The Last Jihad (13 page)

“Are you kidding?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Deek, don’t you know the facts of life yet, son?”

“I’m just saying…”

“I know what you’re saying. And I’m saying that asking Secretary Paine to sign off on a covert ops mission using a State Department plane would be like asking Pat Robertson to sign off on a nudist convention on the
700 Club
. It ain’t gonna happen.”

Black chuckled.

“Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. How soon you leaving?”

“Soon as it’s ready.”

“They’re warming it up now—oh, and I just sent Jane over with a little surprise.”

“Tom, I don’t need any more surprises.”

“Don’t worry. It’s from the ambassador himself. Just take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, but what did I do to deserve anything from you guys?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“Be good.”

“I’ll try.”

An hour later, Yitzhak Galit’s security office was nearly empty.

Zadok and Ben Ramon shut down the airport until further notice and rushed back to meet with the prime minister and the Security Cabinet. Most of Galit’s men were clearing the buildings above and setting up a heavily armed perimeter around Israel’s only international airport.

As he waited for his flight back to the U.S. to be ready, Black began scanning Bennett’s emails, a combination of urgent pleas from his staff all over the world to fill them in on what he knew about the president’s condition, news bulletins from AP, and one little email from Erin McCoy in London. Black took a deep breath. She’d sent him all the details on his charter flight, including tail number, two phone numbers for the Signature operations desk, the cell numbers of his flight crew and even direct numbers for the tower, followed by a little reminder: “Don’t panic.:)” Black made a mental note to have that flight canceled, then scrolled through the AP updates.

• SOURCES: PRESIDENT ALIVE; LOCATION UNKNOWN
  
• VP TAKES COMMAND AT WHITE HOUSE
  
• QUEEN SAFE DESPITE LONDON ATTACKS
  
• CANADIAN PRIME MINISTER WOUNDED IN PARIS BOMBINGS
  
• 747 DESTROYS SAUDI PALACE; KING, FAMILY BARELY ESCAPE
  
• THREE SECRET SERVICE AGENTS DEAD
  
• BREAKING: WHITE HOUSE SAYS PRESIDENT SECURE AT NORAD
  
• NATION AWAKES TO TERRIFYING TV IMAGES
  
• FED CUTS INTEREST RATES BY HALF-PERCENT
  
• WORLD REACTS IN HORROR TO ATTACK ON U.S. PRESIDENT
  
• MARKET PLUNGES 11% IN JAPAN, 13% IN HONG KONG
  
• FAA ORDERS “NO-FLY ZONE” OVER ENTIRE U.S.
  
• FOURTH SECRET SERVICE AGENT DIES OF HEAD TRAUMA
  
• VICE PRESIDENT CONSOLES SECRET SERVICE WIDOWS
  
• RUSSIAN PRESIDENT VADIM OFFERS U.S. HELP IN TRACKING DOWN TERRORISTS
  
• FBI BRIEFING DESCRIBES GULFSTREAM’S FINAL MINUTES
  
• MURRAY: “EVIL HAS REARED ITS UGLY FACE AGAIN”
  
• PRESIDENT “DOING BETTER,” WILL ADDRESS NATION AT 9 PM
  
• DOW PLUNGES 9%, NASDAQ DOWN 12% AT OPENING BELL
  
• BREAKING: CIA SOURCES SAY IRAQ MAY BE “PREPARING FOR WAR”
  
• WHITE HOUSE: MEMORIAL SERVICE TO BE PLANNED FOR SATURDAY
  

With the help of a technical expert on Galit’s team, Black finally broke through Bennett’s cell phone password protection and began listening to his voicemail messages. Most were calls from the GSX team scattered across the globe. Two were from McCoy, repeating all the flight details she’d also emailed to him. One was from his executive assistant about his luggage. Two were from his parents checking on him.

Black now called Bennett’s home answering machine. Again, Galit’s technical people broke through and Black listened to the messages. The eeriest was from Secretary Iverson. Black winced, and replayed it twice: “Hey, Jon, it’s Stu. Quick update. Things have settled down a bit. The president’s doing OK. Wants to meet with you about the deal ASAP. You can reach me at 303-555-9697. Again, 303-555-9607. And use a landline—not a cell phone. I’ll figure out a way to get you to us. If you get in any trouble, let me know. See ya, kid.”

