Dead Heat

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  "And she talked about Bennett?"

  "Apparently."

  "What did she say?"

  "I don't know. He promised to send more, but only if we agree to get him out of the country. He think someone in the MPS is on to him."

  "Why?"

  "His boss has launched two separate mole hunts in the last forty-eight hours."

  Doron was up now, pacing about his office. "Can we get him out?" he asked after a long silence.

  "Our man? Probably. But we'll have to move fast."

  "No, no, I mean Bennett," Doron said, the urgency rising in his voice. "Can we get him out before the Americans launch?"

  "It might already be too late, sir," Zadok said. "The president's speech begins in forty-two minutes. I suspect the air strikes will begin any moment."

  "Do it anyway," Doron said. "I owe him."

  "Bennett?"

  "Yes—do it now."

  "Sir, look, I know Jon is a dear friend to you, but we have an obligation to our asset in Pyongyang."

  "Then get them both out."

  "We can't, sir," Zadok said. "We don't have enough men or equipment in place. Even if we did, there isn't enough time."

  "Then get Bennett."

  Zadok protested, "Sir, we can't just cut our man loose. We promised him we'd do

  everything we could to extract him when he asked. Now he's asking, and I—"

  But Doron cut him off. "Avi, I know what he gave us, and I'm grateful. Tell him we're coming. Tell him whatever you need to keep him happy, and quiet. But I'm giving you a

  direct order: extract Jon Bennett, whatever it takes—now."

  9:16 A.M.-CAMP 15, NORTH KOREA

  Bennett was startled by his cell door suddenly opening.

  Two men in black hoods entered. Both were armed. One brandished a black metal

  poker, glowing red-hot at one end.

  Bennett's eyes widened. His heart raced. He prayed again for courage, but all he could

  think of was Erin, how much he loved her, how much he missed her, and how bravely she

  had suffered at the hands of Mohammed Jibril and Yuri Gogolov. She had never broken,

  never lost faith. Could he do the same?

  The man with the poker walked straight to him. His colleague, meanwhile, moved

  behind Bennett, grabbing his head like a vise and holding it steady.

  "Why?" the man with the poker asked.

  Bennett said nothing.

  "You only transferred $25 million. We want to know why."

  Again, Bennett said nothing. If they had the money, they had the note Trainor had

  sent along with it. There was nothing more to add.

  The man moved the burning instrument closer and closer to Bennett's face. "You were told to transfer fifty million, not twenty-five," he growled. "Why did you break the deal?"

  Was this the voice he'd been speaking with on the phone? Bennett wondered. He

  honestly couldn't tell. And what if it was? What would it matter?

  "The instructions were very clear, Mr. Bennett. Fifty million, or you'd get nothing. Save the world, or suffer the consequences. You didn't keep the deal. Now your wife is dead.

  Your mother is dead. And you're next."

  Bennett fought for control. It wasn't just fear or grief he was battling anymore. It was rage.

  Still, he refused to let it master him. He refused to succumb to hate. Love your enemy. Love your enemy. He wasn't sure how. He simply kept saying the words of Jesus again and again. He couldn't afford to unleash. Not here. Not now. It wasn't going to change his fate, and any moment he was going to be in the arms of Jesus anyway. And then, before he knew it, he would get to see Erin. He didn't want them to be ashamed of him. So much of his life had been wasted. So much of what he had thought was important for so long in his life was

  going to burn away at the great judgment. It had all been worthless. It had all been for

  naught. But not this moment, Bennett decided. If this was the end—if this was his test—he wanted it to count. He wanted to make them proud.

  * * *

  The unmarked Black Hawk flew low and fast over the Pacific.

  The pilots maintained strict radio silence. The special forces operators checked and

  rechecked their weapons. They had no idea what the U.S. was about to do. All they knew

  was that their orders had come directly from the prime minister himself and time was of the essence.

  Their commander, Arik Gilad, a twenty-four-year-old Israeli from a kibbutz not far from Kiryat Shmona, near the Lebanon border, handed out 8 1/2-by-11-inch printouts of Jon

  Bennett's photo. Each man on his team studied the photo carefully, then went back to

  studying the layout of the prison complex at Yodok.

  There had been no time to practice this extraction. They had no backup. No one would

  be coming to get them if they were captured, or their bodies if they were killed. They put their chances of success at less than three in ten, but Doron had called them personally. He had spoken to them by secure phone in their makeshift training facility in the southern forests of Japan. He had told them how important this was to him and to the nation of Israel.

  Bennett had found the Ark. He'd found the Temple treasures. He'd stood with the Jewish

  state when few others had in the days leading up to the War of Gog and Magog. Bennett

  was, Doron told them, a "righteous Gentile," and he needed their help.

  None of the men questioned the order. They all knew who Jon Bennett was. Love him or

  hate him, they knew his life was now in their hands. What they didn't know was that

  theirs were in his as well.

  "Six minutes," their commander said in Hebrew.

  The men checked their watches. They saw the water skimming no more than fifty

  feet below them. A moment later, they saw the beach and then the forbidding mountains

  of South Hamgyong rising up before them. This was it. There was no turning back now.

