Page 14 of The Last Days

  Are you actually the head of Ql ?

  Daoud’s mind began to race. He tried to understand what was happening. How could they know him? None of the papers he was carrying with him identified his name, much less his rank or mission. He didn’t have a driver’s license. The car was stolen so the registration couldn’t give him away. His credit cards were stolen. The cash he had with him was untraceable. The 9-mm was standard issue by Iraqi intelligence, the Mukhabarat, without serial

  numbers. Half the men on this road had to have the same kind of weapon with them.

  The desert night was cold but Daoud felt nothing. And then, a command went out in Arabic for all the men to put down their weapons. Everyone obeyed immediately. The cold steel barrel came off his ear. The steel-toed boot came off Daoud’s back. Daoud was quickly helped to his feet and dusted off. Then another command, and all the men bowed down to him.

  “We are Q-five,” said one man, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

  For a moment, Daoud had trouble accepting what was happening.

  “We are Q-eleven,” said another, still bowing but taking off his kaffiyah.

  Daoud still couldn’t believe it. These were fedayeen under his command. These were his men carrying out his orders—on their way to Syria, then to Germany and France, then on to Canada and the United States to complete the mission for which they had been hand chosen and relentlessly trained.

  All of them knew who Colonel Daoud Juma was. He was nearly a legend within Saddam Hussein’s special operations directorate. And now here he was, in person, standing in front of them. It had to be the divine intervention of Allah. These men wouldn’t kill him. They would kill for him.

  Daoud tried to shake the confusion from the edges of his mind, and began giving orders. Ten minutes later, all the vehicles were refueled. The men ate some of his food and were back on the road, heading to the Syrian border. Together.

  Ziegler finished speaking.

  It was a grim assessment, and Bennett thought it left them right back where they started. If the president accepted Doron’s offer, the Israelis would move in by nightfall and any chance for some kind of a peace deal being struck during the MacPherson administration would be lost. Moreover, the Israeli action could in fact trigger a wider war. But if the president refused Doron’s offer, and Palestinians slaughtered themselves on worldwide televi sion and the U.S. did nothing, wouldn’t the result be the same? Wouldn’t the U.S. be condemned around the world? Wouldn’t other Arab and Islamic forces be tempted to take matters into their own hands? Wouldn’t the pros pects for peace suffer the same fate as Arafat, Mazen, and Paine?

  The U.S. couldn’t exactly trust the U.N. to go in and restore order, and Congress would go ballistic if the president was even perceived as contem plating such a move. The U.S. itself had plenty of forces in the region, in Iraq and in the eastern Mediterranean. But they couldn’t exactly use them in Palestine. They were already occupying one Arab country. Invading the

  West Bank and Gaza wouldn’t exactly endear them to the local population, or bring them closer to their strategic objectives.

  In less than two hours, the president would address the nation, and the world. But what should he say? What did the U.S. want to achieve? What could it achieve?

  Galishnikov and Sa’id were emotionally and physically drained.

  They’d each seen men and women die before. But this was different. There was a savagery to the killings that neither of them had experienced before, Both men knew the history of the region, and the risks of living there. But neither had ever personally witnessed a suicide bombing. They’d never seen people vaporized. Nor had they ever expected to see Americans attacked like this.

  It had never dawned on them that they or anyone in this delegation might be in real physical danger. Like many people around the world, they sometimes had mixed feelings about American foreign policy and the role of the United States in trying to advance—some would say “impose”—her brand of democratic capitalism around the globe. But also like so many non-Americans, they still subconsciously thought of the U.S. as somehow invul nerable to attack.

  Obviously they were wrong. And now they knew it firsthand. From their “gilded cage”—Tariq’s private quarters—neither man was being allowed to call home or send and receive e-mails. Not yet, anyway. They could, if they wanted, watch satellite television and monitor the Internet off two notebook computers, one for each of them. But neither wanted to think about how many people were wounded and dying above them. They’d had enough of bloodshed and suffering. They’d had enough of wars and rumors of wars, So, alone and unsure of what Bennett and McCoy were doing or how long they might be here, they kept the TV and computers turned off. Each man mostly kept to himself. One showered and shaved. The other drank tea and

  read a new John Grisham novel. Eventually, Sa’id fell asleep on one of the bunk beds while Galishnikov dozed off in one of the overstuffed chairs.

