The Last Days

  It was a question he couldn’t shake. Bennett hadn’t sought this journey. But something or someone was forcing him to proceed. Regardless of what he did, it refused to let go. And it scared him. It wasn’t simply his fear of death that now kept him awake at nights. It was the certain knowledge that his fate was not his own.

  Bennett logged into his AOL account to check his personal e-mails. He’d lost his Blackberry PDA somewhere between Jerusalem and Germany and there hadn’t exactly been any spare time to buy a new one. He guessed the White House communications office would probably issue him one. But that, too, took time he didn’t have.

  “You ‘ve got mail.”

  Too much, as it turned out. He scrolled through a 138 messages. A handful were from former colleagues at GSX worried about him and his mom. Most of the rest were spam—ads for weight loss programs, hair transplant treatments, laser eye surgery, special offers for Viagra, Russian mail-order brides. It was ridiculous, and infuriating. No wonder AOL was in trouble. He deleted everything in sight, except two new messages that caught his eye.

  The first was from Mordechai. He’d be arriving at the “Mount of Olives” on Sunday, just after noon. It was about time, Bennett thought. The good doctor was absolutely, positively supposed to have been there overnight. Now he was going to be a full four days late. Bennett read further. First came an apology, followed by an explanation. It was cryptic, to say the least. But reading between the lines, and knowing the old man as he did, he basically figured out what was going on. Storms had grounded all flights out of Ben Gurion for nearly forty-eight hours. The FedEx jet he was using for cover had apparently then taken him to Istanbul, then to Rome, then on to London. It was the best he could do without taking the risk of flying on standard commercial aviation.

  Every intelligence service in the world, after all, knew who Dr. Eliezer Mordechai was. They knew he’d been the director of the Mossad’s Arab Desk from ‘76 to ‘84. The director of the Mossad’s Nuclear Desk from ‘85

  to ‘87. Full director of the Mossad from 1988 to 1996. They knew he’d helped plan the rescue of Israeli hostages in Entebbe, Uganda, in 1976. They assumed he’d helped plan the bombing of the Iraqi nuclear reactor at Osirik in 1981. And they suspected he’d personally ordered the assassination of Khalil al-Wazir, the PLO terror master, in Tunis on April 16, 1988.

  Thus, even if he used a false passport, facial recognition software recently installed at every major airport in Europe was sure to pick him up and identify him. He’d be tagged. He’d be followed. And he’d lead them to Doron and Sa’id. It was a risk none of them could afford taking. So McCoy had suggested flying him on a series of FedEx planes. It was a technique the CIA used from time to time to move NOCs—nonofficial cover operatives— around the globe with the least chance of them getting picked up by Interpol or foreign spooks. Jack Mitchell loved the idea, as did Mordechai.

  It was the last line of the e-mail that intrigued Bennett the most. “Looking forward to seeing you. I bear gifts from afar.” He read it again, then a third time. “Gifts from afar‘7. What in the world was that supposed to mean? Bennett had had enough surprises for one lifetime. He didn’t need any more. He hit the reply button, typed three lines—“Skip the gifts. I just have one question. Did you follow the money?”—then hit send.

  The second e-mail was from Marcus Jackson at The New York Times. The guy was relentless. He refused to give up. He said he felt bad about Bennett’s mom and hoped the FBI found her safe and sound. But he was hunting Bennett down. He was determined to do another story, the inside story of the firefight in Gaza. He knew some of the details already, and his information was eerily precise. Jackson knew what absolutely no one else had reported yet—the code name, Operation Briar Patch. He knew Bennett was no longer in Palestine. He knew McCoy was with him, and he suspected Sa’id and Galishnikov were, too.

  Bennett felt another twinge of pain shoot through his stomach. Where was Jackson getting all of this? And if he’d gotten this much, how soon would it be before he got the rest? After all, this wasn’t even Bennett’s official White House e-mail account. Jackson had that address and they wrote back and forth from time to time. But this was Bennett’s personal e-mail account. How had Jackson gotten that?

