Dead Heat

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  8:37 A.M.-THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, BEIJING, CHINA

  "This is CNN breaking news."

  U.N. Secretary-General Salvador Lucente and Chinese Premier Liu Xing Zhao sat in

  a small study in a wing of the Great Hall of the People. For the last hour or so they had sipped tea and tracked the latest events and speculated on whether the Venezuela story

  was real or presidential sleight of hand. But now they were riveted by CNN's exclusive

  report that President William Harvard Oaks had just "died of injuries sustained in yesterday's gun battle inside NORAD headquarters."

  "A high-level administration official who asked not to be named publicly says Vice President Lee Alexander James has been sworn in as president," said a correspondent at Peterson Air Force Base. "CNN has also learned that Defense Secretary Burton L.

  Trainor has been sworn in as vice president, though sources say he will continue running the defense portfolio as President James rebuilds his Cabinet."

  "It sounds like a coup," Lucente said, almost in disbelief.

  "It does," Zhao agreed. "But the U.S. has never had one."

  "Perhaps they're due," Lucente said.

  "What does it mean for us?" the premier asked.

  "It depends," Lucente said.

  "On what?"

  "On whether James is really going to war, and with whom."

  "Do you think James wanted to come after us," Zhao asked, "and Oaks was against it?"

  "I don't know," Lucente conceded. "But if I were you, I'd call your defense minister and see if there are American missiles or bombers in the air."

  Zhao's hand reached instantly for the phone.

  * * *

  "Why did Tariq hire you?" Bennett asked.

  "To help them build a world-class intelligence operation," Rajiv explained. "Tariq and Al-Hassani had a plan from the minute they came to power. They were never true

  democrats. They were opportunists from the start. They wanted to unite the Arabs, the

  Persians, the Turks. They wanted to protect the Middle East from U.S. imperialism. They

  wanted to bless their people and give them hope, and they wanted me to help them."

  "But why did you say yes?"

  "Because the world is out of balance, Jonathan. I hated to see the U.S. running

  roughshod over the entire Middle East, killing innocent civilians to save a quarter on a gallon of gas."

  "How much did Tariq pay you?" Bennett asked.

  "Five million a year," Rajiv admitted. "But like I told you, it wasn't about the money.

  I couldn't even touch the money until I got out. Even now, most of it is sitting in a Swiss bank—twenty million and change. Well, that was before the twenty-five you guys wired

  the other day."

  "Twenty? I don't get it," Bennett said, quickly doing the math. "How long have you working for Tariq?"

  "Two years."

  "Then you should only have ten million."

  "Some of it is from China."

  "How much?"

  "Three million."

  "And the Pakistanis?" Bennett asked.

  "Two."

  "That's still only fifteen million total," Bennett said. "Where did the other five come from?"

  Rajiv hesitated.

  Bennett asked again, "Indira, where did you get the other five?"

  "It was a bonus," she said hesitantly.

  "From who?"

  "Tariq."

  "For what?"

  There was a long, awkward silence.

  "For what?" Bennett asked again.

  Rajiv took a deep breath, then looked Bennett in the eye and said, "For helping him kill MacPherson."

  * * *

  Dmitri Galishnikov and his wife huddled around their TV

  Oil prices were going through the roof. The last he had checked, the spot market had

  Israeli sweet crude going for more than $416 a barrel, up 6 percent in the past forty-eight hours. The Medexco empire was awash in cash, and the possibility of a war in

  Venezuela—one of the world's few oil-exporting countries not directly affected by the

  Day of Devastation—meant the Galishnikovs were fast on their way to becoming the

  wealthiest couple on the planet.

  But in their palatial home overlooking the churning Mediterranean, they were scared.

  Israel had been saved. For now. But the world was blowing up around them. Their money

  meant nothing. They felt helpless. They couldn't sleep. They couldn't keep food down.

  Dmitri, a lifelong avowed atheist, had gone so far as to buy a Hebrew Bible and a

  yarmulke. When his wife wasn't watching, he was secretly surfing messianic Jewish Web

  sites, even Eli Mordechai's. If this wasn't the end, he thought, what could it possibly look like?

  "Hold me, Dmitri," his wife moaned as they followed the latest news of the

  assassination of President Oaks, and he did, trying desperately to comfort this wife of his youth, though he had no comfort of his own. "Tell me everything is going to be okay,"

  she said, her voice cracking in midsentence.

  "I wish I could, darling," he replied. "I wish I could."

  * * *

  Bennett couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  But as livid as he was, something inside him told him not to show it, to keep her

  talking, to see where this all was leading.

  "The attacks on the U.S. the other day—they were your idea?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady, not to make her defensive. "No," she insisted, "they weren't."

  "What do you mean?" Bennett asked. "I thought you just said—"

  But she cut him off. "I met with Tariq in Rome in early February," Rajiv explained. "I had left Peter. I had left Langley. I was ready to help him build the intelligence network he and Al-Hassani needed to control all of North Africa, the Middle East, Central Asia, and its oil. But the first thing he asked me to do was help him kill the president."

  "Why didn't you say no?"

  "I didn't want to."

