They missed him. He missed them more. The good news, at least was that in January—less than two months away—they were all leaving Israel to head back to the States for a long-overdue, two-week vacation at the Polynesian Resort in Disney World. Black promised himself right there and then that if they all lived through this nightmare, he would let nothing come in the way of his family and the Magic Kingdom.
He was getting too old for this job, and he knew it. There’d been a time when saving the world from terrorism was his sole ambition. Now he just wanted some sand, some sun, some piña coladas and some time to tickle his kids and have a quiet, candlelight dinner with his beautiful, patient, long-suffering wife.
Bennett, meanwhile, shut down his laptop, went back to his room, and dashed off a quick email to his mom. He asked for an update on his dad and apologized—again—for being out of the country and unable to come home. For one of the few times in his life, he actually missed his parents. And the thought of losing his father and never being able to say good-bye to him ever again made him sick.
In no mood to sleep, and in serious need of some fresh air to clear his head, Bennett ambled back down the hall, through the living room and out onto the limestone veranda overlooking the Old City. McCoy was sitting out there, wrapped in a thick wool sweater, cleaning the 9mm Beretta she kept in her pocketbook.
“You really know how to use that thing?” Bennett quipped.
She raised her right eyebrow. “You want a demonstration?”
“I’ll just take your word for it.”
Thunder rumbled overhead. Bennett leaned against the wrought-iron railing and stared out at the twinkling lights of the Old City and the gleaming Dome of the Rock.
“I never even took a tour,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
McCoy snapped in a fresh clip, then put the Beretta away.
“You will.”
“I don’t know.”
“Jon, you think the president’s really going to just let us die out here?”
“I don’t think it’s really up to him.”
McCoy looked over at her friend, at the little flecks of prematurely gray hair around his temples and the crinkly little lines around his grayish-green eyes. He seemed a million miles away. She didn’t quite know what to say. So she said nothing at all.
“I just keep thinking about those Secret Service guys,” Bennett said softly. “And I just don’t get it. What makes a person give up his life to save someone else’s?”
The question just hung in the air for a few minutes.
“That’s not what I signed up for, Erin. You know? I mean, I’m not a Secret Service agent. I don’t work for the FBI or the CIA. You and Deek, you guys chose this life. That’s fine. That’s cool. But I’m not—I don’t know—I’m just a Wall Street guy. I’m not James Bond. I’m not a hero. I’m just a simple guy trying to become a billionaire. That’s all.”
McCoy couldn’t help but laugh gently. At least he still had a sense of humor.
It was quiet for a while—just some wooden wind chimes and distant claps of thunder and a pitter-patter of light rain beginning to come down. Then, again, Bennett broke the silence.
“I don’t think my dad’s going to make it.”
McCoy had never seen Bennett like this, unsettled and unsure.
“I’m so sorry, Jon.”
He nodded. “I miss him. I’ve never missed him in my whole life. And now I miss him.”
A bolt of lightning crackled on the horizon.
“You’ve been there, done that, haven’t you?” he asked her.
“Twice.”
“Does it get any easier?”
“No.”
“How old were you?”
“I was pretty young when I lost my dad. It was actually harder when my mom passed away, because then I knew I was going to be all alone in the world. And it scared me. Anyway, I was a different person back then. Insecure. Angry. Bitter about things. And my mom and I were really close….”
She and Bennett had never been really candid with each other about personal things, and she wasn’t entirely sure now was the time to start.
“How’d you handle it, losing your mom, I mean?”
“I don’t know. The only good thing was we both knew she was dying. We knew she only had a few months left. She really wanted to prepare me for it. We did her will together. We picked out songs for her funeral. Flowers. The whole thing. I remember she once heard a sermon about a woman who’d also died of cancer. And the woman had come to her pastor and told him exactly what she wanted at her funeral and what Bible verses to read and everything. And then, when she was all done, she told him that she wanted to be laid out in an open casket with a fork in her right hand. And the pastor says, ‘A fork? Why a fork?’ And she says, ‘When I was a little girl, I used to love church suppers. And when the meal was done, and people were clearing the dishes, one of the older women in the church would always come over and lean down and whisper to me, save your fork. And I loved that. Because I knew it meant something better was coming—apple pie or chocolate cake or blueberry cobbler, or something. And pastor,’ she said, ‘when I die, I want people to come by and see me and then ask you, Why’s she got a fork in her hand? And I want you to tell them my little story, and then tell them the good news—that when you know Christ, you know there’s something better coming. There’s something better coming.’”
Bennett could see McCoy holding back her emotions.
“My mom loved that story. She had a tape of that sermon and she played it over and over. So she asked me to make sure she had a fork in her hand at her funeral. She wanted her friends to know—she wanted me to know—that when you know Jesus Christ in a real and personal way, there’s something better coming.”
McCoy turned and looked Bennett straight in the eye.
“That’s how I deal with it, Jon. I know there’s something better coming.”
Bennett looked at the drops of rain beginning to streak down her soft cheeks, and her large, green eyes.
