The Last Jihad (18 page)

Ali Kamal, twenty-six and hand-chosen by General Khalid Azziz to be the leader of this team, stared off into the sizzling sunset before him. It would be dark soon, and if he were not where he was supposed to be within the hour, he might as well put a bullet in his own head, or it would certainly be done for him by the sleeper agent in one of the vehicles behind him. He didn’t know which one to worry about. There might even be more than one. But someone would be gunning for him if he screwed up this mission. Of this he had no doubt.

Kamal took a final drag on his cigarette and looked around him. It really was a beautiful, luxurious car, this Range Rover, even if it was painted white. He would have much preferred jet-black, but “U.N.” staff could not be so picky.

The three behind him were standard models. But his was a gem. A big chassis and powerful V8 diesel engine that purred because he personally cared for it day and night. A longer wheelbase than earlier models, and electronically controlled air suspension that made even a hundred-mile-per-hour drive through this ugly desert smooth and comfortable. Power windows. Power, antilock brakes. Power steering. Airbags. Even a state-of-the-art global-positioning satellite navigation system that he had personally installed in Amman after returning from a brief trip to London, where he’d rented a car with a GPS system.

With a mission, a team, this car, and a bright future ahead of him, Ali Kamal had everything he wanted, except for a lover. That would change soon, too. But for now he could not afford to be distracted by such primal pleasures. He needed to focus on this task, and Allah would bless him. If not now, then with seventy virgins upon arriving in paradise.

Kamal lowered his passenger-side power window for a split second to toss his cigarette butt outside.
Forget the maps,
he silently screamed. He had a job to do, and no room for error. Kamal reached for the Range Rover’s GPS system and pressed a few buttons. It took just a fraction of a second, and in that instant all of his anger and frustration melted away.

He laughed out loud. Remarkable. How simple, yet how brilliant. He now knew where he was. He knew where he was going. And he knew how to get there. He flashed a smile at his driver, and held up three fingers on his left hand. Three more kilometers on the left. Back in business, the caravan moved out.

The room slowly recovered from McCoy’s story.

Bennett was thoroughly embarrassed. But two could play this game.

“Mr. President, I think it’s only fair that I get a little equal time here,” said Bennett with an air of mystery. There was no way he was going to let Erin McCoy have the last word, not with this president.

“What?” asked McCoy. “You don’t have any stories about me.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“I never told you any stories.”

“Finding buried treasure is what I do, McCoy. Remember?”

McCoy was getting a little worried, and Bennett was beginning to enjoy himself.

“What could you possibly have on me?” McCoy asked, more of herself than him.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” the president chimed in. “All right. Go ahead, Bennett, be my guest.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Bennett took a sip of his brandy and got up to put another log on the fire. Then he sat back, letting McCoy stew a bit.

“A few years ago, Erin was new to our London office, as you know.”

The president nodded, and watched McCoy shift in her seat.

“And, as you also know, she was taking the place of a woman who was out on maternity leave.”

“Right. What was her name? Smythe something, wasn’t it?” asked the president.

“Right, Gay Smythe. She was originally from Liverpool, then came to work with us for awhile in Denver, then helped us open the London office.”

“Sure, sure, I know her,” said the president. “The redhead, right? Had twins, didn’t she?”

“She did, that’s right.”

McCoy suddenly knew where Bennett was headed, and she was mortified.

“Oh, Jon, don’t.”

Now McCoy was blushing, but Bennett just smiled. It wasn’t just that he had regained the upper hand. It was also because he couldn’t help but notice—for the first time really—how attractive she looked in her soft pink cashmere sweater, black wool skirt, black pumps, string of pearls, tiny pearl earrings, and black-and-gold Cartier watch. Sure, his life had just radically changed. But maybe this could be fun.

“Jon, you can’t…I mean…how do you even
know
this story?”

“Ah, ah, ah—you had your chance.”

Of course, the more she squirmed, the more Bennett loved it.

“So, Mr. President, as I was saying…so Miss Smythe was out on maternity leave and Erin came in to replace her. So, I don’t know, maybe about two or three months after Erin arrived, she’s downstairs at the health club, you know, working out.”

“Jon…”

“She finishes working out and she heads to the lockers, and as I hear the story, she gets undressed and steps into the shower room.”

“I don’t even believe this is happening.”

“So she’s in there taking a shower…and there’s only one other woman in there…and you know, Erin’s a very friendly, very nice person…”

“That’s true,” agreed the president.

“Exactly. She’s very friendly. So lo and behold, Erin sees this redhead in the corner taking her shower, and she thinks, oh, maybe this is the woman whose job she filled.”

McCoy closed her eyes and covered them with her hands.

“So sweet Miss Erin McCoy—ever the friendly one, ever the CIA operative, you know, looking to build new strategic relationships—decides to walk over to the woman and she says, ‘Excuse me, are you Gay?’”

The president began to laugh out loud as McCoy turned multiple shades of red.

“And the stunned woman says in this beautiful British accent, ‘I beg your pardon?’…so Erin—not realizing what she’s saying—actually repeats herself…”

The president was roaring and Bennett was having trouble getting the words out.

