Dead Heat

  mostly undercover—ever since."

  "But you really are a doctor, aren't you?" Bennett asked, suddenly wondering about the medical care Erin had been receiving.

  "Yes, yes, of course," Kwamee assured him as he continued driving southward, trying to get to Amman by noon. "Board certified, trained originally in Paris, worked in a number of refugee camps in Africa in the early eighties, then was assigned to work for a while at Hadassah when I first got to Israel as I learned Hebrew."

  Relieved that his wife had been treated by a professional medic, not merely a spy,

  Bennett exhaled and then turned back to the satphone.

  "Well, Mr. Prime Minister, I'm afraid saying thank you doesn't seem to suffice, but I need to say it anyway. Thank you. For both of us. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Doron said. "I'm just sorry that our men weren't able to help you faster when Erin became so sick. They were about to change shifts and were all on a

  conference call with the director of the Mossad. But I'm grateful everything seems to have

  turned out okay."

  "As am I," Bennett said. "But I must ask you something."

  "What's that?" Doron asked.

  "You said you're aware of the operation I'm involved in now?" Bennett asked.

  "Absolutely. In fact, we helped the NSA track the call and are assisting the DOD in putting together a strike team in Bangkok even as we speak."

  "So you think whoever's calling me is telling the truth and is really involved in the attacks?"

  "Honestly, Jonathan, I couldn't say yet," Doron conceded. "He clearly knew the attacks were coming. That suggests to me he's deeply involved. But whether he can actually stop the next attacks, I don't know. It's just too early to say."

  Bennett felt a wave of guilt come over him. "I should have called the White House or Langley or the FBI or somebody the minute I got that first call."

  "That's okay," Doron said. "My team did it for you."

  "Did what?" Bennett asked.

  "As soon as we intercepted the call and heard the threat, Avi Zadok immediately tried to contact Danny Tracker at Langley, may he rest in peace. Unfortunately, by the time they connected, it was too late. The missiles were inbound."

  Bennett leaned back in the passenger seat and stared out the window, emotionally drained and feeling exhausted.

  "Mr. Prime Minister?" he asked finally.

  "Yes, Jonathan?"

  "How much danger do you really think Erin and I are in?"

  "You don't want to know," Doron said.

  2:21 A.M. MST-NORAD OPERATIONS CENTER

  "Orlando Police Department, how may I help you?"

  "I need to speak to Chief Williams, please."

  "Now? It's the middle of the night."

  "I'm aware of that, ma'am. My name is Bobby Caulfield. I'm a special assistant to the president. It's quite urgent."

  "The president of what?"

  "The president of the United States, ma'am."

  "Oh, my . . . well, I suppose I could connect you to his cell phone."

  "Thank you."

  "One moment, please."

  As Caulfield went on hold, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He felt awful—

  physically, emotionally. He was having to force himself not to watch any of the umpteen TV

  monitors throughout the NORAD complex. The news was too grisly. And all he was hearing

  from the president and the commanders around him suggested the world was about to go

  from bad to worse. He didn't know if he could make it through the day. Perhaps the end of the world really was at hand. What future did any of them have? He was trying to stay focused on small, measurable tasks. Things he could have control over. Ways of putting one foot in front of the other. But it wasn't working. He'd had no luck tracking down any of his own family. He didn't have much hope of finding Bennett's. He didn't have much hope at all.

  A sleepy voice finally came on at the other end of the line. "Hello?"

  "Chief Williams, please."

  "Speaking. Who's this?"

  "Sir, my name is Bobby Caulfield. I work for the president of the United States. I'm calling you from NORAD Operations Center in Colorado Springs on behalf of the

  president."

  "What can I do for you?"

  Caulfield's eyes were blurring. His head was pounding. His mouth was dry. It was all he could do to stay focused, but he tried desperately to sound professional and get this task done, if for no other reason than to keep his mind off the millions who lay dead and dying on both coasts.

  "The president has asked me to track down a woman who lives in the Orlando area.

  I have phone numbers for her—home and cell—but no one is answering. I'm wondering if

  you could send a patrol car over to her home, see if she's there, talk to the neighbors. We

  need to find her. It's very important."

  * * *

  Mustafa Al-Hassani's entire demeanor had changed.

  After starting out so poorly—indeed, almost disastrously—his meeting with the U.N.

  secretary-general had actually turned out far better than he had ever expected. Salvador Lucente not only seemed to be on board with his vision to work together to craft a new

  world order in their own image, he had all but committed himself to invading Israel and seizing control of Jerusalem and the Temple itself, albeit, "when the timing was right."

  When Kalid Tariq, Al-Hassani's chief of staff and senior political strategist, had

  pressed him on the details of that timing, Lucente suggested that if a comprehensive peace treaty between Israel and the United States of Eurasia could be signed, sealed, and

  delivered within the next six months or so, he could foresee "dealing" with the Zionists in the next three to four years, perhaps even sooner. That would seem like an eternity to AlHassani's governors and chief advisors.

