The Last Jihad

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Bennett felt suffocated—unable to think, unable to react, and half a world out of position. But there wasn’t anything more he could do. One step at a time, he told himself, one step at a time.

  His name was General Khalid Azziz.

  He had served as head of the Iraqi Republican Guard—Saddam Hussein’s elite military machine—since the end of the Gulf War, and no one was more trusted with the president’s personal security or the stability of the regime than he.

  As head of Saddam’s intelligence services during the war with Iran in the 1980s, it was Azziz who pressed successfully for funding to build an elaborate and sophisticated maze of steel-and concrete-hardened, bombproof bunkers underneath Baghdad in case such hiding places would ever be needed for the leaders of the regime during war or revolution. Construction began in late 1986 amid various and conflicting public reports that Saddam was launching a massive archeological excavation, building a world-class subway system to rival any such system in the West, or renovating downtown and building a huge new office and shopping complex. By the time U.S. smart bombs began falling from the Baghdad sky like rain on Seattle, the construction was largely complete. But no archeological site, subway system, or commercial complex was ever officially announced, much less opened. And Saddam Hussein had almost effortlessly survived one of the most aggressive bombing campaigns in the history of modern warfare. It didn’t take a rocket scientist for the CIA or Saddam himself to figure out why. And General Azziz emerged as a national hero as a result.

  The general was also the man almost singularly responsible for kicking UNSCOM—the United Nations’ Special Commission for finding and destroying all of Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction—out of Iraq forever. It had been years since UNSCOM inspectors set foot in the country. It was the general’s job to keep it that way. And to the amazement of his boss—and most of the world—he’d been spectacularly successful.

  The most perilous moment of the general’s long career came in the early 1990s, when two top Iraqi nuclear scientists escaped the country and defected to the United States. Operations “Purse Snatcher” and “Glowing Thunder” were both spearheaded by Azziz’s archenemy, Jack Mitchell, and these disasters nearly cost Azziz his life.

  Fortunately for the general, one of his lieutenants was able to locate one of the scientists—still in Jordan—and persuade him to come back without harm to see his family. According to the story picked up by the Jordanian intelligence services, when the scientist was finally brought to Azziz, an elaborate feast was prepared, and his wife, seven children, and close relatives were brought to see him.

  Everyone was assembled, including President Hussein. It was quite an affair. General Azziz hugged the man, kissed him on both cheeks, and forgave him.

  Then—without warning—he drew a pistol and shot the scientist in the face.

  Each immediate family member was then individually beheaded in full view of the others by Azziz personally, with a gleaming Persian saber dating back to the fourteenth century.

  The screaming and hysterical wife was forced to watch, and was beheaded last. Hussein and Azziz then sat down for the meal of roasted lamb, couscous, and baklava as the scientist’s numb relatives were forced to mop up. This redeemed the general in the eyes of the nation’s Supreme Leader, and he had once again become Iraq’s most glorious son.

  Now, however, Khalid Azziz was again in grave danger. Through careful tracking of Western trade publications and a series of emails from a mole burrowed deep inside the MacPherson Administration, Mukhabarat agents had recently picked up the scent of the enormous petroleum deal being hammered out by Galishnikov, Sa’id, and the American president’s alma mater, GSX and the Joshua Fund. Azziz was stunned when he learned the unprecedented magnitude of the deal. His boss went ballistic.

  Enraged by the prospect of unprecedented Israeli oil wealth, the destabilizing of OPEC, the obvious sellout by some moderate Palestinians in creating a joint venture with the Israelis, and the intensive involvement of the Americans—both in funding the project and working behind the scenes to persuade the Palestinian leadership to offer their blessings—Saddam Hussein’s instructions were crystal clear: Shut it down. There were scores to be settled, and now was the time.

  Azziz had been given an operational plan, hand-crafted by Saddam himself. It was as brazen as it was barbaric. Assassinating President MacPherson was just the beginning. The crown jewel would be unleashing “the fury of Allah” on Tel Aviv and New York to send the world a message and to “finish the job” Osama bin Laden had set into motion on September 11, 2001.

