The Last Days (41 page)

Given all the extraordinary security precautions in place at the moment, getting into Washington, D.C., as an Italian businessman working for Microsoft might not be easy, but it was possible. But not with a trunk full of weapons and C4 plastic explosives. Bomb-sniffing dogs and new portable explosive detectors were being used at all the checkpoints in and around the capital, and the control agent concluded it simply wasn't worth the risk. The good news: two other Al-Nakbah sleepers were living in D.C. If he could get into the city, someone would bring him “supplies.” All he needed to do was pick a “soft” target and be ready to move.

Nadir Hashemi was bleary-eyed and exhausted. He popped down another two amphetamines and washed them down with lukewarm coffee. He could do this, he told himself. He just had to stay focused.

He thought about the story he'd read on-line that morning. The British foreign secretary had denounced the wave of suicide bombers trying to penetrate the United States, but added: “When young people go to their deaths, we can all feel a degree of compassion for those youngsters. They must be so depressed and misguided to do this.”

Compassion?
Nadir wanted no compassion from the British, or the Americans, or any of the infidels destroying both of his homelands.
Depressed and misguided? Who was this guy to speak when he didn't understand the first thing about the fedayeen or Al-Nakbah?
Nadir didn't see himself as depressed or misguided. Just the opposite. He wasn't headed to Washington to commit
intihar
—suicide—but
istishhad,
martyrdom. He wasn't acting out of hopelessness and despair. He was driven by an overwhelming desire to cast terror into the hearts of the imperialist oppressors in the capital city of the new Roman Empire.

Martyrdom bombers weren't misguided, Nadir reminded himself. They were achieving the highest level of jihad. They were holy fighters earning respect on earth and rewards in heaven. And this was it. Washington was just a few hours away, and so, too, was his departure for Paradise.

 

This section needed serious work, thought McCoy.

It was the heart of the oil-for-peace strategy.

The president wanted a deep-water seaport in Gaza, airports in Gaza and the West Bank, and a network of highways, bridges, and/or tunnels linking the West Bank to Gaza. Back in Washington, McCoy had argued they should spell out such ideas in the document. Bennett resisted. These were details, not fundamentals. There were tougher issues to solve and they couldn't risk letting the Transition Period negotiations bog down.

It was almost 2:00 Saturday afternoon Gibraltar time—9:00
A.M.
back in Washington—when Bennett and the principals finished for the day. Bennett took a sip of bottled water and sat back in his chair. McCoy finished her cup of coffee and tried to size up what had just happened. No one had stormed out in protest. Not a bad day.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Tariq entered, walked over to Bennett, handed him a note, and whispered something in his ear.

Bennett went white as a sheet.

“Have a capability, comrades, but appear not to.”

The words seeped out of his mouth and hung over the room like the thick, pungent smoke of his Cuban Cohiba.

“Make use, but appear not to. Be near, but appear far. Or far, but appear near.”

Yuri Gogolov stared out over Tehran on this bright but quiet Sunday afternoon. The storms were gone. The rains had stopped. At least for a few days. He and Mohammed Jibril were doing their best to get comfortable in their new home, after the “untimely demise” of Jibril's personal driver. The plush penthouse apartment of the director of Iran's counterintelligence service wasn't Gogolov's first choice. Too high profile. Too likely to be monitored by the West, particularly by the Americans. But it would have to do for a few more days, until Jibril could make the necessary arrangements to get them back to Moscow, or perhaps St. Petersburg.

As they waited for the latest news from the several fronts they'd opened in recent days, they dueled each other over a chessboard hand-carved and painted almost a hundred years before by Jibril's great-great-grandfather, Salim Jibril. Gogolov was, of course, the undisputed grand master. But chess ran in Jibril's blood, and for now, at least, he was pressing the offensive and hoping to make this arrogant Russian squirm, even for a moment.

“When strong, avoid them,” Gogolov continued. “If of high morale, depress them. Seem humble to fill them with conceit. If at ease, exhaust them. If united, separate them. Attack their weaknesses. Emerge to their surprise.”

Jibril slammed his bishop down, taking one of Gogolov's knights, his eyes gleaming with delight.

“Check,” said Jibril.

Gogolov stopped staring out over the city, smiled ever so faintly at Jibril, then looked down at the board. Next he casually slid his queen diagonally two spaces. In so doing, he defended his king. But that was not all.

“Checkmate,” he said quietly, drawing hard on the Cohiba.

Jibril—a gaunt, wiry man with quick black eyes, and thin black hair—sat in disbelief. He'd never lost a chess match in his life. Now he'd lost three—in a row.

“Enough of your Sun Tzu and child's games,” snorted a heavyset man by the window, nursing a bottle of vodka and staring blankly at a minaret across the street. “This is a time for work, not for play.”

Gogolov laughed.

“Relax, Zhiri, you'll give yourself an ulcer. Everything is on track, my friend. Everything's in order.”

