Dead Heat

  "What do you mean, everything?" Bennett asked.

  "I mean everything," Doron repeated.

  "Even the peace proposal Lucente has been shopping around?" "Even that," Doron said.

  Yet again, Doron had caught Bennett off guard. Breathing life into the Arab-Israeli peace process seemed laughable, after all. Bennett had all but given up hope, especially since work

  on the Temple had begun. Perhaps his tactical pessimism had gotten the better of him.

  "You would really consider Lucente's plan?" Bennett inquired, still not believing he had heard the prime minister correctly.

  "Between you and me, it's the best plan I've seen so far," Doron said. "And you're ready to make real compromises?" Bennett pressed further.

  "Yes," Doron said.

  "The West Bank? The Golan Heights? Water? The right of return? East Jerusalem?"

  "Maybe not the right of return, but everything else, yes," Doron said. "We're ready to agree to nearly all of his suggested compromises. What's more, we're ready to begin full diplomatic relations with all of our neighbors—including Iraq—immediately. We are ready to sign a comprehensive peace treaty immediately. You tell me when. You tell me where—

  Brussels, Rome, Babylon, wherever; it doesn't matter. I'll be there. I'll sign on the dotted line. And Lucente can have the grand ceremony he's been longing for. So long as he and

  everyone else in the U.N. understands that the Third Temple is absolutely nonnegotiable.

  Period. Is that clear enough for you?"

  12:49 P.M.-AN IRAQI MILITARY HELICOPTER, EN ROUTE TO MOSUL

  Khalid Tariq was enraged.

  His face red and his temples throbbing, he had already popped a pill for his high

  blood pressure that morning. It wasn't working. He popped another.

  "How much longer?" he barked, feeling beads of perspiration form on his upper lip and around his collar.

  "We're almost there, sir," the pilot said. "We should be on the ground in less than ten minutes."

  Tariq didn't think he could wait that long. Within the past hour, Kurdish leaders in

  southern Turkey and northwestern Iran had held a joint press conference in what was left of Ankara, formally declaring their independence. They had already cabled word to U.N.

  Secretary-General Salvador Lucente, requesting recognition of their new "Democratic Republic of Kurdistan." Reuters and the Turkish news services were reporting what had been rumored for days: that Kurdish leaders in the Iraqi province of Arbil would soon be

  declaring their secession from Iraq to join the new Kurdish state.

  On Tariq's phone was a text message from the Iraqi intelligence station chief in Arbil.

  He reported at least two dozen Kurdish leaders were holed up in the governor's palace and had been meeting for the past several hours. Electronic surveillance indicated the topic was how quickly to make their announcement and how seriously they should take Al-Hassani's

  threat to use force to stop them from seceding.

  At Tariq's command, nearly two hundred tanks and some 150,000 Iraqi ground forces

  were now mobilizing in Mosul and moving slowly but steadily toward Arbil, the provincial capital, Kirkuk, and Sulaymaniyah. For the moment, it was merely a show of force,

  designed to convince the Kurdish leaders that they were making a fatal mistake. But Tariq was not a man of hesitation. If the Kurds wanted to commit suicide, so be it. He for one wouldn't lose any sleep over invading their oil-rich province and crushing their insolence once and for all.

  Tariq speed-dialed the senior military commander in Mosul.

  "Get me General Qassim," he demanded when a subordinate answered.

  "Yes, sir; right away, sir," came the reply.

  A moment later, he was patched through.

  "If they were moving at full speed, General, how soon can your lead mechanized units be rolling down the streets of Kirkuk?"

  "Within the hour," the general replied. "Why?"

  "Then get them moving at full speed."

  "Yes, sir," the general replied. "But, if you don't mind my asking, sir—are you sure this is the wisest course of action?"

  "I do mind you asking, General," Tariq retorted. "Just do your job. Let me worry about the political strategy. I'll see you in ten."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Tariq," the general said. "Consider it done."

