Page 36 of The Last Days

  Nadir Sarukhi Hashemi heard the story on CNN a few minutes later. New York was canceling all New Year’s Eve festivities. So was Washington,

  D.C., Chicago, and L.A. Over the course of the next thirty minutes, cancellations began coming in from cities and towns throughout the United States. No one wanted to surrender the night to terrorists. But given all that was happening, the risks simply seemed too great. Nadir hoped to Allah there was another team in play, if not several. But his orders were clear. He couldn’t stay in Arkansas. He had to get to Atlanta and Savannah, pick up his weapons and supplies, and get in position. He’d already let too much time go by, and his sense of shame was almost overpowering.

  Bennett sat alone on the couch in his room.

  He was numb. Overwhelmed by the president’s call and the prospect that his mother had been kidnapped, Bennett’s emotional circuit breakers had simply shut everything down. Normally, his mind would start racing. He was a strategist so he’d strategize. He’d make lists. He’d make calls. He’d work the phones, gathering more information to process and analyze and assess. But now he just stared at the phone. His breathing was calm. His pulse was normal.

  If anything, he had the sudden urge to run. For a jogger as obsessive-compulsive as he was, missing a single day wreaked havoc with his body, mind, and soul. Every morning at six, he was pounding the pavement. Five miles at least. Ten miles if he could. More on weekends. Back in New York, it wasn’t unusual for him to rack up fifty to sixty miles total every week. It was time to get alone—away from the phones, away from the e-mail, away from the stresses of deals and deal makers and let everything go.

  But he’d been locked in underground bunkers for the better part of a week. He hadn’t laced up once. He’d barely tasted fresh air. Nor could he now. It was still raining outside. And what was he going to do, run through the mountainous streets of Gibraltar with a bulletproof vest on and a dozen navy SEALs surrounding him?

  There was a knock at the door. He could barely gather enough strength to answer it. So he didn’t. But the knocking continued. He kept ignoring it, but it wouldn’t go away. Then the door clicked open. It was McCoy.

  “Hey, I just heard—how’re you doing?”

  He looked at her a few seconds, but didn’t say anything. The smell of Jack Daniel’s said it for him. She had no idea where he’d gotten it from. But the bottle was half-empty and there wasn’t a glass in sight.

  McCoy whispered something to Tariq and the rest of the detail standing post outside Bennett’s room. Then McCoy came in, shut the door, and sat down on the couch beside him. It was quiet for a little while. Neither said

  a word. They just sat together, listening to the windup alarm clock sitting on the nightstand beside Bennett’s bed.

  Normally, the silence would have been awkward for both of them. More so for Bennett. But it wasn’t today. It felt good to have someone sit with him, and he was glad it was her, glad she’d thought of coming down to be with him.

  “It’s funny, McCoy,” he began saying. “My dad was a newspaper man all of his life. Loved it. Delivering papers on his bike every morning, rain or shine. Working on the school paper. Going to S.U.—Newhouse. All those years with the Times. Course, he couldn’t have cared less about me. Dragged my mom and me all over the world so he could get the story. Gotta get the story. Spent his whole life getting the story.”

  Bennett closed his eyes.

  “My dad knew details about every single kid of every single member of the Politburo. Every one of them—birthdays, hobbies, how they were doing in school, favorite Olympic sport, you name it, he knew it. It was incredible. And it’s not like this was easy stuff to get. It was the Soviet Politburo, for crying out loud. But it didn’t matter. He’d stay out all night, gone for weeks, talk to anyone he had to talk to, all to get a little more buried treasure to put in his story. Gotta get the story. It’s all about the story.”

  He leaned against the back of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Ask me how many term papers of mine he ever read.”

  McCoy didn’t say anything. She knew Bennett didn’t really want an answer.

  “Guy’s a freaking two-time Pulitzer Prize winner-—never read one of his own kid’s term papers.”

  It was quiet again for a few minutes.

  “And my mom never said anything. She hated what that job did to my dad. She hated all that time he spent on the road. But she hated confrontation more. She never told him to quit. She never told him to spend more time with us. She just kept everything to herself. Sometimes I wonder why she ever married him.”