  But Lucente had a point, Al-Hassani realized: first things first. Their top priority had to be consolidating global political, economic, and military power into their own hands and making sure they had strong but loyal allies all around them. That would take some

  time. But once accomplished, they could exterminate the Jews and seize the Holy Land and the Holy City, and who would dare stop them?

  Al-Hassani led Lucente into his sumptuous presidential dining hall for a lavish

  afternoon banquet that had been planned by Tariq.

  "So, my friend, where would you propose we start?" the Iraqi leader asked as they took their seats on the dais.

  "China," Lucente whispered back without hesitation.

  Al-Hassani was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean we absolutely cannot—under any conditions—let the U.S. declare war on the

  PRC," Lucente insisted. "We need China too badly. Her consumers, her military, her influence in Asia—we need them all."

  "That's not going to be easy," Al-Hassani said. "My sources tell me the U.S. is increasingly convinced Beijing is to blame."

  "Do you think they are?" Lucente asked.

  "No, I don't, actually," the Iraqi replied.

  "Neither do I," the secretary-general agreed. "As you know, I was just in Beijing. As far as I could tell, they were completely caught off guard by this. But it was also clear that they are deeply worried the Americans are going to single them out."

  "Do you still think I'm responsible?"

  Lucente smiled. "I take you at your word, Mustafa."

  "Good," Al-Hassani said. "Then who's your lead suspect?"

  The two men looked out at the room from their places of honor at the head table as

  hundreds of USE legislators, Cabinet officials, and senior military commanders filed into the hall and found their assigned seats.

  "I don't know," Lucente conceded, still talking only barely above a whisper to keep from being overheard. "And that's the problem. I'm afraid if the Americans don't get some solid proof—and fast—that someone
besides the Chinese did this, they're going to feel

  they have no choice but to do the unthinkable."

  "How far do you think the Americans will go?"

  "All the way," Lucente said.

  Al-Hassani was startled. "A full-scale retaliatory strike?"

  Lucente nodded.

  "ICBMs?"

  Lucente nodded again.

  "With nuclear warheads?" Al-Hassani asked.

  "Of course," Lucente said without hesitation. "Don't forget, Mustafa—Bill Oaks was the hawk-in-chief in the MacPherson administration, far more so than Marsha Kirkpatrick or Burt Trainor or even President MacPherson himself. Oaks has been warning about the

  Chinese threat for years. Indeed, if you read his speeches over the past twenty years or so, you'll find he's been far more worried about the Chinese than the Russians."

  "Look how wrong he was about that one," Al-Hassani said. "That's not how he sees it,"

  Lucente countered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I guarantee you if Bill Oaks were sitting with us right here, right now, he'd be

  telling us that as dangerous as the Russians were, they never attacked the U.S. with nuclear weapons. He'd also be telling us that his fears about the Chinese were spot-on. And I

  suspect he'd be telling us it was time to destroy them once and for all."

  "Sounds like you've had that conversation with him already," AlHassani said.

  "Not today, if that's what you mean," Lucente demurred. "But I've spent enough time with him to know how he thinks."

  "And you really think he'll go all the way."

  "I absolutely do," Lucente replied. "Unless we give him another suspect."

  12:30 P.M.-PRESIDENTIAL BANQUET HALL, BABYLON, IRAQ

  "The U.S. is going to attack somebody."

  Al-Hassani leaned forward in his chair and listened as Lucente continued.

  "You can count on it. Oaks will feel it is his moral and constitutional obligation to strike back fast and hard. It's not a matter of if, but when, and whom. And if we don't want it to be China—and I'm sure you'll agree, Mustafa, that its certainly not in our interests for the Americans to turn Beijing into a parking lot—then we've got to give the Americans another target, a convincing target, and quickly."

  The speaker of the parliament came over to the head table, greeted Al-Hassani and the

  secretary-general with a traditional Arab kiss on both cheeks, and expressed his condolences to Lucente for the tragic loss of U.N. life and property in Manhattan. Then, with Lucente's permission, the speaker called everyone to order and asked for a moment of silence "to honor all the innocent souls who have perished in today's unspeakable events in New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and Seattle" and to ask "the unseen hand of light that guides us all to bring the perpetrators of such crimes to justice swiftly and without mercy."

  Each man bowed his head and closed his eyes, and the room grew still and quiet.

  Then the speaker introduced President Al-Hassani, who, in turn, would introduce

  Lucente. As these were about to be the secretary-general's first public remarks since the attacks, dozens of television cameras and still photographers were on hand to capture the scene, and several international networks—including CNN, Sky News, and the BBC—were

  carrying the event live.

  It took all of Al-Hassani's years of discipline and willpower, much of it forged in the gulag during the reign of Saddam Hussein, to keep from smiling as he introduced Lucente.

  He could hear himself saying things to the august assembly like "this is a great day of sadness" and "we join the world in mourning for the American people."

  But the truth was, Al-Hassani felt no sadness. He had not mourned, nor did he plan to.

  The American people, in his view, had gotten what they deserved. Yes, they had

  "liberated" his country, but so had they occupied it. So had they desecrated it. So had they looted its people and its natural resources.