  * * *

  "Mr. President, its Chuck Murray. Thanks for taking my call."

  Oaks hadn't talked to MacPherson's former press secretary since Murray had left the

  White House to join a big-ticket PR firm in New York and write a book.

  "It's good to hear your voice, Chuck," he replied. "Are Tammy and the kids okay?

  Where are you right now?"

  "I'm in Chicago, Mr. President," Murray explained, noting he had planned to attend the GOP convention but had skipped it at the last minute because his wife and daughters weren't feeling well. "We were lucky," he said somberly, "not that we feel like it."

  Murray offered his condolences and his help if the president needed anything.

  "As a matter of fact, I could use your help, Chuck," the president replied. "Are Tammy and the girls well enough for you to be away for a few days?"

  "They are mostly frightened at the moment, sir."

  "I imagine they're terrified."

  "But Tammy's mom is in town. She's been here helping the last few days anyway.

  Why? What do you need, sir?"

  "Head to the airport," Oaks said. "I'm sending a jet for you. We're going to need a lot of help shaping a message and getting it out over the next few days. Longer, really, but let's just take things a few days at a time."

  "Actually, sir, that's why I'm calling," Murray said.

  "What do you mean?" Oaks asked.

  "I'd be honored to come and help, Mr. President," Murray explained. "But you need to go on television quickly—as soon as possible—and talk to the American people."

  "I'll do that later this morning," the president demurred. "I've got a staffer working on some remarks as we speak."

  "With all due respect, Mr. President, it can't wait for later. You have to do something now, in the next few minutes."

  "It's the middle of the night."

  "Sir, do you really think anyone is sleeping?" Murray said. "Everyone is up. All over the country. All over the world. They're up. They're watching TV, if they have power.

  They're surfing the Internet, if they can. They're consuming every morsel of news they

  possibly can. And now they need the president of the United States to come out and

  reassure them, tell them exactly what's happening—no holds barred—and let them know

  that you'll be giving them regular updates over the next few days."

  "Chuck, really, I'm in the middle of—"

  But Murray interrupted him. "Mr. President, forgive me, but please— everyone knows we're on the brink of nuking someone. People are terrified. They don't know what's

  happened, not for sure. They don't know what's coming next. They know MacPherson is

  dead. They've seen one picture of you being sworn in on some dinky little executive plane, not Air Force One. They need a leader. They need to hear from you. And they need it now."

  Oaks pondered that for a few moments. "Perhaps you're right. What do you

  recommend?"

  For the next ten minutes, Murray walked the president through some suggested remarks.

  He didn't have access to classified data, of course, but he urged the president to be as candid as possible. Only the truth—as hard as it was going to be to hear—would bond him to the American people and give him the credibility to rally the nation for the war that was coming. Ten minutes weren't nearly enough, but they were all Oaks had.

  When they hung up, the president ordered General Briggs to set up a briefing room

  and a satellite feed. There could be no mention or visual hint of where he was. But Murray was rig
ht. He couldn't hide, much less appear to. Too much was at stake.

  2:54 A.M. MST-NORAD OPERATIONS CENTER

  Events were moving too fast, but Oaks had no choice.

  He made some brief televised remarks, then got back to business, joining just-sworn-in

  Vice President Lee Alexander James, Defense Secretary Burt Trainor, and Lieutenant

  General Charlie Briggs for another secure videoconference. Together, they listened to a replay of the NSA intercept of Bennett's call with the Israeli prime minister.

  "What do you make of it, gentlemen?" Oaks asked his war council. "I'd like to get my hands on that source," Briggs said.

  "Me too," Trainor said, "but that's not going to happen. The Israelis will never give up a mole inside a hostile government, and it doesn't really matter. The question is, do we believe Doron? Do we trust him? Because if we do, we're about to go to war with North

  Korea instead of China."

  "That's a big assumption to make based on the reporting of one source," James said.

  "What are we hearing from the ROK?"

