The Last Days (30 page)

How then had he turned out so poorly? He was not married. He had no lover. He had no close friends to speak of, no home or material possessions or much of anything holding him back. For years this had weighed heavily upon him, made him feel lonely and rejected and a failure.

But perhaps Allah had prevented him from settling down and getting comfortable. Perhaps it was his will that he be restless and free and ready to carry out his parents' wishes. Of all five sons, only he was truly qualified and willing to give his life for the cause. Perhaps his mother had understood this all along. Perhaps she was waiting for him in Paradise, waiting to see if he would fulfill his destiny, waiting to tell him, “Good job, my son. I am proud of you. You have honored your father and me. Enter into the joy of Allah.” Of all this he was not certain. But he knew one thing. He was ready to die in a blaze of glory, and that day was coming up fast. So was his exit, and Nadir clicked on his turn signal, checked his mirrors, slowed to thirty-five, and carefully made the exit.

 

“Should we hold the peace talks at Camp David?” asked MacPherson.

Sa'id and the PLC wanted to start talking with Doron immediately. But something in his gut was warning him away from the historic presidential retreat site.

“It's a very kind offer,” he began.

“But…”

“I think we need to avoid the big, media-driven peace talks of the past—the one in Madrid in '93, the one Clinton tried to engineer between Barak and Arafat at Camp David in 2000. It's my sense that those typically end in failure.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the president.

“Because they're
media
-driven events. They're designed to posture, not produce.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“To be honest, I'm not sure exactly.”

“Jon, how about you?”

“You know, I have to agree with the prime minister, Mr. President. I'm thinking the best-case scenario would be for Sa'id and Doron to meet somewhere in the region, not on U.S. soil, for secret talks—without the glare of the media, and without dozens of aides and advisors whispering a million reasons in their ears why making peace isn't such a good idea after all. If they can strike a deal, great. If they simply begin a relationship and lay the groundwork for a deal down the road, that's fine, too. But it should happen fast, and it should happen under the radar.”

“But don't we need to send a public signal that the peace process is under way?”

“Eventually,” Sa'id explained. “But right now, people are totally focused on the war, as they should be. I don't want to confuse people by being in peace talks—at least publicly—while there is a fight for survival going on in our homeland.”

“Mr. President,” Bennett now added, “perhaps we should think of it like the major mergers or acquisitions we used to do on Wall Street. A leak to CNBC that a new deal might be in the works could sometimes be useful, to stir the pot a bit, get people interested, and to gauge reaction. But only when the talks were well under way, or essentially done, right? We never wanted to conduct negotiations amidst the glare of the media, and for good reason. It totally changed the dynamics when everyone knew exactly what was going on.”

“True,” MacPherson conceded. “Are you OK with that, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Sa'id thought for a moment, then answered.

“If you can persuade Prime Minister Doron to come to the talks to negotiate in good faith, then yes—I don't see why not. He just needs to know one thing.”

“What's that?” asked MacPherson.

“I've negotiated multibillion-dollar deals with the slimiest sheikhs and charlatans in the bloody Middle East. I don't plan to take any crap from him.”

Sierra Vista was no Palm Beach.

Built on the outskirts of Orlando by a development mogul from Philadelphia a dozen years ago, it was a retirement community for the middle class, not the rich. But it was safe and affordable for northeastern professionals ready to cash in their equity, collect their pensions and their Social Security checks, and settle down for some sun, some golf, a pool and recreation center, and two full-time activity directors.

Most events were over by nine. The pool closed at nine-thirty. By ten o'clock at night, most of the residents were sound asleep. That was certainly true tonight as two Orlando Police Department squad cars pulled through the front gates.

The officers wound their way down Sunset Courtyard and stopped in front of the last condo on the left. They knocked loudly and repeatedly on the front door. There was no answer. They dialed the phone number again. There was no answer. They walked around the house. The back door was locked, but there was some paint and chips of wood missing near the lock. Had someone tried to pry it open?

A moment later, they jimmied open the lock on the front door. Both officers entered carefully, not sure what they might be walking into. Each held a flashlight with one hand and his weapon with the other. They called out, but there was no answer. They moved room by room, starting on the main floor. Nothing. They went down to the basement. Nothing. Then the second floor, and the attic. That's when they really started getting worried. Not only was Ruth Jean Bennett nowhere to be found, there was no sign that she'd even been there for days.

A half hour later, the call came from Operations.

FBI director Scott Harris listened carefully and asked a few questions. But the more he learned, the more his sense of foreboding intensified.

