As their eyes gradually adjusted to the light, they could see a home filled with precious treasures. Thick, rich, gorgeous purple-and-gold-and-maroon Persian rugs covered the polished brown hardwood floors. Plush, green young palm trees—at least half a dozen of them—rose out of huge reddish clay pots positioned here and there.
Large brown Italian-leather couches and chairs surrounded a glass-and-wrought-iron coffee table, adorned with ancient archeological knickknacks from all over the Near East, and the latest news magazines from Israel, Europe, and the U.S.
A sleek, black baby grand piano sat quiet and unused in one corner of the room. Beside it stood a full-size stuffed camel whose glassy, haunting eyes seemed to follow them as they walked. A mahogany dining table set for four with china and silver and crystal—but easily able to accommodate at least a dozen guests—occupied another corner. In the center of the table sat a huge vase of freshly cut roses.
Behind the table, above an antique chest of drawers covered with family photos, on the curved, carved, chalky limestone wall that seemed to be the actual interior of the mountain, hung a painting.
It was no ordinary painting. It was a sweeping, larger-than-life canvas of royal blues, vivid yellows, and smudgy reddish-orange brush strokes that immediately captured the imagination but seemed completely indecipherable. A small plaque underneath it read, simply: JACKSON POLLACK: BLUE (MOBY DICK), 1943. That was followed by a typically cryptic Pollack quote: “When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing. It’s only after a sort of ‘get acquainted’ period that I see what I have been about. I have no fears about making changes, destroying the image, because the painting has a life of its own.”
Abstract art didn’t do anything for Dietrich Black. What struck him most was that he couldn’t see a kitchen anywhere. But he could smell it. Ginger and turmeric and cumin and coriander hit him first, followed by tomato and onions and chili powder and roast lamb. A succulent, mouth-watering Indian curry was stewing somewhere close by, and surely great pots of yellow Basmati rice were steaming there as well.
McCoy closed her eyes for a moment and listened. She could hear the tinkle of a fountain. She could hear the crackling of a roaring fire in the great stone fireplace. And, as she listened more carefully, she began to hear the gentle strains of a Bach violin concerto seeping from small Bose speakers hidden all over the house. It was one of her favorite CDs, performed by Itzhak Perlman, the Israeli-born violinist on whom President Reagan bestowed America’s Medal of Liberty back in 1986.
McCoy had briefly taken violin lessons as a young girl, and hated them. But in 1993 she had met Perlman at the U.S. Embassy in Prague, and nearly fell in love. He had come to the romantic Czech capital to perform a concert with the cellist, Yo Yo Ma, and she was hooked. When she wasn’t jet-setting around the world with Jon Bennett, crafting billion-dollar oil deals, she was usually home at night in London in her Notting Hill townhouse, curled up under an old wool afghan, reading one of her favorite books and falling asleep to the sounds of the great Itzhak Perlman.
Bennett scanned the cavernous room. He found himself uninterested in, but not unaware of, the curry and the concerto. He had other things on his mind, like the Iraqi missiles pointed at their heads. The room was warm, but not overly so. Occasionally, a cool breeze seemed to emanate from somewhere, and now he knew where. He left Black and McCoy and began walking towards the huge plate glass windows and the sliding glass door that led to the veranda. Sitting atop the limestone cantilever, the veranda gave him a breathtaking view of the Old City. But more than that, it now brought him face-to-face with Dr. Eliezer Mordechai, who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
The Skyhawk helicopter shot into Iraqi airspace hard, fast, and under radar.
Following Iraq’s Highway 10 towards Baghdad, the team flew just fifty feet above the pavement at over 180 knots, and the crew was fully prepared to unleash its two 7.62mm front-mounted machine guns on any military vehicle it came across in their hunt for mobile Scud missile launchers.
“Striker One Six, Striker One Six, this is Sky Ranch. Do you copy?”
It was the senior controller on an E-3 AWACS some 22,000 feet above them.
“Sky Ranch, this is Striker One Six. We read you five by five.”