  What irony, he mused, as his lips uttered one banality after another about the suffering of a "wise and great people to whom the world owes a deep debt of gratitude." American Christians loved to quote the book of Revelation about the coming destruction of Babylon, about the merchants of the earth "crying out as they saw the smoke of her burning." Yet who was burning now?

  Ever since he had taken office and started rebuilding the ancient city of Babylon into the

  wealthiest and most powerful city in the modern age, AlHassani had heard pompous prophecy gurus go on their glitzy TV programs and raise millions of dollars from hapless morons in the audience by saying idiotic things like "Babylon, the great city, will be thrown down with violence and will not be found any longer" and "Woe, woe, the great city, Babylon, the strong city! For in one hour your judgment has come. And the merchants of the earth weep and mourn over her, because no one buys their cargoes any more—cargoes of gold and silver and precious stones. . . . In one hour such great wealth has been laid waste!" and "In one day, her plagues will come, pestilence and mourning and famine, and she will be burned up with

  fire; for the Lord God who judges her is strong."

  Yet who was being judged today—Babylon or Washington? Baghdad or New York?

  Fallujah or Los Angeles? Mosul or Seattle?

  He could not speak such things in public, of course. Only to Tariq. The last thing he

  could afford was to redirect the wrath of the American government—or what was left of

  it—from the People's Republic of China to the United States of Eurasia. Moreover, there were many world leaders who did feel a pang of sympathy for the Americans. If he and

  Lucente were to win them over, they would have to play upon such sympathies, not offend them. But just because he could not say such things did not mean

  he could not feel them. And feel them he did, with an intensity that was building by the hour.

  America was finished. The Great Satan was being consumed by fire. A new world order was emerging. And it was all going according to plan, Al-Hassani realized. He had literally had a dream about these very events when he was a six-year-old boy growing up in the

  outskirts of Baghdad. He had woken up in a cold sweat, terrified by all that he had seen and heard—terrified, yet strangely comforted as well. He had had the same stunningly

  vivid dream two more times over the years—once days before he had been released from

  prison and once just before the Day of Devastation. None of it had made any sense at the time. Yet now, incredibly, it was all coming to pass.

  Al-Hassani suddenly heard the roar of applause. He blinked hard and realized he had

  finished introducing Lucente, who was now standing at his side, feigning humility and

  drinking in the adulation. He gave Lucente a gentle hug—hoping somehow to convey in

  visual terms to a worldwide audience the "sorrow of a sympathetic nation" of which he had just spoken—and then took his seat.

  Lucente cleared his throat, wiped the tears from his eyes, then looked out over a sea of friendly faces and began spouting similar banalities about the Americans and their great losses and how the community of nations must rally together to stand with their

  brothers and sisters in North America on such a dark day. But after saying all the

  things Al-Hassani had expected to hear, Lucente said something he had not expected at

  all.

  "On behalf of the entire family of nations that I am honored to represent, I thank you for your heartfelt condolences, I thank your president for his generous offer to rebuild the U.N. headquarters, and I hereby accept."

  Al-Hassani gasped. He glanced at Tariq, standing against the back wall, surveying

  the crowd. Then he turned from the audience to look up at the secretary-general. Had he heard the man correctly?

  "We will count our losses and mourn our dead," Lucente continued. "But we will not be discouraged. We will not be depressed. We will not be
delayed in doing the work for

  which we have been called. We shall not be overcome with evil but overcome evil with good. We will press on to build a newer and stronger and more unified global community; we will start by building a newer, and stronger, and more glorious United Nations

  headquarters, and we will do so here in Babylon, this glorious symbol of the death and

  resurrection of a great and glorious city, state, and spirit."

  11:37 A.M.-PASSING THROUGH ANCIENT JERASH, EN ROUTE TO AMMAN

  Dark clouds were gathering overhead.

  The winds were shifting. They were coming from the west now, from the

  Mediterranean, not the desert. A rare summer storm was brewing. Bennett just hoped it

  wouldn't slow down their journey.

  A storm was building inside him as well. He was grateful, of course, that Erin's

  medical problems were only temporary, not life threatening, and even more so that he and the woman he loved so dearly were expecting their first child. He was grateful, too, for Prime Minister Doron's friendship and moved by how the Israeli leader, unbeknownst to

  him, had been looking out for his safety and Erin's nearly since the day they had arrived in Jordan.

  At the same time, he was devastated by the unspeakable horrors unfolding back home,

  by the rapidly mounting death toll in the U.S., by the loss of his dearest friends—the

  MacPhersons, Ken Costello, and Bob Corsetti chief among them—by his inability to track

  down and talk to his mom, and by the steadily intensifying fear that more attacks were

  coming soon if this plan he'd concocted with Secretary Trainor didn't work.

  What's more, Bennett felt sick to his stomach at the thought that untold millions of

  Americans who had died in the attacks might not be in a better place. The MacPhersons had been strong believers. He'd get to see them again. But so far as he knew, many of his

  closest friends had never gotten right with God. Ken Costello, for example, had been

  perhaps his closest friend in government. Yet to the best of his knowledge, Costello had never made the decision to accept Jesus Christ as his personal Savior and Lord, unless he'd done so since his last e-mail ten days earlier, which Bennett highly doubted.