The Last Jihad

“We were kind of curious about them. So we trailed them to Madrid, where they set up shop for two months. They kept getting wire transfers from Berlin and Prague, money washed through a Swiss bank in Basel. But it was all coming from payments made for Iraqi oil sold illegally on the black market, despite the U.N. embargo. We’ve got all the paperwork on this. That’s where the $6 million figure comes from. Then Maleek and Jafar left Madrid for Cairo. We believed the two were heading back to Baghdad. That’s when we had the Egyptians nab them.”

  “Why didn’t we nab them ourselves?”

  “We didn’t have enough to hold them, sir. But you’d just threatened Egypt’s foreign aid and they happened to be in a mood to help us out.”

  “So how did they escape?” asked the president.

  “Honestly, sir?”

  “Jack.”

  “Sir, you’re not going to be happy.”

  “I’m not happy now.”

  “Maleek and Jafar were released the day the latest U.S. foreign aid wire transfer was deposited in the Cairo account.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, sir. On a hunch, I had my station chief in Cairo make some calls the day before the wire was authorized. You know, just to let them know we were watching.”

  “And?”

  “And he didn’t get a call back ’til the next day—the next night actually. By that time, the two were gone. Of course, the Egyptians said they felt terrible.”

  “I bet they did.”

  “So where’d these Maleek and Jafar characters go?”

  “Well, sir, we’re not positive. But we believe they headed back to Baghdad via Khartoum. We have photos of a Gulfstream jet that landed in Khartoum the next day, refueled and headed for Baghdad.”

  These pictures, too, were on one of the screens for the NSC team to see.

  “A Gulfstream, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. We didn’t actually see anyone on the plane—no one got on or off—they just refueled. We didn’t have enough guys on the ground to do anything about it, much less authorization to do anything if we had.”

  The president leaned back in his wheelchair and tried to get comfortable.

  “What about London and Paris and Riyadh? What do we know about those operations?”

  “Nothing—not yet, sir. We’re lucky to have as much as we do already.”

  The president nodded, looked over his notes, and took a sip of water.

  “So, let me get this straight, Jack. We have positive ID on the two guys that tried to kill me?”

  “Check.”

  “And we’re positive these guys were top lieutenants of Jibril and Al-Nakbah?”

  “Check.”

  “And we’re convinced that Al-Nakbah was begun with seed money from the Iranians and some Russian ultranationalists, but has been receiving most of its money in the past two years or so from Iraq?”

  “Check.”

  “And Maleek and Jafar were in Baghdad a few months ago?”

  “Check.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Mr. President, we’re concerned about a new intercept NSA just picked up.”

  “What intercept?”

  “NSA picked up a phone call through its Echelon facility on Gibraltar. We’re pretty sure it came out of the desert of Western Iraq.”

  “Who’s making cell phone calls in the middle of the night in the desert?”

  “Well, sir, that’s just the thing. It doesn’t make any sense. Plus, about an hour or so before we intercepted that call, one of our military satellites got a GPS request in Western Iraq. From a vehicle on Highway 10 to Amman. The only thing we know was on that road was a U.N. relief convoy—a large truck and four Range Rovers. But the convoy has now disappeared without a trace.”

  “What was said on the call?”

  “We’ll have that in a few minutes, sir.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “Honestly, Mr. President, I don’t know yet. But given all the rest that the Iraqis are up to, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We’re trying to track it all down. I’ll get you more just as soon as I can.”

  The president was in serious and increasing pain. He whispered something to Agent Sanchez, then addressed the group.

  “Guys, I apologize. I’m really getting uncomfortable up here. I think my pain medications are wearing off. Let’s take a break for a few minutes. I’ll huddle with my doctors. Then we’ll pick this thing back up in a few minutes. OK?”

  “No problem, Mr. President,” said the VP. “Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

  Fourteen minutes later, Marsha Kirkpatrick reentered the PEOC.