  "What do you mean?" Bennett asked, incredulous.

  "I knew he was right."

  "Who?"

  "Tariq."

  "About killing MacPherson."

  "Yes."

  "What for?"

  "It was the only way," Rajiv said.

  "To do what?"

  "To humble the world's only superpower," Rajiv insisted. "To show the American people—and the world—that she wasn't all-knowing, all-powerful, that she had

  weaknesses too, vulnerabilities."

  She paused for a moment and stared at the pistol in her hands. "Tariq said all he

  needed from me was intelligence—how the president moved, how he was protected,

  where might be the best place to strike. He said he'd wire me $5 million, and the next day it was there. I knew I couldn't plan an operation like that from Rome, and he didn't want me anywhere near Babylon. He didn't want his fingerprints on this thing. So I came

  here."

  "To Yodok?" Bennett asked.

  "Well, to Pyongyang, and eventually to a terror training camp a few kilometers from here."

  "But why North Korea?"

  "Why not? It's the safest place in the world," Rajiv said. "There are hardly any foreigners here. The CIA doesn't have any assets on the ground here. Satellites can't track

  me if they don't know I'm here. And who would have expected me to come here? It was the perfect place to hide."

  "Perfect," Bennett asked, "or only?"

  Rajiv shrugged. "What's the difference?"

  9:43 A.M.-CAMP 15, NORTH KOREA

  Rajiv stared at the ceiling for several minutes.

  Then she continued her story. Her words were coming fast now, as if she wanted to get

  her confession over with as quickly as possible.

  "As soon as I arrived, I began building a team," she explained. "I recruited agents from the Legio
n and DPRK special forces. We mapped out a plan. I paid everyone in

  cash. It was all going fine. But I swear to you, Jonathan, it wasn't until the last minute that I heard that Tariq and the North Koreans had decided to go nuclear. Apparently Tariq had concluded that he could not only kill MacPherson, he could eliminate the U.S. as a

  current or future threat to any of the plans he and Al-Hassani were brewing."

  "So why did the North Koreans agree?" Bennett asked.

  "Because they're psychopaths," Rajiv said. "The leadership in Pyongyang figured if they worked with Tariq to decapitate the U.S., they could clear the way to seize the rest of the peninsula, and then Japan."

  Bennett felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something icy was moving in

  this room again. He wanted out.

  But Rajiv wasn't done. "You have to know, Jonathan, about the alliance that is being created behind Washington's back."

  "Iraq and North Korea?"

  "No, that's just the tip of the iceberg," Rajiv insisted. "Babylon is flush with petrodollars, and they're using them to buy allies. It's not just North Korea. It's China. It's India. It's Pakistan. It's Venezuela. It's the E.U. It's Lucente."

  Bennett winced. "Salvador Lucente."

  "Bought and paid for by Al-Hassani."

  "You sure it's not the other way around?" Bennett asked.

  Rajiv shook her head. A cloud seemed to be coming over her at the very mention of

  Lucente's name.

  Bennett wasn't so sure she was right about the secretary-general. Lucente had his

  own ambitions, he knew all too well. He might be placating Al-Hassani now, but that

  could all change in the blink of an eye. Still, for now, none of that was relevant.

  "So," he asked, "why did you call me?"

  Tears began to streak down Rajiv's cheeks. "I told you, Jonathan, I didn't know who else to talk to," she admitted, wiping her eyes but unable to stop crying. "As soon as I

  learned what was about to happen, I was horrified. But I was in no position to stop it. I never imagined Tariq and the North Koreans would go nuclear. It was never what I wanted.

  You have to believe me."

  "How can I?" Bennett asked. "You've just admitted to masterminding the assassination of the president of the United States."

  "But not with nuclear weapons," Rajiv insisted, the tears coming harder now. "I wanted to humble America, not annihilate her. I wanted to bring about some kind of

  balance, not tip the scales completely."

  Bennett sat silently for several minutes, watching Rajiv cry, weighing the implications of what she had said, what she had done, and wondering what might happen next. But the

  truth was, he had no idea what had been set into motion, or how little time either of them had.

  "What have I done?" Rajiv sobbed. "I have killed my husband. I have killed my best friend. I have brought about such shame . . ."

  She could not finish the sentence. After another moment, she tried to compose

  herself, but it was a losing battle. She got up, dusted herself off, and walked over to Bennett. He stood as she approached. The closer she got, the more frail she looked, and she was shaking now, shaking and pale. Bennett almost felt sorry for her.

  She was holding the 9 mm in one hand. With her other, she reached

  into her pocket and pulled out a flash drive. She handed it to Bennett. "Here," she said, almost in a whisper. "I want you to have this."

  "What is it?" Bennett asked, taking the drive.

  "Everything," she said, wiping her eyes again. "Names. Dates. Locations. Amounts.

  Plans. Digital photos of documents. Bank records. SWIFT codes. The entire conspiracy. I wish it were more. I'm sorry it's too late. But . . ."

  Her voice trailed off. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated. "You believe in heaven, don't you, Jonathan?"

  Bennett nodded, surprised by the question.

  "Do you think Erin is there?" Rajiv asked.