“You really are a Jesus freak, aren’t you, McCoy?” he said softly, smiling.
She just smiled back at him.
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Jon Bennett.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’d like to.”
Back in Washington, it was just after six P.M.
Reed and Downing were gathering in Harris’s office when the president called during a break from his NSC meeting. He was due to address the nation in three hours, and he wanted the latest update from the FBI.
“Where are we?” MacPherson asked.
It fell to Harris to bear the bad news.
“Nothing’s happened. Not yet, Mr. President.”
“Scott, we don’t have much time. The Secret Service has got to know. Right now only Sanchez knows. But we obviously can’t keep up this charade for long.”
“Mr. President, I understand. I really do. But we talked about this already. We have no idea who ‘Mr. C.’ is. We’re pretty sure he’s inside the government. Perhaps inside the White House. Especially if he was complicit in the last attack on you at DIA. So we may have a sleeper agent—working for Saddam—on the inside. It could be anybody. We just don’t know. But until we do, we can’t risk telling anyone else.”
That didn’t sit well with the president. The world was rapidly sliding towards nuclear war. One of his oldest friends—the head of the Secret Service, for crying out loud—was under arrest for trying to kill him. Now the FBI believed his chief of staff, or press secretary, or any one of several hundred other people who worked for him, could be about to take him out. And to top it all off, he couldn’t tell his own protective detail, for fear that the sleeper agent might be one of them.
“So what do we do?”
“We stick with the plan, sir. Ten minutes after we arrested the secretary, Agent Downing here sent an email back to Gogolov. She sent it from the secretary’s personal AOL account, in Iverson’s name, written just lik
e Iverson wrote all the others. It told Gogolov he had a perfect plan all worked out. All he needed was a way to contact ‘Mr. C.’ to give him the details and finalize the plans.”
“What happens when people realize Iverson isn’t around? Won’t Gogolov and Saddam and everybody get suspicious?”
“Sir, look, we’ve been over…”
“Don’t give me that. Just answer the question.”
Harris was startled by the president’s anger, but he certainly understood the pressure the man was under.
“Yes, sir. We sent out a press release this afternoon in the secretary’s name praising the British and French central banks for lowering their interest rates during this time of crisis, and insisting that Germany do the same immediately. It made all the business wires and will be on the front page of the Wall Street Journal Monday morning. We booked a ‘major address’ for the secretary at the National Press Club for next month on ‘The Future of the U.S.-Israeli Economic Relationship.’ That’s making waves, as well. And Meet the Press called tonight. Russert wants the secretary on ASAP.”
“Good. So Saddam and his people must think Iverson’s still alive and kicking.”
“We hope so. It doesn’t seem prudent to do more than that.”
“No, you’re right. So we just wait and hope Gogolov writes back?”
“That’s the plan, sir.”
There was a brief pause as the president gathered his thoughts.
“And what does the secretary have to say for himself?” he finally asked.
“You really want to know, Mr. President? It’s pretty complicated.”
“I assume you guys are putting together a report for me?”
“We are, sir.”
“Give me the executive summary. How much were they paying him to sell out?”
“Well, Mr. President, that’s just the thing—they weren’t paying him.”
“What do you mean? Stu’s never done anything in his life except for money.”
“Sir, we can’t find any record that Gogolov or Jibril or the Iraqis themselves ever paid him a dime to do any of this.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Well, Mr. President, it appears that Iverson…”
“What? Just spit it out.”
“Mr. President, it appears that Mr. Iverson was paying them.”
Bennett woke up suddenly—startled and scared and in a cold sweat.
He could see the man and the pistol pointing at his head. He could hear the explosion. He could feel the flash of fire and smell the acrid powder and smoke. But it was a just a nightmare, he told himself again and again. It was just a nightmare.
Exhausted and rattled and disoriented, he checked his watch—six-thirty in the morning—reached for his glasses on the nightstand beside him, and sat up in bed, trying to turn off the whole brutal scene replaying in his mind over and over. He fought to remember where he was.
Israel. Jerusalem. The mansion on the mountain. East wing. Second door on the right. In between Black’s room to the left and Sa’id’s room on the right. Straight across from McCoy’s room and Galishnikov’s beside it. With a nuclear missile—not a pistol—aimed at his head.
His was a fairly spacious and well-appointed VIP guest suite. It came with a queen-size canopy bed, a ceiling fan, a spacious work-table for his laptop and files, and a color TV hooked up to a newly installed satellite dish. It also came with a spectacular view of the Old City of Jerusalem through custom-made plantation shutters, and slightly tinted bulletproof windows.
When he retired for the night, he found his garment bag waiting for him on a small luggage rack, apparently put there by one of the security aides. Two fresh terry cloth towels and matching washcloths were set out at the end of his bed, along with a large, thick, comfortable, white terry cloth bathrobe. Next to these were two small wicker baskets filled with bars of orange-scented soaps, shampoo, mouthwash, toothpaste, and a new toothbrush.
It was as good as staying at the King David, maybe better. Just cheaper.
The president’s stunning televised speech was over.