  The plan was stark—it was all or nothing, kill or be killed, wipe out the Americans and the Israelis or be wiped out forever.

  The plan was simple—not easy, but clear, concise, uncomplicated and straightforward.

  And the plan was fully funded—immediately.

  The best men and the best weapons were being made available for the cause. The critical elements of the plan’s success, of course, were stealth, speed, and surprise.

  Now, however, events were already spinning out of control. Azziz’s boss would not be happy. And he was due to brief the Iraqi president in just ten minutes. It was time to set Plan B into motion.

  It took Bennett thirty-five minutes to get up to the front of the line.

  But it never dawned on him what was coming next.

  A single man traveling on a one-way ticket from Israel to New York, and seeking information on flights to Colorado mere hours after an airborne assassination attempt against the President of the United States in Colorado—most likely at the hands of Middle Easterners—set off red flares worthy of the Fourth of July long before Bennett actually handed over his passport, ticket, and boarding pass for inspection.

  Even as Bennett was trying to buy his ticket, the Delta agent had typed in an “alef” alert—priority one—into her computer and stepped on a small button beside her left foot. This triggered immediate video camera surveillance on Bennett, which the agent could see in the top left-hand corner of her computer screen.

  As she seemed to be typing in his passport information, the young woman was actually typing instructions to the video camera behind her to center Bennett in its frame, zoom in, focus, and then “paint” him with an infrared code.

  This would now allow him to be tracked by every video camera in the airport, including a highly sophisticated, Israeli-made X-ray camera that could scan his body and his luggage for weapons. It would also allow him to be tracked by every hidden laser-guided microphone in the airport as he made his way through the crowds. All this, in turn, would allow the staff in the central security office deep under the airport to see and hear him at all times.

  But that was only the start. The silent alarm also rapidly summoned three undercover security agents to surround Bennett and shadow him without his knowledge. The “alef” alert, meanwhile, also began a high-speed computer search for every detail of Jonathan Meyers Bennett’s life through the massive Israeli database, cross-linked with Interpol and the FBI.

  The attractive young Israeli woman behind the Delta ticket counter was no typical airline employee. She was actually a counterterrorism specialist for the Shin Bet, Israel’s counterintelligence and internal security agency, roughly equivalent to the U.S. FBI.

  When his check-in security “interview” lasted for more than forty-five frustrating minutes, Bennett began losing his patience. His briefcase and garment bags were X-rayed and searched by hand. His toothpaste was squeezed out of its tube to check for plastic explosives. His shaving cream was shaken and sprayed to see if any kind of toxin could be found inside. His cell phone was quickly dismantled and then reassembled, as was his BlackBerry. His laptop computer was carefully scrutinized and his papers rifled through.

  The real trouble began, however, when one of the security guards leafed through his address book—under Bennett’s intense protest—and noticed he had the personal home phone numbers and direct office numbers for all of Pres
ident MacPherson’s most senior advisors.

  This now attracted the attention of an American official, whom Bennett guessed probably worked for the FBI or the U.S. Air Marshal program. Bennett was taken out of line, down a hallway, around a corner, out of the sight of other passengers, and down five flights of stairs. There, he passed through a series of security doors, and into one of several interrogation rooms at the far end of a dark, shadowy corridor.

  It was a small room. No windows. Pale green painted-brick walls. No clock. No furniture at all, except for one rickety wooden chair in the middle of the filthy white tile floor where a small, used, red-plastic syringe lay in the corner. A single dusty green metal lamp hung from an incredibly long, bare cord from far above him—so far above him that Bennett couldn’t actually see the ceiling.

  The room, in fact, appeared to be a tower of some kind. The pale green paint on the walls ended about eight or nine feet up, and from there Bennett could only see thick stones reminiscent of a medieval castle or some ancient Roman ruin. But the shadows and the darkness above made it impossible to see any higher. Bennett was also immediately struck by the temperature. It was hot and steamy, a good twenty to thirty degrees hotter than the already stifling passenger terminal, and the whole place stank of stale cigarettes. He was a long way from the King David Hotel, and Bennett’s anger was rising.

