The Last Jihad

by Rosenberg, Joel C.

  It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. But by the time the G4 lifted off, Dietrich Black was out.

  The plane was halfway across the Atlantic.

  Oakland came over the intercom and told Black he had a secure call from Washington. Black quickly rubbed his eyes, took a swig of cold coffee, grabbed the air phone beside him and punched line one.

  “Black.”

  “Do it.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Roger that.”

  And the line went dead.

  Black gathered his thoughts for a moment, got up, walked over to the table of drinks, opened up a tiny bottle of springwater, poured some on his hands and splashed it on his face. Next he chugged down the rest of the bottle and wiped his face with a nearby hand towel.

  “OK,” he announced to his team somberly. “It’s time.”

  One of the three members of his security detail unbuckled himself and got up. He was not just a skilled marksman. He was also a physician on loan from the CIA. He got out his medical bag and knelt down by the long white leather couch. It was there that the lifeless body of Jonathan Meyers Bennett lay covered with a navy blue wool blanket.

  The CIA doctor quickly rolled up Bennett’s left sleeve, swabbed the skin below his elbow with cotton dabbed in rubbing alcohol, and pulled out a white plastic syringe. Next, he pulled off the cap, squirted out some fluid and tapped the syringe to remove any remaining air bubbles. Then he stabbed Bennett’s arm, and waited. Seconds later, Bennett’s eyes flickered to life, and everyone began to breathe again.

  Black sat in a large white leather swivel chair across from Bennett. Once the doctor was done with his work, he and everyone else moved to the front of the plane, out of Bennett’s immediate line of sight. It took a few moments, but the young man came to, and slowly sat up. Black just swiveled slowly, back and forth, back and forth. Bennett looked out the windows on both sides of the plane and saw two F-16s flying escort.

  “Where am I?” he asked, groggy and disoriented.

  “Thirty-nine thousand feet over the Atlantic,” said Black.

  “I’m not dead.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of disbelief.

  “No, Mr. Bennett. You’re not dead. In fact, welcome back.”

  A few moments passed. Bennett tried mentally to grab hold of something, anything that would root him in some reality he could understand.

  “Where was I?”

  “On a mission, Mr. Bennett.”

  “What—doing what?”

  “Proving your loyalty to the president.”

  Bennett tried to swallow. His mouth was completely dry. Black handed him an opened bottle of water. Bennett took a small sip, but still had trouble swallowing.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Dietrich Black. I’m a counterterrorism specialist with the FBI.”

  “Oh,” said Bennett, blankly. “You the guy that tried to kill me?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “Nobody tried to kill you, Mr. Bennett.”

  Bennett wasn’t amused.

  “Like hell they didn’t.”

  “Well…”

  “Well what?”

  “We call this Operation Irish X-Ray. It’s a way we can shake a person down and test him in a moment of crisis to see if he’s what we call ‘Irish Spring’—you know, ‘clean as a whistle.’ Let’s just say it’s faster and more effective than a three-to six-month FBI background check.

  “You’re saying you’ve done this to other people, friends of the president?

  “I can’t really say more than I have.”

  “But the idea is that I’m supposed to think I’m about to be killed so I’ll spill my guts—if not my bladder—if I’ve got anything to hide?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  “It did. And you passed. With flying colors.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “I do.”

  Bennett tried to take another sip of water, but began coughing. Black handed him the small hand towel, and Bennett wiped his mouth. He was still very drowsy and not fully there.

  “Did you before?”

  “Did I believe you? Before our little test?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Honestly, Mr. Bennett? I wasn’t sure.”

  “Was anyone?”

  “Let’s just say you have some good friends in high places.”

  Bennett stared at Black for a moment, then turned and noticed the rest of Black’s team anxiously staring at him.

  “Who are they?”

  “The good guys.”

  “Oh.”

  Bennett nodded and tried to take another few sips of water. The flight attendant slowly, cautiously, gently came over and offered him a small, cold dish of applesauce and some saltine crackers. Bennett looked up at her. He felt completely drained, but peaceful, and calm. He guessed it was the narcotics, or whatever they’d shot him up with. Apparently, it hadn’t been lethal. He smiled at Perez, and she smiled back.

  “Sa’id…” Bennett said, turning back to Black. “Is he really…you know…a terrorist?”

  “No.”

  Bennett nodded and tried to take a spoonful of applesauce. “That’s nice…and Galish…Galishnikov?”

  “No,” Black said. “He really is your friend.”

  Bennett coughed, then took another small spoonful of applesauce. “Was all this really necessary?”

  The FBI agent hesitated. “That’s not my call,” Black said, honestly glad that was true.

  “I just want to know who to sue,” Bennett said, his face betraying neither anger nor amusement. “Were they really about to give me a lethal injection?”

  “No. It was a mild sedative. A liquefied version of a sleeping pill. The whole thing was designed to act like an accelerated truth detector—to find out what you know and how loyal to the president you really are.”

  Bennett set the bowl of applesauce and the little plate of crackers down on the table beside him, and pulled the thick, wool blanket up over most of his body. He was cold, and lonely, and spent.

  “So now you know,” he said quietly. “Now what?”