  It was 6:23 A.M. Washington time, 1:23 in the afternoon in Gaza.

  More information and analysis wasn’t going to help. The president needed to get back to the Oval Office. He needed time to think and make some decisions. He thanked everyone for his and her counsel and asked each principal to continue coordinating throughout the morning through Marsha Kirkpatrick. He’d let them know what he finally decided through her. Agent Sanchez opened the door of the Situation Room and prepared to wheel the president out. Chuck Murray was waiting for them. He had to brief the press at 6:45 and had no idea what he was supposed to say.

  “Jon,” the president suddenly said, looking back ai the monitor. “You still there?”

  Bennett was just beginning to unhook his microphone.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I’m still here.”

  “One more thing, young man.”

  “What’s that?” Bennett asked, hoping to find out what the president was going to decide.

  “Don’t forget to call your mother.”

  And with that, the transmission went dead.

  The two men couldn’t have been more different.

  Both Galishnikov and Sa’id were firstborn children. Both were born into poverty. Both were the first in their families to graduate from college and the first to become professionals, a petroleum engineer and an investment banker, respectively. Each of them was forced to leave his homeland in his early twenties, Galishnikov because he emigrated from Russia to Israel, and Sa’id because he couldn’t make a living under the Arafat regime and had moved to the Persian Gulf where he became one of the world’s wealthiest Palestinians. But that’s where the similarities came to an end.

  Sa’id was a fatalist. He had seen his share of hardship. For all their tough talk and lofty pro-Palestinian rhetoric, most Egyptians, Jordanians, and Sau dis—most Arabs, actually—despised Palestinians and treated them, at best, as second-class citizens. For some, this planted the seeds of victimhood. But not for Sa’id. Over the years he’d become more optimistic about life. He’d seen challenges turn into opportunities. He’d seen his small investments pay

  big dividends, and his start-up companies become behemoths. He was con vinced that his fate was not in his own hands. Deep in his soul he believed unseen forces were guiding him, keeping him from harm, giving him a measure of success of which he’d never dreamed, and somehow protecting him from developing a hatred for the Jews that infected so many of his fellow Palestinians, and certainly each of his three brothers.

  Galishnikov, on the other hand, was a pessimist of the first order. He was absolutely convinced that utter disaster was always just around the corner, Sometimes—like today—it was hard to argue that he was wrong. Even be fore the attacks of the last few hours, Galishnikov was convinced that everything the two men had worked for was falling apart. He worried par ticularly about the new dynamics in Iraq. Yes, he was glad Saddam was gone. But suddenly he faced a fearsome new competitor.

  How much oil did the Iraqis really have? How many wells had been blown up and set on fire by S
addam’s forces? How badly had Iraq’s drilling, production, and refining facilities been damaged during the war? How badly had they atrophied during decades of neglect by dismal managers, poorly trained workers, shoddy workmanship, pathetic maintenance regimes, and the lack of readily available spare parts and supplies? And more to the point: how quickly could the Iraqi oil industry be revamped and brought on line, how much would it cost, who would pay for it, and how would it all affect Medexco, the joint Israeli-Palestinian petroleum company of which Galish nikov and Sa’id were cofounders?

  Iraq posed an enormous threat to Medexco, Galishnikov believed. The business plan he and Sa’id had created for their joint venture hadn’t envi sioned—much less factored in—Saddam Hussein and his regime being gone, the Americans and Brits being in control of Baghdad, and millions of barrels of Iraqi oil flooding the market within the next few months. How exactly were they supposed to deal with those new prospects? Even if through some miracle the Palestinian civil war now under way could somehow be brought under control—and even if Medexco’s initial drilling, pumping, refining, and shipping centers could be completed and brought on line in the next eighteen to twenty-four months—how could they compete against a revitalized Iraqi oil industry?

