The Last Days Page 8

  the financial services industry. Like Bennett, they typically got to work at five-thirty or six o’clock in the morning. Like him, none of them ever missed a day of work. They didn’t take sick days. They didn’t take personal days or mental health days or vacations. They were driven, like he was. They were obsessive, like he was. The difference was where they worked. Their firms rented space in the World Trade Center. They worked in the towers. He did not.

  GSX could have easily afforded space there, and Bennett would have loved to have an office somewhere north of the eightieth or ninetieth floors—the commanding heights, he called them. But at the time they were looking, the Trade Center didn’t have any space available that high, and Bennett didn’t want to consider anything lower. He eventually found the thirty-eighth floor of a high-rise office building overlooking Central Park. It wasn’t as high as he wanted. It didn’t have views as spectacular as those of some of the guys he’d gone to business school with. But something in his gut told him to take it. So he did. And now his friends were all dead.

  Like a bolt of lightning, the message hit the satellite.

  It flashed to Gibraltar. From there, it was cross-linked to the angry skies over Gaza and was instantaneously received by the Trojan Spirit II SATCOM system onboard Predator Six. It was decrypted and fed into the hard drive. Unseen at four thousand feet up and five miles out, ttie electro-optic, infrared Versatron Skyball 18 immediately engaged its spotter lens, then its zoom lens, then ran a cross-check.

  A fraction of a second later, Predator Six put the Jeep squarely in its sights, fired a laser at its engine block, locked on, and fed the image and targeting data back to the ground station on Gibraltar, where it was shot back to Langley. All systems were green.

  Tracker made his recommendation. Mitchell concurred.

  The AGM-114-C Hellfire launched clean.

  Screaming toward its prey at Mach 2, the six-foot-long, $25,000 missile was nearly as big as the men it targeted. It left no trail. It made no sound. It was essentially invisible to the naked eye. Seventeen seconds later, it slammed unannounced through the front windshield and turned the Jeep into a death trap.

  The explosion stunned them all.

  The Jeep was gone. A moment later, convinced they faced no other im mediate threats—at least for a few moments—Bennett slowed down and pulled the limo over to the side. When they were safely stopped on the shoulder, he turned and stared at the burning remains. He was grateful to be alive, but couldn’t speak. It didn’t make sense. What had just happened? His enemies had just been consumed by fire—but how? It was a miracle, That’s all he could think of, and he didn’t believe in miracles.

  Galishnikov also stared out the back window. They were safe, that much he knew. But he badly wanted to be back in Jerusalem, at home with his wife and a good bottle of vodka. Sa’id lifted his head. He got up off the floor and sat back on the seat, staring at the fires behind him. He, too, wanted to be home with his wife and four sons. This was more than he’d bargained for. Perhaps he’d made a terrible mistake. Perhaps he’d been wrong to go into business with Galishnikov, or get mixed up in the peace process. He was sure Galishnikov felt that way. He’d always suspected that just under the surface his Russian Jewish friend despised the Palestinians and thought of them all as terrorists, just as he suspected most Israelis did.

  But that really wasn’t fair. Galishnikov couldn’t have been nicer to him and his family and those who worked for Sa’id’s company. But didn’t all that was happening just prove the Palestinians couldn’t be trusted, that they were a bloodthirsty and barbaric people, that they wouldn’t be satisfied until they drove the Jews into the sea?

  It didn’t prove that at all, of course. This wasn’t the work of all Palesti nians. It was the work of a few extremists, hell-bent on destroying any pros pects for peace. Sa’id knew that. He knew it all too well. But did Galishnikov? Did Bennett or McCoy? How could they all have come so far and achieved so little? Actually, it was worse than that. Maybe their vision of Arab-Israeli peace and prosperity was naive, even dangerous. It was now clear to Sa’id, they’d be lucky just to make it through the day.

  A cheer went up inside the war room.

  Mitchell got back on the line with Kirkpatrick.

  “You see that?” he asked.

  “Sure did,” said the National Security advisor. “I’ve been giving the VP a play-by-play. He’s on the other line—about to call the president and give him the good news. How soon can you get here from Langley?”