  Two stocky, muscular Israeli men in blue jeans and blue blazers slammed Bennett down into the chair, and forced his hands into metal handcuffs that dug sharply into his skin and cut off the circulation to his hands.

  “What the hell is this for?” demanded Bennett.

  The two men said nothing. Instead, they took up positions by the locked door.

  “Hey, hello. I’m an American citizen. I have rights. Now would someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

  No one said a word. A third Israeli—shorter, thinner, wearing an impressive charcoal gray Italian-made suit but no tie, and thin, square, gold-rimmed glasses—moved to the far corner of the room opposite the door and lit up a cigarette, but said nothing. The American agent, meanwhile, paced quietly, playing obsessively with a bright red yo-yo.

  “Mr. Bennett, why exactly are you so eager to get to Colorado tonight?” he asked, lighting up a cigarette.

  “Look, I’ve answered this question nineteen times already.”

  The man with the yo-yo stopped behind Bennett, lowered his face behind Bennett’s left ear, and whispered.

  “Answer it again.”

  Bennett could feel the blood rising through the back of his neck. His ears were getting hot and red. All four armed men could see his reaction, and it did nothing to calm their nerves or cool their suspicions. The mood was darkening quickly, and Bennett struggled to stay calm and navigate a way out.

  “You say you know the president?”

  “Yes, I told you. I’m a personal friend of the president. I’m the senior vice president of the investment house he used to run out of Denver, Global Strategix. I’m here on business. I’ve been asked to go out and see him as quickly as I possibly can.”

  “And you spoke with him this morning?”

  “No, I told these gentlemen already—I spoke with Stuart Iverson.”

  “The Treasury Secretary?”

  “Exactly, and the former chairman of GSX.”

  “And who’d you say he’s with right now?”

  “He and Bob Corsetti are on their way to see the president. I just spoke to them an hour or two ago.”

  “Bob Corsetti, the White House chief of staff?”

  “Right.”

  “And you’re supposed to meet up with them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where again?”

  “Colorado Springs.”

  “Where in Colorado Springs?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. I’m supposed to get there and wait for instructions.”

  “From whom?”

  “From Stu or Bob, I guess—I don’t know yet.”

  “I see. That’s interesting.”

  The room fell eerily silent. The man just played with his yo-yo. He certainly didn’t identify himself, though two identification badges hung over his neck by a thin metal chain. One was clearly a U.S. government ID of some kind, probably from the FBI, though it was hard for Bennett to get a good look since the man stood behind him most of the time. The other ID was some kind of Israeli airport security pass, but again, Bennett couldn’t really tell. All he knew was that nothing he said was getting through. The man behind him clearly didn’t believe a single word Bennett was saying. But why not? A few quick phone calls could check out Bennett’s story and be done with it. What was wrong with this guy?

  At least five minutes passed, though it might have been more. Bennett wasn’t sure what to do. The more he pled his innocence, the quieter the man became. The more angry he got, the more suspicious the man became. The problem was these questions. The more Bennett thought about it, the more he realized that the questions weren’t designed to elicit answers, facts. They held implications, insinuations. They were accusations. Bennett had heard a million stories about Israeli airport security. But not like this. This was no longer an interview. It was an interrogation. And it wasn’t being conducted by an Israeli. It was being conducted by an American. And it wasn’t any American. It was an American with an ax to grind, an American whose president had just been viciously attacked by men on a plane, maybe a plane that had come from the Middle East.

  Bennett fought to control his anger, simmer it, check it, and wall it off from his logic. He was an analyst, a strategist. So analyze this. He winced at the sharp metal now digging into his wrists. But he refocused and tried to clear his thoughts.

  The man who stood behind him was a loner, single, probably had never been married. He wore no wedding ring. He wore no rings of any kind. He was a solitary man, a man who lived not off the warmth of family and friendships but off the cold adrenaline of fear and doubt and danger.