“You’ve requested refueling. We can have a tanker to you in about…”
Suddenly, warning lights and buzzers filled the Seahawk’s cockpit.
“What? Oh my God. Sky Ranch, Sky Ranch—some bogey just locked on to me.”
Someone out there in the storm had just acquired tone and was preparing to fire.
“Striker One Six, say again. We don’t have anyone on radar.”
“Well some bogey’s got me, Sky Ranch. Get me cover—now—or we’re history.”
Lt. Col. Curtis Ruiz, the Seahawk pilot, scanned his instruments, desperately trying to figure out what was going on, before it was too late.
“Striker One Six, this is Sky Ranch. We see it now. You’ve got an Iraqi MiG-29 hugging the highway behind you at Mach two. He’s twenty miles back and gaining fast. We’re directing two F-14s to your location. Stand by.”
Stand by? thought the lead Seahawk pilot. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Two minutes from now, they’d all be history.
Downing answered on the first ring.
It was Harris, desperately seeking good news. She was back at FBI headquarters, but she had none. Not yet. Whether she’d have any at all remained to be seen. But she promised to keep guzzling the Bureau’s bad black coffee in the hopes that something would turn up. Soon.
No sooner were they finishing introducing one another than the doorbell rang.
“That must be them,” Dr. Mordechai said. “Come, follow me.”
He led them back down the spiral staircase to the front door. Glancing at the security monitor, he immediately recognized the faces at the door without all the fancy high-tech equipment, and brushed by the antsy Mossad agents to open the door and welcome Dmitri Galishnikov and Ibrahim Sa’id.
“You’re late,” he quipped, greeting the two men with traditional Middle Eastern hugs and kisses and reacquainting them to Bennett and his team.
As the two men entered the house, Dr. Mordechai instructed the Mossad agents to take up positions in front of the house, then quickly closed and dead-bolted the door behind them. But then, rather than head for the stairs, the old man turned down one of the darkened hallways, proceeded to the end, opened what looked like a closet door, and then bid them to follow him inside.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me show you something I designed into this house to have a little fun,” Dr. Mordechai said with a smile. “I think you’ll get a kick out of it.”
Is this guy nuts? thought Bennett. But curious, they all packed themselves into the “closet” and then—at their host’s bizarre request—closed the door behind them. The minute they did, they could hear the hydraulics kick in. This was no coat closet. It was an elevator, and they were headed up. Moments later, the door opened into the walk-in closet of Dr. Mordechai’s office, on the east wing of the sprawling house. They all then followed the old man through his private office, past his bedroom, past the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room, under the gorgeous glass dome in the ceiling.
Sure enough, thought Bennett, this place was as mysterious as the man who owned it.
Ruiz took evasive action.
With the SEAL and NEST teams holding on for their lives, he banked hard to the left, then pulled up, climbing to three thousand feet, then dove back towards the deck and banked hard right.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
“He’s fired. Sky Ranch, we are under attack. I repeat—we are under attack.”
Ruiz took the chopper up again sharply, then banked hard left. Just then a Russian AA-10 air-to-air missile swiped by his face at Mach four, missing the Seahawk by inches.
“Sky Ranch, Sky Ranch, we are under attack. We are under attack. Where the hell is our cover?”
“Striker One Six this is Lone Ranger and Tonto. We are inbound at Mach two. Ready to trash a bandit.”
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
Another missile was in the air. Every warning tone in the cockpit seemed to be screaming for help.
“He’s fired again. Fired again. Lone Ranger, where are you?”
The Seahawk now shot towards the heavens—a thousand feet, two thousand, three thousand—then Ruiz again plunged the chopper towards the ground, away from the incoming missile.
Suddenly, his copilot screamed bloody murder.
“Break left, break left—GO, GO, GO—NOW, NOW, NOW.”
The lead pilot yanked so hard on the yoke he practically tore it out of the floor—and just in time. Bodies slammed against the left side of the chopper, but all heads turned right—only to see another heat-seeking AA-10 missile come slicing past the window, hit the ground and explode into a massive fireball below them, engulfing the entire chopper in flames, smoke, and sand.
