The Last Days

  “Really.”

  “And you think we’re passing all those road signs?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Bennett laughed.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even know they existed until two seconds ago.”

  “Well, think about it, Jonathan—like ‘wars and revolutions’ and ‘kingdom rising against kingdom.’ Just look at the twentieth century.”

  “Yeah, but Eli, come on, man has always had wars and revolutions.”

  “World War One, the war to end all wars? The Russian Revolution. World War Two. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Six million butchered by Hitler, and that’s just counting the Jews. The rise of the Evil Empire. Twenty million slaughtered by Stalin alone. Half the world enslaved by Communism. Korea. Vietnam. Pol Pot. All the Middle East wars. China and India. India and Pakistan. The rise of nationalism. Tribal warfare in Africa. I could go on and on and so could you. Of course there have been wars and revolutions throughout time. But never anything on the scale we saw in the twentieth century.”

  Bennett considered that for a moment, but wasn’t ready to concede the point.

  “And what was another one, earthquakes? You can’t just say because we’ve had a few huge quakes in the last few weeks that we’re living the ‘last days.’ “

  “Fine. Do the research.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean ask the U.S. Geological Service. They say there are five hundred thousand earthquakes every single year. A hundred thousand that can be felt. A thousand that do serious damage. At least a hundred registering seven point zero or higher on the Richter scale. That’s a serious earthquake almost every four days. And the more urbanization occurs, the more damage a quake can do, the more people a quake can kill, the more costly these earthquakes are. In 1990, almost forty thousand people died in a quake in Iran. In ‘76, a quarter of a million people died during a massive quake in China. The ‘94 earthquake in Northridge, California was the most expensive in American history so far. Caused forty billion dollars in damage. Got the picture?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You could say the same thing about ‘famine and pestilence.’ Just look at Africa. Ethiopia, Somalia—hundreds of thousands of people died of starvation. And disease? We’ve got ten million AIDS orphans in Africa alone, the numbers are climbing every day. Are we supposed to do nothing? Are we supposed to say, ‘Oh well, it’s just a sign of the end times’ ?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “No. Of course not. We’ve got to help people who are dying, suffering, what have you. But my point is this: number one, the magnitude of these problems—and number two, the convergence of all these signs and events in the same century and right up to the present moment—that gives us all the evidence we need. That, and the fact that for the first time in over two thousand years Israel is suddenly a country again, and Jerusalem is suddenly under Jewish control, just as predicted. That’s what clinched it for me.”

  Bennett noticed that Galishnikov had suddenly stopped drinking, though his bottle was still half-full.

  “Maybe it was 1948,” Mordechai continued, “maybe it was ‘67, I don’t know, at some point some kind of cosmic clock began ticking. A prophetic countdown is under way, Jonathan, and for better or worse, we’re right in the middle of it.”

  “What does that mean for our peace plan, you know, a few years down the road?”

  “Believe me, Jonathan, you don’t want to know.”

  MacPherson stepped into the Situation Room.

  He was on crutches now, aided by Special Agent Jackie Sanchez. It was the first time out of his wheelchair since the attempt on his life in Denver some five weeks before and he was still a bit shaky. But it was progress, and every bit counted.

  The NSC principals brought with them a lengthy agenda, including updates on developments in Iraq and Operation Palestinian Freedom. The good news: they’d retaken the PLC headquarters, and broken through to the PLC legislators holed up in the communications center, most of whom were fine, though suffering from malnutrition and minor dehydration. The bad news: there was still a suicide bomber on the loose. The president demanded an update.

  “Sir, we’ve got the list of legal border entries down to 2,903 people,” said DHS Secretary Lee James. “Of these, we’ve whittled the list down to a hundred and sixty-nine people that our investigators are taking another look at.”

  “Based on what?”

  “A whole range of reasons, sir. All of them seem to have their papers in order. We’re just double-checking their flight and hotel information, rental car records, the businesses they work for, that kind of thing.”

  “You got all the manpower you need?”

  “We’ve set up a Joint Task Force Command Center at the NAC. We’ve

  got almost fifty investigators in there right now. They’re in constant contact with all the field people. I’m pretty sure we’ll be through all the names by noon tomorrow.”

  MacPherson clenched his fists under the table. It was taking too long.

  It was late and the foursome needed to get back.

  Galishnikov reviewed the bill. Bennett’s head was swimming.

  “Dr. Mordechai—I mean, Eli,” McCoy began. “I really appreciate all you said tonight. I just have a quick question before we go.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Well, weren’t some of the verses you were citing from the New Testament?”

  Galishnikov’s head popped up. So did Bennett’s.

  “What?” the Russian asked. “Is that true?”

  He gave the headwaiter his credit card and turned back to the group.

  “Most of it was from the Jewish Scriptures,” said Mordechai. “But yes, it was Jesus who laid out the ‘road map,’ the signs of the last days, in the Gospels.”

  “Jesus?” Galishnikov blurted out. “But you’re Jewish, for crying out loud.”

  “So was Jesus,” said Mordechai, now cleaning out his pipe.

  “But I don’t get it,” said Bennett, genuinely curious. “What’s the former head of the Israeli Mossad doing going around quoting Jesus?”