  Bennett clicked off his computer. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Then he headed to the private bathroom, just off the large master bedroom. He needed to clear his head and get focused. He shaved quickly and jumped in the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, he was ready to go, dressed in fresh blue jeans, a white T-shirt, black cotton sweater, and brown leather loafers. All of his

  clothes had arrived safely from the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. There were power suits and power ties he could wear if he wanted. But despite the imminent commencement of “formal” peace talks between the Israeli and Palestinian prime ministers, Bennett wanted the atmosphere to seem anything but formal.

  At precisely 7:00 A.M., there was a knock at the door.

  It was McCoy, and she looked incredible. Nothing glamorous or overtly sexy, just light makeup, blue jeans, a brown wool sweater, her hair pulled back in a scrunchy, and brown leather boots.

  “Hey, Point Man, how’d you sleep?” She smiled, her eyes dancing with life.

  “Don’t ask,” groaned Bennett. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Slept like a baby.”

  “Woke up and cried every few hours?”

  She laughed.

  “No, actually, I feel pretty good, considering. You ready?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I guess.”

  They sat down at the round conference table in Bennett’s suite and went over the plan. In less than thirty minutes, they’d meet Doron and Sa’id for breakfast. No aides or advisors were with them. None had been allowed to come.

  It would just be the two prime ministers, McCoy and himself, and a small cadre of Israeli and American security agents outside the doors. President MacPherson had been insistent on the basic framework of the negotiations, and Bennett and McCoy had readily agreed. This had to be the work of two men who truly wanted to make peace, and who personally understood the high price of failure.

  Both men could and should consult with their governments back home, of course, and the U.S. had secure communications facilities that would be made available to both sides. But naysayers and meddlers, particularly those from the U.N., the E.U., and the rest of the Arab world, need not apply. Indeed, they wouldn’t even be told of the existence of such negotiations unless the talks began to bear fruit.

  What was needed now was privacy, secrecy, and the time to get to know each other. This would begin with a casual, friendly breakfast. It would be their first meeting ever. It would be time for two men to shake hands, break bread, and get comfortable. Bennett would brief them on the progress of

  Operation Palestinian Freedom, and both men would have an opportunity to compare notes and offer feedback, concerns, and suggestions. If necessary, they could hook up a videoconference with the president and the National Security Council, though the chance of such a move leaking was high enough that Bennett wanted to avoid that if possible.

  McCoy would then brief the two leaders on the progress of the international effort to track down the terrorists on their way to the United States. Countries throughout Europe, Asia, and Latin America were providing tremendous assistance over the past twenty-four hours, and the president wanted Doron and Sa’id—particularly Sa’id—to see themselves as part of an international antiterrorist coalition, not simply as two warring parties trying to reconcile their seemingly irreconcilable differences.

  The key was keeping expectations low. They needed to baby-step their way from areas of wide agreement to areas of serious contention. They would begin, therefore, by focusing on something to which both sides were now firmly committed—waging a war on terror. They’d finish by 9:30 A.M. local time, 10:00 at the latest. Both leaders would then have a few hours to consult with their governments. Then they’d reconvene
for a working lunch and begin the long pilgrimage to peace.

  It was Friday, the Muslim holy day, but Sa’id insisted they not wait. Too much was at stake. Too many Palestinians were dying. Doron quickly agreed, and offered to continue the meetings on Saturday, despite the fact that it was the Jewish Sabbath.

  “The Psalmist urged us to never stop praying for the peace of Jerusalem,” said Doron, not much of a religious man himself. “If we can pray for peace on the Sabbath, I think in this instance we can work for it as well.”

  It was a good sign, and Bennett hoped a good omen for what lay ahead. And thus, at MacPherson’s directive, Bennett would begin to lay out the administration’s “oil for peace” proposal. Friday he’d focus on oil. Saturday he’d focus on peace. No real negotiations of any kind. Not at first. He’d simply make the president’s case and answer any initial questions the two leaders had. Day one and two weren’t about haggling over the price, just about viewing the merchandise.

  It was a somewhat awkward beginning.

