The Last Jihad (11 page)

“Look, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Who are you working with?”

“I don’t know. I don’t what you’re talking about.”

“Who’s the woman in London?”

“What?”

“Who’d you call to charter you a plane?”

Bennett was completely awake now, but disoriented and confused.

“How do you know that?”

The question was a mistake. The agent recoiled. He now stood behind Bennett holding the bright red yo-yo over Bennett’s head, slowly dangling it in front of his face like a dead man in a noose. He gritted his teeth and practically spat his next sentence.

“Bennett, I don’t like you. You’re hiding something. I can smell it. I can feel it. And if you don’t start telling me the truth…”

He now pulled all the string out of the yo-yo, held it taut at both ends, and slowly began pressing it against Bennett’s neck.

“I’m either gonna have to squeeze it out of you…or give you the yellow needle.”

Bennett’s breathing quickened. Clarity was coming back to him, but so was fear.

“I want a lawyer. You can’t…this is wrong.”

“It’s your choice, Bennett.”

“How hard is it to verify what I’m saying?”

“Life or death?”

“I got Secret Service clearance during the campaign. Look it up. Call the White House. They’ll tell you who I am.”

No one said a word. No one made a call. No one even twitched. For the first time, Bennett realized he was in a soundproof room. He couldn’t hear anything outside these four walls—if he screamed, or died, no one would know.

“Call the White House. Call Corsetti’s office. They’ll tell you who I am.”

No reply from the scar-faced agent. But the yo-yo string grew tighter around Bennett’s neck.

“Mohammed Jibril.”

The name just hung in the air for at least a minute.

“Who’s that?” asked Bennett.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Bennett was now gagging.

“Mohammed Jibril is a terrorist, Mr. Bennett. He lives in Moscow these days, working with various Islamic terrorist cells.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You just met with his brother.”

“What? What are you talking about? I did not.”

Bennett felt sick to his stomach. He’d run extensive background checks on Ibrahim Sa’id, the head of the PPG, and his top staff. But there’d been no evidence of links to terrorist groups. None.

Until now, Bennett had refused to talk to this guy about the details of his oil deal. It was none of their business, and he was under strict orders by the President of the United States to brief him—and him alone—before talking to anyone else on the planet about the substance of this deal. Bennett struggled to breathe. The urge to tell these men everything he knew was overpowering. Was it the “truth serum,” or just pure survival instinct?

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d given the president his word. He’d given Iverson his word. Who were these guys? What if they were linked to the men who’d just tried to kill the president? But how could they be? They’d just scooped him out of the Israeli airport. But did that really matter? Couldn’t they be double agents? Couldn’t they be paid off by the enemy? What enemy? Whose side were these guys on? Then again, what if he were now holding back crucial information? What if somehow he’d made a mistake? What if somehow his oil deal
had
gotten mixed up with the very people who’d just tried to assassinate the president? What if he was actually financing such evil?

Bennett winced in fear and pain. He didn’t know what to do. And his interrogator could tell. The man began to tighten the yo-yo string. Sweat poured down Bennett’s face.

“Galishnikov.”

“What about him?”

Bennett tried to swallow, but he couldn’t.

“Do you know who he is?”

Bennett was about to throw up.

“He’s—he’s a friend.”

The man tightened the string.

“Four years ago, Dmitri Galishnikov helped mastermind a terrorist explosion that destroyed one of the largest refineries in the former Soviet Union. Cost the Russian government half a billion dollars. Not that they needed the money, mind you. They’re such a rich, wealthy country. But they did get a little ticked off by the fact that two hundred and twelve Russian citizens died in the explosion.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t…I…please…call the White House…”

The agent suddenly exploded. He unwound the yo-yo string from Bennett’s throat, grabbed him by the shirt and his hair, and threw him against the wall. Cuffed and unable to protect himself, Bennett hit the wall headfirst, then slumped to the floor and curled up into a fetal position, bracing himself for the blows he knew were coming.

The man was shaking with rage and seemed about to lose it completely. He grabbed the wooden chair and smashed it against the wall, shattering it in pieces and sending splinters flying everywhere. Bennett knew it was a show, knew it was designed to frighten him. But knowing did nothing to lessen the impact. Bennett was terrified. He wasn’t used to not being in charge. He wasn’t used to being ordered around. And now he feared for his life.

“
You want yellow, Mr. Bennett? You want red?
”

There was nothing for Bennett to say.

“
No. God, no.
”

Bennett felt the needle go in.