Black took a deep breath. It was going to be a long flight.

It was now ten
P.M.
Israel time.

Black finally received the clearance he needed to get back to the U.S. The November night air was brisk and breezy, but after so many hours cooped up in Galit’s smoke-filled bunker, it felt refreshing. Black walked across the tarmac, stood for a moment and stretched his legs. He felt exhausted and light-headed. He suddenly wanted to retire, move to Vail or Aspen, and buy a little ski lodge and sit under a peaceful, quiet canopy of moon and sky and stars, far away from cell phones and pagers and crises. He was getting too old for this.

“Good evening, Mr. Black,” said the fit, rugged black man in a crisp blue Air Force uniform. “I’ll be your pilot tonight. Colonel Frank Oakland. Good to meet you.”

The two shook hands. Three heavily armed American agents with plastic wires running into their ears stood nearby, as six more Israeli security agents with Uzis at the ready surrounded the plane at Galit’s directive. The plane was fully loaded and fully fueled, just waiting for its final passengers to board.

“Good to meet you, Colonel. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“You got it, sir. We’ll be wheels up in eight minutes. And you just let us know if there’s anything we can do for you—anything at all. All right?”

“Thanks. Let’s do it.”

Black walked a few feet over to the steps of the plane, then stopped abruptly.

“It’s a G4, isn’t it?”

The pilot hesitated.

“Yes, sir, she is,” he said quietly.

Black stood for a moment, sizing up the aircraft, then began to walk around the nose of the plane.

“She’s big.”

“Eighty-eight feet, four inches long,” Oakland agreed as he followed Black around the plane. “Got a wingspan of almost seventy-eight feet, and she’s nearly two and a half stories high.”

“How heavy?”

“Maximum?”

“Yeah.”

“About seventy-five thousand pounds. She can carry a boatload of fuel and go more than four thousand two hundred nautical miles in one flight.”

Black said nothing, then stopped beside one of the two engines.

“Rolls Royce,” offered the pilot, unprompted. “The best money can buy. Fourteen thousand pounds of takeoff thrust. She can almost hit Mach one.”

Black shook his head in disbelief.

“How high can she go?”

“Forty-five thousand feet—about nine miles, give or take.”

Black slipped under the tail, careful not to get behind the engines, walked slowly back over to the steps, then turned to the pilot. He stared at the man for a moment, without saying a word. Then, almost in a whisper…

“If you were flying from Toronto to Denver…”

He paused for a second, then took a deep breath.

“…would you—would you be in danger of running out of gas?”

The pilot looked him straight in the eye.

“No, sir. Not a chance.”

Black stared into his eyes for a moment, then looked away, checked his watch, turned and headed up the steps. His security detail and the pilot followed right behind him, and the ground crew scrambled quickly to secure the aircraft for take off.

On board, Black leaned into the cockpit, quickly scanned the instrumentation panels, and shook hands with the copilot, completing his final preflight checklist. As he turned back to the cabin, he was greeted by a flight attendant who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

With short black hair and warm brown eyes, Maria Perez had a sweet, gentle smile. But best of all, she was holding some fresh, hot coffee in a dark maroon mug with a gold seal that read “American Embassy Tel Aviv” on the side—and a small white china plate of warm, gooey, chocolate chip cookies baked fresh and brought over by the security team.

Black gratefully took the mug and the plate of cookies and carefully set them both on a small, low table to his right. A larger table to his left held a huge, dark blue porcelain vase of fresh-cut pink roses and a giant platter of luscious, fresh fruit—Jaffa oranges, watermelon, strawberries, kiwi, red grapes, red delicious apples, and plump, juicy pears to die for.

On another side table further back there were crystal dishes of mixed nuts and silver dishes of Christmas M&Ms—green and red, plain and peanut, along with small bottles of spring water, Perrier, fruit juices, and sodas of every kind. This was the surprise Ramsey was talking about, a nice little spread from the ambassador and his wife, and he appreciated it. Black’s job didn’t come with many perks and he savored each one.

Black had never been on the U.S. Ambassador’s plane, but he was impressed, and he quickly settled into one of eight white leather swivel chairs. Next, he fastened his seat belt quickly as the plane began to taxi almost immediately. The G4’s interior was absolutely gorgeous, and far roomier than the aging, stripped down Learjet the FBI usually used to send him around in the U.S. Thick, rich carpet. A long, white leather couch. A beautiful, polished mahogany conference table with a collection of the
New York Times
, the
Wall Street Journal, Time, Newsweek
, and
Forbes
. A built-in combination TV and DVD. And a stereo system with a six-disk CD player, from which Mozart’s “Turkish March” softly filled the cabin.