  “Twenty minutes?” said Mitchell.

  “Make it fifteen.”

  McCoy glanced at Bennett.

  She knew what he was thinking. After all these years, she could read him like a book. And he knew she could, which made him uncomfortable. So she didn’t say anything. He’d talk when he was ready. Until then, it was better to leave him alone with his thoughts. She looked back at the wreckage and silently said a prayer of thanks. They were all still alive, and she knew why. She knew exactly what had happened. She knew what Marsha Kirkpatrick had just authorized, what Jack Mitchell had just ordered, what Danny Tracker had just orchestrated. It wasn’t exactly fire from heaven, the kind that destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, not that far from where they now were. But it was certainly a miracle. Of that, she had no doubt.

  Andrews was dead ahead.

  MacPherson could see the snow and ice-covered trees of Prince George’s County, Maryland, as Air Force One approached the home of the Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing, the Eighty-ninth Security Forces Squadron, and some 24,000 military and civilian personnel who lived and worked on the country’s premier air force base.

  The call from the VP was certainly good news—but now his thoughts were shifting back to Stuart Iverson’s fate.

  Bennett and CIA director Jack Mitchell were taking a completely opposite position from Justice and the FBI. What message did it send if people with information that could lead to the arrest and conviction of terrorist cells became convinced they couldn’t cut a deal with the U.S. government? Of course Iverson deserved the chair or worse. But this was no longer about one man. It was about the fate of a nation in the fight of its life with a terrorist network about which the CIA obviously knew far too little.

  “Andrews control, this is Air Force One, over,” radioed the pilot.

  “Go ahead, Air Force One, this is Andrews.”

  “Request permission to land, over.”

  “Roger that, Air Force One. You ‘re cleared for immeiiate landing on runway One-Lima. We’re at Threatcon Delta. The base is locked down, ready for your arrival.”

  “Good to hear, Andrews. Gambit’s wings ready when we get there?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir. Marine One is fired up and ready to roll. Apache security package is also on the tarmac and ready when you are. “

  “Thank you, Andrews. ETA, four minutes.”

  “Roger that, and welcome home, Air Force One.’ “Thanks, guys—it’s good to be back.”

  At Langley, rivers of information were now pouring in.

  It came in from Gaza Station, from the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv and the consulate in East Jerusalem. It came from Cairo Station in Egypt and Beirut Station in Lebanon. Reports were also beginning to flow in from Damascus and Amman and Riyadh, and it was threatening to overwhelm the Agency’s ability to sort, process, and analyze it all in a timely, effective manner.

  CIA operations officers in the field were pressing their informants hard to give them any scraps of hard data or rumors or whispers—anything at all— that might help explain how this could have happened and what else might be coming. At the same time, NSA and CIA analysts were simultaneously trying to track all kinds of electronic intercepts, as well as Arabic radio and television coverage of the mushrooming crisis.

  The problem was that this was a classic case of drinking from a fire hose. They had too much information and it was coming in too fast. The buzz on the Arab street and among foreign embassies and intelligence services and terrorist
factions—what the CIA typically called chatter—had become a deaf ening roar. Theories and threats and counterthreats were being bandied about throughout the region. But what was real? What was true?

  “Snapshot, this is Prairie Ranch, do you copy?”

  Kirkpatrick’s voice startled Bennett and McCoy. There’d been no traffic on the Black Tower wireless radio system for the last few minutes, just an eerie silence, a silence that spoke volumes about just how alone in Gaza they really were.

  “Prairie Ranch, this is Snapshot—go ahead,” said McCoy.

  “You guys OK?”

  “We are—just trying to catch our breath. Thanks for the help.”

  “Hey, what good is a forty-million-dollar toy if you can’t take it out for a spin?”

  Bennett jumped into the conversation.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “You ‘re wondering why I sent you south?”

  “You got it.”

  “It’s pretty simple, actually—do you know where the Bat Cave is?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Bat Cave,” Kirkpatrick repeated. “McCoy knows what I’m talking about.”

  “Look, we haven’t got a lot of time to chitchat down here.”