  A moment later, Agent Sanchez wheeled the President back into the conference room. The president’s punctuality was legendary and consistent, even if he was on heavy medication. The NSC meeting was back in progress.

  “Marsha, let me start with you for a moment,” the president began promptly. “What’ve you got?”

  Kirkpatrick poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Mr. President, I just got off the phone with Marcus Jackson at the Times. He’s salivating. The story’s running front page, top of the fold, banner headline.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “He wouldn’t say. But I think you’ll be happy.”

  The president glanced over at the vice president.

  “Bill, when was the last time I was happy with a story by Marcus Jackson?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The profile of you after the Gulf War for the Denver Post,” noted Bennett.

  Everyone looked at him like he’d just sworn to the Pope’s face. Black and McCoy winced. For a moment, no one said a word, until Kirkpatrick broke the silence.

  “Mr. Bennett, you’re here as a courtesy, not a participant,” she said, with a tone of voice that made Bennett feel like his father had just grounded him for a month.

  “That’s true—but he’s right,” said the president. “Jackson was nice to me once. Since then he’s been a total…well, a total idiot.”

  “Big time,” added the VP.

  “This conference call is completely secure, isn’t it?” asked the president.

  “It better be,” said the VP.

  Everyone laughed.

  Bennett crawled back into his shell. Better to be seen than heard, he told himself. This was the big leagues and he was a rookie.

  “All right. Back to business. Jack, let’s pick up with that intercepted call.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got the transcription of the intercepted Iraqi cell phone call.”

  “Good. What is it?”

  “It was in Farsi.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The caller says, ‘The letter is stamped and ready for the post office.’ That’s it. Then the receiver says, ‘Praise be to Allah. Go ahead and mail the letter.’ Then there’s some static, and that’s it.”

  “That’s it?” asked the president. “So? What does that tell us?”

  “On a normal day, sir, nothing,” said Mitchell. “On a normal day, we wouldn’t have even noted or transcribed—much less interpreted—that three-second call for a couple of weeks, at best. Today, we’re watching things a lot more closely.”

  “And?”

  “And, sir, I’m concerned a new operation is underway someplace.”

  “Iraqi or Iranian?”

  “Iraqi.”

  “Then what’s the deal with the Farsi?”

  “That’s partly why I think it’s an operation. Sir, the Iraqis aren’t sure about our intercept capability. Not exactly. And we believe that they believe that even if a quick call like that is picked up and recorded—which is highly doubtful, but thank God it happened—that even if we got it, we couldn’t precisely trace it. We might think it’s coming from Jordan or Saudi Arabia or Syria—but not Iraq. And even if we could trace it precisely, the Farsi would confuse us and cause us to suspect the Iranians.”

  “OK. But…?”

>   “But, because of the GPS intercept an hour before, our analysts are sure the call was made by one of the U.N. Range Rovers we lost along Highway 10.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning the U.N. vehicles could actually be part of an Iraqi military or intelligence operation, not a relief convoy.”

  “Burt, what do you think?” asked the president.

  “My gut tells me it’s military in nature,” said Secretary Trainor.

  “Why?”

  “The Jordanian military sealed its border minutes after the attack on you, Mr. President. Nothing’s come over from the Iraqi border, and they haven’t even seen anything come that way.”

  “One of those roads splits off to Syria, doesn’t it, Burt?” asked Kirkpatrick.

  “It does. But the Syrians insist nothing’s come their way either.”

  “Do we believe them?”

  “We checked with the Israelis,” answered Mitchell. “They’ve got—well, let’s just say they’ve got assets nearby, and they say no convoy has come through there.”

  “What about the U.N.? What are they saying?” asked Paine.

  “The U.N. mission in Amman says they haven’t heard a peep from their team in the last few days. They put in an inquiry, but haven’t heard back yet from the Iraqi Foreign Ministry. And none of their team speaks Farsi.”

  “What are you guys trying to say?” asked the president.