  Black reclined in his leather seat, folded his hands behind his head, and smiled.

  “You’re going to see the president.”

  Bennett nodded, closed his eyes, and slowly drifted back to sleep. Dietrich Black knew the young man might not remember this conversation. Indeed, they might have to have it several times before they finally got to Colorado, or at least before they were actually cleared to go in and see the president. But at least his “target” was alive, breathing, “clean”—and in the hands of the U.S. government, not Islamic terrorists.

  “Operation Irish X-Ray”—the arguably unethical if not illegal capture and interrogation of Jonathan Meyers Bennett by direct order of the President of the United States—had been an enormous risk. And it could still backfire. But it also just might have been worth it. Black chewed on that, then pulled a blanket over himself and closed his own eyes. The Secret Service didn’t call this president “Gambit” for nothing.

  Now he knew why.

  SEVEN

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please buckle up—we’re making our final approach.”

  Colonel Oakland clicked off the intercom at just before nine o’clock in the morning Colorado time. The refueling stop at Andrews Air Force Base outside of Washington had taken longer than expected. But the FBI-commandeered Gulfstream IV was finally arriving at its destination—Peterson Air Force Base—still flanked by two F-16s at the direct order of the president.

  Bennett was just beginning to awaken. He checked his seatbelt and found it still fastened snuggly at his waist. He discreetly glanced over at Black, who seemed to be typing up a report of some kind on his laptop—a report, no doubt, on his state-sponsored torture and near execution of a personal friend of the president—and at Maria P
erez, the attractive flight attendant he wouldn’t mind seeing again.

  As he slowly emerged from his drug-induced hypnotic state throughout the night, Bennett had talked at length with Black about the way he had been treated and why. But oddly enough, even after a few more hours of sleep, he couldn’t seem to muster the anger he wanted to feel.

  In his head, he wanted to crucify Black. The concept of an American citizen being subject not just to a fake lethal injection but also to a fake gunshot to the back of the head at the hands of his own government sickened him.

  But in his gut, though he cursed the means, Bennett understood the motive and couldn’t seem to find it within himself to condemn the man or his team. It might have been easier to turn his resentment into rage if the man with the scar and the yo-yo were on board. But he wasn’t. That guy was a thug, a scrap of human debris hired to do the dirty work.

  But Black was different. Bennett couldn’t help but like him. There was something intriguing about this guy—something real and genuine and reassuring.

  For one thing, Black was a guy’s guy. He carried a badge and a gun and stole planes from the State Department. For another thing, Black had a mission, a purpose in life. He traveled the world hunting down scum and eliminating them from the face of the earth. Good work if you could get it, and a world away from what Bennett did for a living.

  Sure, he could buy and sell this guy. Black probably made somewhere around $65,000, maybe $70,000 a year. Three weeks of vacation, which he probably never took. And he was married—he could tell that by the ring on Black’s left hand. But how often could he be home to enjoy married life?

  Bennett, on the other hand, made nearly a million dollars a year—$975,000 and change to be more precise—plus another two to three million a year in stock options and profit sharing and other assorted benefits, depending on the ups and downs of the market. It was great work if you could get it. And he’d gotten it. And that was just the beginning.

  He also had a forest green Jaguar XJR he used for business, and a little red turbo-powered Porsche he used for dates and weekends in the country. He traveled all over the world. He schmoozed the most powerful CEOs and VCs in business.

  He could pick up a phone and within a few minutes—never any longer than a few hours—get the President of the United States on the phone. He’d flown on Air Force One and slept over at Camp David. He’d dined at the Kremlin and toasted in Tiananmen Square. He’d once bought a gorgeous two-carat diamond engagement ring on a business trip to Johannesburg, South Africa, for “some day.” He just hadn’t met “Mrs. Some Day.” Not yet.

  He was smart and respected and rich. But he was hot-tempered and lonely and a workaholic. He had a huge office with an incredible view overlooking the wealthiest section of the wealthiest city in the most powerful country on the face of the planet in the history of mankind. But it was a restless existence.

  Life on the bullet train was about trade-offs, about little deals he made with himself to get ahead. He only had so much emotional capital to invest, and he’d chosen a long time ago not to diversify. He’d invested everything he had in his career, and his professional “account” was paying off in spades. The problem was he seemed to have real trouble maintaining a minimum daily balance in his other “accounts”—personal, emotional, and spiritual.

  He didn’t really have any close guy friends, guys he could call up and hang out with and really talk with outside of work, away from the office, away from the deals. He couldn’t seem to keep a steady girlfriend—much less a fiancée or wife—a soul mate who knew him deeply and loved him unconditionally and wanted him to know her and love her the same way. So what was the point if he didn’t have anyone to share his success with?

  Maybe he who dies with the most toys doesn’t win, thought Bennett. Maybe he’s just dead.

  Bennett stared out the window at the F-16 on his wing and the lights of the Air Force base quickly approaching. It suddenly hit Bennett how rapidly and radically life could change. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d woken up with visions of becoming a billionaire. Now he was just grateful to be alive. Twenty-four hours ago, a new world seemed possible—a world where Arabs and Israelis jointly drilled for oil, a world where two nations could become wealthy beyond belief, a world of prosperity leading to peace, of hope transcending hate, of freedom conquering fear. And now it was all gone. The ugly, evil face of terrorism was back. Men and women lay dead and dying.