It was true. Even now, four Al-Nakbah assassin teams were mobilizing. Securing planes. Renting speedboats. Getting weapons. Purchasing ammunition and smuggling explosives into the assembly points. And Al-Nakbah intel operatives around the world were doing everything possible to track down the location of Doron and Sa'id. Jibril sent out a coded e-mail saying a friend needed a new chess set. He was missing “two kings” and looking for precise replacements. Anyone with suppliers who knew anything about chess and might be helpful in tracking down these “two kings” was requested to contact him at once. Prices were negotiable, but time was of the essence.

Gogolov wasn't worried. Spread around enough money and the truth could always be bought. Besides, they weren't relying solely on Al-Nakbah's sleepers and “suppliers.” The intelligence networks of the Saudis, Syrians, and of course the Iranians all had their ears to the ground. So did the Libyans. Khaddafi's spy network in southern Europe was extraordinary, as was his new alliance with Al-Nakbah. Khaddafi was restless. He'd been out of the game too long. Reagan had scared him off. Now MacPherson was ticking him off. He wanted back in, and was ready to play hardball.

With so many people looking, they'd pick up something soon. If not through their own sources, then maybe through the media's. Marcus Jackson's front-page story in this morning's Sunday
New York Times
was extraordinary. “Point Man for Peace Conducting Covert Talks.” Gogolov had already read the entire story on-line, twice. It was a little thin on hard facts. But it was full of speculation and nondenial denials that the Israeli and Palestinian prime ministers and the architect of President MacPherson's peace plan were holed up somewhere in the Middle East or southern Europe, talking a deal.

According to two Israeli Knesset sources, Doron hadn't been seen for three days, going on four. Sa'id had shown up on Al Jazeera television New Year's Eve, but he'd done the broadcast by satellite and it was unclear, even to the broadcast engineers, from where the signal had originated. An unnamed Saudi diplomat in Riyadh, meanwhile, was quoted as saying flat out that “the United States is conducting a covert peace process under the cover of war in Palestine.” A senior European Union Parliament member was quoted as saying “such rumors of covert peace talks, without E.U. and U.N. participation—if true—would be troubling, to say the least.”

The White House, according to Jackson's story, refused comment, but they weren't outright denying the substance of the story. Press Secretary Chuck Murray said simply, “Military operations in the Holy Land are our prime focus right now. Our forces are there as peacemakers, and obviously the U.S. government is committed to doing whatever we can to end hostilities and bring both sides back to the table. Beyond that, it's all just speculation.”

Secrets were hard to keep in the information age. But soon enough, they'd know the truth.

“So relax, Zhiri,” Gogolov insisted, lighting up another cigar. “It'll happen when it happens. Until then, why don't you come play our little Mohammed a game of chess. He can't beat a master like me. Maybe he'll have a chance with a drunk like you.”

 

They could see the twin engine coming in on final approach.

It was an hour late, but at least it was there. Traffic on Winston Churchill Avenue, the main thoroughfare from the Frontier—the border crossing with Spain—into the small city of Gibraltar came to a halt as crossing gates went down, lights began to flash, and every driver and pedestrian was warned another plane was about to touch down.

The airport that serviced the Rock wasn't the world's busiest, or its safest. The numbers told the story. It was true that Prince Charles and Princess Diana flew into Gibraltar on the way to their honeymoon cruise on the royal yacht
Britannia.
But they were the exception. Of the 6 million tourists who visited each year, less than a hundred thousand came by plane. Locals claimed no atheist had ever landed there. Perhaps someone could be an atheist when he or she got
on
a plane bound for Gibraltar, people would say. But nobody who'd ever encountered the fierce crosswinds and harrowing approach into a runway jutting a half mile into the Atlantic and traversing directly across the peninsula's busiest street ever got
off
that plane without thanking God for surviving the landing.

Even from this distance, they could now see the distinctive orange-and-purple letters of the FedEx logo, and both silently hoped their “package” was unharmed. The Sunday sky was overcast and chilly. Two new storms were brewing—one was coming down the coast of Spain from the North Atlantic, the other was sixty or seventy miles eastward over the Mediterranean. They were poised to make an unusually harsh winter even worse, but forecasters said Gibraltar should have at least a few days of respite until the new fronts moved in, and Bennett and McCoy were grateful. They needed to be outside for a while. They needed some fresh air. And they were looking forward to seeing Dr. Eliezer Mordechai again. He'd been a good friend and a wise mentor for them both. He'd been an invaluable asset in helping them understand how best to negotiate with his fellow Israelis. Better yet, he said he was “bearing gifts from afar,” whatever that meant.

Bennett and McCoy sat alongside the tarmac in the back of a black, armor-plated Chevy Tahoe, not far from two navy Seahawks waiting to take the SEALS back to their base at Rota, Spain, when this mission was done. Tariq was at the wheel of the Tahoe, scanning the environment from behind his aviator sunglasses. Four more agents from ST-8's Gold Team watched over them and their surroundings from a minivan twenty yards away. Sa'id and Doron were still safely inside the “Mount of Olives.” It wasn't time to let them outside. Not just yet.

