“What kind of guy is he personally?” asked McCoy.
“Quiet. Gentle. You’d never know he was head of the Mossad. I mean, he looks kind of bookish, like an old English professor at Oxford. Gray. Balding. Thick spectacles. Cardigan sweaters. Smokes a pipe.”
“We should have brought him some good tobacco.”
“Who says we didn’t?” said Black, producing a small package from his briefcase.
“Hey, nice work.”
“That’s why I make the big bucks,” Black added.
“You said you’ve worked with him pretty closely, right?”
“We get along pretty well. And he’s been invaluable to me as I’ve tried to build an effective counterterrorism team and strategy over there. I first met Dr. Mordechai at a party at the U.S. ambassador’s home in Herziliya back in the summer of 1990—June or July, I think—right before Saddam made his move on Kuwait. I hadn’t really done any work in Israel to that point. Only been there once on a vacation with my wife. But Iraq was doing a lot of ‘saber-rattling’—that was the catchphrase everybody seemed to be using at the time—and the Bureau thought we’d better beef up our work in Israel and spend more time with the guys from Shin Bet and Mossad. Our specific mission, though we didn’t tell the Israelis this at the time, was to develop an evacuation plan. In case war broke out and the president gave the word, we needed to know where every American citizen living, working, or visiting in Israel was at a given moment, how to round them up, how to get them to one of six different extraction points, and what resources we’d need from the Sixth Fleet out there in the Med to get them out and home safely. As it turned out of course, war did break out, and Saddam did start lobbing missiles. But we never had to make good on the evacuation plan.”
Bennett was staring out the window. Black wasn’t sure he was really paying attention. But he continued anyway.
“Anyway, I met with Dr. Mordechai at this party and then we had lunch the next day. We talked a lot about Saddam and Iraq and the prospect of something going down. And I’ll never forget something he said.”
“Why? What was it?” asked McCoy.
“He said, and I quote: ‘The problem with you Americans is that you don’t believe in evil.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s what I said. So he went on to explain that in his opinion, the CIA and FBI and definitely the guys at State don’t properly anticipate horrible, catastrophic events because we don’t really believe in the presence of evil, the presence of a dark and wicked and nefarious spiritual dimension that drives some men to do the unthinkable. So I say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And he goes, ‘Exactly. A man like Saddam Hussein, for example. Saddam tells the world for years that he has a territorial claim on Kuwait. Builds up his armed forces. Develops weapons of mass destruction. Moves troops to the border. Signals everyone he’s going in. But all the boys and girls at the CIA and DIA say Saddam won’t do it. Just wants to drive up the price of oil. Just saber-rattling. Just flexing his muscles. Couldn’t possibly invade. Why would he? It would make no sense. It would be irrational. No Arab nation has ever invaded another Arab nation. Why start now?’”
“And the good doctor thought our guys were wrong?” asked Bennett, apparently listening more closely than Black had realized.
“They were wrong.”
“Well, obviously. But we couldn’t have known that at the time.”
“No, we could have. That’s what he was saying. Saddam was painting us a road map, and we simply didn’t believe he’d start the car and take the trip.”
“Nobody did, Deek. You’d have needed a crystal ball to get inside the mind of Saddam Hussein and divine what he was going to do next. The guy’s a lunatic.”
“No, no, no,” said Black. “You’re missing the point. That’s exactly what Dr. Mordechai was trying to say. On the one hand, we tell ourselves that Saddam is a rational person but a liar. He says he’ll invade Kuwait, but we say he doesn’t mean it. He’s just lying. He’s just bluffing. He’s just playing with our heads. But then when he did invade, we decided he was a lunatic—crazy, unpredictable, irrational, a nut case.”
“So what’s your point? Or his?”
“Dr. M’s point is that there’s a third option—Saddam Hussein is not a lunatic and, in that case, he wasn’t a liar. He was rational and calculating and evil. So he told the world what he was going to do—commit an act of evil, not an act of madness—and then he did it. It took a bunch of highly paid analysts with Harvard degrees to completely miss the simplicity of the moment.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark,” deadpanned Bennett, with his MBA from the Harvard Business School.
“Hey, so do I, brother,” Black reminded him, another Harvard alum.
“That’s why I went to Wharton, boys.” McCoy smiled. “But seriously, he thinks he could have done better?”
“He did do better. We were having lunch at an outdoor café in the Old City and he told me point-blank Saddam was going in, even told me the day—August 5. He was only off by three days.”
“Did he have some inside info?”
“No. He said he didn’t need any. He said everything a person needed to know in terms of basic intelligence, basic fact-finding, could be found in the newspapers. But he stressed that intelligence is about more than simply finding out facts. It’s about properly analyzing those facts. It’s about drawing the right conclusions, even based on incomplete evidence. In this case, the only difference between Dr. Eliezer Mordechai and the top leadership of the U.S. government was that Mordechai took Saddam Hussein at his word, and we didn’t. Or, to put it in his words, and I quote: ‘I believe Saddam Hussein is both capable of and prone to acts of unspeakable evil, and you don’t. I’m right, and you’re wrong. It’s not because I know more than your government. I don’t. I know less. But I believe that evil forces make evil men do evil things. That’s how I anticipate what can and will happen next in life. That’s how I got to be the head of the Mossad, young man. And why I’m good at it. It’s going to be one hell of an August, and my country is going to suffer very badly because your country doesn’t believe in evil, and mine was born out of the ashes of the Holocaust.’”
