Page 5 of The Last Days

  The Bush team had reversed course. They’d refused to deal with Arafat directly. They’d isolated him internationally. They’d given Israel the green light to invade the West Bank and Gaza and rip up Saudi-and Iranian-backed Hamas and Islamic Jihad terrorist cells. And they’d pressured Arafat and the Palestinian Legislative Council to appoint Abu Mazen as a new, “moderate” prime minister, someone who the United States, the West, and Israel just might be able to deal with over time.

  Everyone knew the Islamic radicals felt threatened by Mazen’s rise to power and by even the slightest prospect that Arafat and Mazen might con sider accepting the new American peace plan. But could anyone have pre

  dicted this level of carnage? MacPherson began to reconsider his own strategy. He’d tried to combine Clinton’s willingness to deal with Arafat with Bush’s insistence on dealing with Abu Mazen. Had he moved too fast? Had he pushed too hard?

  They made a good team, thought Bennett.

  McCoy was smart and gutsy and she had great instincts. Based in the GSX London office—overlooking the Thames and the British Parliament—at one point she’d been jetting back and forth across “the pond” several times a week, a Virgin Atlantic preferred customer. She’d often met with Bennett in New York or the Denver headquarters until the wee hours of the morning, mapping out strategies, crunching numbers, debating best-and worst-case scenarios. The two had traveled all over the world together during the last eight months—Davos, Paris, Tokyo, Cairo, Riyadh, and Jerusalem, to name a few—always business, never personal.

  McCoy had earned his trust over the past few years, not an easy thing to do, and he’d twice promoted her. When he’d hired her, he’d known she was the best-qualified woman who had applied, and the best looking. She had an economics degree from UNC Chapel Hill, an MBA from Wharton, and a license to make money from the Securities and Exchange Commission. What he hadn’t known was that she also had a license to kill from the CIA. She’d worked for Bennett for almost three years, but only in the last month had he discovered who she really was—a mole in his operation, planted by the president and the director of Central Intelligence to watch his back and clear him for government service. Any way you sliced it, she was a mystery, and the longer Bennett knew her, the more he wanted to figure her out.

  McCoy adjusted her earpiece and buckled her seat belt. She still couldn’t get a bead on what was happening. The mobs on the streets now couldn’t be the “silent Palestinian majority.” These couldn’t be people who Ibrahim Sa’id claimed were exhausted by the intifada, longing for peace and willing to accept a two-state solution with Israel for the sake of their children and grandchildren.

  These had to be “Mohammed’s mobs,” drawn from a small but highly radicalized subsection of Palestinian society who saw themselves as hard-core Islamic loyalists. They despised Israel and were deeply committed to jihad, a “holy war” against the “Zionist infidels” and their conspirators from the “Great Satan” known as America. They weren’t the vast majority of Pales tinians. They weren’t even a plurality. They weren’t “nominal” Muslims.

  They were true believers, and—though she’d never admit it to anyone in this car—what they believed terrified McCoy.

  They were “Islamists,” and during America’s long war on terror a lot had been learned about the financial, technical, and ideological links between the purists of Islam. The mob closing in on them now had bitterly fought in the streets and in the Palestinian Legislative Council for the imposition of the shari’ah, an Islamic legal system not unlike the one the Taliban had imposed on the poor souls of Afghanistan. Like the Taliban, they wanted a world where women couldn’t be educated, couldn’t work, couldn’t show their face. A world where women couldn’t wear nail polish, couldn’t smile or laugh in public, couldn’t listen to Mozart. Indeed, they could be flogged or stoned or killed for trying. They wanted a world where children couldn’t play with toys or dolls or watch Sesame Street or have birthday parties. They wanted a world where men ruled and ruled ruthlessly, just like the Taliban.

