The Last Days

  MacPherson held up his hand and stopped him there. “Marsha.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Get over to the op center across the hall. Get on the line with Doron imediately. Tell him it’s urgent. Get him out of whatever meeting he’s in. Walk him through this as fast as you possibly can—tell him we’re under a deadline—and get his reaction, ASAP. Tell him I’ll get on the line with him in just a few moments.” “Yes, sir, Mr. President.” “Good, thanks—and Erin, can you hear me?” “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Go talk to Mr. Sa’id. Tell him to open up a direct line with the PLC and ask for more time. Tell him we’re intrigued with their proposal, and are starting talks with the Israelis. But we need more time.” “Yes, sir.”

  “OK, Burt,” said the president, “continue.”

  “Sir, the bottom line is that I’m not so worried about moving our forces into the West Bank. Weather’s breaking a bit, and we could have our forces airborne and on their way to the West Bank within six hours if you give us the order. But Gaza’s more trouble.” “Why?”

  “Well, sir, the plan calls for sending in an MEU—a Marine Expeditionary Unit—from the Roosevelt and Reagan to establish a perimeter around Gaza Station. Then SEAL Team Eight would come in on choppers, fast rope onto the roof of the Hotel Baghdad, and extract Sa’id, Bennett, and his team, Once the extraction was successful, we’d send in Rangers and Delta operators. The problem, Mr. President, is that Gaza is densely populated. Islamic strongholds. Lots of RPGs. It’s arguably the most dangerous urban warfare environment in the world. The risk of casualties is very high.” “Worst-case scenario?” asked MacPherson, quickly running out of time. “It could be Mogadishu all over again, Mr. President.”

  The phone rang at exactly midnight Washington time.

  It was 7:00 A.M. in Gaza.

  Ibrahim Sa’id glanced over, then looked away and kept pacing. He couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t stay still. He was on his fourth cup of coffee in less than an hour and his nerves were raw. On the surface, leaning back on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, Dmitri Galishnikov tried not to look worried in the slightest about who or what might be on the other end of that call. But it was just an act. He’d already worked through one pack of cigarettes since waking up, and he was about to begin his second.

  McCoy was closest to the phone. She was dying to answer it herself, but she knew who was calling, and it wasn’t for her. Bennett picked up the receiver on the third ring.

  “Yes, sir … I did … just waiting for your word.… Yes, Mr. President, he’s right here … one moment… .”

  Sa’id stopped pacing. Bennett held out the phone.

  “It’s the president.”

  Sa’id looked over at Galishnikov. The Russian suddenly looked pale, even numb. He set down his new cigarette and lighter, straightened up and pulled his feet off the coffee table. Then he motioned to his Palestinian friend to hurry up and take the call.

  “Thank you, Jonathan,” Ibrahim said quietly, then accepted the phone and cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mr. President… . No, no, please, the honor is all mine, sir… . Well, thank you, that is most kind. … It is a very difficult time for all of us. … Please allow me to express our deepest

  sorrow for the barbaric attacks on the American delegation and our condolences for the loss of innocent American lives, beginning with the Secretary of State—Mr. President I simply can’t begin to express the anger and shame we are all feeling right now… . Well, perhaps … I’m grateful for the op portunity to talk with you directly, to let you know that this civil war has changed everything, and we need your help… . I’m not sure, let me ask Jonathan. …”

  Sa’id put his hand over the receiver and whispered to Bennett.

  “Are you and Erin able to join in on the call?”

  “I guess so,” said Bennett, glancing at McCoy. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The president wants you both on the line.”

  Bennett nodded at McCoy and checked to see if the receiver Sa’id was holding had a speaker phone. It didn’t, nor did the other two phones in the room. No one in the CIA had ever expected to map out an American in vasion of the Palestinian territories—or strategize the birth of a Palestinian state—from a safe house in Gaza, much less from the bedroom of the station’s number-two man. It was another bizarre twist to an increasingly bizarre chain of events, thought Bennett.

  “Mr. President, it’s Jon.”

  “Good, I think it’s better if you’re on with us,” MacPherson said. “It’ll save us some time, and I want you in on all these decisions since you’re going to have to be my eyes and ears on the ground there for a while longer. Is Erin there also?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m here,” McCoy added quickly.

  “You OK?”

  “I am, sir, thank you for asking.”

  “Very well. I wanted to talk to you both and the new prime minister.”

  There it was. Confirmation. MacPherson was going with Bennett’s plan.

  “First of all,” MacPherson continued. “May I call you prime minister?”

  “I suppose. It’s going to be a hard thing to get used to.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “I know that you do, Mr. President, and I appreciate your help. I want you to know that I have no political ambitions. I will do everything in my power to bring about the day that someone far more qualified than I am is elected by a popular vote of the people. The Palestinian people have been cheated of many things over the years, but chief among them is a right to determine our own leaders and our own destiny. I see this unexpected turn of events as a way to remedy that, and I would very much value your help towards that end, Mr. President.”

  “You have it, and not just my support for the creation of a Palestinian

  democracy. Once we finish this discussion, I’ll begin briefing the congressional leadership, and I know they’ll want to pass on to you their full support.

