The Last Days Page 15

  The man stared into the screen of a television that wasn’t on. “He should have followed Oslo,” Sa’id continued. “He should have taken Barak’s deal at Camp David. He should have accepted Bush’s Road Map. Anything. But he didn’t. And now we have nothing.” Bennett was silent. He’d never heard Sa’id talk this way. “Just like Moses,” Sa’id continued, “Yasser Arafat had his day, but he never took us into the Promised Land.”

  Galishnikov was hardly religious, but he snorted at the irony. “Well, OK, we’re already in the Promised Land,” Sa’id conceded. “The over-Promised Land,” his Russian friend added. “Yes, the Palestinian people are here geographically. But have we arrived emotionally? Diplomatically? Financially? Look at us. We are lost. We are a proud people, Jonathan, rich in culture and heritage and intellectual capital. And we have a serious case to make to the world. We have suffered much, first under the Egyptians and the Jordanians who did nothing to give us a state, and now for all these years under the Israelis who treat us like rabid dogs in a kennel, present company excepted.” Galishnikov waved him off, unoffended.

  “After all these years,” Sa’id continued, his anger controlled but rising, “after all this suffering, after so many wars and intifadas, what do we have to show for ourselves? Our people live in squalor. Around the world, ‘Palestinian’ means terrorist, criminal, suicide bomber. And what did Arafat do? Did he lift a finger to stop the violence? Recently, yes, a bit. But for years— while we lived under curfew, and the tourists dried up, and incomes went

  into the toilet—did he rein in the violence? Did he throw the gangsters into prison? Did he claim the moral high ground and lead us to a new era of peace and prosperity, much less freedom and democracy?”

  No one said a word.

  “No. Arafat said nothing—did nothing—when Saddam Hussein sent money to Palestinian families to turn them into suicide bombers. How did that help us? The E.U. and you Americans send millions of dollars in aid to help build a Palestinian economy and society. So where is it? Who has gotten wealthy here in Palestine? No one. I made my money in the Gulf, not here. Why? Why can’t Palestinians grow and prosper here? The Israeli occupation? Of course. But that’s not the only reason. It was because of Arafat and his corrupt regime. Everybody knew it. Let me put it to you this way, Jonathan. Are you on the Forbes four hundred list yet?”

  Bennett shook his head.

  “No, not yet. But I’m sure you will be someday. That’s a dream of yours, I know. And I’m sure you’re going to achieve it. But Yasser Arafat? He’s already on that list. Forbes says he has—had—more than one-point-three billion stashed away, probably in Swiss banks. How? How did Arafat make that money? Was he a Wall Street strategist like you? Did he produce and refine and ship oil like me? How did he make all that money? That’s my point, Jonathan. Yasser Arafat got rich stealing people’s money, stealing peo ple’s dreams, while the Palestinian people kept sinking further and further.

  “Jonathan, I’m not about to say these things in public, in Ramallah or Jenin or Gaza City. Certainly not now. I’d be shot by Rajoub or Dahlan or one of Arafat’s other thugs. But someone has to say these things. Someone has to stop this madness. It’s insanity. I mean, just look at what has hap pened. Arafat spent the last twenty years turning up his nose at various peace plans and funding an entire generation of suicide bombers. Now the whole country is committing suicide.”

  “Do you see any chance for peace, Ibrahim?” Bennett asked, wondering why he’d done so the moment the words left his lips.

  The businessman leaned back and sighed.

  “You know, the strange thing, Jonathan, is that I do. People want this madness to end. It was true when I woke up this morning. I think it’s even more true now. They want the freedom of which your president speaks— freedom from hatred, freedom from fear. They want democracy. They’re worn down—worn out. Not everyone. There are still radicals out there, obviously. But with your war against Iraq, something happened. People watch Al-Jazeera. They listen to the BBC. They see most Iraqis rejoicing that Saddam and his evil regime are dead. They see Iraqis free even to curse the

  very Americans who set them free. And Palestinians want that, too. They’re hungry for freedom after being starved half to death. And they’re beginning to believe that a half a loaf of something might be better than nothing at all.”