  Today the world was teetering on the edge of war and recession, and tomorrow could be worse.

  Jackie Sanchez was now the Secret Service Agent-in-Charge.

  The entire presidential security detail reported to her now that John Moore was in the intensive care unit, fighting for his life. After helping get Gambit to safety inside Crystal Palace, Moore collapsed walking down a hallway and began coughing up blood. He’d been hurried back to the base hospital at Peterson and rushed into emergency surgery. But at this point, the prognosis looked grim.

  “You’re absolutely sure?” pressed Sanchez over a secure landline.

  It was a few minutes after noon as she stood inside a small, top-secret conference room down the hall from the massive NORAD operations center made famous—if not quite precisely represented—by War Games, the hit movie in the ’80s about a couple of young computer hackers who accidentally bring the world to the brink of nuclear war. Two Secret Service agents—one with a bomb-sniffing canine unit, another from the technical division, checking for eavesdropping bugs—finished sweeping the room.

  “One hundred percent,” replied her boss, Bud Norris.

  “OK,” said Sanchez. “It just makes me nervous, given what’s happened.”

  “I know. But believe me, I just read the report Black emailed in from the plane.”

  “And?”

  “He’ll send it to you in a few moments. But believe me, it’s convincing.”

  “They really worked him over, huh?”

  “Brutally.”

  “And Black’s guys were good?”

  “Oscar-winning.”

  Another female agent now popped her head in the conference room door and gave Sanchez the thumbs-up.

  “All right, boss. I’ll take your word for it. Hey, about this memorial service the president wants for Saturday. What’s happening with that?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve put together a team to get it done. It’ll be Saturday at two o’clock at the National Cathedral. The guys over at White House Public Liaison are putting all the details together. We’re mapping out the security and making sure the families all get here safely and are taken care of.”

  “Great. Let me know. Hey, look, I’ve got company.”

  “Fair enough. But Sanchez?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When Bennett gets there, take good care of him—if he can survive the CIA and the FBI, we don’t want to lose him on our watch.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  “Take care, Sanchez.”

  “I will, sir. Thanks.”

  Sanchez hung up the phone and closed her eyes for a moment to catch her breath and gather her thoughts. Suddenly, the phone rang again.

  “Sanchez. Absolutely. Send them in.”

  Ten minutes later, the conference table was set for Thanksgiving.

  Freshly squeezed orange juice with thick bits of pulp was poured into crystal glasses. Freshly brewed Colombian coffee was poured into white Syracuse China cups, and on a side counter sat a bucket of ice, a selection of sodas and a row of NORAD-embossed glasses. Two metal carts were wheeled in from the NORAD commander’s personal kitchen with heated platters of hot, steaming slices of golden roasted turkey and honey-baked ham, buttery mounds of mashed potatoes, bowls of stuffing, tangy cranberry sauce, piping-hot sweet potatoes, boats of thick gravy, little plates of carrots and celery and sweet pickles and olives, and cloth napkin–covered baskets filled with corn bread and warm potato rolls, all lightly buttered and smelling like heaven.

  Bob Corsetti was
the first to enter, followed by Secretary Iverson. Two Secret Service agents were already in place in the back corners of the room. Corsetti and Iverson wasted no time in serving themselves, then welcomed Dietrich Black, freshly showered, shaved and now wearing a business suit—his own Beretta having been left with security back at the Air Force base.

  “Deek, Bob Corsetti,” said the White House chief of staff, vigorously shaking Black’s hand.

  “Hey, Bob, good to see you again.”

  “It’s been awhile. Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

  “Oh, well, hey, how could I forget?”

  “Sorry it’s always on such difficult occasions.”

  Black nodded.

  “I don’t think you know Stu Iverson, the new Treasury Secretary,” offered Corsetti.

  “No—good to meet you, sir.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” said Iverson, reaching for Black’s outstretched hand and shaking it vigorously. “How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful.”

  “We should all be so lucky,” said Corsetti. “You must be starved. Please, have some dinner.”

  “It hardly seems right, sir.”

  “I know. But we have a lot to be thankful for. The president’s alive—and you guys did a hell of a job with Bennett. Now eat.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Black reluctantly but gratefully helped himself, then grabbed a NORAD coffee mug, some ice, and a Diet Coke (of course) and joined the two men at the table, silently bowing his head to say grace.

  “Stu, what do you expect at the bell on Monday?” Corsetti asked.

  “Hellfire and brimstone,” Iverson said bluntly, stirring some heavy cream into his coffee. “Asia and Europe both crashed overnight. S&P futures are down sharply. NASDAQ’s been acting like a whipped dog.”

  “Meltdown?”

  “The China Syndrome.”

  Iverson cut his turkey with his knife and fork, took a bite, then carefully wiped his mouth with his freshly ironed white cloth napkin.

  “Bob, we need some good news, and we need it fast.”

  “And what happens if we don’t get it?”