The Last Jihad (17 page)

Bennett was lost. It sure better not be that sick, demented, deranged CIA guy in Israel, the one with the yo-yo, he thought. He’d rather retire and join Greenpeace than work with that lunatic.

The door at the far end of the room opened, the same door Bennett had come through earlier. Bennett couldn’t believe it. He felt like the wind had just been knocked out him.

Kojak wasn’t a he. He was a she. His new “partner in crime” was Erin McCoy.

“Hey, Jon,” said McCoy with a smile, a grape lollypop in her mouth. “Heard you took a bullet for the president.”

Bennett just sat there bewildered as McCoy slowly walked over to the two of them and sat down in the other green leather chair. Her sea green eyes sparkled with amusement.

“I think you two have been introduced,” said the president, savoring the moment.

“Very funny,” Bennett quipped. “CIA?”

“Yep.”

“Not GSX?”

“Well, both.”

“Both?”

“Yep.”

“What are you, like an analyst?” asked Bennett, with an edge of derision.

“What are you, like a moron?” McCoy shot back, never losing her smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No, I’m not an analyst. I’m an agent. Operations.”

“
Operations?
”

“You got it, friend.”

“What are you talking about?”

McCoy laughed.

“No, I’m serious. I was paying you $200,000 a year—plus options, plus health care, plus profit sharing—and you were really working for the CIA? In ‘
operations
’? I mean, come on. What’s going on?”

“Hey, it’s good work, if you can get it.”

“Well…well…I mean, isn’t that
illegal
or something?” he snapped, turning to the president for an ally.

“No, it’s not illegal,” replied the president, bemused by Bennett’s reaction. “In fact, I think it’s kinda cool.”

Bennett turned back to McCoy.

“Cool? What are you, Jane Bond—double-O, you know, whatever?”

McCoy glanced at the president.

“I told you, sir,” she said. “That guy in Israel should’ve finished the job.”

It was known in Iraq as “
Al Nida,
” the German camel of the Middle East.

Of course, this Daimler-Benz tractor-trailer looked like any other U.N. truck that delivers humanitarian food and medical supplies from Jordan to the ancient homeland of King Nebuchadnezzar. It was large and long and white, with big pale blue “U.N.” block letters painted on every side and on the top of the truck to prevent any mistakes in identification by Iraqi military forces or U.S. spy satellites orbiting overhead.

Like the handful of other trucks traveling back and forth week after week, month after month, along the lonely, seemingly godforsaken Highway 10 from Amman to Baghdad, this one always traveled in a small caravan of four other white vehicles—British Range Rovers, actually—all with U.N. markings.

Few things were worse than breaking down, finding yourself stranded and alone in the western deserts of Iraq where blinding, suffocating sandstorms can descend upon you without a moment’s notice, and where daytime temperatures can easily top one hundred and twenty degrees. Traveling in teams, therefore, with more-than-adequate supplies of water, food, and fuel was not the exception but the rule.

An hour and a half after leaving the outskirts of Baghdad, the caravan known to Iraqi officials as Q17 was flagged down by police officers and diverted to
Al Habbaniyah
, a military compound and air force base heavily guarded by elite forces of the Republican Guard, where it disappeared into Hangar Number Five.

The entire detour lasted just shy of ninety minutes, after which the caravan was allowed to resume its trek to Jordan—one Range Rover leading the way, followed by “
Al Nida
,” followed by three more Range Rovers.

The twenty-five men comprising Q17 passed through Toliahah and Ar Rutbah, maintaining the strictest code of silence. No two-way radios. No cell phones. No AM/FM radios. No tapes or CDs. Not even conversations were allowed. Now they pulled off to the side of the road, just before the fork in Highway 10 where one must make a decision between heading northwest to At Tanf, Syria, or southwest to Trebil, Jordan.

Using hand signals, most of the men broke out food and drinks. Four others quickly unloaded large cans of fuel and poured them into each of the Range Rovers, not caring apparently that the vehicles were still running or that each of them was smoking a cigarette.