  He was a driven man, a man with a mission and a purpose. But he was a frustrated man, a man whose job was impossible, really—to know the mind and intentions and imminent actions of evil men determined to do his country great harm. His sole purpose in life was to outfox men from an alien mindset, men who lived in a hellish, ghoulish world of death and deception—educated and moderately wealthy men with wives and children and futures who would willingly decapitate a pilot with a box cutter and their bare hands and steer a 757 loaded with jet fuel into a 110-story monument of steel and glass and concrete and somehow enjoy being incinerated in an 1,800-degree fireball, believing they were on the way to glory at the right hand of Mohammed.

  The man who stood behind him with the yo-yo was a man with a job. His job was to stop planes from being hijacked, to stop planes from being turned into human missiles, weapons of mass destruction. And he had just failed. Not just him, of course. He and his colleagues had just failed. Again. The system had failed. The world had failed. But this man was taking it personally. And now this man was a bubbling cauldron of suspicions. He believed he had a suspect and circumstantial evidence, a man with means if not yet an evident motive. And now this man was considering his options.

  He said nothing. He just sucked on one cigarette after another and slowly circled Bennett again and again, first one way, then the other, like a shark circling a wounded, bloody fish. The man clearly held seniority in this room. The others stayed pressed against the wall, giving him room to play with his yo-yo, and with the mind of his intended victim. As the minutes ticked by, Bennett could sense the man’s rage. It was real. It was rising. And it was palpable.

  He wore brown slacks, a wrinkled white shirt with a worn collar, a thin brown tie, an old, navy blue sports coat and shiny new black dress shoes. His hair was black and thin and cut short, though it was not quite a crew cut. He wore a thick mustache that partially covered a large, jagged scar that started beside his left eye and went down to his mouth. He was taller than Bennett, about 6'2", maybe two h
undred pounds, and his eyes were small and black and fierce. No, it was more than that. They seemed hollow. They seemed glassy, lifeless. It was then that Bennett’s anger began turning to fear.

  “OK, get started,” the man calmly told the agent with the gold-rimmed glasses.

  This agent quickly complied, stepping behind Bennett, removing the cuff link on Bennett’s left wrist and rolling up his sleeve. From inside his jacket he pulled out a small piece of cotton and dabbed it against a tiny flask of a clear liquid, probably rubbing alcohol, Bennett figured. He cleaned a section of Bennett’s left arm, just below the elbow and straightened, standing before Bennett.

  Next, he removed from his other jacket pocket three plastic syringes—one green, one yellow, one red. He removed the caps from all three, exposing three two-inch needles. Bennett’s heart raced. Beads of sweat were now dripping down his face and he suddenly realized his shirt was almost completely soaked. The agent held the syringes in front of Bennett’s eyes for ten or fifteen seconds.

  “You have a choice, Mr. Bennett,” the man with the jagged scar began.

  Bennett tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.

  “Life, or death.”

  Bennett’s mind reeled. This could not be happening. There had to be something he could say, something he could do.

  “Needle one, the green needle? Sodium Pentothal.”

  Bennett’s stomach tightened.

  “We call it truth serum.”

  Bennett struggled to maintain his composure.

  “You talk. I listen. You live.”

  The two guards by the door shifted nervously.

  “Needle two, the yellow one? Sodium thiopental.”

  One of the guards slowly wiped drops of sweat from his nose and chin.

  “That was Rickey Ray Rector’s favorite. You remember him? Rickey Ray Rector. Arkansas mental patient. Murderer. Arrested. Tried. Convicted. Then denied clemency by good ole Bill Clinton during the ’92 election. Remember that? Executed by—what?—oh, that’s right—lethal injection. I heard it took the doctors forty-five minutes to find a good, clear vein. But they did it. Oh, they did it all right. Rickey Ray Rector. Put him right in a nice, long, deep sleep with the yellow needle. But that wasn’t the end. The end is needle three. That’s the red one. You know what that one’s called?”