The Last Jihad

by Rosenberg, Joel C.

  The entire detour lasted just shy of ninety minutes, after which the caravan was allowed to resume its trek to Jordan—one Range Rover leading the way, followed by “Al Nida,” followed by three more Range Rovers.

  The twenty-five men comprising Q17 passed through Toliahah and Ar Rutbah, maintaining the strictest code of silence. No two-way radios. No cell phones. No AM/FM radios. No tapes or CDs. Not even conversations were allowed. Now they pulled off to the side of the road, just before the fork in Highway 10 where one must make a decision between heading northwest to At Tanf, Syria, or southwest to Trebil, Jordan.

  Using hand signals, most of the men broke out food and drinks. Four others quickly unloaded large cans of fuel and poured them into each of the Range Rovers, not caring apparently that the vehicles were still running or that each of them was smoking a cigarette.

  Under the circumstances, the president was grateful to laugh a little.

  His next NSC briefing was just minutes away. Then he’d once again focus on the crisis at hand. But getting Bennett and McCoy comfortable with working with each other in a new way was important, too. Especially given the mission he was giving them.

  “Look, Jon,” he said. “You’re like a son to me. That’s why I told Stu to hire Erin a few years ago. I asked her to keep an eye on you. To watch your back. To check out Sa’id and Galishnikov. All I can tell you is she’s good. Very good.”

  “Stu knows she works for CIA?”

  “No, he doesn’t. But he will. All in due time. Now, look, you’ve got one more paper to sign,” said the president, sliding him another black leather folder.

  “What’s this for?”

  “It says everything that we’ve discussed here—and will discuss in the future—is privileged and confidential, subject to all relevant federal laws governing confidential presidential communications. You can read all the fine print if you want. But the bottom line is, none of what we’re going to do can be discussed with anyone without my express permission. Understood?”

  “I haven’t passed my ‘loose lips sink ships’ test yet?”

  “Erin?” the president asked.

  “I guess we can trust him.” She smiled.

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Just sign, Bennett,” said the president matter-of-factly.

  And he did.

  “So, Mr. President,” Bennett continued, “how do you guys know each other—I mean, obviously through GSX. But this seems to predate all that, doesn’t it?”

  “See, Erin, I told you he’s a smart guy.”

  “You did, you said that.”

  “You weren’t so sure.”

  “Well, you know, I’ve worked with him a little more closely in recent years than you have.”

  “That’s true.”

  The president looked at Bennett, then back to McCoy, then back to Bennett.

  “Wait a minute,” said the president. “You’ve got stories.”

  “What? No,” she demurred.

  “No, no, no. Don’t give me that. You’ve got stories, McCoy.”

  “Mr. President, please, she doesn’t have any…”

  “Like hell she doesn’t. Spill ’em, McCoy.”

  “No, sir, I…”

  “Spill ’em.”

  “Well, sir, you know…all right, maybe just one.”

  “Erin,” Bennett protested.

  McCoy just laughed. “What?”

  “Don’t tell him any stories.”

  “Jon, I have to. He’s my boss.”

  “I’m your boss.”

  McCoy took his cheek and pinched it like a grandmother.

  “Yeah, but you’re not the president.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  Sanchez stepped back into the room with a very old, very expensive-looking bottle of brandy and three glasses and set them on the president’s desk.

  “Good work, Sanchez,” shouted the president. “Way to go.”

  “I’m just the delivery boy, here, sir.”

  “Hardly.”

  Bennett took charge and poured everyone a glass, including one for McCoy, even though he knew she didn’t drink.

  “Sir, I’d like to propose a toast.”

  “Sounds good. Fire away, Bennett.”

  All three now raised their glasses.

  “To my friend the president, may you find those who did this—and nuke ’em.”

  They all laughed, clinked glasses, and watched McCoy drink hers dry in one long sip.

  “Erin, I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “You’ve just got a lot to learn, don’t you?”

  “All right, McCoy, start talking,” the president ordered.

  So she did.

  “OK, well, here’s one. Last year, Jon and I were invited to the Super Bowl in Miami as personal guests of former Treasury Secretary Murphy and his wife, Elaine.”

  “Oh, come on, Erin, you can’t tell the president that story.”

  “This must be good,” said MacPherson, taking another sip of brandy.

  “You haven’t heard this already, Mr. President?” asked McCoy.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I have,” said Sanchez.

  “What?”

  Bennett was mortified. Now Sanchez smiled.

  “OK, so we fly the GSX Learjet to Miami, right, and we get picked up in this stretch limousine and arrive at Joe Robbi Stadium, you know, VIPs, the whole thing.”

  “Nothing but the best for Jon.”

  “Absolutely, sir. We’re ushered upstairs to the secretary’s private box and it’s him and his wife and his security detail and a few CEOs. You know the drill.”

  “Sure do.”

  “So, everything’s been a lot of fun—the Murphys are great people—and it’s just about the end of the fourth quarter and the secretary is at the door, saying good-bye, you know, to all of the CEOs who are getting out early, you know, off to someone else’s party, I’m sure.”

  “Ingrates.”

  “Exactly.”

  McCoy glanced over at Bennett, whose face was buried in his hands.