  After the Saudis and the Canadians (now with 180 billion barrels of proven reserves, thanks to advanced drilling and refining equipment just com ing onto the market), the Iraqis had the third-largest oil reserves in the world, with more than 112 billion barrels of proven crude oil reserves. At one point—before the Iran-Iraq War—the Iraqis were producing as many as 3.5

  million barrels of oil a day. More recently, they were producing only two-thirds that amount, and of course production had been shut down completely when the latest war with the U.S. and its coalition allies began.

  But new reports coming out of CENTCOM suggested the country’s southern oil fields could be back on line soon. They could begin producing more than a million barrels a day sometime within the next seven to eight weeks. The Rumeila South oil field alone could be producing half a million barrels of oil a day within a month or two, and production in the northern oil-rich cities like Mosul and Kirkuk could be even higher.

  Iraq could be pumping 2.5 to 3 million barrels of oil a day by the end of the next year. Export sales could bring Iraq somewhere between $20 billion and $25 billion a year. Possibly more—possibly much more, especially since U.S. officials were saying that significant investments in repairs and new technology could double oil output over the next few years. Did that mean Iraq could really be in a position to sell upward of 7 million barrels a day?

  Setting aside for a moment whether OPEC would allow the new Iraqi government to flood the market, neither Galishnikov nor Sa’id had factored any of that into their plans. Nor had Bennett and McCoy. And now Iraq would soon be getting not only U.S. and British help but U.N. and E.U. assistance as well.

  Ibrahim Sa’id had been trying for weeks to convince his Russian partner that he was missing the big picture. First of all, Sa’id argued, it would require a massive investment of foreign capital—a minimum of $3 billion to $5 billion over the next couple of years—simply to get Iraqi oil production back up to pre-Gulf War levels from 1990 and 1991.

  Second, while it was true that Iraqi oil production could eventually be doubled, that would likely take at least five years, and more likely ten to fifteen years.

  Third, a new, pro-Western, pro-American oil-producing regime in Baghdad could mean a dramatic shake-up of the internal politics and practices of OPEC. As the biggest player on the block, it was the Saudis who effectively controlled OPEC. But tensions were again rising between the U.S. and the royal family. They were demanding that all U.S. military forces leave the kingdom forever, and just last weekend President MacPherson sent Defense Secretary Burt Trainor to Riyadh to agree to an American withdrawal. What did that mean? Sa’id argued it meant the cozy ties between the United States and Saudi Arabia could very well be coming to an end. The U.S. could be looking for new, non-OPEC oil partners. It could eventually begin shifting its massive oil purchases from Saudi Arabia to Iraq, and then—inshallah, if

  God were willing—to Medexco. Yes, that might take time, but Sa’id was convinced it was possible, and anything that made the oil cartel weaker would make it easier for Medexco to operate internationally.

  Fourth and finally, no Iraqi oil—or, to be more precise, precious little Iraqi oil—could or would be sold on the world markets until the U.N. sanctions were lifted and the oil-for-food program was scrapped entirely, There was no question, Sa’id agreed, that the sanctions would eventually be lifted and those oil sales would begin. But exactly when was an open question, There were serious disagreements among key Security Council members and within the Secretary General’s office itself on how to proceed. It could take months to work itself out, and every delay could help Medexco move closer toward achieving its own objective: being fully operational and ready to sell Israeli and Palestinian oil and natural gas on the world markets.

  Galishnikov wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Sa’id’s argument had merit, But Galishnikov was an anxious man, a cautious man, perhaps even somewhat paranoid. He found it hard to trust, and harder still to relax. But he came by his neuroses honestly. His were traits conceived in persecution, born

  in suffering, and refined in the gulag. He’d been a Jewish petroleum engineer

  at the height of the Soviet empire, arrested by the KGB and sentenced to eight years’ hard labor in Siberia, only to be brought back to Moscow and sentenced to three years in Lefortovo, the KGB interrogation prison.