  Bennett could tell the president was genuinely worried now.

  “Sir, there are a couple of possibilities,” said Mitchell. “The first is that the Iraqis are sending another covert terrorist team into the desert to secretly cross into Jordan somewhere, either to attack the Hashemite Kingdom—the king and queen themselves, perhaps—or onto the West Bank and then Israel to make a move on Prime Minister Doron.”

  “What do the Jordanians say?”

  “Honestly, my call to their intelligence chief was the first he’d heard of it.”

  “What about the Israelis?” the president pressed.

  “Well, sir, now that’s a horse of a different color. Three military helicopters lifted off one of their secret bases in the Negev several hours ago. One of our satellites picked up the liftoff. Originally, we thought they were heading on a recon mission into Saudi Arabia. They do it all the time, so we didn’t think much of it. But then one of our experts looked at the image more carefully. Barry, can y’all put the image up on the screen?”

  The president looked up to the video screen on the wall and strained to see what was coming into focus, as did Bennett.

  “Holy…”

  “I don’t believe this,” added the VP.

  “Tell me for sure what I’m looking at, Jack,” insisted the president. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions—but that sure looks like a helicopter full of commandos.”

  “You got it, sir. You’re looking at the top of two American-built Apaches and one Sikorsky heading across the Gulf of Eilat at about a hundred feet off the water.”

  “Why?”

  “One Apache and I’d say they’re doing recon. Two Apaches and I’d say they’re taking someone or something out.”

  “And the Sikorsky, Jack?”

  “Well, sir. That’s what makes it interesting. I think they’re planning on bringing something or someone back home with them. That’s what worries me.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  Mitchell took a deep breath. Bennett glanced at McCoy, who looked as grim as he’d ever seen her. The president rubbed his chin and made eye contact with the VP, then Kirkpatrick. Then he turned back up to Mitchell.

  “Well, Jack?”

  “Sir, I don’t think we’re looking at Iraqi terrorists. Mr. President, I believe we’re looking at some kinda Iraqi missile operation, under the cover of a U.N. relief truck.”

  “So—assuming that’s true for a moment—why wouldn’t the Israelis run in a Scud-busting mission? You know, just send in a couple of jets or Apaches to blow them to smithereens?”

  Mitchell said nothing. Bennett looked at Black, then around the room, not understanding what was happening. The president said nothing. He just leaned forward, waiting for Mitchell to answer.

  “Jack?”

  “Mr. President?”

  It was Kirkpatrick. The president looked over at her screen.

  “What? Why don’t they just take out the Scud—or whatever it is?”

  “There’s only one possible explanation, Mr. President,” Kirkpatrick said slowly.

  The president waited. Bennett looked at Tucker Paine. He obviously hadn’t a clue. Neither did the AG, for that matter. But from the looks of things, Burt Trainor knew. Mitchell obviously knew, as did Kirkpatrick. McCoy gently squeezed Bennett’s hand under the table. She knew, too. Surprised but grateful, Bennett squeezed back.

  “Sir, the Israelis must believe that whatever it is, it’s too risky to destroy.”

  Just the way Kirkpatrick said it made the color instantly drain from Bennett’s exhausted face. He suddenly felt cold and clammy and scared—like the moment he’d looked into the eyes of the scar-faced man in that cell in the Israeli airport and seen the foreshadowing of his own imminent death.

  “Too risky?” pressed the president. “What are you trying…no…you don’t think…”

  The president froze. He looked pale and nauseated.

  What? Bennett silently screamed. What are they talking about? Now the president had figured it out. Was someone going to say it? He didn’t dare ask. Not now. Not after Kirkpatrick lowered the boom on him. Desperate, he looked at the vice president—his worn and aging face now ashen. The vice president was looking straight into the haunted, frozen eyes of his mentor and friend, President James Michael MacPherson. And a shudder ran through Bennett’s body.

  “The Israelis,” the Vice President of the United States said quietly, “now believe Iraq is about to use a weapon of mass destruction.”

