side of the building.

"If you don't mind waiting here, Gunny, I'll go upstairs to our apartment and
make sure Rachel's dressed; then we'll have some breakfast."
"Yes sir. Man, oh, man, Colonel, these are nice digs! This sure isn't what I
expected."

"What did you expect, Sgt. Skillings, our old barracks back at Recon Battalion?"

"No sir, not exactly. But when General Grisham told me you were living in
Jerusalem at the Hospice of St. Patrick, all I knew about a hospice was the place my Aunt Louise stayed when she was dying of cancer two years ago. But this place looks more like a hotel. A nice one."

"You're right, Gunny. I'll show you around later, but it is more a lot more like a hotel. I guess you don't know, in Europe and here, a hospice is a place to stay—like a hostel or hotel. This one is a bit different, though. It's more of a religious retreat center, where Christians—people we used to call pilgrims—can come and spend some time studying, praying, and visiting the holy sites."

Newman picked up the coffee tray and the paper-wrapped rolls.

"I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable. I need to be sure Rachel's ready for an unexpected guest. She was feeding James when I left to get the coffee."

"James?"

"Our son. He's two years and three months old now."

"You have been busy, Colonel…congratulations."

"Yeah. It's been quite an adventure. Give me two minutes to run upstairs.

This room was supposed to be the parlor, but I use it as my office. Feel free to look around, but I wouldn't go out there," he said, pointing to two double doors that opened onto a patio, furnished with potted palms and flowers, overlooking Al-Wad Street and Via Dolorosa below.

"Why not, sir?"

"The Israeli security cameras."

"Do they know who you are?"

"I don't think so. Do they know who you are?"

"I hope not." The Marine gunnery sergeant had been keeping his voice low,
imitating his host, but these last words came out in the softest of whispers.