  But perhaps that was to be expected. Bennett made proper introductions and the two prime ministers shook hands and made some chitchat. Doron seemed comfortable enough, but it was Sa’id who struck Bennett as unusually reserved. It could have been the lack of sleep, or the traumatic events of their

  stay in Gaza and narrow escape. It might also be the fact that Sa’id was just beginning to get used to the role of being the Palestinian prime minister and careful not to give his Israeli counterpart the impression this was going to be easy. They had some very tough days ahead of them. Perhaps Sa’id was just lowering expectations.

  Either way, it wasn’t exactly warm and cozy in the opening minutes, but soon enough they were seated for fruit salad, bagels, and Turkish coffee. It was a round table, purposefully chosen for the occasion, with place cards written in black calligraphy for each principal. In the center of the table were three small flags—American, Israeli, and Palestinian. Sitting in front of each prime minister was also a small wrapped gift, framed illuminations of Psalm 122:6, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem,” the very verse Doron quoted earlier, hand-painted by Nancy Warren, the White House artist-in-residence.

  The four gathered in the private, paneled dining room of Marty Kunes, the tall, lanky, fifty-six-year-old commander of Echelon Station and a twenty-eight-year veteran of the U.S. National Security Agency. Kunes was a legend in the American intelligence community, nicknamed Magic Marty. He and his team routinely scored some of the most valuable electronic intercepts of any U.S. or British station, and were known for their quick turnaround and accurate translations. They weren’t showboats, never sought attention within the NSA, just kept their heads down and turned out consistently impressive work.

  But none of the four were likely to meet Kunes or his team on this trip. On direct orders from his superiors in Ft. Meade, Maryland, Kunes had completely cleared out of his living quarters, as had his senior officers. They’d basically cleared three entire floors for their VIPs, though only Kunes himself knew who their visitors actually were.

  Doron and Sa’id had each arrived separately under the cover of darkness and surrounded by small security details. Fifteen Shin Bet Secret Service agents were protecting Doron, while Tariq, Nazir, and thirteen Gold members of SEAL Team Eight were tasked with protecting Sa’id. Bennett, McCoy, and Galishnikov had entered the Rock the same way, guarded by fifteen members of ST-8’s Red Team.

  Rounding out the team were two dozen male and female “house staff,” all agents from the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, sent by Danny Tracker to Gibraltar to cook, clean, do errands, provide communications and administrative support, and act as a backup security detail. Nine were on duty from 6:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M. Nine more from 2:00 P.M. until 10:00 at night. Six took the night shift. All were experienced field operatives. All spoke fluent Arabic, Farsi, or Hebrew, and were all handpicked by Tracker and approved

  first by Jack Mitchell, then by the president and vice president themselves.

  At 8:00 A.M., Galishnikov was still in his room, sound asleep. The house staff finished serving the four principals, then cleared the room and locked the doors behind them. Meanwhile, the American security details maintained their protective vigilance, even inside a mountain protected by a detachment of Royal Marines and three infantry rifle companies of the Royal Gibraltar Regiment, British army commandos.

  Bennett took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and smiled at his two friends. This was really it. Even though his presentation was merely a briefing—perhaps even of information these two men already knew, at least in part, from their own governments—he still had butterflies. He wasn’t simply beginning a conversation with two friends. They were leaders of two nations—nations at war.

  “First of all, again,” Bennett began, still seated, “on behalf of President MacPherson and his senior team, and Erin and myself, let me welcome you to the ‘Mount of Olives.’ ” Both men nodded graciously.

  “And let me say thank you to both of you for the courage you’ve displayed already by agreeing to these talks, and waging a very difficult war against the extremists who have spilled so much blood to keep these talks, and others before them, either from happening at all or bearing any fruit.” Again, both men nodded.