  * * *

  "You will talk, Mr. Bennett. I guarantee it."

  The poker was now aimed directly at Bennett's right eye. The heat was unbearable.

  Bennett shut his eyes, but the second man jabbed something sharp in his back. He

  demanded Bennett open his eyes again but Bennett refused. He waited for the searing,

  burning metal to touch his flesh. But something unexpected happened.

  Someone yelled, "Stop!"

  Bennett froze. Then he heard the shuffling of feet. He could feel the air in front of his face begin to cool slightly. The iron poker was gone, and he cautiously opened his eyes to find both of his tormentors standing beside him, one to the left, the other to the right. But they were no longer focused on him. They were focused on a figure on the other side of the

  room, near the doorway, standing in the shadows. It was Indira Rajiv.

  "What are you doing?" Rajiv yelled at the men.

  Bennett couldn't believe it was really her, yet in the power play that was unfolding,

  he didn't dare speak.

  "We want our money," said the one on the left. "All of it."

  "You'll get what I pay you."

  "You promised to get fifty."

  "No," Rajiv said. "I promised to try."

  "Then try harder," the one on the right said.

  Rajiv looked at one, then the other, then stared at Bennett. He barely recognized her.

  Her long, black Indian hair had been cut short and was riddled with gray. Her once

  smooth, dark skin now seemed pale and weathered. Her fashionable suits had been

  replaced with jeans and a simple black T-shirt. If it weren't for her eyes, he might not be sure it was really her, though they blazed with an anger he'd never seen before. It dawned on him that she was the voice who had called him, and now his anger burned too.

  "You asked him to cooperate?" she asked.

  "Of course," o
ne of the men said.

  "And he refused?"

  "That's right."

  "Fine. Maybe this will help."

  Rajiv suddenly pulled out a sidearm and aimed it at Bennett's head. "Last chance,

  Jonathan," she said without emotion. "Help these men get their money, or die. Make your choice. I'll count to three."

  He realized it was Rajiv who had ordered him and Erin to go to Bangkok. It was Rajiv

  he had refused.

  "One . . ."

  Which meant it was Rajiv who had ordered these men to kidnap him, and it was Rajiv

  who had ordered Erin killed.

  "Two . . ."

  Bennett clenched his fists. There was no way he was going to speak to this woman.

  She had betrayed her country, set the world on fire, and robbed him of the only woman he had ever loved. He felt his eyes blaze.

  "Fine, Jonathan," Rajiv said at last. "Have it your way."

  And then he heard, "Three."

  She pulled the trigger, and the explosion echoed through the prison complex. Then she

  pulled it again, and everything went black.

  8:23 P.M. EST-MOUNT WEATHER COMMAND CENTER

  "It's time, Mr. President."

  Lee James looked up from the latest draft of his upcoming address and found General

  Stephens standing beside him, a leather binder in his hands.

  "Are those the orders?" he asked the general.

  "They are, Mr. President. Are you ready?"

  James nodded. "We don't have another option," he said, taking the binder and setting it on the desk. "And it's not really a preemptive strike. They brought the war to us. We have to respond."

  "I believe you are right, Mr. President," the general replied, handing him a fountain pen.

  "Doesn't make it any easier, though," James admitted, signing the papers.

  "No, sir, I imagine it doesn't."

  And the deed was done.

  * * *

  His ears ringing, Bennett opened his eyes.

  But this wasn't heaven. Nor was it hell. He wasn't dead. The two men who had

  threatened to torture him were, though, their bodies sprawled out on the filthy white tile floor, each surrounded by a growing pool of crimson.

  "They worked for the Legion," Rajiv said, holstering the smoking pistol in her hands and walking over to check their pulses. Convinced they were really dead, she released

  Bennett from the handcuffs and the leg- irons, then backed away a safe distance toward the door. "In case you're wondering, yes, they brought you here from Jordan."

  "Why did you kill them?" Bennett asked softly.

  "Because they killed Erin," she replied.

  There was a long pause. The fire in Rajiv's eyes was gone.

  "I had ordered them not to," Rajiv explained. "I gave them explicit instructions that neither of you were to be harmed. Please, Jonathan, you have to believe me."

  Bennett didn't. But he moved on.

  "Where am I?" he asked, rubbing the circulation back into his arms and wrists.

  "Camp 15," Rajiv said quietly. "Yodok."

  The words just hung in the air. Bennett was stunned. Had he heard her right?

  "The concentration camp?"

  "They prefer to call it a 'reeducation center,"' she corrected.

  Bennett had heard horror stories over the years about this place, North Korea's most

  notorious prison, built in the rugged, forbidding mountains of South Hamgyong province.

  Surrounded by enormous walls, guard towers, barbed wire, and acres of minefields, it was impossible to escape, and almost as impossible to survive. To many, its very name was

  evocative of Dachau or Auschwitz. Upward of two hundred thousand religious and

  political prisoners at a time were typically condemned to serve there. One out of five

  prisoners died every year, some from starvation, others by freezing to death in unheated cells, the rest by firing squads and hangings.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Why are you here?" she asked. "Or why am I?"