  “You mean Gaza Station?” McCoy asked.

  “Exactly—the guys in the field call it the Bat Cave”

  “I’ve spoken with JZ,” said McCoy, regaining her bearings. “But no, I don’t know where it is.”

  “Stay put. I’ve got a guy coming to get you. Let me check his ETA. “

  The line was silent. They were on hold.

  McCoy opened the glove compartment and fished out a pair of high-powered night-vision binoculars. She scanned the rods, apartment buildings, and storefronts around them. She could see a VW ran about a mile and a half away down the coastal road. It was approaching without headlights or lights of any kind. The night-vision technology picked up the heat signature of the engine and McCoy used the binoculars to zoom in. No license plate. No markings of any kind. But it was coming up fast.

  Was it hostile or friendly? They were about to find out.

  “Mr. President, you’ve got a call from the vice president.” “Put him through. Bill, that you? What have you got?” “Looks like Bennett and McCoy may be all right—we’re trying to get them to Gaza Station. I’ll let you know the minute they’re secure.” “Good. I want Bennett and McCoy on the NSC videoconference.” “Yes, sir. Also, I talked with Doron. The Israelis are finalizing their mo bilization. They’re willing to hold off until they hear from you unless the fighting spills over. If Israelis start getting killed, Doron said they’ll go in immediately.”

  MacPherson didn’t know quite how to react to that yet. “We’re getting reaction in from around the world,” the VP continued. “Morocco’s king was the first to call. He’s furious at the extremists and offered any assistance we might need. Also, President Aznar called from Ma drid. Most of the NATO leaders are still there. We did a conference call with them. They sounded quite shaken up, actually, even the French. Paine was well liked, as you know. They’re all ready to help. They just want us to hold back the Israelis from doing anything rash.” I bet.

  “That was echoed by President Mubarak. He’s in Cairo until this evening. He’s supposed to fly to Geneva tonight for a U.N. conference. King Abdullah called from Jordan. He’s in Amman, also supposed to go to Geneva, but said he’s going to cancel his trip and monitor the situation. Like Doron, he’s worried the fighting could spill over. Both he and Mubarak condemned the attacks and offered intelligence and medical assistance. But both of them also insisted in very strong terms that we keep the Israelis from going in. They

  said an Israeli invasion of the territories would cause irreparable harm to the peace process.”

  “What peace process?” asked the president.

  “I know.”

  “Fine, anything else?”

  “Just condolences from the rest of Europe, Asia, Latin America. Russian president Vadim wants to talk as soon as you’ve got a spare second.”

  “Set that up for my return. That, and a call to Doron.”

  “You got it. Oh, I also just got a call from Achmed Chalabi in Baghdad. He said the new interim government is going to hold its first official news conference tonight. They’ll probably do it from one of Saddam’s palaces. Anyway, as you and I talked about at Camp David on Saturday, the interim government is ready to declare itself open for business, announce its members, its mandate, and its structure, and ask for a continued coalition presence to help stabilize the security situation, get the oil flowing and begin to establish civilian control. They’re also going to denounce these attacks in Gaza and call for an immediate Palestinian cease-fire.”

  “Really? That’s a change.”

  “Hold on, Kirkpatrick is e-mailing me something—she says Bud Norris at Secret Service is worried about possible attacks inside the U.S., particularly Washington, in the next few days.”

  “Anything solid?”

  “No, sir, just lots of chatter. But he’s concerned about a possible larger operational concept at play here.”

  “What does he recommend?”

  “Threat Level Orange.”

  “What does Lee think?” asked the president, referring to Secretary Lee Alexander James of the Department of Homeland Security.

  “The e-mail says Secretary James is in full agreement, sir.”

  “Then do it,” MacPherson said. “And put all U.S. forces at Threat Con dition Delta. The last thing we can afford is to get blindsided again.”

  He was known simply as Nadir, a.k.a. the Viper.