Black leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, watching four Israeli army jeeps with soldiers in full battle gear escort the G4 to the runway. An involuntary chill shuddered through his body. He closed two air conditioning vents nearby, retrieved his coffee mug and a cookie, checked to see it wasn’t too hot, and then took a long sip.

Perez—the daughter of the Air Force chief of staff, he later learned—quickly unbuckled herself from her seat in the back of the plane and brought him a thick, wool blanket and a large, soft pillow. Black accepted both gratefully, setting aside his coffee and cookie. Then he slid off his shoes and put his feet up on the low table in front of him as the flight attendant dimmed the lights and settled back in her seat.

It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. But by the time the G4 lifted off, Dietrich Black was out.

The plane was halfway across the Atlantic.

Oakland came over the intercom and told Black he had a secure call from Washington. Black quickly rubbed his eyes, took a swig of cold coffee, grabbed the air phone beside him and punched line one.

“Black.”

“Do it.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Roger that.”

And the line went dead.

Black gathered his thoughts for a moment, got up, walked over to the table of drinks, opened up a tiny bottle of springwater, poured some on his hands and splashed it on his face. Next he chugged down the rest of the bottle and wiped his face with a nearby hand towel.

“OK,” he announced to his team somberly. “It’s time.”

One of the three members of his security detail unbuckled himself and got up. He was not just a skilled marksman. He was also a physician on loan from the CIA. He got out his medical bag and knelt down by the long white leather couch. It was there that the lifeless body of Jonathan Meyers Bennett lay covered with a navy blue wool blanket.

The CIA doctor quickly rolled up Bennett’s left sleeve, swabbed the skin below his elbow with cotton dabbed in rubbing alcohol, and pulled out a white plastic syringe. Next, he pulled off the cap, squirted out some fluid and tapped the syringe to remove any remaining air bubbles. Then he stabbed Bennett’s arm, and waited. Seconds later, Bennett’s eyes flickered to life, and everyone began to breathe again.

Black sat in a large white leather swivel chair across from Bennett. Once the doctor was done with his work, he and everyone else moved to the front of the plane, out of Bennett’s immediate line of sight. It took a few moments, but the young man came to, and slowly sat up. Black just swiveled slowly, back and forth, back and forth. Bennett looked out the windows on both sides of the plane and saw two F-16s flying escort.

“Where am I?” he asked, groggy and disoriented.

“Thirty-nine thousand feet over the Atlantic,” said Black.

“I’m not dead.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of disbelief.

“No, Mr. Bennett. You’re not dead. In fact, welcome back.”

A few moments passed. Bennett tried mentally to grab hold of something, anything that would root him in some reality he could understand.

“Where was I?”

“On a mission, Mr. Bennett.”

“What—doing what?”

“Proving your loyalty to the president.”

Bennett tried to swallow. His mouth was completely dry. Black handed him an opened bottle of water. Bennett took a small sip, but still had trouble swallowing.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Dietrich Black. I’m a counterterrorism specialist with the FBI.”

“Oh,” said Bennett, blankly. “You the guy that tried to kill me?”

“No.”

“Where’s he?”

“Nobody tried to kill you, Mr. Bennett.”

Bennett wasn’t amused.

“Like hell they didn’t.”

“Well…”

“Well what?”

“We call this Operation Irish X-Ray. It’s a way we can shake a person down and test him in a moment of crisis to see if he’s what we call ‘Irish Spring’—you know, ‘clean as a whistle.’ Let’s just say it’s faster and more effective than a three-to six-month FBI background check.

“You’re saying you’ve done this to other people, friends of the president?

“I can’t really say more than I have.”

“But the idea is that I’m supposed to think I’m about to be killed so I’ll spill my guts—if not my bladder—if I’ve got anything to hide?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, it worked.”

“It did. And you passed. With flying colors.”

“So you believe me?”

“I do.”

Bennett tried to take another sip of water, but began coughing. Black handed him the small hand towel, and Bennett wiped his mouth. He was still very drowsy and not fully there.

“Did you before?”