“
You’ve got two minutes, Bennett. Are you a terrorist?
”

“
No.
”

“
Do you fund terrorists?
”

“
No.
”

“
Is Sa’id a terrorist?
”

“
No—I don’t know.
”

“
Is Galishnikov a terrorist?
”

“
I don’t know.
”

“
Did you help conspire against the President of the United States? Did you?
”

“
No, no, no…
”

“
Tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what you know.
”

“
God, please, no.
”

The man grabbed him again and pulled him to his knees.

“
Forget you, Bennett.
”

He grabbed Bennett by the hair and lifted his face towards his own. When Bennett’s eyes focused, the man showed him the red needle, dropped it to the ground and crushed it with his foot. Bennett sucked in as much oxygen as he could. He felt the man grab his sweaty hair and jerk his face upward. He stared into the eyes above him for a split second and he saw no mercy. This wasn’t a pardon. It was an execution.

The man pulled out a Beretta 9mm and pressed it hard against Bennett’s forehead. Then he drew it back and walked behind him and drove the gun into the back of Bennett’s head while pushing his body and face to the floor. Just inches away, Bennett could see a dark brown liquid oozing from the crushed red syringe. His body was now shaking uncontrollably.

“
You sick little monster,
” the man screamed in his ear. “
You think I’m going to let you get away with this? Do you? I’m going to count to three. And you’re going to tell me why you’re paying terrorists to kill the president—or I’m going to splatter your worthless freaking brains all over this room. I’m going to freaking annihilate you and no one will ever even know you’re dead. You hear me? Do you hear me?
”

“
It’s not true—you’re wrong—please—I don’t know anything—please.”

“
ONE.
”

“
No—I don’t know anything—please—I beg you—please.
”

“
TWO.
”

“
Oh, God, help me. Please help me.
”

“
THREE.
”

“
Oh, God. I don’t want to die. PLEASE.
”

The deafening explosion from the Beretta rocked the room, echoing up and down the tall, dark tower.

Then all was silent.

The Israelis stood aghast, not believing what they’d just seen. All three now quickly exited the room. A moment later, the man with the jagged scar holstered his weapon, picked up his yo-yo, and followed them out, locking the door behind him. Bennett’s body now lay on the filthy white tile floor—crumpled and still.

It was the last time the four men would be in the West.

And they knew it. And they didn’t care. Extraordinary events had been set into motion, and now it was time for them to get their final instructions and play their part.

The
Wall Street Journal Europe
had a front-page profile of the new Treasury Secretary, Stuart Iverson. High-ranking but unnamed administration officials said the president now had someone he, the nation, and the world could trust to lead the global economy to new heights. Iverson seemed to fit the bill, and even Democrats on the Senate Finance Committee were singing his praises.

The four could only smile at their good fortune. They certainly couldn’t talk about it. Not here, at least. Not sitting in separate pews at St. Stephan’s Cathedral—
Stephansdom
—in Vienna. One never knew who was lurking in the shadows, or hiding in plain sight.

Built originally as a Romanesque basilica in the twelfth century, and then rebuilt in the fourteenth century as a cathedral in the classic Gothic style, St. Stephan’s was an icon in the heart of Vienna, covered with the black, filthy soot of some six hundred years of wars and fires and industrial development. Vienna, of course, was not only the capital and largest city of Austria but itself an icon in the heart of Europe, a city long known as the gateway to the eastern powers and Moscow. Here Germans and Russians and the Allies once battled for control. Here the external walls of the cathedral were pockmarked with the bullet holes of Nazi soldiers, whose jackboots once clip-clopped along the cobblestones, instilling fear in the hearts of all who could see or hear them.

Today, the icon within an icon was a great draw for tourists, and no one on this gentle, snowy morning could suspect such monsters in their midst.

Never glancing at one another, the four casually watched the visitors come in, one by one, minute by minute. Mostly old women. Very few men. Almost no children, except for an occasional screaming infant who invariably echoed throughout the cavernous sanctuary and high up into the great tower and steeple. Eventually, a woman in a black dress and matching black hat with a white ribbon pinned to her lapel came in, knelt down, and began to pray. Slowly, one by one, each of the four men gathered his belongings and casually made his way out of the cathedral. It was time.

None acted as though they knew each other, and each headed in a separate direction. But twenty minutes later, convinced they were not being followed, they converged on the
Graben
—Ditch Street, in English—at the place known as the Plague Monument. Built in remembrance of the end of the bubonic plague, which raged through Europe in the sixth, fourteenth, and seventeenth centuries and killed more than one hundred and thirty-seven million people, it was now the point of rendezvous for four men, once dubbed by analysts at the CIA—and their British counterparts at MI6—as “the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”

One of the men unlocked and entered a white rented Volvo parked nearby. Another took pictures like a tourist, while his partner flipped through a
Fodor’s
guide to Austria and talked about finding an inexpensive restaurant for lunch. The fourth discreetly slipped his gloved hand into a nearby trashcan and fished out the unmarked envelope within a discarded German newspaper. He peeked inside. Four train tickets. Four new passports. Four visas. And forty thousand euros in small bills. The team now jumped into the waiting, running Volvo and headed for
Südbahnh of
, Vienna’s South Train Station.