Under the circumstances, the president was grateful to laugh a little.

His next NSC briefing was just minutes away. Then he’d once again focus on the crisis at hand. But getting Bennett and McCoy comfortable with working with each other in a new way was important, too. Especially given the mission he was giving them.

“Look, Jon,” he said. “You’re like a son to me. That’s why I told Stu to hire Erin a few years ago. I asked her to keep an eye on you. To watch your back. To check out Sa’id and Galishnikov. All I can tell you is she’s good. Very good.”

“Stu knows she works for CIA?”

“No, he doesn’t. But he will. All in due time. Now, look, you’ve got one more paper to sign,” said the president, sliding him another black leather folder.

“What’s this for?”

“It says everything that we’ve discussed here—and will discuss in the future—is privileged and confidential, subject to all relevant federal laws governing confidential presidential communications. You can read all the fine print if you want. But the bottom line is, none of what we’re going to do can be discussed with anyone without my express permission. Understood?”

“I haven’t passed my ‘loose lips sink ships’ test yet?”

“Erin?” the president asked.

“I guess we can trust him.” She smiled.

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“My pleasure.”

“Just sign, Bennett,” said the president matter-of-factly.

And he did.

“So, Mr. President,” Bennett continued, “how do you guys know each other—I mean, obviously through GSX. But this seems to predate all that, doesn’t it?”

“See, Erin, I told you he’s a smart guy.”

“You did, you said that.”

“You weren’t so sure.”

“Well, you know, I’ve worked with him a little more closely in recent years than you have.”

“That’s true.”

The president looked at Bennett, then back to McCoy, then back to Bennett.

“Wait a minute,” said the president. “You’ve got stories.”

“What? No,” she demurred.

“No, no, no. Don’t give me that. You’ve got stories, McCoy.”

“Mr. President, please, she doesn’t have any…”

“Like hell she doesn’t. Spill ’em, McCoy.”

“No, sir, I…”

“Spill ’em.”

“Well, sir, you know…all right, maybe just one.”

“Erin,” Bennett protested.

McCoy just laughed. “What?”

“Don’t tell him any stories.”

“Jon, I have to. He’s my boss.”

“
I’m
your boss.”

McCoy took his cheek and pinched it like a grandmother.

“Yeah, but you’re not the president.”

“I don’t believe this.”

Sanchez stepped back into the room with a very old, very expensive-looking bottle of brandy and three glasses and set them on the president’s desk.

“Good work, Sanchez,” shouted the president. “Way to go.”

“I’m just the delivery boy, here, sir.”

“Hardly.”

Bennett took charge and poured everyone a glass, including one for McCoy, even though he knew she didn’t drink.

“Sir, I’d like to propose a toast.”

“Sounds good. Fire away, Bennett.”

All three now raised their glasses.

“To my friend the president, may you find those who did this—and nuke ’em.”

They all laughed, clinked glasses, and watched McCoy drink hers dry in one long sip.

“Erin, I thought you didn’t drink.”

“You’ve just got a lot to learn, don’t you?”

“All right, McCoy, start talking,” the president ordered.

So she did.

“OK, well, here’s one. Last year, Jon and I were invited to the Super Bowl in Miami as personal guests of former Treasury Secretary Murphy and his wife, Elaine.”

“Oh, come on, Erin, you can’t tell the president that story.”

“This must be good,” said MacPherson, taking another sip of brandy.

“You haven’t heard this already, Mr. President?” asked McCoy.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I have,” said Sanchez.

“What?”

Bennett was mortified. Now Sanchez smiled.

“OK, so we fly the GSX Learjet to Miami, right, and we get picked up in this stretch limousine and arrive at Joe Robbi Stadium, you know, VIPs, the whole thing.”

“Nothing but the best for Jon.”

“Absolutely, sir. We’re ushered upstairs to the secretary’s private box and it’s him and his wife and his security detail and a few CEOs. You know the drill.”

“Sure do.”

“So, everything’s been a lot of fun—the Murphys are great people—and it’s just about the end of the fourth quarter and the secretary is at the door, saying good-bye, you know, to all of the CEOs who are getting out early, you know, off to someone else’s party, I’m sure.”