  The fact that he, an atheist Russian Jew, was alive at all was its own miracle. The fact that he was now a multimillionaire CEO of an Israeli petroleum company in a historic joint venture with Ibrahim Sa’id and Jon Bennett, now an advisor to the president of the United States, was even more remarkable. Maybe he should have faith that this deal would really work out. Maybe he should have faith that they’d all get rich beyond their wildest imaginations.

  He’d come this far, hadn’t he? Maybe the end wasn’t so near.

  Pretty impressive in there,” McCoy whispered in Bennett’s ear.

  Bennett wasn’t ready to claim victory.

  “What do you think he’s going to do?”

  “I think he’s going to follow your advice.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Two reasons. First, it’s the right thing to do, and you made the case well. Second, if he has to, the president can always change his mind and tell the Israelis to go in after all. But it’s better to hold them back as long as possible.”

  Bennett again winced in pain.

  “You look awful,” McCoy said, feeling his forehead.

  “My stomach is killing me. My head’s killing me.”

  “Lie down for a while. There’s nothing we can do until the president decides.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”

  The two got up, and headed back toward Ziegler’s quarters.

  “You need me for anything right now?” McCoy asked when they got there. She was finally about to get a hot shower, and some desperately needed rest.

  “No, take it easy for a little while. You deserve it.”

  “What about you?”

  Bennett promised to lie down soon. First he needed to connect with Gal ishnikov and Sa’id and get them working the phones, per the president’s directive. He made sure she got into the room, then figured out which hall way led to their two friends.

  “Hey, don’t you have a phone call to make?” McCoy called after him.

  Bennett turned around.

  “President’s orders.” She smiled.

  “Don’t worry.” He smiled back. “I won’t forget.”

  Bennett arrived at the “holding room.”

  It was actually Tariq’s private quarters, and Bennett entered the seven-digit access code Tariq had given him earlier. The door unlocked electroni cally. Galishnikov stood up immediately as Bennett ente
red their room. Sa’id remained seated. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. The storm raging over Gaza was also raging within him.

  “Jonathan, how are you, my friend?” Galishnikov asked, shaking his hand.

  “Hanging in there, thanks—please, have a seat. You guys all right in here?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” the Russian lied.

  “You guys aren’t watching the coverage?”

  “Ibrahim has … well, we’ve both had enough sadness,” Galishnikov answered.

  “Look, I’m really sorry about this—you guys don’t deserve to—”

  “Nyet, nyet, please, Jonathan, you don’t have to explain. We’re safe. We’re well fed—well, Ibrahim refuses to eat, but I’m well fed—and we’re all washed up.

  Despite the gloomy mood, Bennett couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You’ve had showers then?”

  “That, too,” said Galishnikov, a thin smile on his face.

  He sat down on the couch beside Sa’id. Bennett sat down next to them in an armchair. There was so much he needed to tell them, and even more he needed them to do. But it was also apparent to him that he needed to respect the trauma both men were experiencing. Each handled it differently, and there was an awkward restlessness in the room. Finally, Sa’id broke the silence.

  “Arafat was like a father to us,” Sa’id began. “He was like our Moses. He wandered around with us through the wilderness for many years. He talked tough to the Pharoahs—to Bibi and Sharon and Doron, all of them. He put our cause on the world’s map, and that was no small thing. But there’s more to leadership than making noise. You must make progress. You must achieve something. And where are we now? Arafat lived by the sword, and now he’s died by the sword. For decades, he’s been playing a dangerous game—talking peace in English and encouraging an armed revolution in Arabic. I couldn’t swallow it and so I left to make my fortune elsewhere. Because if you play a game like that you’re going to lose. I don’t care how clever you think you are, you cannot live a lie for so long without being found out. I knew one day Arafat’s game would catch up with him, and now it has. And who is suffering? Is he? Is Arafat? No. Perhaps he’s in the arms of seventy virgins. I don’t know. I’m not a devout Muslim, and for all his talk I’m not sure if Arafat even believed in Allah. I don’t know where he is right now. But I know where I am. I know where my people are.”