  “So, the secretary is at the door saying good-bye, and it’s just me and Jon and the secretary’s wife and the security guys.”

  “OK.”

  “And, you know, Mrs. Murphy is getting up there a bit in age, and she doesn’t hear so well, right?”

  “Right. Has those two huge hearing aids.”

  “Exactly. But…”

  McCoy started to laugh a little as Bennett shook his head.

  “But Jon is like totally engrossed in the last few minutes of the game—we all are, no one’s saying anything…”

  “It was a good game.”

  “It was…and Jon’s munching away on this, I don’t know, some kind of Tex-Mex platter—nachos and cheese and salsa and guacamole and refried beans. So, anyway, somebody kicks a field goal with like two minutes to go and Jon…well, how shall I put this delicately…”

  “Please don’t.”

  “…and Jon, well, he just…”

  “Spit it out, Erin,” ordered the president.

  “…well…let’s just say, he could have used some Beano.”

  The president began to laugh.

  “And this wasn’t, you know, muted, or anything—this was really loud.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that to the President of the United States,” groaned Bennett, totally dying now.

  Both the president and McCoy were cracking up, especially as Bennett was obviously so completely mortified.

  “Why don’t you just shoot me now.”

  “…and the agents are just doing everything they can not to burst out laughing hysterically and I glance over to Mrs. Murphy and she’s expressionless—I mean, completely stone-faced.”

  The president was laughing even harder now.

  “But, sir, that’s not the best part.”

  “There’s more?”

 
“Well, see, two minutes later, the game is over and Mrs. Murphy walks out into the hallway with her husband. And the minute she steps out of the room, we all start howling and Jon is turning all red and we’re all just dying.”

  Everyone in the room was laughing now, even Sanchez and her agents.

  “So what happened next?”

  “Well, the lead agent goes over to Jon and says, ‘You know, that was pretty rude. You gotta go over and apologize to the lady.’ And Jon’s just looking at him like he’s crazy. And the agent says, ‘No, I’m serious. You know, she’s a Cabinet Secretary’s wife. You need to go out there and apologize.’”

  “He didn’t.”

  “He did—I kid you not.”

  “Jon, Jon, Jon.”

  Bennett didn’t say a word, and McCoy continued.

  “Well, he looks at me and I’m like, there’s no way I’m getting in the middle of this, so I say, ‘Hey, it’s their call, not mine.’ So Jon gets up and looks back at all of us, and he goes out the door. And we all just start breaking up. I mean, I’m on the floor at this point.”

  “It wasn’t enough to try to kill me. You guys have to humiliate me, too.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Francis,” said the president.

  “So, wait, wait, it’s not over…the best part was a few moments later, Jon comes back into the suite and the lead agent said, ‘So, did you apologize?’ And Jon goes, ‘I tried to. I went out there and told her I was really sorry and it was rude and I didn’t mean it and it’ll never happen again.’ And she goes, ‘Sorry for what, Jon?’ She never heard it.”

  “She never heard it?”

  “So, she goes, ‘What are you talking about, Jon? What was so rude?’ And, Mr. President, Mr. President, Jon actually told her…”

  “No.”

  “I’m not making this up, sir. True story. True story.”

  Suddenly, Agent Sanchez piped up.

  “He did, sir. In fact, that story’s been told by every agent in the country by now.”

  “You’re so dead, McCoy,” Bennett laughed. “When you least expect it, expect it.”

  That just made everyone howl all the more.

  The rapid refueling and equally quick meal were now complete.

  Everyone piled back into their vehicles and waited for the lead four-wheel drive to move. But it didn’t. Inside, the three men were frantically poring over their maps and using binoculars to look in every direction, all the while sweating profusely despite having the air conditioning turned up full blast. The small dirt road they were looking for was supposed to be right here—or close by, anyway—but it wasn’t. Worse, time was running short. So were tempers.

  Ali Kamal, twenty-six and hand-chosen by General Khalid Azziz to be the leader of this team, stared off into the sizzling sunset before him. It would be dark soon, and if he were not where he was supposed to be within the hour, he might as well put a bullet in his own head, or it would certainly be done for him by the sleeper agent in one of the vehicles behind him. He didn’t know which one to worry about. There might even be more than one. But someone would be gunning for him if he screwed up this mission. Of this he had no doubt.

  Kamal took a final drag on his cigarette and looked around him. It really was a beautiful, luxurious car, this Range Rover, even if it was painted white. He would have much preferred jet-black, but “U.N.” staff could not be so picky.

  The three behind him were standard models. But his was a gem. A big chassis and powerful V8 diesel engine that purred because he personally cared for it day and night. A longer wheelbase than earlier models, and electronically controlled air suspension that made even a hundred-mile-per-hour drive through this ugly desert smooth and comfortable. Power windows. Power, antilock brakes. Power steering. Airbags. Even a state-of-the-art global-positioning satellite navigation system that he had personally installed in Amman after returning from a brief trip to London, where he’d rented a car with a GPS system.

