The Copper Scroll Page 5

  * * *

  Viggo Mariano took the call on the balcony.

  “Is it finished?” he asked.

  “Almost.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “There are . . . complications.”

  “What kind of complications?”

  “None, I’m afraid, we can talk about by phone.”

  Mariano seriously doubted that. Both he and the man on the other end of the connection were on secure satellite phones, unlisted, untraceable, and swept for bugs—as were their homes and offices—twice a week. But at this point, there was no reason to take more chances than absolutely necessary.

  “How many are done?”

  “Three.”

  “That’s it?” Mariano sniffed, pacing obsessively and all but oblivious to the stunning views his 2,200-square-foot penthouse suite at the Rome Cavalieri Hilton afforded him.

  “Like I said, there have been complications.”

  “What about the old man?”

  “My team is in place. I just talked to them.”

  “Is he back in the country yet?”

  “He lands in a few hours.”

  “He’ll go through VIP service, right?”

  “Every time.”

  “So when will you have a clear shot?”

  “Highway 1—a few miles before his driver gets to the city limits.”

  “What about his security detail?” Mariano asked.

  “He dropped it.”

  “When?

  “Last week.”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know? All I know is that this is his first trip without guards, without his bulletproof SUV, without a tail car. It’s just an old Volvo and a kid driver who can’t be more than twenty-five. Look, I’ve got another call coming in. It’s them.”

  “When will I hear from you next?”

  “When you hear the news break, wire the money to my account. I’ll call you when it clears.”

  “Fine, but listen to me, Rossetti . . . ”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “This thing’s coming from the top, and I—”

  “Don’t worry. I got it.”

  You’d better, thought Mariano, but he said no more. He clicked off the phone, tossed it onto the lounge chair, and poured himself another glass of wine.

  He looked out over the sprawling ancient city at the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, practically glowing in the distance, and calculated his next moves. Time was running out. If he was to be paid in full, all of the targets had to be dead by sundown on the twentieth. That was just eight days away, and they were only halfway through the list.

  8

  MONDAY, JANUARY 12 – 4:02 p.m. – RONDA, SPAIN

  It didn’t take long to fall in love with Ronda.

  One of the last Moorish cities to fall to the Crusaders and one of the oldest towns in Spain, it was a hidden paradise of rolling hills, dazzling sunsets, fields, and mountains as far as the eye could see, and a two-hundred-year-old stone bridge spanning a breathtaking plunging river gorge in the center of town. No wonder this sleepy little town, tucked away so far from civilization, had captured Erin’s imagination as a little girl. No wonder it had drawn her back more than two decades later.

  It was off-season and a bit chilly, but the Bennetts had spent a lazy morning strolling Ronda’s streets, visiting the ancient Arab baths, and touring the bullfighting arena known as the Plaza de Toros, which was built in 1784 and still held crowds of thousands in the crowded summer season. By afternoon, they were poking through various shops, looking for nothing in particular, and letting their imaginations run free.

  “What are you thinking about, Mr. Bennett?” Erin asked as they ducked into a café and ordered cappuccinos.

  “Nothing,” he laughed.

  “Come on, what is it?”

  “No, no, let’s talk about you,” he said. “Where would you like to go to dinner?”

  “Nice try. But you have to tell me. Those are the rules, remember?”

  She sweetened the deal with a kiss.

  “It’s nothing, really,” he said finally. “I was just thinking about what I’d like to do if time and money were no objects.”

  “And?”

  Bennett wasn’t used to daydreaming about any life other than the one he’d had on Wall Street for almost a decade and a half. Moreover, this idea seemed downright ludicrous, particularly in light of recent events. But it seemed fun and somehow comforting to have a “blue sky” session with his best friend.

  “It’s crazy, I know, but if Mordechai were wrong about all that’s ahead, and if we could really do whatever we wanted, I would love to pull together some investors, buy a huge tract of land in northern Virginia, and build an exact replica of the White House and Old Executive Office Building, to scale.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Erin.

  “Think about it,” he said, his eyes wide with childlike delight. “What’s the number-one place visitors from all over the country and all over the world say they want to see when they come to Washington?”

  “The White House.”

  “Exactly. But with all the security restrictions, hardly anyone gets in anymore. And even if they do, they never get to see the West Wing, or the Oval Office, or the really fun stuff. But what if they could? What if there was a White House people could really explore? a White House where they could actually be invited to a state dinner?”

  Erin was smiling, but it was clear she wasn’t completely following.

  “Imagine if there was a White House where families could take real insider tours every weekday. But every Friday and Saturday night, there’d be a state dinner—black tie, formal gowns, big celebrities, the whole nine yards. You’d call an 800 number and make a reservation and be told to arrive at the Visitors’ Center at 7 p.m. sharp.”

  “Visitors’ Center?” asked Erin.

  “Exactly,” said Bennett. “You’d park there, two or three miles away from our White House Resort and Conference Center, and you’d be assigned a position on a covered platform, sort of like at a train station, heated in the winters and cooled in the summers. You’d have to be there no later than seven, because at precisely seven-fifteen the real adventure begins.