Fifteen minutes later, Bennett, McCoy, and Dr. Mordechai were sitting inside a café halfway up the Rock. They ordered fish and chips and asked the former Mossad chief all about his trip and his health while their security team took up positions inside and out of the restaurant.

“In the spirit of peace and friendship, allow me to offer a toast,” McCoy said, holding up her glass. “To Dr. Eliezer Mordechai, who absolutely, positively had to be here overnight—and
wasn't.
”

The three clinked glasses. Mordechai and McCoy had a good laugh. Bennett seemed far away, worried about his mother, worried about the impact Marcus Jackson's front page story in
The New York Times
was going to have on the peace process.

“Thanks for coming,” McCoy offered. “We really appreciate it.”

“Not at all,” the old man replied. “It's my pleasure. I'm sorry for the delay.”

“Don't worry about it. Actually, today's a good day. We've given our two ‘friends' the day off to consult with their ‘friends,' so for the first time in too long, we've got a little time on our hands.”

Mordechai nodded his appreciation to McCoy and then turned back to Bennett.

“Good, good. Now, Jonathan, what's the latest with your mother? I've been worried.”

Bennett's already gloomy expression darkened further. His pain was barely contained under the surface, and Mordechai could immediately sense it wasn't a topic he wanted to discuss, especially after the update he'd received the night before. Fortunately McCoy could see it as well and graciously stepped in.

“Someone's using Jon's old cell phone—the one he used at GSX. They made two calls to his aunt in Buffalo on New Year's Eve, and now they've electronically withdrawn several hundred dollars from Mrs. Bennett's checking account.”

“How would they have gotten the phone? And the PIN number?”

“We have no idea. Jon forgot the phone at his mom's house when he was visiting there for a few days, after coming back from the hospital in Germany. He asked her to look for it, but she never found it. She doesn't have a cell phone herself. Hasn't ever used one or wanted one. And she almost never withdraws large amounts of money from her checking account.”

“Can't the FBI track the cell signal?” asked Mordechai. “We do it all the time.”

“They're trying. But apparently, whoever's got the phone is pretty smart. They're keeping it off until they make a call. All the calls have been very quick, none more than a few minutes. And the FBI doesn't want to call the phone directly for fear it might tip off the terrorists,
if
it's in the hands of terrorists.”

Mordechai could see Bennett's discomfort intensifying, so he shifted gears.

“Hey, how about that gift I promised you?” he asked, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a gift-wrapped package about the size of a shirt box.

“Gifts are good,” said McCoy as she cleared away some plates and glasses to make room. “What have you got?”

Mordechai slid the package over to McCoy to do the honors, as Bennett was staring blankly out the window.

“A file?” McCoy blurted out, not bothering to hide her disappointment. “You got us a file? You know we've got these in America, Dr. Mordechai.”

“You don't have this one.” The old man grinned.

Intrigued, she glanced around the room. It was almost three in the afternoon. The place was nearly deserted. Sure no one was watching, she opened the brown folder. The first page was a spread sheet in Arabic.

“What's this, your income taxes?” she quipped.

“Keep reading.”

She did for a few moments, and a few pages, then looked back up.

“How'd you get this?”

“I have my sources,” he said, lighting up his pipe and taking a few puffs.

“I know, but really, how'd you get this?”

Sweet smoke filled the air around their table. Bennett turned back from the windows and looked at McCoy, then at Mordechai.

“What are you guys talking about?”

The former Mossad chief had both their attention. Now he was ready to talk. He took a few more puffs on his favorite pipe, then leaned forward and began to whisper.

“You asked me to follow the money, right?”

“Right.”

“So I did.”

“And? What'd you find?”

“It's worse than we imagined.”

“What do you mean?”

The story Mordechai proceeded to tell sent chills down their spines. On the first night of Operation Palestinian Freedom, U.S. forces, at the suggestion of Israeli intelligence, raided two seemingly innocuous warehouses in central Ramallah. Both were owned by Yasser Arafat and the Palestinian Authority. Neither seemed to have any strategic significance. But the gun battle to secure both facilities had been fierce, and now Washington knew why. Inside was a treasure trove—top-secret files of Arafat's dealings with other Arab and Islamic countries and organizations, including banking records, financial spreadsheets, phone records, written and electronic correspondence, memos, as well as transcripts of meetings and phone calls.

The files had been airlifted by helicopter to a secret IDF base near the Sea of Galilee. There, U.S. and Israeli officers began copying and cataloguing everything. The process would likely still take another week or two, Mordechai said, after which everything would be returned and put back in its place. In the meantime, however, Arab-speaking linguists and intelligence analysts were beginning to translate what appeared to be the most important documents.

“They've uncovered a money trail you wouldn't believe,” said Mordechai.