  “That’s very kind. Please say a special thank-you to the Speaker of the House, who was kind enough to meet with Dmitri and myself when we were in the States last summer. Once this operation is successful and order is reestablished, I can assure you that one of my first acts as prime minister will be to ask the PLC to reestablish a completely new relationship with the United States, one based on openness, mutual trust, and shared interests, not the suspicion and hostilities of my predecessors.”

  “And likewise, you and your wife are invited to the White House at your soonest possible convenience. In fact, we’d be happy to facilitate your discussions with Prime Minister Doron at Camp David, if you’d like.”

  “You are most kind, Mr. President, and I am most grateful. And, with your permission, perhaps that is a good transition into the substance of the talks we need to have right now.”

  “Please, go right ahead.”

  “I have to confess that I’m very concerned about how this will all play out. In addition to the physical danger facing the Palestinian people, and your forces, there are enormous political and perceptual dangers we both face, and if you will forgive me, I believe it is best that I am candid with you about my concerns, and then we can figure out how best to address those concerns, if at all.”

  “By all means. You and I and our nations may not always see eye to eye, Mr. Prime Minister, but I want you to know I have the utmost respect for you, your people, and the challenges you face. I think history will show that the Palestinian people have no greater friend in the world than the American people, and I hope that you will find that you and your team have no greater friend than this administration.”

  With formalities out of the way, Sa’id got down to business.

  “Mr. President, I need to know if the U.S. is prepared to send in military forces to help us establish control?”

  “We are.”

  “How soon can you begin?”

  “Will the PLC help us with intelligence and target packages?”

  “W
e are preparing them now.”

  “My commanders advise me they could commence operations in six hours.”

  “Very well, then. Here’s how I’d like the scenario to play out. As soon as we finish this call, I would ask that you call Prime Minister Doron and relay to him the substance of our call. I’d like to go on television at one o’clock local time and publicly declare that he is readying Israeli forces to invade the West Bank and Gaza.”

  Bennett and McCoy looked at each other, unsure where this was going. The president’s voice suggested similar hesitation. “Why?”

  “It’s essential, Mr. President, that my people see the PLC—and me— defending them from Israeli aggression. To have any legitimacy at all, the PLC and I must be perceived as military victors of some kind, powerful enough to stand up to Doron and stop him in his tracks. That means Doron needs to declare war on us, and continue to mass his forces on the Green Line, fly his jet planes and helicopters over the territories.” “OK, I’m with you.”

  “The Speaker of the PLC will then go on radio and TV to announce that the Islamic radicals have not only killed our leaders but now they are about to kill any hope of a Palestinian state whatsoever. He’ll announce that the PLC is in negotiations with me to appoint me interim prime minister, but that I’m demanding a U.S. security force come in to rout out the radicals and defend us against an imminent Israeli invasion.” “Keep going.”

  “I’ll come on the air soon thereafter to explain for myself why we must band together against the Israelis. I’ll explain that I’ve already opened up an initial dialogue with the White House. But I’ll say that President MacPherson is resistant to the idea of the U.S. sending in forces. I’ll say that the United States has absolutely no interest in becoming an occupying power, and that never in its history has the United States taken military action to directly oppose the Israelis.”

  Bennett could see where this was headed. He’d always been impressed with Ibrahim Sa’id, one of the wealthiest and most successful entrepreneurs in the Arab world. Now he was impressed even more.

  “Now, it is absolutely critical,” Sa’id continued, “that the PLC’s move and my speech be seen as a reaction to Doron, a reaction to an imminent invasion by the Israelis. People have to see my appointment—and the possibility of U.S. military action—not as a sellout of the Palestinian revolution for independence but as a defense of it. This is vital. Doron has to let himself be seen in the eyes of the Palestinian rank and file, and in the eyes of the world, as the aggressor, as someone who is about to swallow and reoccupy—perhaps forever—the West Bank and Gaza. Only that will give me the political justification for asking for U.S. intervention, and you the justification for agreeing to intervene. Otherwise, U.S. military action will be seen as a provocation against the Palestinians, not a protection of the Palestinians, something that would do irreparable harm to both of our interests. Mr. President, I cannot stress enough the importance of this distinction.”

  “Don’t worry, I hear you,” said MacPherson, also fascinated by where Sa’id was going. “You need Doron to look like the big bad wolf. And you need to look like the Palestinian savior, demanding the U.S. come to the rescue of the Palestinian cause.”

  “Not just demanding,” Sa’id stressed. “My people and the world have to see me not just demanding U.S. action but somehow persuading you against your better judgment. There can be no hint that the U.S. is eager to do this. In fact, anything you can do over the next six hours to leak the word that many senior White House and State Department advisors are opposed to U.S. intervention, that would be very helpful.”

  “I must remind you, Mr. Prime Minister, it’s midnight here in Washington, and nine P.M. on the West Coast. Most Americans aren’t going to be tracking the nuances of this argument as carefully as you might think.”