  “A presidential motorcade suddenly comes up over a ridge. Lights flashing. Sirens wailing. There are motorcycles, police cars, a fleet of black limousines with little American flags waving on the hoods, all followed by black Suburbans and more motorcycles. The limos pull up and you’re assisted inside by ushers and security people dressed up as Secret Service agents. Then the doors close and the motorcade begins the two-to-three-mile drive through the Virginia countryside, until you come up over a hill and there it is—bigger than life, awash in big floodlights.”

  Erin looked more interested now.

  “And as you arrive, the big black gates open and you’re brought around to the driveway on the South Lawn. If you’re in the first set of limousines, you’re immediately escorted to a tour of the West Wing. If you’re in the middle set, you get a guided insider tour of the East Wing and the secret underground facilities like the Sit Room and the Secret Service command center—that kind of thing. If you’re in the last set, you get to tour the main floors of the White House, the Lincoln Bedroom, the private residence, the solarium—all the private stuff the public usually never gets to see.

  “Then, at precisely 8:15 p.m., you’re seated for an elegant dinner of filet mignon and lobster and the finest champagne, followed by a famous speaker or comedian. On some nights we’d have charitable concerts hosted by the First Lady or by former First Ladies. On other nights we’d bring in Dana Carvey or Will Ferrell to do a night of presidential comedy. Some nights could simply be ballroom dancing. The possibilities are endless. We could even host a weekend Global Issues Summit with former presidents or secretaries of state.

  “Think about it: Easter-egg rolls where no kid is turned away, White House Christmas parties—every night of December—that
everyone can attend, inaugural balls, helicopter rides over Washington in our own versions of Marine One. We could even rent out the Lincoln Bedroom and it wouldn’t be illegal!”

  Erin couldn’t help but laugh. For all the years she had known Jon Bennett on Wall Street and in the White House, he had always been so serious, so focused, so consumed with cutting deals and bringing peace and democracy to the Middle East. She had never seen him with the time or the desire to dream such crazy dreams. She loved him for it all the more, but she still had to rib a little, at least.

  “And this is what you think about in your spare time?” she asked.

  “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  “Dr. Mordechai?” said a stranger’s voice. “Is that really you?”

  Mordechai pulled his head out of the stack of e-mails he was reading, looked up at the passport-control officer, and handed over his passport. “I’m afraid so,” he said at last. “I’m sorry; do I know you?”

  “No, no, but I thought it was you,” the young woman replied. “What an honor.”

  He waited for the punch line, but there was none. The officer seemed genuinely glad to meet him, and he couldn’t help but be surprised. Most Israelis now considered Mordechai, the world’s most famous messianic Jew, a heretic if not an outright traitor. The country’s chief rabbis were pressuring Prime Minister Doron to strip Mordechai of his citizenship, claiming he had converted to Christianity and thus had renounced his Jewishness. Death threats against him were mounting. He had been cursed and spat upon. He had even been physically attacked on the streets of Jerusalem as well as in the airport. So to be greeted so warmly upon returning to his country was certainly serendipitous.

  The young woman stamped his passport for reentry without going through the usual list of security and customs questions, then lowered her voice. “The Lord is risen,” she said.

  Again, Mordechai was taken aback.

  “He is risen indeed,” he whispered in return. “How long have you been a follower of Yeshua?”

  “Almost three months,” she said. “I kept seeing you on TV before everything happened. I read your memo on the Internet. At first I thought you were a lunatic. But then everything happened, just like you predicted.”

  “Just as Ezekiel predicted,” Mordechai gently corrected.

  “Yes, of course,” the young woman conceded, still in a whisper. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. I know it hasn’t been easy for you. But most of my family now believes as I do. Not my father. He thinks we’re all nuts, but we’re praying for him night and day, just like you tell us to do.”

  The woman had tears in her eyes, and Mordechai found himself moved by the passion of her new faith. Thousands of people had posted similar thank-you’s on his weblog (while many others posted curses). But this was the first Israeli he had met with the courage to thank him face-to-face, and it meant more to him than he could possibly tell her.

  “Don’t forget Psalm 122:6—keep praying for the peace of Jerusalem,” he told her. “And I’ll be praying for your father.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Mordechai,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re most welcome,” he replied. “You’ve made an old man’s day. God bless you.” Then he scooped up his briefcase and bags and headed out front to find his driver.

  9

  MONDAY, JANUARY 12 – 7:15 p.m. – BABYLON, IRAQ

  Security was tight around the Great Tower of the People.

  Outside, dark clouds were rolling in and a cool breeze was picking up. The winter rains were coming, and the temperature, now hovering in the low sixties, would soon plummet. Inside the luxuriously appointed and newly completed Iraqi capitol, the National Assembly speaker called for order.

  One by one, all 434 men and 16 women—some in finely tailored suits from London and Paris and New York, others in the traditional robes of the Arab sheikhs—took their seats and grew quiet, eager to understand why they had been summoned on such short notice and with such secrecy.