  These were kindred spirits with the Iranian-funded Hezbollah of Lebanon. They’d been supporters of Hamas and Islamic Jihad. But wherever they lived or whatever they called themselves, the mission of the “Islamists” was the same—to conquer in the name of Mohammed. They’d danced in the streets when the Ayatollah Khomeini led the Islamic revolution in Iran and took Americans hostage for 444 days. They’d danced in the streets when Osama bin Laden and the Saudi-funded Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center and Pentagon on September 11, 2001. And in the subsequent U.S. war in Afghanistan, they’d joyfully sided with their “Muslim brothers” in the Taliban.

  One Reuters headline McCoy had come across before leaving Washington now came flashing back: “Hamas Backs Taliban, Urges Muslim Unity.” The article was dated September 14, 2001, just three days after the terrorist attacks that left three thousand Americans dead. Cited prominently in the story, Abdel-Aziz al-Rantissi of Hamas couldn’t have been more clear. “I join the cause for Muslims to be united in order to deter the United States from launching war against Muslims in Afghanistan,” al-Rantissi said proudly. “It is impossible for Muslims to stand handcuffed and blindfolded while other Muslims, their brothers, are being attacked. The Muslim world should stand up against the American threats which are fed by the Jews.”

  There it was, in black and white. The “dots” were “connected.” Radical Muslims in Gaza and the West Bank were soul mates with their brethren in Afghanistan, not to mention those in Tehran and Riyadh. They saw the world the same way. They fought for the same objectives. They’d supported each other in the same struggles. This was an alien world into which she and

  Bennett had just been submerged. It was an alien world out of which they now had to fight.

  McCoy fought back a flood of emotions. Her own father had died fighting radical Islam. Was she destined to do the same? Sean McCoy had worked for the CIA. Now she did, too. He’d been a senior advisor to the president of the United States. Now she was, too. Despite his strong marriage, he’d struggled with putting his career ahead of love. Wasn’t she doing that, too? “There are only two places for a woman,” a Taliban leader once said. “In her husband’s house, and in the graveyard.”

  Erin McCoy had no husband, and she didn’t want to die.

  Not here. Not yet.

  FIVE

  MacPherson’s head was pounding.

  He hung up the phone and shut his eyes. In a few minutes, Jackie Sanchez of the United States Secret Service would be knocking on his door. She’d move him into the next room where he’d be patched through to the National Security Council via a secure satellite video teleconferencing system. But there were too many questions to answer. Could they mount a rescue operation? Should they ask the Israelis to? Could all this really be the work of one man? Why, then, the gun battle? And were these attacks isolated to the Palestinian territories? Or were they likely to see new terrorist attacks unleashed throughout Israel, and/or against American interests all over the globe?

  The motorcade was ready.

  Now all they needed was the vice president. Special Agent in Charge Steve Sinclair—head of the VP’s protective detail—was edgy. His orders had been clear. Get Checkmate to the Situation Room quickly and without incident. Most of the principals were already on their way to the White House. The NSC meeting was scheduled to begin in less than ten minutes. Given that the VP was supposed to chair the meeting in the president’s absence, it wouldn’t do to be late. Not tonight.

  MacPherson simply couldn’t believe it.

  He and Secretary of State Tucker Paine had hardly been kindred spirits.

  But they’d known one another for more than a decade, and they’d become useful to each other.

  MacPherson couldn’t really remember exactly how they’d met, but he was pretty sure it had been in Denver. A middle-class kid, MacPherson had grown up in Lakewood, Colorado, graduated from Harvard, then joined the navy, went to Top Gun school and head
ed to Vietnam. When he’d come back to the States, MacPherson moved to Manhattan, made a fortune with Fidelity, then moved back to Denver where he was making quite a name for himself— and an even more impressive fortune—as founder and CEO of Global Stra tegix, Inc., and the Joshua Fund, two of the premier institutions in the financial services industry.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d met Paine, an old-money gazillionaire whose family seemed to own half of Colorado and wanted to run for the state’s open U.S. Senate seat. Paine wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was a bit too moderate for MacPherson’s liking—good on taxes and growth, bad on education and the life issue, horrible on defense and national security issues. But if Hollywood was going to make a movie about a crusty old patrician senator with a penchant for French wine and a good pipe after dinner, Tucker Paine was direct from central casting.