  “These aren’t exactly the most scenic accommodations,” he continued, getting a small laugh, “but we’ll do everything we can to make your stay as comfortable as possible, and to make sure you both have secure communications with your home governments, and plenty of time to confer with your advisors by telephone or by videoconference. Again, our only request is that everyone maintain strict operational security, that none of your teams refer to our actual location during any of their communications, simply to the Mount of Olives. My security team, as I’m sure you know, has already briefed your teams about a wide range of contingency operations, should anything go wrong. But so long as the world doesn’t know where we are, we don’t foresee any problems.”

  Bennett took another sip of water, then shifted gears. “If you’ll indulge me for a moment, I’d like to begin this morning with a story. One of Aesop’s fables, to be precise—the story of the North Wind and the Sun.”

  He hadn’t told McCoy about this. He hadn’t been entirely sure he’d go through with it. Now he was trying to ignore the intense curiosity in her eyes.

  “The North Wind boasted of great strength,” Bennett began. “The Sun argued that there was great power in gentleness. ‘We shall have a contest,’ said the Sun. Far below, a man traveled a winding road. He was wearing a warm winter coat. ‘As a test of strength,’ said the Sun, ‘let us see which of us can take the coat off of that man.’ ‘It will be quite simple for me to force him to remove his coat,’ bragged the Wind. The Wind blew so hard, the birds clung to the trees. The world was filled with dust and leaves. But the harder the wind blew down the road, the tighter the shivering man clung to his coat. Then, the Sun came out from behind a cloud. Sun warmed the air and the frosty ground. The man on the road unbuttoned his coat. The sun grew slowly brighter and brighter. Soon the man felt so hot, he took off his coat and sat down in a shady spot. ‘How did you do that?’ said the Wind. ‘It was easy,’ said the Sun, ‘I lit the day, and through gentleness I got my way.’ “

  His tone was not accusatory. But he was firm, and direct, and to the point.

  “We all want something from each other. You both want something from each other. Your people want something each of you is unsure he can deliver. Those who’ve gone before us have failed. I’m not here to assign blame. I’m not here to point fingers. But let’s be honest with one another. Maybe one side wasn’t ready. Maybe neither was ready. Perhaps the U.S. wasn’t perceived as being an honest broker. Perhaps we weren’t. But for whatever reason—and I suspect there were many—our predecessors failed to make peace, and many more from all sides lie dead. I hope we can all agree that the North Wind’s approach hasn’t worked.”

  Bennett was trying to be evenhanded. It was hard to read t
he thoughts behind each man’s stony exterior. But he continued

  “The bluster. The rhetoric. The ultimatums. The violence on both sides. None of it has worked—not in and of itself—unless we accept that all of it has brought us to this point, to this place, to you two men as leaders of two great nations. And now we have a shot at accomplishing something extraordinary: a real peace, a lasting peace. Let’s not kid ourselves. The road to peace is narrow. It won’t be easy. Broad is the path that leads to destruction. The way to peace is hard to find. But all I ask, all my government asks of you both, is that we not miss that narrow path in the heat of the moment. Let us not miss it for our lack of gentleness.”

  THIRTY SEVEN

  Breakfast went well enough.

  Both leaders seemed satisfied that Operation Palestinian Freedom was proceeding according to plan, and accomplishing real results. Both were also impressed by McCoy’s briefing and her breaking news.

  Overnight, federal agents had intercepted six suicide bombers trying to cross in the U.S.—three in Maine, two at the Niagara Falls border, and one in a dramatic shoot-out in Washington State that left the suspected terrorist dead and two U.S. border guards in the hospital. With the exception of the Washington incident, none of the others had been reported by the media yet. The five Syrians, Saudis, and Palestinians in federal custody were being interrogated, and no official announcements would be made until it was determined whether these men were willing to talk.

  At one o’clock in the afternoon local time, the four principals reassembled for a working lunch. They munched on pita, hummus, various salads, light sandwiches, soft drinks, and sipped endless cups of Turkish coffee. Kosher provisions for Doron were brought in from a local restaurant, as was fresh baklava for Sa’id, and after an hour or so, they moved to a living-room area with four large, comfortable leather chairs surrounding a large glass table, upon which were bowls of fresh fruit, pitchers of cold water, a supply of napkins, and plenty of coasters for their drinks.