The three were silent for a moment.
“What happened then?” McCoy asked finally.
“He got up, paid his bill, and left.”
Bennett leaned back in his leather executive swivel chair, ran his hand through his hair, then reached for a crystal dish of red and green candies.
“Hmm, well, can’t wait to find out his next prophecy,” he said quietly, staring out the window of the G4 at a brilliant blue sky, not quite sure what to say.
“M&Ms anyone?”
General Azziz knew he was gambling with his life, but he was ready to die.
He knew full well that he breathed only at the pleasure of Saddam Hussein. He was wholly devoted to the regime. He was a widower with no children. And he was willing—even eager—to sacrifice himself and his countrymen to inflict vengeance on Israel and the U.S. It was the right thing to do—the ultimate suicide bombing mission—and a tremor of energy rippled through him in anticipation of all that was waiting for him.
He knew, of course, that Saddam wanted results. And there were results to be had. But his gut told him to wait. He needed just a little more time to orchestrate this final concerto of his career.
The only question was: Could he and his colleagues survive this brutal, relentless American bombing campaign until everything was ready and the moment of eternal glorification had arrived?
As the proud architect of this incredible bunker complex, Azziz knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the answer was “yes.” He would wait, until he was good and ready.
The president hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling.
Two Secret Service agents stood post outside the French doors. The First Lady was sound asleep. He’d only been asleep for fifteen or twenty minutes—trying to catch a
few hours rest upon his doctors’ orders—when the call had come in. Now his mind raced. This couldn’t be true. It wasn’t possible. He had to know for sure. But how?
MacPherson picked up the phone again and got Corsetti on the second ring.
“Bob, I need you to do something for me.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Call Stu. Tell him to meet me at Camp David at noon. I have a little project I need done just right. And I think he just might be the right guy to help me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s Shakespeare doing with my speech for tonight?”
“Not bad. Marsha and I are meeting with him at noon to go over it.”
“Good. Now call Stu. Make sure he’s at Camp David at twelve sharp.”
“High Noon it is.”
Bennett’s BlackBerry started beeping.
He leaned back in his seat and quickly checked the incoming email. It was his mother in Florida, and it was urgent—911. He called her cell phone immediately.
“Mom, it’s Jon. What’s going on?”
She was hysterical.
“Jon…it’s your father, Jon…”
She could barely get the words out.
“What? What happened?”
“…He’s…he’s had a massive heart attack…”
“Oh my God.”
“…They don’t think he’s going to make it…They’re giving him twenty-four hours to live—at the most…”
He didn’t know what to say.
“…Where are you, Jon?…You’ve got get here right away…I need you…”
Bennett was in shock. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t tell her where he was. And worst of all, he couldn’t say why.
Marine One landed at Camp David just before eleven A.M. Friday morning.
A storm was moving in and the wind and rains were picking up. Only MacPherson, Special Agent Jackie Sanchez, and the flight crew were on board. Waiting for the president at Camp David were FBI Director Scott Harris, Special Agent Doug Reed, three members of Reed’s team, and computer specialist Carrie Downing. They huddled in the Aspen Lodge and reviewed the plan. The president kept asking if it would work. It better, thought Harris and Reed; there was no Plan B.
Reed’s earpiece crackled with the voice of one of his agents.
“Sierra One to Romeo. Swiss Cheese is on the ground. Sixty seconds out.”
“Copy that, Sierra One—Mr. President, he’s here.”
Reed’s deputies took up positions around the room, checked their weapons, and waited, hearts pounding. Reed slipped behind the door while Harris stepped in front of the president. Downing moved to the far side of the room, as Reed had instructed. She had no weapon, no place to hide, and no desire to get caught in a crossfire.
“Sierra One, Swiss Cheese is ten seconds out.”
Reed didn’t respond. He could hear the outer doors of the lodge opening and the secretary and his chief of staff, Linda Bowles. Iverson’s agents were being asked by Sanchez’s team to wait outside until the meeting was over.
Then it came. Two hard, sharp knocks.
“Stu, that you?” shouted the president. “Come on in.”
“Mr. President, Scott, gentlemen,” Iverson said calmly. “Hell of a storm, huh?”
The words had barely tumbled from his lips when he heard the distinctive metal clicks.
The cocking of a Smith & Wesson .45 ACP revolver directly behind his left ear. Iverson’s blood ran cold. The game was up.
THIRTEEN
It was dark, moonless, and well after eight o’clock Friday night, Israel time.
The white Chevy Suburban finally wound its way up the narrow road, passed through the massive stone-and-steel gates, and pulled into the secluded driveway.
Dr. Eliezer Mordechai’s home was built into the top of one of the hilltops on the northern edge of Jerusalem. And with Israel entering the darkest hour of her existence, Dietrich Black took comfort in seeing the two security vans from the U.S. Embassy waiting for them, just as he’d requested. It was his job to expect the unexpected. It was his job to make sure nothing happened to Jonathan Meyers Bennett, the newly appointed architect of the president’s secret Middle East peace plan. And it was a job he took seriously.