  “To have you,” said McCoy, nudging him with her arm.

  Bennett shook his head and took another swig from the bottle in front of him.

  “I was a mistake. My dad never wanted to have kids. My mom, she wanted like six or seven or twenty, I don’t know. She wanted a lot, but little mun-chkins running around the house wasn’t exactly conducive to the life of a New York Times foreign correspondent… .”

  Bennett closed his eyes again.

  “But here I am, smack-dab in the middle of the biggest story in the world, a story my dad would’ve given both his arms to get, and he’s not even here to see it. And there’s my mom—a woman who believed the only two times your name should be in the paper was when you’re born and when you die—and there’s her name and picture splashed across the front page of every paper in the world.”

  There was silence again for a few minutes.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Erin. I thought I could, but…”

  He put the bottle down and toyed with the Harvard class ring on his finger.

  “My dad’s dead. I missed his funeral. Missed Deek’s funeral. Practically everyone I’ve met in the last few days is dead. Some died right in front of me. I’ve almost been killed more times than I can count. You’ve almost been killed. And now my mom …”

  He stopped and stared at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “You know, McCoy, I said a little prayer the other night. Yes, I did—I actually asked for God to do something to help us all out—help you, help my mom, keep us safe … and don’t I feel like a freaking moron now.”

  McCoy wanted to put her arm around him, then thought better of it and held back.

  “I’m tired,” Bennett said quietly. “I’m so tired…”

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t sign up to lose everything. … I just… I’m done, I can’t do this anymore.”

  She got down on her knees in front of him, took his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes, wet and bloodshot.

  “Jon, Jon, you’re tired. You’re drunk. You’ve been through hell. Now this with your mom—I know how you feel. Believe me, I lost my dad, my mom—it’s hard. It just is. I know. But let me tell you one thing, Jon Bennett—you were born to do this deal. Don’t ask me why. I’ve got no idea. But I’m telling you, my friend, you’re here for a reason. And you’re going to wake up tomorrow morning, and take a lot of aspirin, and then you’re going to make your case to Sa’id, and you’re going to keep putting one foot in front of the other until you get this thing done.’

  “Erin, really, I need to go home. I need to …”

  “And what? Sit around watching TV, worrying? Come on …”

  “No, but I…”

  “Jon, listen to me—listen to me.”

  Bennett tried.

  “Jon, ever since you hired me, I’ve been totally amazed by you—amazed

  how you can find buried treasure, how you can see a deal before anyone else does, how you can negotiate so everyone feels like they’re getting what they want. Jon, this is it. This is what you’ve been getting ready for your whole life. And now you’re here. I watched you with Doron today. He likes you. He responded to you. You’re painting a picture for him. He can see it, and I think he just might buy it. And I don’t know anyone else who could have done that. I couldn’t have, that’s for sure. And honestly, I don’t think the president could have done it eith
er. You’ve got a gift, Jon. And you’ve got a moment. The only question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  Bennett was listening. He was also studying every contour of her face, like he was trying to burn it into his memory forever.

  “I’m scared of dying, Erin,” he said, his hands beginning to shake again. “I’m scared of losing you, losing my mom. I’m scared of being alone. …”

  His voice trailed off.

  “I’m scared, too,” she said, searching his eyes for something she could hold on to. “And I’m not saying it’s easy. God knows it’s been hard. But Jon, that’s what makes it exciting. That’s what makes it worth doing—because it’s hard, because it’s never been done, because people think it can’t be done. And we should show them they’re wrong.”

  “Or die trying?”

  “Maybe—maybe, I don’t know. I don’t want to die. But I’m willing to if that’s what it takes. It’s just that whatever price we’ve paid so far—and it’s been high, too high—but it’s all worthless if we don’t see it through to the end. Right? Jon, look, I want to see you do this deal. I think you might be the only one who can, and I want to see you make it happen. I want to help you make it happen. Not because it’s going to make us rich, or win us his-and-hers Nobel Peace Prizes, or get our names splashed across the headlines, or whatever. I just think it’s the right thing to do. I think it’s going to help a lot of people you and I will never meet. And I think that’s a good thing. I don’t know if we’re going to make it. But I sure as heck don’t want to quit before I give it my best shot. Do you?”