  "I know she is, Indira," Bennett replied.

  "When you get there, when you see her, please tell her I'm sorry, will you?" Rajiv said, the tears coming again, and harder now. "For everything."

  "You can tell her yourself when it's time," Bennett said, suddenly wondering if Rajiv was open to hearing the gospel.

  But she shook her head and looked away. "No," she said, though it was almost to herself. "It's too late for me now."

  "It's not, Indira," Bennett said. "Jesus loves you. He died for you. He wants to forgive you. All you have to do is say yes."

  "I can't, Jonathan," she said, backing away and refusing to make eye contact. "I made my deal. I sealed my fate. I couldn't go back, even if I wanted to."

  "It isn't too late, Indira."

  "It is," she said, moving toward the door.

  "It's not," Bennett pleaded. "As long as you're still living, as long as you're still breathing, you still have time. You can pray with me right now and give your life to

  Christ."

  "I can't," Rajiv said, her body convulsing in sobs.

  "You can," Bennett insisted. "I'll show you how. I'll walk you through it."

  "No," she said suddenly, with an air of finality that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. "It's too late. It's over. I'm sorry."

  And before Bennett could react, she lifted her pistol, stuck it in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  9:54 A.M.-CAMP 15, NORTH KOREA

  Automatic gunfire filled the air.

  As the unmarked Black Hawk came up over the ridge, the Israelis opened fire first,

  unleashing rockets into the guard towers, radio antennae, electric facilities, and

  telephone switching equipment and taking out any guard on the ground who brandished a

  weapon. A moment later, Captain Arik Gilad slapped his men on their backs and hurried

  them toward the open side doors of the chopper.

  "Go, go, go."

  A dozen commandos fast-roped to the ground, six on each side, covered by three snipers

  still inside the Black Hawk, now rising out of RPG range and circling the compound. Gilad was last man down, but once on the ground he split the team in two and took the lead of

  "Red Knight One."

  * * *

  Bennett stood there in shock.

  He stared Indira Rajiv's lifeless body. And the corpses of the two Legion operatives

  she had shot earlier. He stared at the bloody floor. Then he heard the helicopter and the gunfire, and the room began to spin.

  * * *

  Gilad moved quickly.

  Using fast bursts of covering fire and tossing two grenades through a nearby door,

  the daring Israeli captain took his squad into cell block D-6. With thermal imaging from an Israeli spy satellite hovering in geosynchronous orbit over the Koreas in the lead-up to possible hostilities there, as well as the last transmission of intel supplied by the Israeli mole in Pyongyang, Mossad chief Avi Zadok and his team had narrowed Bennett's possible location to one of five different buildings.

  Gilad tossed another grenade around a corner, then did a sneak and peek after it

  exploded. Seeing no one, he jumped over the bodies of two mangled guards and signaled his

  men to follow.

  He could hear more rockets firing from the Black Hawk and prayed Yahweh would

  bless their efforts to knock out all camp communications to the outside world. If the DPRK

  caught wind of what they were up to, they were finished. The prison camp would be

  swarming with the enemy before they could find Bennett and retreat.

  A barrage of machine-gun fire came from somewhere down the darkened hall. Gilad

  checked his watch and cursed. He'd given himself and his men a mere twenty minutes on

  site, two of which were for carrying Bennett back to the Black Hawk and loading him in, assuming he was in no condition to walk. For this cell block, he'd allotted s
ix minutes. He'd already used up four and they were encountering heavy resistance.

  Using hand signals, he ordered his men to don their night vision equipment, then

  gave the signal. Gilad and his second-in-command now raced into the corridor, firing at anything and everything that moved. When the shooting stopped, he gave the signal and

  two more of his men raced down to meet them, while the remaining two held the door.

  Gilad looked left, then right. Seeing no more guards, he sent his deputy one way while

  he went the other, each with a man at his side. Gunfire erupted behind him. He heard a

  scream. Someone cried out in Hebrew. He had a man down.

  He checked his watch again. They were supposed to be on to the next building in forty-

  three seconds. They weren't going to make it. An intense firefight was now under way in the courtyard. Gilad could hear the BlackHawk circling again, its M240H cannons shredding

  everyone in its path. But they had to get their man out, and there was still no sign of the man they'd come to save.

  * * *

  The president was livid.

  "What do you mean a Black Hawk just entered North Korean airspace?" he

  yelled at General Stephens. "How in the world is that possible?"

  Stephens admitted he didn't know. According to a U.S. Air Force recon plane, an

  unidentified UH-60 Black Hawk was spotted 160 kilometers east of Pyongyang, flying a

  special ops profile, fast and low over the Sea of Japan.

  "Was it one of ours?" James fumed.

  "We don't think so, sir."

  "Think or know—there's a difference, you know."

  "We're checking, sir," Stephens tried to assure him. "But no one authorized this."

  James was furious, storming around the office and trying to imagine the damage if the

  North Koreans had the same information he'd just gotten. "How soon until the first cruise missiles hit?"

  "Six minutes, maybe eight, tops," Stephens said.

  "First impact?"

  "Presidential palace, defense ministry, and the DPRK missile command."