On the surface, nothing in Ruth Bennett's home suggested a break-in or a struggle. It was not immediately apparent that the television or VCR or stereo system were missing. All components appeared to be in their proper places. It was possible that cash or jewelry was missing, since neither of the patrolmen had any sort of an inventory from Jon Bennett, who'd rarely been there over the past few years and could remember very few salient details. Several jewelry boxes had been found on Mrs. Bennett's dresser, and they were all full and appeared untouched. A safe was found in an upstairs closet. It was still closed and locked and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Both cars registered in the name of Solomon and Ruth Bennett were still in the driveway. But none of this seemed to ease Harris's fears.

The house contained no home security system. Electrical power to the home was still working, as were the phones. The Bennetts' LUDs—line-usage details—showed no calls in the past seventy-two hours, and just a handful of outgoing calls in the week prior. A few to some neighbors. A few to some local take-out restaurants. Two to the 716 area code just outside of Buffalo.

That number belonged to Dave and Dorothy Richards. An agent had just woken them up. Dorothy Richards, it turned out, was Ruth Bennett's sister. Yes, they had spoken twice. Once on Christmas Eve, and again for nearly two hours on Christmas Day. They were scheduled to talk again sometime New Year's weekend. Had Mrs. Richards heard of the events transpiring in the Middle East? No, she and her husband were retired and lived on an old farm about thirty miles south of Buffalo. A huge snowstorm had knocked out their power and frozen up their satellite TV system. They were operating on a generator, and not bothering to listen to the radio. They knew more lake-effect snow was expected, and more after that. It was Buffalo, after all. They were just enjoying their fireplace, lots of wool blankets, and a stack of murder mystery novels they'd given each other for Christmas.

“How did Mrs. Richards react when you told her about Jon Bennett's situation?” Harris asked the Op Center watch officer.

“She couldn't believe it, and now she's terrified for her sister, and her nephew. She said some of her sister's friends may have heard the news about Jon and taken Mrs. Bennett in for a few days so she wouldn't be alone. She gave us a few names and phone numbers. We're in the process of calling all of them right now. Wait, hold on.”

Harris could hear several agents briefing the watch officer on their canvassing of the neighborhood, and their calls to Mrs. Bennett's friends. She was still nowhere to be found. Several of them had, in fact, been calling her repeatedly, upon hearing the news of the crisis in Gaza. They were worried about her, especially with everything happening so soon after the death of her husband, and the attack that nearly killed her son in Jerusalem. A few had dropped by, knocked on the door, peered inside the windows, but none knew where she was. They just assumed she was with someone else. They all had their own children and grandchildren in town for the holidays, so they'd been too busy to worry about it much. But they were all worried now. What had happened to her? And why?

Harris wasn't inclined to assume the worst, but the most obvious and benign answers weren't panning out. The president was expecting an update. Harris decided to call Homeland Security Secretary James first. Together, they'd brief the press at the top of the hour. What should they say? Should they even mention this at all? What did they really know at this point?

The FBI, of course, would put out an APB on the disappearance—complete with photos and a detailed description of Mrs. Bennett. It was impossible to think the news media wouldn't pick it up immediately. After all, in a few hours, the country would wake up to headlines telling them a wave of suicide bombers were heading for the United States, and that some might have already arrived. It wouldn't take much to add one and one together and assume the worst—that the mother of the president's “point man for peace” was missing and presumed kidnapped by radical Islamic extremists. So what was worse, going public and fueling a national panic, or holding back and being accused of not enlisting the public's help in finding this woman?

 

Dr. Eliezer Mordechai checked his watch.

They were right on time. The white Chevy Suburban from the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv arrived at exactly four, snaked up the narrow, winding road to his home, built into the hills overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, came to a stop in his muddy driveway, and honked the horn three times. That was the signal. He picked up his garment bag, punched his personal code into his home security system, arming it until his return. He had no idea when that might be. A few days? A few weeks? Once again, he was about to enter unknown territory, his natural habitat.

Three agents were waiting for him. One remained in the driver's seat. One stood watch, an Uzi in his grip. The third came up the steps to greet him. He, too, carried an Uzi, but more importantly an umbrella.

The winds were dying down. The lightning and thunder seemed to have disappeared. There was no question the weather was improving at the margins. But this was still no weather to be flying in, and even in good weather Dr. Mordechai hated to fly.

Soon they were back on Highway One, bound for the FedEx processing center at Ben Gurion International Airport. At this hour, and with this weather, it could take up to two hours, instead of the usual one. But Dr. Mordechai wasn't worried. He had full confidence in the men around him, and the men he was going to see.

Less than two hours before, he'd received a startling call from his old friend, Dmitri Galishnikov. Events were unfolding rapidly. Galishnikov wasn't authorized to say much, only that the president and Jonathan Bennett were requesting his immediate assistance for a project of the highest international priority. He'd be gone indefinitely. He could bring nothing with him but clothing and some toiletries. And he could tell no one. For a legendary, retired chief of the Israeli Mossad, there was no other way to go.