  European and Asian financial markets were already reacting.

  Investors around the world could see the handwriting on the wall and were rushing to short-sell American companies. Most foreign stock exchanges were down 5 to 6 percent already. MacPherson expected the New York Stock Exchange to lose between 6 and 8 percent at the opening bell. Tech stocks would probably do worse. The NASDAQ could easily lose upward of 8 or 9 percent. Trillions of dollars in corporate value were going up in smoke, or about to. It would only get worse.

  He needed to get the economy back on track. Not just consumer confidence. He needed to muscle his flat tax plan through Congress and he’d lay out all the details during the State of the Union, just a few weeks away.

  At least the prospect of imminent, cheap, abundant Gulf oil was calming inflation fears. Iraq, after all, had the second-largest proven oil reserves in the world, behind Saudi Arabia. Once Iraqi wells got back on line, the price of sweet crude would begin to drop from the wartime high of over $43 a barrel back to around $25 a barrel. Once Iraq’s oil industry was modernized, prices could very well drop below $20 a barrel. And if the Medexco oil and natural gas fields off the coasts of Israel and Gaza ever got going … well, perhaps that was too much to think of, dream of, or imagine.

  But the president couldn’t help it. He knew the moment was right. The Middle East was poised for a new era of peace and prosperity. Bennett’s plan was solid. Saddam Hussein was gone. Rank-and-file Palestinians were exhausted from years of fighting. So were most Israelis. There was a deal to be had—and somehow he couldn’t let go.

  It was quiet for a moment.

  Bennett desperately needed something for his pain, but he was riveted by what Sa’id was saying. He’d just made a similar case to the president. Still, it was better hearing it from a Palestinian of Sa’id’s intellect and reputation.

  “Where do we go from here, Jonathan?” asked Galishnikov.

  “Well, first of all, Dmitri, the president would like you to get on the phone with our old friend, Dr. Mordechai.”

  “What’s Eli got to do with any of this? He hasn’t run the Mossad for years.”

  “The president wants to know what he makes of all this, and so do I. What he’s hearing from his friends in the Mossad? What’s he hearing from the top brass of the IDF? You know, the inside stuff, the stuff they’re not telling Langley.”

  “Da, I can do that,” Galishnikov agreed, “so long as they give me an open line.”

  “Already done. The lines have been up in here since I walked in.”

  “Good. What specifically are you looking for?”

  Bennett thought about that for a moment, then looked Galishnikov in the eye.

  “Just tell Eli to follow the money, Dmitri—he’ll know what I mean.”

  “I want the AG to cut a deal with Iverson.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “You sure?” Corsetti finally said.

  “I’m sure,” said the president. “There’s too much at stake. We need to know what he knows as fast as we can. Get on the phone with Neil. Have him make the deal within the hour. I want a full progress report by close of business today. Got it?”

  “I got it,” said Corsetti, “I’m just not sure I like it.”

  What about me?” Sa’id asked. “What can I do?”

  Bennett could see in his eyes the fire of determination.

  “Well, that gets complicated. Israel’s offering to send in ground forces.”

  “Good God, no,” Sa’id blurted out. “Jonathan, you can’t let him—”

  “Why not?” Galishnikov broke in. “Of course Doron should se
nd in forces. It’s your people that are getting slaughtered up there, Ibrahim.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Of course I know that,” Sa’id snapped back with such force he took both Bennett and Galishnikov off guard. “But you cannot let the Israelis attack. You’ll be playing right into their hands.”

  “Whose hands?” Galishnikov asked.

  “Whoever set this in motion. I don’t know who it was. But it sure as hell wasn’t Dahlan or Rajoub or one of the other Arafat minions.”

  “Why? How do you know?”

  Now it was Bennett asking.