On their way, all but the driver passed the
Journal
story around, as well as a copy of the
International Herald-Tribune
, the newspaper published jointly in Europe by the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post.
The story that attracted their greatest interest this morning was a front-page profile of Russian President Vadim, his remarkable new strategic partnership with the U.S. and NATO, as well as his intensifying political troubles with hard-line nationalists within the
Duma
, the Russian parliament.

New polls inside Russia put Vadim’s approval ratings south of Stalin’s, and with a cold, bitter winter settling in over Moscow, people’s frustration over the rapidly deteriorating economic conditions inside the country—and growing fears of a new wave of hyperinflation—were running deeper every day. Being a friend of the West was doing the shrewd and savvy Russian leader little good at home, and various Western analysts quoted in the story worried that Vadim’s days in office might be numbered. Even the country’s oil industry—which accounted for nearly half of its entire gross domestic product—was falling on hard times. The price of oil hovered between $22 and $25 a barrel. If it dropped too low, Russia would be in very serious trouble indeed. The
Herald-Tribune
writer wrote that, “growing concerns in Washington over the future of the Russian economy suggest an old Russia hand like Iverson could be the right man for the moment.”

At precisely nine-thirty, the four parked, entered the train station and headed for the
Ost
Section—the East Section—where they arrived on the platform and waited. The terminal was dark and dingy, yet somehow classic and impressive, with a high, arched roof of steel and glass, suggestive of a World War II airplane hangar. Trains from all over Europe arrived and departed here, and tens of thousands of passengers crisscrossed these platforms every day. But not these passengers. Not one of them had ever been to Vienna before, and the longer they waited, the more nervous they got.

Their eastbound train to Bratislava was supposed to leave at 10:05
A.M.
sharp. But, in fact, it was late and all four would end up waiting for another two full hours. Each cursed the gray skies and freezing temperatures and lit up their American-made cigarettes, unaware that, from three separate angles, two men and one woman—each in separate rental cars—were furiously snapping dozens of 35mm photographs with powerful zoom lenses, while radioing a team of other agents loitering inside the terminal that the “four horsemen” were in the corral.

The two calls came almost simultaneously.

One from the Pentagon. One from Langley. Both were top priority and, within minutes, the U.S. Counter-Terrorism Task Force was reassembled via secure videoconference link.

“Mr. Vice President, this is Jack at CIA.”

“Go ahead, Jack.”

“Sir, we just got word from one of our teams in Vienna. They’ve positively identified the Iraqi cell as the ‘four horsemen.’ They’re at the train station and the Iraqis have tickets that take them to Moscow, sir. My team wants permission to take them down and interrogate them for what they know about the attack on the president.”

The VP considered that for a moment, then shifted gears.

“No. Not yet. Have your team trail them. Intercept any calls they make. Monitor any contacts they make. Have them check in on the hour. I want to know where these guys are going and why, and I want to know before anyone knows we’re watching them.”

“Sir, you sure? We’ve been hunting these guys for six years. Now we’ve got them.”

“And they just happen to be moving the same day somebody’s attacked the president.”

“Exactly, sir. That’s why we need to take them down—now.”

“No. That’s why we need to shadow them until we find out what they’re up to—or until I say to take them down. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Who’s next?”

“Mr. Vice President, this is Burt at the Pentagon,” began the Secretary of Defense, his eyes weary and red.

“Yes, Burt, what’ve you got?”

“Sir, we just got this report. Three of our reconnaissance jets have just been shot down over southern Iraq. We’ve got F-15s going in right now to take out the SAM sites. But it doesn’t look good.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, sir—and there’s more.”

“I’m listening.”

“Our satellites are picking up indications that the Iraqi Republican Guard may be in the process of being mobilized. There’s activity around three mechanized units southeast of Baghdad—and we just got word from our forward command post near the border inside Kuwait. Radar is picking up several small blips—could be recon units. We’re trying to verify that right now, sir.”

“You’re right—that’s not good.”

“No, sir, it isn’t. We’ll know more over the next few hours, sir, but given all the rest of what’s going on, I’m concerned Iraq may be preparing to make a major military move of some sort.”

Trainor didn’t complete the thought. But he didn’t have to. Suddenly, CIA Director Jack Mitchell broke in.