  The question hung in the air unanswered. At least out loud. McCoy looked into Bennett’s tired eyes and smiled. She’d seen what she needed to. She kissed him on the forehead, eased the bottle out of his hands, and headed for the door.

  “I’ll make sure the guys bring you a little dinner. Then get some sleep, OK? We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  Bennett and McCoy met for breakfast at nine.

  They reviewed the game plan and the latest directives faxed in from the NSC and State. It was mostly last-minute guidance on wording and negotiating tactics from previous Arab-Israeli meetings.

  The professionals at Foggy Bottom were almost apoplectic that Bennett and McCoy were beginning to conduct the actual peace talks without a senior American diplomat present. So Bennett suggested that later in the week, after the memorial service for Tucker Paine and the slain DSS agents, the president send over Ken Costello, the Undersecretary of State for Political Affairs, and Marty Benjamin, director of the Policy Planning Staff, to assist. The president agreed. He’d also have Deputy Secretary of State Dick Cavanaugh begin a round of off-the-record meetings with Arab foreign ministers to sketch out the administration’s thinking of the post-Saddam Hussein, post-Arafat world.

  The four principals met at 1:00 P.M. in the same private dining room they’d used the day before. Doron said his government would do anything they could to help the FBI find Bennett’s mother. Sa’id gave Bennett a long embrace and repeated the prayer he’d been praying all night and morning for Mrs. Bennett’s safe return. He noted that his wife and four teenage sons had been safely airlifted out of Ramallah and were now in the United States under the 24/7 protection of the U.S. Secret Service. And he described the live, New Year’s Eve call-in interview he’d done on Al-Jazeera, updating people on Operation Palestinian Freedom, and urging fellow Arab leaders to do everything in their power to persuade the rogue Palestinian forces to lay down their arms and begin the New Year in peace.

  After about forty-five minutes, all four were done eating and moved over

  to the more comfortable chairs. Bennett thanked both men for all they were doing to achieve peace and for agreeing to meet again. He thanked Prime Minister Doron particularly for agreeing to meet on the Jewish Sabbath. And he noted President MacPherson’s appreciation that they were willing to meet in secret, without aides, without massive diplomatic delegations, in an NSA facility built in a tunnel deep inside the Rock of Gibraltar. It wasn’t easy for any of them, he conceded. But it was the right thing to do.

  “Gentlemen, the author Isaiah Berlin once wrote that the world is divided into two camps. The Fox knows many things, observed Berlin, and scurries after them all. The Hedgehog knows one big thing and stays focused like a laser.”

  McCoy didn’t know where he was going with this.

  “In our case,” Bennett continued, “the Fox is the man easily distracted by centuries of hatred and mistrust and by decades of previous deals, many of them unworkable, some of them unwise, and all of them unconsummated. The Fox is easily fixated on issues that should not be—cannot be—solved first, and may not be solved for many years to come. He is perpetually chasing his tail, going around in circles, making himself and all who watch him dizzy, and frustrated and despondent that anything of lasting value will be achieved. The Hedgehog, on the other hand, sees the big picture, refuses to be sidetracked, and does not let the perfect become the enemy of the good. I propose we follow the way of the Hedgehog.

  “The president considers the peaceful resolution of the Arab-Israeli conflict a top priority. We’ll help you strike agreements on final borders, refugees, water rights, and the status of Jerusalem. But that’s Phase Two of our oil-for-peace proposal. Phase One is about agreeing to a three-year transition in which both sides create a terror-free zone, build political and economic infrastructure, commence oil and gas operations, and begin to establish a free and vibrant Palestinian democracy committed to a peaceful two-state solution.”

  Bennett took a sip of coffee and continued.