  With a mission, a team, this car, and a bright future ahead of him, Ali Kamal had everything he wanted, except for a lover. That would change soon, too. But for now he could not afford to be distracted by such primal pleasures. He needed to focus on this task, and Allah would bless him. If not now, then with seventy virgins upon arriving in paradise.

  Kamal lowered his passenger-side power window for a split second to toss his cigarette butt outside. Forget the maps, he silently screamed. He had a job to do, and no room for error. Kamal reached for the Range Rover’s GPS system and pressed a few buttons. It took just a fraction of a second, and in that instant all of his anger and frustration melted away.

  He laughed out loud. Remarkable. How simple, yet how brilliant. He now knew where he was. He knew where he was going. And he knew how to get there. He flashed a smile at his driver, and held up three fingers on his left hand. Three more kilometers on the left. Back in business, the caravan moved out.

  The room slowly recovered from McCoy’s story.

  Bennett was thoroughly embarrassed. But two could play this game.

  “Mr. President, I think it’s only fair that I get a little equal time here,” said Bennett with an air of mystery. There was no way he was going to let Erin McCoy have the last word, not with this president.

  “What?” asked McCoy. “You don’t have any stories about me.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  “I never told you any stories.”

  “Finding buried treasure is what I do, McCoy. Remember?”

  McCoy was getting a little worried, and Bennett was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “What could you possibly have on me?” McCoy asked, more of herself than him.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” the president chimed in. “All right. Go ahead, Bennett, be my guest.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Bennett took a sip of his brandy and got up to put another log on the fire. Then he sat back, letting McCoy stew a bit.

  “A few years ago, Erin was new to our London office, as you know.”

  The president nodded, and watched McCoy shift in her seat.

  “And, as you also know, she was taking the place of a woman who was out on maternity leave.”

  “Right. What was her name? Smythe something, wasn’t it?” asked the president.

  “Right, Gay Smythe. She was originally from Liverpool, then came to work with us for awhile in Denver, then helped us open the London office.”

  “Sure, sure, I know her,” said the president. “The redhead, right? Had twins, didn’t she?”

  “She did, that’s right.”

  McCoy suddenly knew where Bennett was headed, and she was mortified.

  “Oh, Jon, don’t.”

  Now McCoy was blushing, but Bennett just smiled. It wasn’t just that he had regained the upper hand. It was also because he couldn’t help but notice—for the first time really—how attractive she looked in her soft pink cashmere sweater, black wool skirt, black pumps, string of pearls, tiny pearl earrings, and black-and-gold Cartier watch. Sure, his life had just radically changed. But maybe this could be fun.

  “Jon, you can’t…I mean…how do you even know this story?”

  “Ah, ah, ah—you had your chance.”

  Of course, the more she squirmed, the more Bennett loved it.

  “So, Mr. President, as I was saying…so Miss Smythe was out on maternity leave and Erin came in to replace her. So, I don’t know, maybe about two or three months after Erin arrived, she’s downstairs at the health club, you know, working out.”

  “Jon…”

  “She finishes working out and she heads to the lockers, and as I hear the story, she gets undressed and steps into the shower room.”

  “I don’t even believe this is happening.”

  “So she’s in there taking a shower…and there’s only one other woman in there…and you know, Erin’s a very friendly, very nice person…”

  “That’s true,” agreed the president.

  “Exactly. She’s
very friendly. So lo and behold, Erin sees this redhead in the corner taking her shower, and she thinks, oh, maybe this is the woman whose job she filled.”

  McCoy closed her eyes and covered them with her hands.

  “So sweet Miss Erin McCoy—ever the friendly one, ever the CIA operative, you know, looking to build new strategic relationships—decides to walk over to the woman and she says, ‘Excuse me, are you Gay?’”

  The president began to laugh out loud as McCoy turned multiple shades of red.

  “And the stunned woman says in this beautiful British accent, ‘I beg your pardon?’…so Erin—not realizing what she’s saying—actually repeats herself…”

  The president was roaring and Bennett was having trouble getting the words out.

  “…so Erin goes again, ‘I said, are you Gay?’ And the two of them are standing there in the steaming showers, completely naked, and this woman just screams, ‘No, I’m not gay,’ and she races out of there. And suddenly Erin realizes what she’s just said and she goes running after the woman into the locker room—completely naked—saying, ‘No, no, I’m not gay. I just thought you might have worked with one of my girlfriends—no, no, I mean…’”

  Even the Secret Service agents began laughing so hard they were having trouble breathing.

  “Jonathan Bennett, I’m gonna get you for this.”

  “Revenge?” laughed Bennett. “Is that what they teach you in the CIA?”

  “Gotcha,” he shouted in Hebrew.

  The young intelligence officer couldn’t believe it. His adrenaline started pumping. His heart started racing. He doubled-checked his electronics to rule out the possibility of a malfunction, then grabbed the red phone in front of him and punched #212.

  The call was picked up instantly.

  “Ken?”

  “Acshav.”

  “Tov.”

  Now it was Captain Jonah Yarkon’s turn to grab a phone and relay the message, and he did just that. A split second later, a red phone rang inside the IDF operations bunker eight stories underneath the Ministry of Defense in downtown Jerusalem. Defense Minister Chaim Modine picked it up and listened carefully.