People were scared. Churches, synagogues, and mosques around the globe were packed. And tens of thousands of Washingtonians began gathering outside the White House perimeter to hold a candlelight vigil and pray for the peace of Jerusalem and the peace of the world.
Bennett’s BlackBerry began to beep.
It was Black. He’d been up most of the night. But not because he couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t been allowed. Just after two A.M. he’d been awakened by the op centers at FBI and Langley. “Operation Black Stallion” had gone south.
Bennett felt a shot of adrenaline fire through his veins. That was not good. The “four horsemen” were neither dead nor captured. The four most dangerous terrorists left on the planet were on the loose despite a global manhunt to track them down and take them out.
Bennett quickly typed a note back to his colleague in the next room.
“deek—best guess…why were they in moscow?”
A moment later, the reply came back.
“jon—best-case scenario? A little winter getaway…worst case?…they went to hook up with Gogolov—perhaps to get new orders and new money…that’s the way it’s worked in the past.”
“where do you think they’re headed now?”
“no idea—not for sure—but my fear…they’re heading to Washington to take another shot at POTUS…but don’t quote me on that—deek.”
Bennett pondered that for a moment. Someone—apparently the Iraqis—had come awfully close to assassinating the president. They’d been trying for years, including the foiled attempt to kill Bush Senior in Kuwait after the Gulf War. Clinton had done nothing to seriously punish Saddam. Now the Iraqis were at it again, and they’d no doubt keep at it until they got it right.
An email came in from McCoy across the hall. “Jon—good morning…hey, did you see the headlines this morning?…the speech rocked…i actually got up early to see a replay on CNN…POTUS did an incredible job…it was spooky…but now the whole world knows what the stakes are…NYT headline: ‘PRESIDENT UNVEILS DRAMATIC EVIDENCE IRAQ TRIED TO NUKE ISRAEL; SPECIAL OPS FOIL ATTACK; U.S. PROMISES “FULL SCALE RETALIATION” WON’T RULE OUT NUCLEAR OPTION’…btw—heads up: Langley says our meetings with doron and arafat are set up for monday…will get back to us on more details soon—erin—P.S: you sleep ok? how are you feeling? P.P.S.—love this place!…wish we could stay longer—just to explore—fifty bucks says there’s more to this house than meets the eye.”
Bennett couldn’t help but smile. McCoy was sharp, smart—a good agent and, the more he thought about it, an increasingly good friend. Always thinking ahead. Always looking out for him. And she was right. There was something about this house that was as captivating as it was mysterious. The same was true about her, thought Bennett.
“Morning,” he wrote back. “how’d I sleep?…don’t ask…haven’t read the papers yet…or seen the speech…will do by eight…as for your ‘bet’—no way—are you kidding?…of course there’s more here than meets the eye…the guy’s a spook—that elevator thing was unbelievable…there’s probably a secret passageway to Jordan or Syria or China in the basement…see you at breakfast—jon.”
He tried to sound upbeat. But it was mostly a facade. And he knew she’d see right through him. But, too tired to care, he simply punched “send” and jumped in the shower.
The building shook mildly.
The lights occasionally flickered. But General Azziz knew that he and his men—and their esteemed leader—were perfectly safe from the barrage of American cruise missiles decimating their Defense Ministry headquarters up above.
Finally, the general picked up the phone. He speed-dialed the young and terrified, but still alive and loyal captain of Q19, one of the elite missile-launching teams under his command.
“Captain, this is General Azziz. You have authorization. Deploy immediately to Sector Six. Then wait until you have instructions from
me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Praise be to Allah.”
Bennett appreciated the intensity.
Dr. Mordechai launched in at breakfast, giving Bennett and his team a play-by-play analysis of how best to approach Israeli Prime Minister David Doron and (now honorary) Palestinian Chairman Yasser Arafat on Monday.
Galishnikov and Sa’id chimed in with color commentary, specifically offering suggestions on how best to formulate a final peace settlement between the Israelis and Palestinians with the Medexco-PPG oil deal as the centerpiece.
Bennett appreciated the help. Somehow, he found being mentored by these older, wiser, more experienced men as comforting as it was instructive. He still felt flashes of fear, but at least he wasn’t in this thing alone. Others understood the dangers far better than he did. And somehow they were oddly optimistic.
“Dr. Mordechai,” Bennett finally asked. “May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” came the quick reply.
“Why do you seem so sure this is all going to turn out all right?”
The old man cocked his head back and looked Bennett in the eye, sizing him up, gauging the seriousness of his question. After a moment, he answered.
“I don’t believe God is quite done with us yet,” he said cryptically.
“Done with whom?”
“With Israel. With the Jewish people. I think He’s got some big plans for us yet. I also think He’s got some plans for the Iraqis, as well.”
The results from the highly confidential overnight White House polls were in.
Corsetti scanned the numbers. They were unbelievable. Ninety-one percent of Americans backed the president’s declaration of war on Iraq. Ninety percent believed Saddam Hussein had tried to use a nuclear weapon against Israel.
The Last Jihad Page 29