“…so Erin goes again, ‘I said, are you Gay?’ And the two of them are standing there in the steaming showers, completely naked, and this woman just screams, ‘No, I’m not gay,’ and she races out of there. And suddenly Erin realizes what she’s just said and she goes running after the woman into the locker room—completely naked—saying, ‘No, no, I’m not gay. I just thought you might have worked with one of my girlfriends—no, no, I mean…’”

Even the Secret Service agents began laughing so hard they were having trouble breathing.

“Jonathan Bennett, I’m gonna get you for this.”

“Revenge?” laughed Bennett. “Is that what they teach you in the CIA?”

“
Gotcha,
” he shouted in Hebrew.

The young intelligence officer couldn’t believe it. His adrenaline started pumping. His heart started racing. He doubled-checked his electronics to rule out the possibility of a malfunction, then grabbed the red phone in front of him and punched #212.

The call was picked up instantly.

“
Ken?
”

“
Acshav.
”

“
Tov.
”

Now it was Captain Jonah Yarkon’s turn to grab a phone and relay the message, and he did just that. A split second later, a red phone rang inside the IDF operations bunker eight stories underneath the Ministry of Defense in downtown Jerusalem. Defense Minister Chaim Modine picked it up and listened carefully.

“
Tov
. Fire up the birds and stand by.”

The accent was as thick as the tone was urgent. Modine put the phone on hold and turned quickly to Prime Minister David Doron, standing beside a large conference table with Mossad chief Avi Zadok, Shin Bet chief Yossi Ben Ramon, Aman head Brigadier General Yoni Barak, and General Uri “The Wolf” Ze’ev, chief of staff of the Israeli Defense Forces.

“That’s Yarkon. We just picked up a signal close to the Jordanian border.”

“Can we be sure?” asked the prime minister.

“No, sir. But we can’t afford to be wrong.”

“Uri?”

“I agree, sir. We’ve got to move quickly.”

Zadok and Ben Ramon both nodded. The prime minister didn’t hesitate.

“Do it.”

Modine took the phone off hold.

“Captain, you have clearance. Operation Ghost Lightning is a go.”

Bennett was settling down now, pouring everyone another glass of brandy and stoking the fire. “OK, so really,” he pressed. “How do you guys know each other?”

“Well, actually, Jon, I knew Erin’s dad,” said the president, quieting down now and getting serious. “Sean McCoy was a Navy SEAL in Vietnam when I first met him. Then we got out, I went to Wall Street and he joined the CIA and worked his way up over time to become the DDO, first under Nixon and later under Carter.”

“Really?”

Bennett could sense the president’s changing demeanor.

“Besides Julie, Erin’s dad was my best friend. I’ve never met anyone else like him.”

“Was?”

“Sean was killed on an undercover mission—in Afghanistan, actually, after the Soviets invaded in ’79.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry…”

He looked at Erin. She wasn’t smiling any more.

“Thanks,” she said. “It’s OK. Mr. President, you really don’t need to…”

“I know,” the president continued, “but it’s important he know a little background here, if you guys are going to work together.”

She nodded her reluctant assent, and the President continued.

“So, anyway, when I was at Fidelity, I helped set up an account for Erin and her mom, you know, just to help them through it all.”

“You’re an only child?” Bennett asked.

McCoy nodded.

“In fact,” the president continued, “when I started GSX, Erin’s mom, Janet, worked for us for, what, two years, I think.”

“That’s right, sir,” McCoy added.

“The problem was, and I didn’t even know it at the time—not right away, at least—but, it turns out Janet had a very severe case of ovarian cancer and she…she was a trooper. Except for Julie and Sean, I don’t think I’ve really ever met anyone like her in my life. She just had incredible strength and optimism. She was amazing.”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s not something that comes up a lot,” McCoy offered quietly.

“Julie and I knew she had something we didn’t,” said the president, pausing a moment to look into the flickering fire. “I don’t think I even believed in God before I met her. But she had an incredible story. Christ had really changed her life, and I think that’s what really started Julie and me asking a lot of spiritual questions for ourselves. She was at total peace about dying and where she was going when she died. And Julie and I knew we certainly didn’t have that kind of certainty. I don’t know. She just really got us thinking.”

The room fell silent again. Bennett had no idea what to say.

“When was all this?”

“It was the year before you came, I think. In fact, Erin ended up living with us and our girls that year, right?”

“Right. About ten months, I think.”

“So we all got to know each other pretty well during that time. My girls fell in love with her. Personally, I couldn’t stand her.”

“Very funny, sir,” said McCoy.

She appreciated the president’s playful, personal banter. It had been a long time since she’d seen him last—and more than a decade since she’d seen his family.

When she’d gotten the call in London to come to Colorado ASAP on an Air Force jet to see the president, she wasn’t exactly sure what would happen when she got there. But after spending a fitful night trying to sleep in a bunkroom on the Peterson base, she’d spent nearly an hour with the president at breakfast, being briefed by him, in between calls from the vice president and various foreign leaders. Then he’d sent her off for a few hours to wait for her “reintroduction” to Bennett.

It seemed strange, but she was suddenly beginning to feel at home again. The idea of being at the epicenter of a high-priority mission for the President of the United States would have made her mom and dad very proud. She tried hard to steady herself and not concede the powerful emotions roiling inside her. But it wasn’t easy.