  “Obviously, we now have a new situation in the disputed territories. My government has made no determination at this early stage in Operation Palestinian Freedom how long U.S. troops might remain. But the president is open to the possibility of our forces serving as a buffer between Israel and the Palestinians to prevent suicide bombings, rocket attacks, and the like.”

  There was an awkward silence for a few moments. The riptides of history were already pulling them out to sea.

  “I am open to this,” Prime Minister Sa’id offered. “But it must be said up front that ending all occupations—by the Israelis or the Americans— must be central to these talks, as well as an acknowledgment by Israel of full Palestinian sovereignty over the pre-1967 boundaries.”

  Bennett could see Doron shift in his seat. This was it. They were in it now, and playing for keeps.

  “And we need a firm timetable,” Sa’id continued. “President Carter promised us a fair resolution at Camp David. President Bush did so at Madrid. Then there was Oslo, and the Road Map. We were supposed to have a Palestinian state by 2005. Now here we are. It’s the first day of 2011. And we’ve got nothing. We are like your Charlie Brown cartoons, like Charlie, Lucy, and the football. Someone always pulls away the football at the last moment and we land flat on our backs. We are losing confidence in this game.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” said Bennett, “I appreciate your goals, and your candor. I don’t want to recount the entire history of failed negotiations or either side’s failures to keep their promises. But the president has instructed me to say this, to say it as plainly as I possible can.”

  Bennett paused, and looked Sa’id straight in the eye.

  “Palestinians do not have a state today because the Palestinian leadership has thus far refused to give up its ambition to have all the land of Israel. Refused to give up the strategy of armed conflict to achieve that goal. Refused to clamp down on terrorist networks that attack innocent Israeli civilians. And refused to accept any of the previous political deals that have been negotiated. The president understands full well that the Israelis have often mistreated the Palestinians and subjected them to all kinds of human-rights abuses. He doesn’t condone or excuse such behavior. But he believes, and it is die position of my government, that it is ultimately the fault of the previous Palestinian government that your people do not have a state.”

  Sa’id could
n’t believe what he was hearing. Neither could Doron.

  “In 1947,” Bennett continued, “the League of Nations came up with the Partition Plan, essentially dividing the Holy Land in half. Israel said yes. The Arabs said no. And five Arab nations invaded, seeking to throw the Jews into the sea. In the summer of 2000, at the second Camp David summit, Prime Minister Barak offered Chairman Arafat eighty-seven percent of the West Bank and Gaza. Previously, no Israeli prime minister had ever offered more than forty or fifty percent, I believe, and it struck many in Washington as a very generous offer.”

  Doron wanted to add “Too generous,” but he held his tongue. “But Chairman Arafat wanted more,” Bennett continued. “He negotiated all the way up to ninety-seven percent of the land, and half the Old City of Jerusalem. Barak agreed. But what did Chairman Arafat do? He rejected the deal outright. Then he went back to Ramallah and set into motion the Al-Aqsa intifada, a wave of terrorism and suicide bombings that left thousands of Israelis and Palestinians dead and wounded.”

  The tension in the room was palpable.

  “My government will not dictate the terms of an agreement. It doesn’t matter to us what percentage you two agree upon. Indeed, the whole point of our oil-for-peace proposal is to shift the terms of debate away from how much land each side is giving away to how much wealth each side can acquire if a deal—any deal—is agreed to and lived up to. Israeli foreign minister Abba Eban once said, ‘The Palestinians never miss an opportunity to miss opportunity.’ President MacPherson is adamant; this had better not be another opportunity missed.”

  New Year’s Eve was over.

  There were no bombings to report. The most dramatic incident occurred at three minutes after midnight local time. Three men were in a Cessna trying to fly from Toronto to Rochester, skimming the waters of Lake Ontario at barely a hundred feet. Spotted by a coast guard cutter, they were warned repeatedly to identify themselves and turn back. When those warnings had failed, two F-15E Strike Eagles flying combat air patrol intercepted the aging Cessna, and shot it down just minutes before it reached Greater Rochester, home of such industrial giants as Kodak, Xerox, and Bausch & Lomb.