“Mr. Vice President?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“DDI just called from downstairs. He’s on the phone with Brigadier General Yoni Barak, head of Aman, Israeli military intelligence.”

“Sure, I know Yoni—what’s he got?”

“Sir, he’s got a team—I think you’ve met with these guys—the
Sayeret…
”

“
Sayeret Matkal
.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One of their deep recon units.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“What are they telling him?”

“The unit is picking up intercepts of heavy military radio traffic in and around Baghdad…hold on…OK…he says that agents on the ground are reporting air raid sirens are going off throughout the city…apparently, there are no civilians on the streets…state radio and TV are off the air…the Republican Guard appears to be mobilizing and there are already some advance recon units heading east towards Kuwait and south towards Saudi Arabia…it’s all pretty chaotic, sir—but that’s the latest.”

“Any Iraqi units heading towards Israel?”

“Not that they have picked up.”

“What’s their sense of it all right now?”

“Prime Minister Doron doesn’t want to wait. He’s convening an emergency Security Cabinet session any moment. The thinking is he’ll put the IDF on high alert and call up their reserves within the hour.”

“Full or partial?”

“He couldn’t say. Not yet.”

“What’s your gut tell you, Burt?”

“Full.”

“Jack?”

“Y’all know what I think. The Israelis are going full—and we should get started, too. Calling up our reserves and moving our forces back into the region immediately.”

“Marsha?”

“Sir, I think they’ll go full. Given what’s been going on all night, this does have all the makings of a move by Saddam and may be a prelude to Iraq seizing control of the oil fields in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. I agree with Jack. We need to move fast on our own reserves and we need to talk to the Saudis about putting boots on the ground there immediately. That’s all going to take time—a lot more time than for the Israelis. But we don’t have much choice.”

“If it is a move by Saddam, who’s he most likely to go after first, Kuwait or the Saudis?” pressed the VP.

“Both. Either. I don’t know yet,” admitted Kirkpatrick. “Either way it’s extremely serious.”

“Mr. Vice President?”

Everyone turned towards to Secretary of State Tucker Paine.

“Yes, Tuck?”

“Sir, I just got off the phone with the Saudi prince to express our condolences. They’re safe, but pretty shook up.”

“Do they have any clue as to who did this?”

“Not yet. Everything’s happening too fast. But they promised to call me the minute they had something.”

“What about Moscow? Heard anything from them yet?”

“No, sir. Not yet. I’ll keep checking.”

“So we don’t know what we’re looking at yet.”

“Not exactly,” the Secretary of State replied. “I just think we need to be very careful not to jump the gun here.”

“Jump the gun?” asked Mitchell. “Mr. Secretary, the president and the leaders of several of our major allies have just been the subjects of an incredibly well-planned, well-financed, and almost flawlessly executed conspiracy to kill them. It’s early, I agree. But as we’ve just said, there is strong circumstantial evidence that this may all be the work of Saddam Hussein in a new play to dominate the Gulf and disrupt the formation of a Western coalition that could stop him. How exactly is calling up the reserves and deploying our forces to the region jumping the gun?”

“Sir, I am just saying that we need to stay focused on our diplomatic options—not go off half-cocked,” said Paine.

“Half-cocked?” asked Mitchell. “How about locked and loaded? We’re at war, Mr. Secretary. We all know there ain’t no diplomatic options with the Butcher of Baghdad. We all know we should’ve dealt with Iraq earlier. Not just arming and training the anti-Saddam forces. Not just playing games at the U.N., but really taking out this monster once and for all. But we didn’t. Fair enough. But now it’s coming back to haunt us.”

“Mr. Vice President, with all due respect, we are not at war, not yet, not unless you and the president listen to the yahoos,” warned Paine, the pasty white, silver-haired former U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. “We need to consult with our allies and come up with a game plan.”

“Yahoos?” laughed Mitchell. “Glad to know State has it all figured out. Why don’t ya’ll just invite Saddam over for a barbeque and, you know, just hammer out this little disagreement once and for all—like nice, civilized U.N. choir boys. Hell, let’s just pass another worthless resolution.”

Paine sniffed with disgust. The VP moved to regain control of the discussion.

“Gentlemen, please. Settle down. Marsha, what’s your sense of things? What would you recommend the president do?”

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ve crossed the Rubicon. We don’t have any choice. I recommend a full ground stop immediately on all planes in the U.S. and no aircraft entering the country. Combat air patrols over both coasts and the borders. Shut down the borders with Canada and Mexico—at least until we get a handle on things. The last thing we need is suicide bombers coming over in eighteen-wheelers or freight trains.”

“What else?”