  Bennett was quiet.

  "You're here because I'm here," Rajiv said at last. "I needed to see you—you and Erin. I wanted to tell you what was happening, who was in on it, what was going to happen next. I couldn't do it over the phone. I needed to do it in person."

  Bennett wondered how quickly he could get to her before she could pull the gun on

  him. She was no more than fifteen yards away. But what then? What was he really going

  to do to her?

  "I'm sorry, Jonathan," she said at last, her face sullen, her once rigid posture slowly deflating. "I never meant for any of this to happen—certainly not to you, not to Erin. I never meant any harm to come to you. I just . . ."

  Her voice trailed off. She looked away.

  "I have a story to tell you, Jonathan," she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "I have a confession to make. When I'm done, you can go. I promise. I have a helicopter and a

  crew. They'll take you wherever you want. You never have to see me again. But please let me say something first."

  * * *

  The first cruise missiles launched at precisely 8:30 p.m. Eastern.

  The B-52s, laden with thousands of additional Advanced Cruise Missiles, each tipped

  with W80-1 nuclear warheads, launched moments later. James privately conceded to General Stephens that he didn't know how to square his responsibilities as president to "preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution" with his newfound faith in Christ and the teachings of the Bible. Was he really supposed to turn the other cheek to America's attackers? Was he really supposed to love his enemies, even if they committed genocide on American soil? He had hundreds of questions with no answers, and he felt a great darkness spreading across the earth.

  Chuck Murray called. The networks were in a frenzy over the rumors of a coming war

  in Venezuela. Coverage of the issue was wall-to-wall. A former U.S. ambassador to Brazil had just gone on CNN to denounce the administration and say that the real threat was

  Pyongyang, not Caracas. The diversion was working. There was enormous anticipation of the president's upcoming address. Ratings were going to be through the roof. Everyone was going to be watching.

  "Is it time to drop the next bombshell?" Murray asked the president over a secure phone line.

  James didn't like the choice of words, but as he glanced at his watch, he realized there were only twenty-seven minutes left until his speech. He gave Murray the go-ahead as

  Ginny Harris entered the room with a new and hopefully final draft of his remarks.

  * * *

  "The world is out of balance, Jonathan," Rajiv began.

  Bennett just stared at her.

  "That's what my parents always told me," she continued. "Their parents hated imperialism.

  They hated the British. They had done everything they could to drive the Brits out and bring about a free and independent India. But when the war with Pakistan broke out, they fled for Canada and then to the U.S., and that's where they raised their children. My parents met in Berkley in the sixties. They got married during the Vietnam War. They had me after

  Watergate. My father used to rail against American imperialism, saying it was as noxious as the Brits'. And that's how I grew up, in Haight-Ashbury, hearing about the evils of America every day, every night, in school and in the streets. And I believed it. And I wanted to do something about it."

  Rajiv slumped down against the back wall and set her pistol and holster on the floor

  beside her.

  "My grandparents were Hindus," she continued. "My parents were Marxists. But I didn't want to march in the streets or do sit-ins at Harvard or write books or sing folk songs. It was silly, childish, and useless. I wanted to make a real difference. I wanted to bring about real change. So I joined the College Republicans. I voted for Reagan

  conservatives. I toyed with joining the ROTC, but when Er
in came to my campus and

  recruited me for the CIA, I leaped at the chance. I wanted to work on the inside, and I'll tell you why.

  "I don't believe there should be only one superpower in the world. It's too dangerous.

  A country that is answerable to no one else becomes arrogant. Corrupt. Greedy.

  Bloodthirsty. And that's what has happened to America. She swaggers about the world as if she owns the place. She invades countries for no reason. She bombs civilians without mercy.

  She thinks she's superior to everyone on the planet, and it's not right. The world is out of balance, Jonathan, and I decided to set it right."

  "How?" Bennett asked, unable to resist.

  "I wasn't sure how, at first," she admitted. "I just knew the higher I rose within Langley, the more secrets I would know, the more valuable I would be, and the more

  effective I could become at humbling the U.S. and helping other would-be powers around

  the world rise and shake off the arrogance and the corruption of the Americans. For a

  time, I worked for the Chinese. I think my father, rest in peace, would have been proud.

  For a time, I helped the Pakistanis. My mother, God rest her soul, would have had her

  stroke much earlier had she found out. I was a free agent, never beholden to one country, one regime, or one income source. It wasn't about the money anyway. And the people I

  worked for never knew who I really was. I gave them code names. We worked through dead drops. I parked the money overseas for a rainy day. And then it came."

  She picked up the pistol and stroked it gently. "I was working for the Iraqis—Operation Black Box, it was called. We were trying to stop the Israelis from finding the Ark and the treasures, trying to stop them from building the new Temple. Then you and Erin got in the way, and I realized I had pushed the envelope too far. They were going to find me. So I ran."

  "You worked for Al-Hassani?" Bennett asked in disbelief. "Indirectly," she admitted.

  "But we never spoke."

  "Who was your contact?"

  "Khalid Tariq."

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