 

Yuri Gogolov awoke to someone pounding on his door.

With one hand, he reached for his gold-rimmed spectacles sitting on the end table next to him. With the other he clicked off the safety of the semi-automatic pistol he held on his lap. The pounding continued, and it was getting louder.

Gogolov moved quietly through the dark living room, adrenaline pumping into his system. Wearing no shoes, his feet made no sound on the Persian rugs. He was ready for whoever was stupid enough to be trifling with him now. His hand slowly reached out for the dead bolt above the doorknob.

“Who is it?” he whispered in Farsi.

“Mr. Gogolov, sir, it is Mahmoud,” a voice yelled back. “It is urgent.”

Gogolov cursed under his breath. It was Jibril's driver, a burly idiot of a man better suited to be a bouncer at a nightclub than a personal bodyguard for the most deadly terrorist on the face of the planet. He unlocked the door, let him in, closed the door behind him and told the man to shut up.

“Is this how the mullahs trained you?” Gogolov growled through clenched teeth. “Did they teach you to wake up an entire building of families that have absolutely no idea I'm here—that would sell my location to the Americans, or the Israelis or the Russians in a heartbeat if they knew how much I was worth captured, dead or alive? Is that how your father once protected the Ayatollah in Paris? By pounding on the door of his flat in the middle of the night for all the world to hear? You moron. You disgust me. Show me your weapon.”

The driver just stood there stammering. He'd been calling on the phone for nearly an hour, but there'd been no answer. Gogolov had apparently turned the phone off for a while to get some badly needed sleep. But the message was urgent. Mohammed Jibril insisted that it be delivered in person. What else was he supposed to do?

Mahmoud Hameed reached into his coat, soaked with the winter rains still plaguing Tehran, and pulled out a pistol. It was fitted with a new silencer, custom built by Al-Nakbah's “friends” in the Iranian Secret Service. He passed it over to his master for inspection. Such inspections were not uncommon. But they were never pleasant. They were often accompanied by Gogolov's increasingly common fits of rage, and with a barrage of questions Mahmoud never knew quite how to answer.

Gogolov, a former Russian Spetznatz commando and senior officer, took the weapon in his hands. He examined it carefully, checked the chamber to see if there was a round in it, and checked the safety to see that it was on. It was. And now it wasn't.

Now it was pointed at Mahmoud Hameed's face. The man's eyes went wide with terror. Two muffled snaps. Two puffs of smoke. A single shot through each eye, and it was over. Hameed's body lurched backward, then crumpled to the floor, his legs still writhing in spasms as the brain's last signals reached their intended destinations.

Gogolov had no use for weak men. He could not build a global terrorist force with such incompetence. He wanted only the best, and he needed to send a message to those already under the command of Mohammed Jibril, and thus under his own. Just as Mahmoud Hameed's blood was seeping out into the carpets around him, so too the story of his death would seep out into the fabric of Al-Nakbah's entire network. It would strike fear into the hearts of every officer, every operative, every informant, every financier. Mistakes would not be tolerated. Even your own weapons could be used against you. Gogolov reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and turned it back on. He speed-dialed Jibril, and told him he needed a new driver.

Jibril didn't know what to say. He had no time to mourn such a death, let alone clean it up. But it bothered him. It was a waste. They had a war to run. They couldn't be eating their own. They shouldn't always have to move to new safe houses, leaving a trail of blood and questions behind them. But Gogolov couldn't seem to help himself. It wasn't simply that the man needed to kill someone occasionally. That was expected in their business. It was that he
wanted
to kill. He enjoyed it. He relaxed when it was over, until the pressure built up again and his bloodlust resurfaced without warning.

Jibril tried to shake such thoughts from his mind and refocus. The newest package Gogolov had ordered was wrapped, stamped, and ready for the post office.

“Very well,” Gogolov whispered, taking a deep breath and smiling for the first time in days. “Deliver it now.”

 

Bennett and McCoy sat alone in Ziegler's room.

Sipping piping hot Turkish coffee, they fielded a slew of incoming phone calls from Langley and the White House. They monitored satellite news channels, Kol Israel Radio, the BBC, and a variety of regional and international news sites on the Internet, simultaneously tracking developments on four different continents. Over the course of the last five and half hours, they had watched the carefully scripted drama play itself out. Now they were in a holding pattern. There wasn't much more either of them could do except wait, and hope for the best.

 

“Sir, we've got a problem.”

It was 5:33
P.M.
local time in Gaza. Ziegler was on a secure call with Langley, DIA, and CENTCOM, finalizing target packages in the West Bank and Gaza, when Tariq stuck his head in the door of the adjacent conference room and summoned him back into the main control room.