“Ingrates.”

“Exactly.”

McCoy glanced over at Bennett, whose face was buried in his hands.

“So, the secretary is at the door saying good-bye, and it’s just me and Jon and the secretary’s wife and the security guys.”

“OK.”

“And, you know, Mrs. Murphy is getting up there a bit in age, and she doesn’t hear so well, right?”

“Right. Has those two huge hearing aids.”

“Exactly. But…”

McCoy started to laugh a little as Bennett shook his head.

“But Jon is like totally engrossed in the last few minutes of the game—we all are, no one’s saying anything…”

“It was a good game.”

“It was…and Jon’s munching away on this, I don’t know, some kind of Tex-Mex platter—nachos and cheese and salsa and guacamole and refried beans. So, anyway, somebody kicks a field goal with like two minutes to go and Jon…well, how shall I put this delicately…”

“Please don’t.”

“…and Jon, well, he just…”

“Spit it out, Erin,” ordered the president.

“…well…let’s just say, he could have used some Beano.”

The president began to laugh.

“And this wasn’t, you know, muted, or anything—this was really loud.”

“I can’t believe you just said that to the President of the United States,” groaned Bennett, totally dying now.

Both the president and McCoy were cracking up, especially as Bennett was obviously so completely mortified.

“Why don’t you just shoot me now.”

“…and the agents are just doing everything they can not to burst out laughing hysterically and I glance over to Mrs. Murphy and she’s expressionless—I mean, completely stone-faced.”

The president was laughing even harder now.

“But, sir, that’s not the best part.”

“There’s more?”

“Well, see, two minutes later, the game is over and Mrs. Murphy walks out into the hallway with her husband. And the minute she steps out of the room, we all start howling and Jon is turning all red and we’re all just dying.”

Everyone in the room was laughing now, even Sanchez and her agents.

“So what happened next?”

“Well, the lead agent goes over to Jon and says, ‘You know, that was pretty rude. You gotta go over and apologize to the lady.’ And Jon’s just looking at him like he’s crazy. And the agent says, ‘No, I’m serious. You know, she’s a Cabinet Secretary’s wife. You need to go out there and apologize.’”

“He didn’t.”

“He did—I kid you not.”

“Jon, Jon, Jon.”

Bennett didn’t say a word, and McCoy continued.

“Well, he looks at me and I’m like, there’s no way I’m getting in the middle of this, so I say, ‘Hey, it’s their call, not mine.’ So Jon gets up and looks back at all of us, and he goes out the door. And we all just start breaking up. I mean, I’m on the floor at this point.”

“It wasn’t enough to try to kill me. You guys have to humiliate me, too.”

“Oh, lighten up, Francis,” said the president.

“So, wait, wait, it’s not over…the best part was a few moments later, Jon comes back into the suite and the lead agent said, ‘So, did you apologize?’ And Jon goes, ‘I tried to. I went out there and told her I was really sorry and it was rude and I didn’t mean it and it’ll never happen again.’ And she goes, ‘Sorry for what, Jon?’ She never heard it.”

“She never heard it?”

“So, she goes, ‘What are you talking about, Jon? What was so rude?’ And, Mr. President, Mr. President, Jon actually told her…”

“
No.
”

“I’m not making this up, sir. True story. True story.”

Suddenly, Agent Sanchez piped up.

“He did, sir. In fact, that story’s been told by every agent in the country by now.”

“You’re so dead, McCoy,” Bennett laughed. “When you least expect it, expect it.”

That just made everyone howl all the more.

The rapid refueling and equally quick meal were now complete.

Everyone piled back into their vehicles and waited for the lead four-wheel drive to move. But it didn’t. Inside, the three men were frantically poring over their maps and using binoculars to look in every direction, all the while sweating profusely despite having the air conditioning turned up full blast. The small dirt road they were looking for was supposed to be right here—or close by, anyway—but it wasn’t. Worse, time was running short. So were tempers.