  “I know because I know. Because they’re dogs, not men. When Arafat

  told them to sit, they sat. Lie down, they lied down. Roll over, they rolled over. They’re incapable of original thought. They were terrified of Arafat. They couldn’t function without him. He gave them their power, their money. He gave them their orders. There’s no way one of them turned on him. Besides, he was an old, sick man. Sure, they were all plotting how to succeed him when he died, but I’d bet my life that none of them would dare lay a finger on him. Absolutely not.”

  “Then I need to know who did, Ibrahim.”

  “How? How can I…”

  “Get on the phones. See if anyone you know in the legislature is still alive. Call them at home. Get them on their cell phones Pump them for information. We need to know who was behind this, first of all, and we need to know what the legislature wants to do next.”

  “What about Doron?”

  “You’ve got to tell your people that Doron is about to unleash.”

  “Jonathan …”

  “I know—believe me, I know—but whatever’s left of the Palestinian government has got to step up to the plate and make its case to the president and to the world.”

  “Did you tell the president—”

  “I did—exactly the case you’re making—that an Israeli invasion is a death blow to the peace process, pure and simple.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He’s thinking about it. I don’t know what he’s going to do. But Ibrahim, listen to me. People are getting butchered up there. You guys aren’t watching it. But every network in the world is broadcasting lie images of a Palestinian civil war, and the political pressure for somebody—anybody—to do something is going to become unbearable. You don’t want the Israelis in here. The Israelis don’t want the E.U. in here. We don’t want the U.N. in here.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “We’re screwed,” Galishnikov muttered.

  He was up now. He was pacing and lighting a cigarette.

  “No, no, no—listen to me, Ibrahim,” Bennett insisted, looking the man square in the eye. “Listen to me. You get on the phone to every member of the Palestinian Legislative Council you possibly can. Find out what they know. Take their temperature. Get their reaction. Find out what they want to do next. Find out who they want to lead the Palestinian people now that Arafat is gone.”

  McCoy was grateful to be alone.

  She locked the door to Ziegler’s quarters, locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the shower and cranked up the steam. She thanked God for pro tecting her, for keeping her and Bennett and Galishnikov and Sa’id alive, She asked Him to have mercy on the agents that might still be out there, and to comfort the families of those who’d fallen in the line of duty. She tried to push away all the faces of all her friends who’d died over the last few hours. But she couldn’t. The emotions overpowered her, and she began to cry, quietly at first, and then in sobs she couldn’t control.

  Bennett left Galishnikov and Sa’id and headed back down the hall.

  He needed a shower and something to eat. But first he needed to call his

  mom.

  Now sixty-seven and alone, Ruth Bennett was still an early riser, usually

  up by six, rarely later than six-thirty. She had her routine and it didn’t include

  radio or television or reading the New York Times. Not anymore, at least.

  After her husband’s death, she’d said no, finally, to the steady assault of

  information that for so long defined her life.

  He could still hear his mother’s shaky voice over a scratchy satellite phone

  connection to his hospital room in Germany, breaking the news to him that

  he’d missed his own father’s funeral. It wasn’t really his fault, of course. But

  the hesitancy in her voice made it clear to him that forgiveness was coming

  slowly.

  When they’d finally reconnected, she described to him the quiet, private

  ceremony, held in Queens, not far from where Solomon Jonathan Bennett

  was born on December 6, 1941. The hearse had moved quietly down simple

  tree-lined streets where Sol once played stickball. They had driven by the

  row houses to which he once had delivered The New York Times, the great

  “Gray Lady” to which he would go on to devote his life, from New York to

  Moscow to Washington, until a frustrated, bitter retirement exiled him to a

  condo village outside of Orlando. They arrived at a small cemetery where

  she and the casket were greeted by a small group of crusty old men, former

  colleagues from the Times, and by an angel she had never met.

  Erin McCoy had arrived from Washington unannounced. She brought

  with her an American flag as a gift from the White House, and a handwritten

  note of condolence from the president of the United States. It was a warm

  and thoughtful gesture, Mrs. Bennett told her son, unexpected and in such

  contrast with the rest of the day.