Warning buzzers and flashing lights suddenly filled the chopper.
“We’re hit. We’re hit. Sky Ranch, we are on fire—I repeat—we are on fire.”
Ruiz instinctively pulled back on the yoke to gain altitude and get away from the fireball below. It was a risk. It would give the Russian MiG a clearer shot. If the bogey on their tail was in fact a MiG-29, it no doubt had four more AA-10s ready to blow them to kingdom come. But Ruiz didn’t have much choice. Moreover, if he could get the Seahawk turned around, perhaps he could fire off a couple of his own Hellfire missiles and take this guy out. It might be their only chance, and they weren’t ready to go down without a fight. If they were going to die, they were going to take this Iraqi with them.
Suddenly, two F-14 Tomcats screamed past overhead, missing the rising Seahawk by less than a hundred yards. They were flying low, hard and fast, and right into the MiG.
“Look out,” screamed the copilot.
“What was that?” yelled Ruiz.
“Hi ho, Silver, boys,” the lead Tomcat pilot declared. “The good guys are here.”
“Tonto, too,” yelled his wingman. “Me get bad guys, Kemosabe.”
“You got him?”
“I’ve got tone.”
“Take him, Tonto.”
“Fox two, fox two.”
Two AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles exploded from the side of Tonto’s F-14.
The two planes jerked back into a vertical climb as the Sidewinders sizzled towards their prey. Everyone in the Seahawk was glued to the radar screen in front of them, indicating the MiG on their tail, the Tomcats above them.
Then they saw it happen.
The two Sidewinders tore through the cockpit of the MiG, erupting in an incredible explosion that lit up the sky and could be seen for miles.
“You da man, Tonto.”
“Who da man?”
“You da man.”
“Great job, guys—and thanks,” shouted Ruiz, breathing a quick sigh of relief while simultaneously trying to assess the damage to his chopper.
“Who was that masked man?” whooped the Lone Ranger.
“Keep it focused boys,” yelled the controller on the E-3.
“Roger that, Sky Ranch,” Tonto responded. “We are scannin’ our radar. Nothing yet, but we’ll keep looking.”
“Striker One Six, this is Sky Ranch. What’s your condition?”
“Sky Ranch, this is Striker One Six. Looks like we’re not hit. Repeat, not hit. Close call but we’re OK. Proceeding with mission as directed.”
“Roger that. And godspeed, boys.”
Everyone in this room knew the danger they all were in.
In a few hours—the middle of the night, Israeli time—the President of the United States would explain to the entire world the threat Iraq now posed to her allies and the West. But for now, there was business to be done and questions to be answered.
At eighty, Dr. Mordechai was gray, balding, slight and frail. But behind the thick, bushy beard and round, wiry gold spectacles were warm eyes and a quick mind.
As the night wore on, Bennett grew more and more intrigued with this sharp, insightful old man and his two comrades in arms. They covered Doron’s background, and Arafat’s and the possible contours of an oil-for-peace deal.
But what Bennett really wanted to know was this: How was it possible that a secular Russian Jew and a moderate Ramallah Muslim found themselves in a joint business venture for which an evangelical American president was suddenly prepared to wage both war and peace?
The unassuming, owlish Sa’id took that one, in his distinct Palestinian Arab accent, as thick as his mustache.
“Jon, Vaclav Havel once said, ‘The real test of a man is not when he plays the role that he wants for himself, but when he plays the role destiny has for him.’ I believe that. It was not my choice as a Palestinian Arab to go into business with a Russian Jew. Far from it. But I believe that something larger than myself is at work here. Maybe it is fate. Or destiny. Or God. I don’t know. But I truly believe that something great and wonderful and lasting is about to be born here—a peace and prosperity that will stun the world and dazzle even our own, cynical selves.”
Sa’id looked away from Bennett and stared out the window at the Dome of the Rock, all lit up and glistening like gold.