  Mohammed Jibril had heard a great deal about the gaunt little man, all of five feet six inches tall. But the two had never met. Nor would they. It wouldn’t be proper, much less safe. Jibril knew that Nadir was one of the most effective black ops specialists in all of Saddam’s fedayeen forces, and one of the most fearsome killers on the face of the planet. He knew Nadir was thirty-nine, born just outside of Baghdad, the son of Palestinian refugees.

  He also knew that Nadir had been personally trained by Daoud Juma as an expert in the use of C4 plastic explosives. That much he knew for sure.

  What he did not know—what Jibril wanted to know but couldn’t seem to find out—was how the Viper had escaped detection, much less arrest, for so long. Practically speaking, of course, it didn’t really matter. But it would be nice to know his secrets.

  If he was only a fraction as good as Jibril’s sources said he was, the Viper would be well worth the $150,000 in U.S. currency just wired to his father’s Swiss bank account. He’d better be.

  Nadir stared out the window of the Air France Boeing 777. Inbound to Mexico City from Berlin, after a transfer in Paris, he’d already been traveling for more than thirteen hours. It was dark and early and he was exhausted. But at 35,000 feet over the Caribbean, he found himself restless and unable to sleep. Soon he’d be on the ground, he’d secure a rental car, and stay for night. He’d figure out how best to cross into the U.S. and reach his strike point on time. Theoretically, it couldn’t be simpler, and in a few days it would all be over.

  Air Force One landed amidst airtight security.

  Three F-15s circled overhead. Humvees blocked each base entrance. Sol diers patrolled the perimeter. Bomb-sniffing dogs worked their way through the hangars and administrative buildings as Secret Service sharpshooters, SWAT teams, and surveillance teams kept a watchful eye over the tarmac and the woods nearby. News crews were asked not to broadcast the arrival live, though they were allowed to videotape the landing.

  Surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents, “Gambit”—the Secret Service code name for James MacPherson—soon boarded Marine One. Still recovering from the terrorist attack that had nearly taken his life less than a month before, the president was confined to a wheelchair. He’d quickly grown tired of it, but remained too fragile to do without it. Special Agent Jackie Sanchez directed her team to lift Gambit and his whee
lchair and slide him into place through the side door of the gleaming green-and-white mil tary helicopter and make sure he was secure. With the president was Press Secretary Chuck Murray, Defense Secretary Burt Trainor, and “Football,” the military aide carrying the nuclear launch codes.

  The short hop from Andrews to the South Lawn of the White House would only take a few minutes, but it would be bumpy. The weather was rapidly worsening, and having just read the latest forecast from the National Weather Service, Sanchez was anxious. An ice storm was descending from

  the Northeast. In New York and New Jersey, temperatures were plunging into the teens and could drop to single digits overnight. Ice and snow were making airports and roads treacherous. Across the mid-Atlantic, temperatures were hovering just around the freezing mark, but were expected to drop precipitously overnight. For now, a nasty freezing rain was battering much of the coast, beginning in Delaware and extending as far south as Richmond. Road crews were already spreading salt and sands on the roads to keep them open, and Virginia Power was bracing for falling limbs, downed lines, and possible blackouts.

  It was time to get Gambit out of harm’s way.

  “Prairie Ranch, this is Snapshot.”

  Bennett revved the engine again.

  “Go ahead, Snapshot,” Kirkpatrick responded.

  Bennett watched McCoy reach down on the floor by her feet to pick up her Uzi and check its clip. It was full. She clicked off the safety and set the submachine gun on her lap. Then she reached under the seat and pulled out a spare Uzi, double-checked the clip, and handed it to Bennett.

  “Prairie Ranch, we’ve got a dark brown VW bus approaching at twelve o’clock,” McCoy radioed to the Situation Room. “Can you see that from your angle?”

  “Roger that, Snapshot,” said Kirkpatrick. “It’s the Batmobile. “

  Bennett looked at McCoy but said nothing. The Bat Cave? The Batmobile? Maybe it all seemed clever to Kirkpatrick and her world, but Bennett was in no mood for kiddy code names and James Bond wannabees. For her part, McCoy couldn’t care less what Bennett thought at the moment. She’d done her job. She’d kept him safe this far. And she was glad for backup, whatever it was called.