  GOP control of the Senate hung in the balance at the time and it wasn’t a tough call. MacPherson was nothing if not a loyal Republican, and even then he’d had his own political ambitions. He was planning a run for gov ernor and his chief political advisor—Bob Corsetti, now the White House chief of staff—made the case succinctly: to blow through the primaries and win the nomination in a landslide, MacPherson needed to find a way to unite the state’s conservative and moderate factions. It wouldn’t be easy.

  As a pro-flat tax, prolife, former navy fighter pilot, MacPherson could count on strong support from the conservative political base in and around Colorado Springs in the south, Fort Collins in the north, and the more rural congressional districts in the mountains and on the plains near Kansas. But Denver itself, MacPherson’s hometown, would be tougher. Republicans there tended to be wealthier and more moderate, and though his Wall Street suc cesses had helped him build inroads among the country club crowd, Corsetti concluded that if MacPherson strongly backed Tucker Paine, it certainly couldn’t hurt. And it hadn’t.

  MacPherson took Corsetti’s advice. He helped Paine raise more than $2.5 million in less than six months, as Paine was too cheap to spend his own money. Unfortunately, Paine went on to lose the Senate race—though he soon was named U.S. ambassador to the U.N.—but MacPherson picked up

  a boatload of goodwill and a pocket full of chits. A few years later, he went on to win the GOP nomination for governor without opposition, winning Paine’s much-desired endorsement along the way. And in the process he’d laid the groundwork for two successful terms in the governor’s mansion, and a storybook run for the White House in 2008 after two Bush terms.

  Paine wasn’t MacPherson’s first choice to be the Secretary of State, nor his second, though thankfully the press hadn’t ever picked up on the behind-the-scenes intrigue surrounding the selection process. Paine didn’t have Colin Powell’s military experience or international stature. But with several years at the U.N. under his belt, he was certainly a safe choice, and MacPherson knew he wasn’t going to run foreign policy out of the State Department anyway. He and the VP and Marsha Kirkpatrick would take the lead from the White House.

  Paine chafed at the arrangement from the beginning. But he wanted the job and didn’t want to be left out of the administration. He’d tried to negotiate for more power. But MacPherson never budged. The president wanted a Rockefeller Republican at State for political cover. But he simply didn’t trust the bureaucrats at Foggy Bottom, and he certainly had no inten tion of giving them free rein over the future of U.S. relations with a rapidly changing world.

  Still, despite their sometime prickly alliance, Paine and his wife, Claudia, had just spent Christmas Day at Camp David with the First Family. MacPherson smoked a cigar. The secretary smoked his pipe. The two talked about Bennett’s “oil for peace” strategy and reviewed the blowout they’d had over going to war with Iraq. Now he was gone.

  Agent Sinclair stood on the porch of the Residence.

  Agents were positioned around the lead limousine, in the lead Suburban and the two that would follow. Vice President Bill Oaks was still inside on the phone with Israeli prime minister David Doron. The motorcade would wait, as would the NSC meeting, if need be. Doron had just ordered the IDF to prepare for a massive ground invasion of Gaza and the West Bank. It would take a few hours to get all the men and machinery in place. But the Israelis were offering to rescue the Americans and begin to restore order. All they wanted was a green light from Washington. Would they get it?

  Oaks was an old Washington hand. He’d risen through the ranks of naval intelligence, then got out, made some money, and got into politics. He’d once been the governor of Virginia, then served four terms in the U.S. Senate

  from the Old Dominion, much of that time as the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He knew the game. He knew what Doron wanted. He just wasn’t convinced the United States should say yes.

  MacPherson took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. The phone rang. It was Kirkpatrick again.