  She described the flat, emotionless words of the hastily chosen minister

  they had never met before, from a church they had never attended before, about a “better place” they had never believed in before. She described how she and Erin had shared a quiet, lingering lunch together and a pot of tea after the service. And, with the permission of the president, Erin had begun to explain where Jon was, what he was doing, and why. It was a story his mother found hard to digest. Though she occasionally asked for more details, she was not the reporter her late husband had been. But in Erin’s soft smile she said she’d found a small measure of hope that everything would be OK after all.

  They spent a long afternoon together. Then Erin hid driven her back into Manhattan, got her settled for a few days in a room at the Waldorf. The room was compliments of the president, until she was finished with the estate lawyers and paperwork and was ready to go back to Florida. Mrs. Bennett had a key to her son’s place in Greenwich Village and Jon had insisted she stay there. But she said she didn’t want to be a bother, didn’t want to be in the way. In the way? argued Bennett. Mom, I’m in the hospital on the other side of the world. Whose way are you going to be in? But Ruth Bennett was in no mood to argue. She simply didn’t want to be an imposition.

  McCoy handled it all graciously, Bennett recalled She gave his mom a private cell phone number to call if she needed anything. A car and driver. A shoulder to cry on. Erin would be in town for a few days on business, and she’d make herself available for whatever Mrs. Bennett needed. That night, a bellhop arrived at the widow’s hotel room door with a dozen white roses, and a note that read simply, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bennett. Jon will be home soon. I’m praying for you, and for him. God bless you, Erin.” It was another thoughtful touch, and it had won her a friend for life.

  Bennett turned the corner and arrived back at Ziegler’s room. He entered the security code, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. A moment later, he slumped down into one of the couches and stared at the phone. The shower suddenly shut off and McCoy called out from the bathroom.

  “Jon, that you?”

  “Yeah, I’m about to call my mom—presidents orders.”

  “Say hi to her for me, OK?”

  “All right,” he said, his voice heavy with fatig
ue.

  Bennett began dialing, then glanced at his watch.

  The president would be speaking in less than ten minutes. Bennett felt nauseous. The back of his neck was perspiring. He needed sleep. He needed a drink.

  The phone began ringing. He dreaded this call. The poor woman had been through so much already. He didn’t want to worry her further. The

  phone kept ringing. He wondered if McCoy would be willing to talk with her for a few minutes, as soon as she was done with her shower. His mother had obviously fallen in love with Erin McCoy. Maybe he should, too.

  No one was answering. He cursed himself. Why hadn’t he insisted she get an answering machine after his dad died? Why hadn’t he simply bought one for her?

  The bathroom door clicked open.

  McCoy didn’t want to interrupt Bennett’s conversation. But she did want to catch the president’s address. She poked her head in and looked around the room. The television was on. Tim Russert was just finishing his analysis from NBC’s Washington bureau and the image now switched to the Oval Office.

  The president began to explain the events of the last few hours, adding that he was asking the Israelis not to get involved.

  But Ziegler’s room was quiet. Where was Bennett? Had he gone to the main control room to watch the speech? Had he gone back to Sa’id and Galishnikov’s room? He couldn’t be missing this, could he? The president had just taken his advice, against the counsel of his own National Security Advisor and CIA director.

  In sweats and a T-shirt, a towel wrapped around her head, McCoy turned off the light and fan in the bathroom, and tiptoed through the walk-in closet, around the bunk beds, to the couch by the TV. She found Bennett there sleeping like a baby, still holding the satellite phone in his right hand. He looked so quiet, so peaceful. She didn’t have the heart to wake him, even for this. She pulled a wool blanket over him, sat down beside him and watched the rest of the president’s remarks. Then she gently brushed some strands of hair from Bennett’s eyes, leaned down and gave him a little kiss on the cheek.