  "South Korea has nothing conclusive as of yet, but there is no doubt President Woo believes the North is about to attack," the SecDef responded. "But think about it, sir. We really don't have any proof that China's involved in this thing. And Doron makes an

  important point: why would Beijing attack us? It doesn't compute. They have everything

  to lose and nothing to gain. But Pyongyang is just crazy enough to try to pull off

  something like this. And I must remind you, Mr. President, that what Doron's source is

  saying is consistent with everything I heard at the meeting of Asian-Pacific defense

  ministers I met with in Tokyo. The DPRK has canceled all military leaves. In recent weeks, they've been pre- positioning additional fuel, food, medicine, and other supplies to forward areas. We've been seeing increased activity around missile sites and air bases. That's what President Woo is so worried about. Just before Mac's speech at the convention—God rest

  his soul—you'll recall that I sent a memo to Air Force One, laying out many of the specifics and suggesting several possible reasons for all this heightened activity."

  "Burt, how certain are you that North Korea is the enemy here, not China?"

  The SecDef thought about that for a few moments and then said, "We obviously need

  to gather more evidence, Mr. President, but yes, I am beginning to think there is a credible case here that Pyongyang and not Beijing was responsible for these attacks and may very well be preparing to move against one of our most important Asian allies."

  "What about the source's claim that the warheads that hit us used plutonium from

  Yongbyon?" the president asked. "How quickly can we verify or discredit that?"

  "Mr. President, I've already dispatched four WC-135W Constant Phoenix jets, one over each city," Briggs reported.

  "English, General; I need English," Oaks insisted.

  "Sorry, sir," Briggs said. "The Constant Phoenix is an atmospheric collection aircraft, a modified C-135. They operate out of the 45th Reconnaissance Squadron at Offutt Air

  Force Base in Nebraska, sir. Each plane has external devices that collect particulates from the atmosphere. A compressor system analyzes the air samples collected in holding spheres.

  They can detect radioactive clouds in real time. Bottom line, Mr. President, these guys are high-tech 'sniffers."

  "Like the ones we used over North Korea in '06?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. President," Briggs said. "The very same."

  Bobby Caulfield quietly entered the conference room and slipped the president a note:

  "Your wife just landed at Peterson. Will be here shortly." The president nodded and continued with Briggs.

  "How soon will you have results?" he asked, the urgency in his voice unmistakable.

  "Well, sir . . ." Briggs paused as he made some fast calculations. "It's going to take a few days to collect everything. I'd say another week or so to analyze the data, at least, maybe two weeks. It depends on a lot of variables, sir."

  "Forget it, General," the president said. "We don't have two weeks. Tell the air force they've got two days. I need to know if the bombs that were used against us were

  plutonium, and if they were, did the plutonium come from either of the reactors at

  Yongbyon, North Korea? If not, then I need to know where it did come from. You got

  that?"

  "Well, yes, sir, Mr. President," Briggs stammered, "but I—"

  "Two days, General," the president said again. "Not a second more."

  12:00 P.M.-ROUTE 15, JUST NORTH OF AMMAN

  Flashes of lightning lit up the rapidly darkening sky.

  Bennett glanced at his watch. It was already noon. They still had at least another

  fifteen or twenty minutes to go. But there was nothing he could do. He reached into a

  cooler beside him, finding an icy bottle of water for himself and one for the man who had saved Erin's life.

  Dr. Kwamee gratefully accepted the bottle, took a long sip, and then turned up the air-

  conditioning another notch. As the rain increased, the windows were beginning to fog.

  "So," Bennett said after a long silence, "the Mossad?"

  Dr. Kwamee shrugged. "I was grateful for all they did to extract my wife and me from Addis Ababa," he replied. "Not just us, of course. There were more than eight thousand of us they came to rescue."

  There was a long pause.

  "That was a long time ago," Bennett said after a while.

  "It was," Kwamee agreed.