  Bennett contemplated the horror of that statement for a moment, as did they all.

  “What’s the worst-case scenario?” asked the president. “Lay it out for me.”

  No one wanted to take that question, and it hung there in the air for a moment while they all processed the nightmare unfolding before them.

  “Could be chemical,” the VP added. “Could be biological—anthrax…Sarin…mustard gas…Ebola…or…”

  His voice trailed off. Each was too hideous to truly imagine. Then all eyes suddenly shifted back to MacPherson.

  “Or,” said the president, “it could be worse…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. The entire National Security Council team knew what he was thinking, and was thinking it themselves. Even Bennett got it now. Iraq was about to go nuclear.

  TEN

  The “four horsemen of the apocalypse” had arrived.

  They came in by way of Kievsky Station, one of eight major train stations in Moscow, handling more than two and a half million people arriving daily. Each took a separate cab as they left from the Square of Kievsky Terminal—Ploshchad Kievskogo Vokzala—on the banks of the Moskva River, near the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But sure enough, they all wound up at the same place, in this case the Hotel National.

  Constructed in 1903 by the renowned Russian architect Alexander Ivanov, at a then-staggering cost of one million rubles, the historic landmark could boast of having been home both to the first Soviet government, in 1918, and to Vladimir Lenin. Lenin actually resided for a time in Room 107, until he moved into the Kremlin itself, just across the boulevard on Red Square.

  Completely renovated between 1991 and 1995 when Royal Meridien purchased the property, the Hotel National was now one of city’s most luxurious and expensive hotels. Four massive white marble statues of Greek gods greeted guests in the foyer. The sumptuous Moscovsky restaurant offered the best borscht and beef Stroganoff in town. And wonderful live piano music seemed to perpetually emanate from the Alexandrovsky Bar—a gorgeous greenhouse structure
with a pitched, tentlike glass ceiling, natural light, and lush trees and bushes inside and out—often packed with businessmen and tourists until the wee hours of the morning.

  But the “four horsemen” didn’t care about the hotel’s look. They cared about its location, overlooking Tverskaya Street and the pale yellow Kremlin buildings. They quickly checked into four adjoining suites reserved months before, then seemed to do nothing but leave CNN on, all day, every day. They didn’t make calls. They didn’t order room service. They never even ventured out into the hotel’s public areas, much less outside the building. They seemed content to settle in. And they forced those trailing them to do the same.

  The problem for their tails was that they were at a severe disadvantage. All of the eavesdropping equipment once built into the hotel’s walls by the KGB had been removed by the new owners. And with high-paying guests occupying all two hundred twenty-four rooms, the best the surveillance team could do was play the part of room-service waiters, housekeepers, and fellow tourists. So the agents discreetly infiltrated the building while their team leader took up residence in the management’s state-of-the art security center in the basement and called back to Langley for instructions. They had these guys surrounded and in their sights. Now all they needed was clearance to take them down.

  It had better not be them again.

  Marcus Jackson’s SkyTel satellite pager went off with an infuriating series of high-pitched squeals just as he’d finally fallen asleep. He cursed and fumbled in the darkness for his glasses, the light switch and his stupid pager, the bane of his existence, the omnipresent electronic leash that tied him 24/7/365 to his editors in New York.

  It was almost three o’clock Friday morning back on the East Coast. Two of his editors had already wrestled with him over this story most of the night before finally putting the paper—and him—to bed. Couldn’t everyone just let him get a few measly hours of sleep? There were other reporters on the payroll. Let them show a little elbow grease. He’d just scooped the world on the biggest story since the attacks and the banner headlines in this morning’s New York Times would reflect his coup: “U.S. Prepares For Massive, Imminent Retaliation; Sources Finger Saddam As Iraq Shoots Down 3 U.S. Planes; President’s Injuries Far Worse Than Previously Known.” There’s no rest for the wicked, Jackson concluded.