“Jon, I grew up a stranger in a strange land—my own. Occupied at various times by the Babylonians and the Persians, the Egyptians and the Ottomans, the British and the Jordanians and now the Israelis. My father was a real estate agent. What can I say? He was right. Real estate is about three key factors—location, location, location. Until a few years ago, I always wondered, what’s the big fuss about? Why are we all fighting about land that has so little intrinsic value? If you want to fight about something, you know, fight about the Gulf. Where there’s gas. Where there’s oil. Where there’s wealth. To me, that makes sense. But, of course, the battle has always been the hottest here—in this place, on this land, in these hills, in this city—even before we discovered oil and gas. Why? I’ve never been able to explain it. But I’ve come to believe that there’s something supernatural at work here, Jon. Unseen forces are at work—angels and demons, powers of darkness and light—that move quietly and mysteriously, like the wind. You can’t see wind. You can’t hear it. You can’t taste it. But it’s real. You can see its effects. And so it is with these unseen forces battling for control of the holy land. They’re real. They’re alive. They’re shaping events here, turning some men into heroes and others into fanatics. And I believe they’re locked in some kind of cosmic, winner-take-all battle that is yet to be decided. I don’t pretend to understand it. But I believe it. Because I live here. And I know this is not a normal place.”
The room was completely silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.
“And somehow—don’t ask me how—I guess I just believe deep down inside of me that somehow good will triumph over evil. That this oil deal is going to go through. That we’re going to help people become richer than they’ve ever imagined. That we’re going to help people see the value of working together in a common market, for the sake of their children, even if they and their parents and their parents’ parents have been at war for generations. Look at the French and the Germans. Look at the Japanese and the Koreans. They’ve made it work. There’s no reason we can’t do it. And I just have this little dream that the time to do it is now.”
Bennett thought about that for a moment, then looked straight into the warm brown eyes of his friend, Ibrahim Sa’id.
“And if we are all incinerated in a nuclear inferno? What will you say then?”
McCoy winced at Bennett’s bluntness. But Sa’id didn’t blink.
“At least I died on the side of the angels, not the demons.”
“Reed—go.”
“Sir, it’s Maxwell.”
“Talk to me.”
“There’s more.”
“Like what?”
“We’ve been scrubbing Secretary Iverso
n’s phone and bank records for the last ten years. It’s not pretty.”
“Let me guess—off-shore accounts in the Caribbean.”
“You got it. Five of them, actually. All in the Cayman Islands. All routed to banks in Basel and Zurich.”
“How much did he send the monsters?”
“It’s gonna take more time, sir.”
“Ballpark. Millions?”
“No, sir. Looks like tens of millions.”
Stuart Iverson was under house arrest.
He was subject to almost round-the-clock interrogation by the FBI at an undisclosed location near Camp David. But almost no one knew it. Not even the National Security Advisor. Or the White House chief of staff. Or the vice president.
Most of the White House and Treasury Department staff believed the secretary was doing a top-secret assignment for the president, related to the showdown with Russia and must not be disturbed under any circumstances. Which wasn’t entirely untrue.
For the time being, the Deputy Treasury Secretary was handling all other issues, and had direct access to Corsetti and the president if necessary. Communication by Iverson or anyone but the lead FBI agent with him was strictly forbidden by a freshly signed and aggressively enforced Executive Order.
At midnight, Dr. Mordechai declared a verbal ceasefire.
Breakfast was at eight A.M. sharp. Their discussions would resume then. They all packed up their notes and headed to guest rooms in the east wing of this incredible house.
Black called home—a local call, his house being just a few blocks from the Tel Aviv University campus—to check in with his wife, Katrina, and his three little girls. He hadn’t seen them for more than a week. They were scared. And they didn’t know the half of it. He couldn’t tell them the magnitude of the threat Israel now faced. And he wouldn’t even if he could. Katrina understood war. She had gas masks and water and flashlights and supplies. But there was no way he would tell her that she and the kids might really be obliterated by an Iraqi nuclear missile. It was just too horrible to contemplate. And they needed their rest.
The Last Jihad Page 28