  "Why stay with the Mossad? Why not do something else?"

  The doctor shrugged again and increased the speed of the windshield wipers. The rain

  was coming down in torrents now. The roads were getting muddy.

  "I'd grown up in Ethiopia, Mr. Bennett—Ethiopia and Sudan, really. Spent a few years in Eritrea, in grade school, as well. I knew what the

  radical Muslims were up to. I could see they were preparing for a jihad against Israel. I couldn't just sit by. I wanted to do something . . . something to help."

  Bennett nodded and glanced back at the black SUV behind them. "How many men

  are on your team—total, that is?"

  "Sorry, Mr. Bennett. I cannot say."

  Bennett turned, wiped the fog off his window, and peered into the storm. "This was a really beautiful country once."

  Looking back, he wished he and Erin had taken some time off, poked around a little, and gotten to learn more about this fascinating land and its warm, hospitable people. By

  remaining neutral—or trying to, anyway— during the lead-up to the War of Gog and Magog, Jordan had largely been spared the level of destruction that Lebanon and Syria had

  experienced. Still, the firestorm had consumed every mosque, every Islamic school, every military base, and most military vehicles. The collateral damage had not been insignificant,

  and it was going to take a long time to recover.

  "Ever been here before?" Bennett asked.

  "No," Dr. Kwamee replied. "Before my training in Paris, I had never been outside of Africa before this—except to Mecca when I was a child."

  "Mecca?"

  "Yes, when I was very young, my parents refused to admit they were Jews, except to each other. They pretended to be Muslims when I was growing up."

  "Did they come out of Ethiopia with you back in '84?"

  "No," Dr. Kwamee said softly. "They were killed by a bomb in Dangila, on the border with Sudan."

  "Oh," Bennett said. "I'm so sorry."

  "Can you imagine?" the doctor said, slowing the ambulance as he weaved through the increasingly water-filled potholes on Route 15. "Two Jews, killed by jihadists not because they were Jews but because they were pretending to be Muslims. They thought they'd be

  safer that way. They thought I'd be safer."

  "How old were you when they died?" Bennett asked
as gently as he could.

  "Fifteen."

  "Were you with them at the time?"

  "I was," he said, tears filling his eyes. "We were in a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. I went to the bathroom. It was in the back. I was washing my hands when the bomb went off.

  I was covered with plaster and shards of glass. My arm was broken. My head was bleeding.

  I finally crawled out of the rubble and found the entire front section of the restaurant blown to pieces."

  "It must have been awful," Bennett said.

  Dr. Kwamee nodded. "I'd never seen anything like it. Blood everywhere. Broken glass.

  I searched desperately for my parents. They'd been sitting at a table near the front. It took a few minutes to climb through all the bodies and pieces of the collapsed ceiling, but I

  finally got to them."

  "Were they already dead?"

  "My father was. My mother was still breathing. She was bleeding profusely. There

  was a big blade—a cooking knife of some kind—stuck in her chest. I just stood there. I could see she was dying. But I didn't know what to do. I froze. Eventually, I held her in my arms. I was sobbing and screaming for help, but no one came. No one could hear me. And then

  just like that, she was gone."

  The two men drove in silence for a few miles. Then Bennett asked, "Is that why you became a doctor?"

  The man nodded. They drove another few miles in silence before he said, "I never went back to the mosque. I couldn't. I couldn't understand why Muslims were killing Muslims.

  And then I found my birth certificate, in with some of my parents' papers. It said I was a Jew. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what that meant or how it could be. But something inside me told me it was true, and it was time to learn about my heritage."

  "So what did you do?" Bennett asked.

  "I wasn't sure what to do," Dr. Kwamee replied. "I was all alone. My older brother had died of malaria. My younger brother died during childbirth. Most of my aunts and uncles were killed in the civil war. My one surviving uncle was still pretending to be a devout Muslim. He had taken me on the hajj, for crying out loud. There was no one to teach me what