  “Maybe not, but my immediate concern is the Arab press. Believe me, Mr. President, everyone in this part of the world is huddled with their families, listening to hour-by-hour coverage of the civil war. They’ll be tracking every nuance of the next six hours more closely than you can possibly imagine. And this is my point. U.S. military force cannot just happen. We have a drama we must play out today. And every actor must do his or her part. The Israelis have to play the bad guys. Every Arab will expect this and it will certainly ring true. The PLC taking decisive action to forestall an Israeli invasion will be a surprise to many. We’ve not been as decisive in the past as we should have been. Many will be skeptical, and few will know who I am at all. Yes, they know I’m very wealthy, very successful. But through my speech and the interviews I do and the information the PLC and our other sources give out, we must build—in just a matter of hours—an impression of an Arab leader who commands international respect and can simultaneously stand up to Israel, and the Americans, and the terrorists in our midst. Does that all make sense?”

  “It does,” said MacPherson. “At what point do you want me to agree to send in forces?”

  “At the last possible moment,” Sa’id insisted. “The drama has to play over the course of many hours—back and forth, like a tennis match or the World Cup. Doron has to dismiss the PLC at first. Then dismiss me. Hour by hour, he needs to torque up the rhetoric until it is white hot, until every Palestinian

  believes Israeli tanks are going to mow them all down, scoop us all up, and deport us to Jordan, or the Sudan or Uganda somewhere. Likewise, all signs out of Washington have to be skeptical of my request—at best—or downright hostile to the notion of engaging in more warfare in the Middle East. Public perception in the territories—indeed, throughout the Arab world— has to get to the point that there is no hope, that all is lost, that the Pales tinians have defeated themselves and the Israelis are about to conquer us once and for all. At that point, I’ll come on television and radio and virtually denounce you. I’ll say that all the talk of American evenhandedness over the years was all lies, that if President MacPherson doesn’t come and help us then it’s just proof positive that he is a tool of the Zionist entity.”

  MacPherson couldn’t help but laugh at that.

  “I bet you’ll enjoy that.”

  MacPherson asked a few practical questions.

  Sa’id answered them as best he could. But he could tell there was something else Sa’id wanted to tell him, something that apparently wasn’t easy for Sa’id to bring up. Time was running out. He needed to get back to Doron immediately. This was going to take a lot of explaining, and a whole lot more convincing, and MacPherson wasn’t sure the Israelis were going to buy it. But he couldn’t simply cut off the call now.

  “Mr. Prime Minister? I’m getting the sense there’s something else you want to say, something else you want me to know. Is that the case?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Well, yes, it’s just that you must all understand—and Prime Minister Doron must understand, as well—something that is difficult for me … […”

  “You’re among friends here, Ibrahim,” assured the president. “Please.”

  “Very well. It’s just that—you must understand how central the concept of honor is in Arab society. So few American presidents have truly understood this. The Arab people have felt abused for so many centuries by foreign occupiers, our own bloodthirsty dictators, by radicals of all kinds. We’ve repeatedly been stripped of our honor, and this has had a devastating psychological impact. We look at our military weakness compared to the West, compared to Israel. We look at our poverty compared to the West, compared to Israel. We look at how few great works of art or music we have produced or how few literary or scientific discoveries we can point to in the modern age. We look at how poorly educated our children are, how many of our women are illiterate, how many of our men are illiterate, how the West and

  the world and even our worst enemies in Israel are just surging past us in so many areas of life—we see it on our satellite dishes and we know it to be true—and we are deeply ashamed.”

  As Sa’id spoke, his back was turned to Bennett, McC
oy, and Galishnikov. He looked as though he carried the full weight of the Arabs’ painful history, and was almost desperate to explain it all to his American friends that they might have even the slightest glimpse of the psychological mine field through which he was about to walk.

  “We feel like we’ve failed as a society,” Sa’id continued, “that we have so little to show for centuries of bloodshed and hardships. Especially when we can look back and see that the Arab civilization and Islamic civilization was once the greatest the world had ever known. We once dominated in every area of life. And now we have fallen so far behind the Christians and the Jews and it stabs at our hearts. Honor and shame are sacred values we have in the Arab world, and what do we have that is honorable in the eyes of the world? These are the questions we are wrestling with today. What went wrong? How did we sink so low? And what do we do about it?”

  The room was quiet. The man was baring his soul, and the soul of his people, and none of them dared interrupt him. There were many questions that would have to wait.

  “Some say we have forgotten our roots, that we are living under sin and Allah’s judgment,” Sa’id went on. “They say that we must get back to a more fundamental, more militant form of Islam to become great again. And those who believe this—the mullahs in Iran, the wahabbis in Saudi Arabia, the remnants of Al-Qaeda—these are the ones who are waging a jihad, a holy war, against the West. These are the ones who believe the Arab world can only rise again when every Christian and Jew is wiped off the face of the earth. These are the ones who sent jet planes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. These are the ones who blow themselves up in Israeli buses and cafes. These are the ones who set into motion the civil war being waged up above us. And these are the ones we must fight to the bitter end. There can be no compromise with such people. They are extremists, and they pose the worst kind of danger.”