A Marine guard immediately recognized and greeted Black, but carefully checked the photo IDs of each person in the Suburban anyway, beginning with Bennett. Security agents combed the perimeter with M-16s and bomb-sniffing dogs. Every i had been dotted. Every t had been crossed. And that was all that could be expected.
Bennett knew from the dossier Black had put together for him that Dr. Mordechai had designed this home himself.
With a Frank Lloyd Wright feel to it—sort of a Falling Water without the water—the structure itself seemed nearly indistinguishable from the hill into which it was built. A cobblestone path—lit on each side by small, discreet ground lamps—snaked authorized visitors up a labyrinth of outdoor stone staircases.
Eventually, these arrived under an immense, thick, jagged limestone cantilever. The cantilever jutted out like a large cliff over a spectacular view of the Old City to the right, and into the home’s shadowy, arched, cavelike entrance to the left. The front door rightfully belonged in some museum, not here where so few people could admire it. A massive slab of Lebanese cedar, it had hand-whittled carvings depicting the history of Jerusalem adorning the exterior, gently lit by miniature overhead lamps recessed into the dark stone above.
From the moment McCoy announced their arrival by ringing the doorbell, and heard the echo of chimes as beautiful as those in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the valley below, the three Americans suddenly knew how little they really knew. Dr. Mordechai’s cloak-and-dagger past already intrigued them no end. But now they began to sense that his home was somehow a reflection of the man inside, a man shrouded in mystery and murkiness and a hint of magic.
Everybody on board was already puking their guts out.
But the SH-60B Seahawk helicopter—the Navy’s version of the Army’s Blackhawk—lifted off from the Reagan anyway and headed into the raging storm.
Their cargo: SEAL Team Six and three counterterrorism specialists from the Lawrence Livermore National Labs, each part of the U.S. government’s top-secret Nuclear Emergency Search Team.
Their mission: To make sure Saddam Hussein never got a second chance at firing a nuclear missile at Israel or her neighbors.
Their probability of success: Limited, at best. Preventing any missile attack—much less a nuclear attack—from a mobile missile launcher was a million-to-one shot. And since the Israelis had just successfully done it once, no one on this chopper was optimistic they could beat the odds.
The wooden door opened.
The two Mossad agents who greeted them were backlit and it was hard to see their faces. But the Uzis hanging at their sides were unmistakable.
For the second time in less than five minutes, Bennett, McCoy, and Black were again asked to show their photo IDs. They were required to put their thumbs down on an electronic touch pad, tethered to a powerful notebook computer whose superthin screen glowed eerily in the dark.
As they waited a few moments for their Social Security numbers and fingerprints to clear, a tiny, barely visible security camera mounted in the ceiling took rapid-fire snapshots of each visitor. All three faces were instantly digitized and processed simultaneously through high-speed databases.
The face-recognition software quickly conducted a “feature extraction.” The computer measured pixels on their eyes and lips. It scanned eighty different facial landmarks. It analyzed their cheekbones and skull structures. It then cross-checked their three-dimensional “face-prints” against the photos of thousands of known criminals and terrorists worldwide.
A moment later, one of the Israeli’s cell phones rang. It was Dr. Mordechai. From some other room deep inside this house, he was watching them. Once the computer gave its clearance, so did he. One of the Israeli agents threaded thin metal chains
through three visitors’ passes, handed them over, and instructed that they be worn at all times in the house and on the surrounding property. He also asked the guests to remove their wet coats and shoes and put them in a small hall closet, which they proceeded to do.
On the left and the right, there were long, unlit hallways projecting east and west. But rather than proceed down either of these, the three were directed down the dimly lit hallway straight ahead. It was almost like a tunnel—covered by the limestone cantilever that came right through the external wall—and ended where a wide, circular staircase began.
It was here, finally, as they began to slowly spiral upwards to the second floor—the main floor—that they experienced an explosion of light and color and sound and aromas that swept them away into a world so different from their own.
Several emails arrived just before dinner—and they brought welcome news.
His forces were taking a beating. But Azziz wasn’t worried. Wasn’t this what boxers in the West called “rope a dope”? Iraq would look quiet and weak and wounded amidst the U.S. pummeling—then strike when the Americans least expected it.
Q19 email said they were ready to go the moment Azziz gave the word. The email from the “four horsemen” confirmed they were making excellent time to their target. And then, of course, hidden in a children’s hospital in downtown Baghdad, there was the crown jewel of the mission President Hussein now dubbed “The Last Jihad,” history’s final holy war against the Western and Zionist infidels.
Bennett, Black and McCoy climbed the spiral staircase.
As they did, they found themselves staring into a magnificent glass dome instead of a ceiling, a dome that allowed for a spectacular view of the moon and the stars above. It was clear and captivating and certainly unexpected. But in truth it was not the dome but the warm and gentle interior light from lamps scattered about the great room that seemed to beckon them from the dark tunnel below.
The Last Jihad Page 27