  Mordechai looked around at the group.

  “It’s all about sources, my friends. And I told you already, there’s only one question that counts: is the source telling the truth? If he isn’t, cut him loose. But if he is, you’d better hold on tight and listen good, ‘cause the stuff he gives you could save your life.”

  Jibril sent instructions to his men in the field.

  They had only a few hours to make final preparations. Later that day, the first team would take off from the island of Malta, in the middle of the Mediterranean, not far from Libya. They’d fly a westerly course in a Learjet owned by a Lebanese shipping magnate. The second team would leave from Cairo, flying northwest on a Citation occasionally leased by the Syrian oil minister when he vacationed in North Africa with his mistress. The third team would use speedboats rented in the Spanish enclave of Ceuta on the coast of Morocco. The fourth team would take off from Paris in a Gulfstream

  V, newly purchased by a Saudi sheikh. Their flight plan would take them to Malaga, on the southern coast of Spain. They’d refuel there, supposedly drop off a few corporate clients, then head to Gibraltar for a few days of rest and relaxation.

  That was the cover story, anyway. Bland and routine.

  Bennett stared into the darkness.

  It was almost two in the morning on Tuesday. His team had been back from dinner for almost four hours and he still couldn’t sleep. The pains in his stomach weren’t subsiding. He got up, stumbled into the bathroom and took another a handful of ibuprofen and antacids. Then he splashed some water on his face and climbed back into bed.

  A new stack of faxes from the White House and directives from the NSC and State Department were waiting for him. But he had no interest in reading them. All he could think about was the conversation with Mordechai.

  He kept chewing it over piece by piece. The guy certainly had a lot of secre
ts. His years in the Mossad. The house in Jerusalem. One of the most highly respected men in Israel, yet a covert Christian. But was he right? He’d been right about a lot. He did his homework, and there was no question something was different about him. It wasn’t just his knack for knowing things nobody else seemed to, or his gentle, relaxed manner—a bit counterintuitive for a man who had killed more people than Bennett could count. There was something else. Bennett couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it intrigued him. McCoy had it, too. So did the president. It was a sense of peace, a sense of purpose that he didn’t have. These people weren’t afraid. They weren’t scared of the future. They chose life, but they weren’t scared of death. They seemed to know exactly where they were going and who they were going to see when they got there. And the more Bennett spent time with them, the more he thought they just might be right.

  Mordechai certainly wasn’t the kind of person to base his faith on some slick-talking television evangelist or touchy-feely emotional experience. He knew all the arguments for and against, and he’d come out for.

  “I just started studying the source documents,” Mordechai told the three of them just before they left the restaurant. “I just started reading the Jewish prophets to see what they said to look for in the Messiah. I found out Micah said the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem. Honestly, I’d never known that. Isaiah said the Messiah would be born of a virgin, and live in Galilee. I’d never read that before.”

  Neither had Bennett. His parents hadn’t even owned a Bible when he was growing up. And they’d been in Moscow. It wasn’t like he was going to stumble into one.

  “Daniel,” Mordechai went on, “said after the Messiah was ‘cut off,’ Jerusalem and the Jewish Temple would be destroyed by an occupying power. David said ‘evil men’ would kill the Messiah in a merciless fashion, and that his hands and feet would be ‘pierced.’ Isaiah said the Messiah would be ‘pierced for our transgressions’ and ‘crushed for our iniquities.’ He said ‘the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.’ He also said the Messiah couldn’t be held down by the grave but would live again and ‘prolong his days.’ I could go on and on. But look, I’m no rocket scientist. I just looked at the picture the prophets were painting, and I said, who does that look like?”

  Then Mordechai said something Bennett couldn’t shake.

  “One day I was reading a parable that Jesus told his disciples. He said the kingdom of God is a like a treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. And it hit me, Jonathan. I was that man. I knew the truth. I’d found buried treasure. But what was I going to do about it? Walk away? Ignore it? Or follow Christ whatever the cost?”

  Bennett kept thinking about that. He had a million questions. He wanted to research everything Mordechai had said in great detail, and in time he would. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t need anything else to make a decision. He was ready.

  He slipped out of bed and got down on his knees. He didn’t know why exactly. It just seemed humble, reverent—not qualities with which he most identified, but maybe the right thing to do. And there in the darkness he cut a deal with God. He’d believe that Jesus died on the cross and rose from the dead. He’d follow Him with everything he had. He just wanted to know two things: that he was forgiven for every stupid thing he’d ever said or done, and that he was going to heaven if he never lived to see another day.

  There was no flash of lightning. No angels singing hallelujahs. But in his heart Bennett knew the deal was done. He had his buried treasure. And he :ould sleep.

  FORTY-SIX

  Gogolov’s forces were now on the move.

  It was Tuesday, January 4, and the first to make contact was the gift shop on Gibraltar. It was just after five in the morning there and something was afoot.

  Nothing was being reported on local radio, TV, or in the newspapers. But police activity was definitely increasing. A few extra officers at the airport. A few more undercover cops patrolling the summit. And something was stirring at Devil’s Tower Camp. Lights had been on all night. Vehicles were moving in and out.