  “Mr. President, we’re picking up indications that the Syrians are going on full military alert. Air raid sirens are going off in Damascus. One of our Keyhole satellites is showing all kinds of activity at their forward air bases. Military radio traffic is picking up. I’ll have transcripts of some of our inter cepts soon.”

  “What are the Israelis doing?”

  “They’re mobilizing as well, sir. The VP just got off the phone with the prime minister. They’re putting their forces along the northern borders with Syria and Lebanon on full alert. They’re also preparing for a massive ground invasion into the West Bank and Gaza. They’re offering to rescue our people. They’ve just put their best counterterrorism units on high alert. The Sayerat Matkal and Ya’ma’m will be ready to move within the hour. Doron would like to talk with you as soon as possible.”

  “Does he think the Syrians are behind this?”

  “He doesn’t know what to think, sir. None of them do. Seems Shin Bet was completely caught off guard, as well.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Bashar Assad doesn’t have much use for Arafat. But there’s no reason I can see why he’d kill him. Assad isn’t a religious man. Khalid al-Rashid was. I can’t see how Syrian intelligence could have per suaded him to blow up Arafat and Mazen and Paine and himself for the glory of the Ba’ath party. It doesn’t add up.”

  “God help me, Marsha,” said the President, “if Assad is behind this …”

  “Mr. President, I know what you’re saying, and I feel the same way. But things are very early. It’s far more likely that there’s a religious angle here than that this is the Syrians.”

  “Who then—Iran, the Saudis?”

  “It’s just too early, sir.”

  MacPherson tried to refocus.

  “All right, here’s what I want you to do. Put CENTCOM on alert. Start moving air and ground assets toward the Syrian-Iraqi border. Watch for more Iraqi officials trying to flee for Damascus and make Assad feel the heat. Then tell our ambassador over there to get this message to Assad—quote—‘The

  president advises you to stand down your forces. The U.S. will not tolerate Syrian interference in the crisis in Palestine. Any attempt to exploit the situation or provoke hostilities with the State of Israel or any regional player will be considered a hostile act against the United States. On these points there can be no misunderstanding. The U.S. will protect our vital national interests, and the interests of regional peace and security.’ End quote. Got

  it?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get me the VP right away.”

  “What about Doron, sir?”

  “What do you think?”

  “For the moment I’d tell them to get their forces ready for ground op erations in the West Bank and Gaza. But I’d recommend you advise Israel not to actually move in—or engage in any armed contact with the Palesti nians—until we gather more facts and you can get back to the White House.”

  “All right, have the VP call Doron back and give him that message. Have him tell Doron that as soon as I lan
d in Washington, we’ll talk by phone. Then have the VP call me.”

  “Roger that, Mr. President. By the way, not that you need anything else on your plate right now, sir, but we’ve gotten word that there have just been two massive earthquakes in the past hour. The first was in southern Turkey, about forty-five minutes ago. Looks like a six-point-nine on the Richter scale. Death toll already appears to be over a thousand, with the number of wounded closing in on three thousand.”

  “My God.”

  “I’ve spoken twice with Ambassador Rebeiz in the last few minutes. He just called the Turkish foreign minister to offer our sympathies and full support. Our military forces in the country—including our base at Incirlik— all appear unaffected so far. But I should be getting an update at the top of the hour from DoD.”

  “Good. Get Rebeiz back on the phone. Have him call President Sezer and Prime Minister Gul and give them my personal condolences. Let them know I’ve authorized the full resources of our government to provide anything he and his people need—search and rescue, medical facilities and personnel, the Army Corps of Engineers, whatever.” Yes, sir.

  “And make sure the Red Cross and other groups are doing whatever they can.”

  “We’ll get right on it, sir.”

  “What about the second quake?”

  “It happened in northwestern India, near Kashmir, about eighteen, maybe nineteen minutes ago. That one hit eight point one—casualties are mounting fast but we don’t have any solid numbers yet.”