  “Members of Parliament and distinguished guests and neighbors, I realize many of you have come a great distance at your own personal expense and with very little notice. It is my honor to welcome you to the city of Babylon,” the speaker began to polite applause. “On behalf of our president and our people, I want to thank you personally for joining us for what I believe will prove to be a most historic event. For most of you, this is your first time inside the walls of this great city. We hope it will not be your last. Indeed, we will do everything we can to make your stay here as enjoyable as possible. Please do not hesitate to ask if there is anything you need.

  “For many years, as you know, Baghdad was our capital, but as you can see, it is no longer. Why? you may ask. It is a reasonable question and there is a simple answer. Baghdad, my friends, was Saddam’s capital, the capital of a past we wish to forget. Babylon, on the other hand, is our future—not just mine or my colleagues’ but yours as well. President Al-Hassani and I firmly believe that together we can build something great, something enduring, something that will cause the whole world to stop and take notice, and this is why you have been invited here tonight.”

  * * *

  From his seat, Mustafa Al-Hassani looked out over the packed chamber.

  It was being used for the very first time, and even though he had approved every detail in the design phase, now that it was finished, he could not help but admire its marble pillars and crystal chandeliers and handsome mahogany desks. It was the perfect venue for this decisive event.

  He scanned the crowd, taking special care to make eye contact with each and every one of the fifty VIPs who had accepted his personal invitation, assembled from across North Africa, the Middle East, Turkey, and the former Soviet Union. They were not heads of state, of course, for most of those had perished in the firestorm. But they were men and women of great respect and influence, a potpourri of ministers and deputy ministers and tribal leaders and CEOs who happened to have had the good fortune of being far from their capitals when the tragedy struck. Now their countrymen back home were looking to them to rebuild their devastated nation-states as they struggled to comprehend the loss of family members, friends, and business and political allies. But the question looming large over the heads of all those now assembled was, where—and how—could they begin?

  As he surveyed the audience, Al-Hassani was a cauldron of mixed emotions. In many ways, he—like them—was still in shock. Tehran and Moscow were all but gone. So were Riyadh, Kuwait City, and Tripoli, and cities such as Beirut, Tunis, Ankara, and Tashkent had fared little better. Aside from Babylon itself, only Cairo, Amman, and Rabat seemed to have been spared the magnitude of destruction the other major Middle Eastern Islamic capitals had faced.

  Yet at the same time, Al-Hassani privately found himself relishing the apocalyptic turn of events. In one single, horrifying, history-altering day, the leaders and military forces of all of his enemies—save the Israelis—had been wiped off the face of the earth. For the moment he didn’t know how or why; nor did he care. All he knew for sure was that his initial assessment was as true today as it had been three months earlier.

  He had been given a gift, an opportunity unparalleled, perhaps, since the days of the great Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar. The ancient empire of his ancestors had once stretched from the mountains of Iran in the east to the western deserts of Egypt, from Saudi Arabia in the south to Georgia and lower Russia in the north. And now events were conspiring in his favor to rebuild it.

  Who could now prevent him from consolidating his control over the same territory, a vast and wealthy region of more than half a billion people and two-thirds of the world’s known energy supplies? The Americans? The European Union or the Chinese? Not likely. They all saw him as an ally, not an enemy.

  Indeed, if he played his cards shrewdly, the U.S., the E.U., and the entire United Nations would soon all but beg him to take this enormous burden off their shoulders. After all, it was one thing to “nation b
uild” in some poor, war-torn, despotic African jungle. It was quite another to rebuild the economic and political infrastructure of a region as vital to the global economy as the oil-rich Middle East.

  Who else was going to do it? Iraq was the only major OPEC member left standing. The industrialized world was desperate to get oil flowing out of Saudi Arabia, Iran, the Gulf, and the Caspian Sea once again. And with the price of oil north of two hundred dollars a barrel since the Day of Devastation, hundreds of billions of dollars were already pouring into Iraqi coffers. Soon trillions would be. Why not offer the world Iraq’s help in rebuilding the drilling, pumping, and refining facilities throughout the region needed to bring sanity back to global energy prices?

  For a small price, of course.

  10

  MONDAY, JANUARY 12 – 7:32 p.m. – BABYLON, IRAQ

  Al-Hassani suddenly heard his name echo through the hall.

  He saw the gathering of dignitaries rise to give him a standing ovation. How far he had come, he now realized, further than he had ever imagined, and it was as intoxicating as it was surreal. He basked for a few moments in the warmth of his colleagues’ affection, then slowly rose and made his way to the podium to share his vision with a people perishing without one.

  Without the aid of notes, he greeted each of the visiting VIPs by name and expressed his condolences for their losses, and then he said, “The Iraqi people share in your suffering. We have seen the horror that has been inflicted upon you. We have heard the cries of the suffering. We have responded as quickly as we could, but this is only the beginning. You have my word, and that of the people of Iraq—we will move heaven and earth to help you recover and rebuild; you will not be left alone.”