  Jibril was concerned. DTC was the base camp for the Royal Gibraltar Regiment, the British army forces assigned to maintain security on the Rock, as well as provide a daily ceremonial guard outside the governor’s residence. Together with a squadron of Royal Marines, the regiment’s three infantry rifle companies were an impressive defensive shield. So far as Jibril knew, no exercises were planned so early in the New Year. But why all the commotion? On the plus side, “Gift Shop” had learned that a party of four had dined at the Top of the World the night before, spending eight hundred dollars. The name on the credit card: Dmitri Galishnikov—Ibrahim Sa’id’s Israeli partner.

  The next contact came at 6:00 A.M., Gibraltar time. The Libyan travel agent had a lead. She’d just gotten into the office and found a message on her answering machine from four very irate Brits on holiday. Their dinner reservations for Tuesday night at the Top of the World restaurant had suddenly been canceled with no explanation. They were told the restaurant would simply be closed all day, with apologies. They could come back the next night at a discount.

  Jibril briefed Gogolov. It wasn’t much to go on. But it might have to do. One possibility was that Doron and Sa’id were heading up to the Top of the World for dinner that night, and the activity they were picking up were preparations for their first night out of the “caves.” Another possibility was that Doron and Sa’id were going to fly out of the Gibraltar airport that night, and security teams were simply sealing the high ground to prevent Stinger missile attacks from the summit. Still another possibility was that none of this had to do with anything and it was all just wishful thinking.

  Gogolov didn’t hesitate. They were never going to get perfect intelligence. This was a circumstantial case, at best. But it was pretty good. This was it. He could feel the adrenaline surge through his body like a narcotic. It was D-Day—again.

  Bennett and McCoy waited together in the dining room.

  It was now just before 8:00 A.M. in Gibraltar. Doron and Sa’id would be down for breakfast in a few minutes. A long day of haggling over security fences was ahead. To be or not to be, that was the question. McCoy was dreading it. Bennett, on the other hand, seemed in unusually good spirits, chatting up a storm about how the Turks built a fence along the Green Line in Cyprus in 1974 after the last major war with the Greeks. It seemed to have worked.

  “Maybe we should be reconsidering our position,” said Bennett, with a bit too much enthusiasm for so early in the morning. “The Israelis have a fence around the Gaza Strip already. Do you realize not a single suicide bomber has ever come into Israel from Gaza since there’s a fence? They’ve all come from the West Bank. Maybe there’s something to that.”

  McCoy just looked at him.

  “What’s with you?” she asked between yawns.

  “What do you mean? Nothing—why?”

  “I don’t know. You just seem different. Chipperer.”

  ” ‘Chipperer’?” Bennett teased. “You’re just making up words now?”

  “Hey, give me a break. I’m exhausted. All those faxes and memos. Good grief. I didn’t get to bed till four.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What about you?”

  “Slept like a baby.”

  “Woke up every few hours and cried, huh?”

  Bennett laughed, then got up and went over to the buffet table.

  “No, I actually I feel pretty good—hey, how about some coffee?”

  McCoy looked at him quizzically.

  “You sure you’re all right?” she asked again.

  Jon Bennett had never offered to make her coffee.

  The weather was brutal as the Citation lifted off from Cairo.

  But they’d hit clear skies soon enough. The team headed south for a while, then banked westward and climbed to thirty thousand f
eet. The pilot and copilot still weren’t exactly sure how their flight plan had been cleared to cross Libyan airspace, but they weren’t asking any questions. Their mission was to cross the Sahara, hit the Atlantic, then loop around and come back through the Strait of Gibraltar. Barring anything unforeseen, they would easily reach their target by 5:00 P.M.—just on time.

  One by one, the speedboats left Ceuta.

  Not together, of course, nor in the same direction. They left casually— every hour or so, in order to keep anyone from getting suspicious. Not many boats were heading out into such choppy waters. The winds were picking up and the sky in the east looked particularly nasty. But the Al-Nakbah teams weren’t completely alone, to their relief. Ferries to and from Algeciras and Tangier continued to run, and there were always a smattering of fishing trawlers willing to head out in any weather.

  Each driver maintained strict radio silence. They were right under the shadow of the NSA’s Echelon system, after all. But none of them would need a radio today. Everyone knew what the signal was. When it happened, it’d be impossible to miss.

  The morning’s negotiations didn’t make much progress.

  But Bennett wasn’t discouraged. At least they were talking.

  The group took an hour-long break at eleven to allow both sides to touch base with their advisors back home, then gathered again for a working lunch. It would be a short workday, he told them. They’d be done by three that afternoon and have ninety minutes or so to themselves before they boarded the motorcade to the summit. Dinner was set for five. The storm wasn t expected to hit until eightish. But they should be back by then.

  “Everything all set?” Bennett whispered to McCoy as they sat down for lunch.

  “Yeah, just talked to Tariq,” she said. “The advance team has been there all morning. Everything looks good.”

  “Great. The Brits up to speed?”

  “They know a few American VIPs are going up there tonight. They don’t know who. But yes, they’re being very helpful.”