The Last Jihad

  “What about this one, Max?” asked Harris, picking one particular email out of the pile. “It mentions a trip. Have you cross-checked the dates to see if Iverson really went?”

  “Yes, sir. It all checks out. Gogolov says he’ll meet Iverson in a café in Prague on August 2, 1999. We’ve confirmed that Iverson booked a flight on British Airways, leaving Denver, Colorado on August 1 of that year, arriving in London, transferring to a flight to Prague, and returning to Denver via Basel, Switzerland on August 4.”

  Harris leaned back and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

  “So, just to be clear, Max. I need a no-holds-barred assessment. Is it your belief that Secretary Iverson and Yuri Gogolov are complicit in this attack on the president?”

  “Yes, sir. It appears that way. Though I would add that they are probably not alone, of course. As you know, sir, Gogolov is known to work closely with Mohammed Jibril. Both have been heavily funding Iraqi intelligence operations, including those of the ‘four horsemen’ over the past decade.”

  “How do you assess this newest email?”

  “That’s what worries me most, sir. I think we’re possibly looking at another hit on the president within the next week or so, especially now that we’re at war with Iraq. What really troubles me is this reference to a ‘Mr. C.’”

  “Yeah, what do you make of that?” asked Harris, taking a quick sip of coffee.

  “I doubt Secretary Iverson knows who ‘Mr. C’ is. But the implication is that he’s some kind of sleeper agent, already positioned here in the U.S., ready to strike at a moment’s notice, if the secretary doesn’t provide his own assassination plan.”

  Harris was afraid he was right. He grabbed the phone and called down to see if Doug Reed, the head of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division, had made it in yet. Turns out, he’d just sat down at his desk.

  “Reed, get up here. Now.”

  Corsetti’s phone rang just before six. It was Chuck Murray.

  “Chuck, what have you got?”

  “Drudge has it already.”

  “What?”

  “Pull it up. See for yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?

  “Drudge is reporting that we’re at war. He’s got the story already and I’m getting killed with calls. The press is furious. Not only didn’t they know we were going to war this morning—they also got scooped by Drudge. They’re past their deadlines. They’ve got no information. They’re out of control, Bob. And I need to know what to say—fast.”

  “All right. All right. Calm down. Get the word out that there will be a backgrounder in the press room at seven. Tell them a senior official will be briefing.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who. If I knew who, I’d tell you who. Just tell them it will be somebody senior. I’ll figure it out. And start leaking the word that the president will address the country at nine P.M. Don’t spill all the beans yet, Chuck. But let people know this is the real thing. It’s bad. And it’s getting worse very, very quickly.”

  Corsetti slammed down the phone, fired up his computer, and pulled up the Drudge Report.

  Sure enough.

  There it was.

  How did this guy do it—from a little place in Palm Beach, no less?

  XX DRUDGE REPORT XX NOV. 26 2010 XX 05:49:59 AM ET XX

  NYT JACKSON: CIA Fingers Saddam Regime For Assassination Attempts

  WP Woodward: President Plots War On Air Force One

  WSJ: Israelis and Palestinians Strike Oil; Huge Find Threatens OPEC

  WAR!

  DEFCON ONE

  U.S. WARPLANES

  ATTACK IRAQ

  *****WORLD EXCLUSIVE*****

  [CREDIT DRUDGE REPORT WHEN QUOTING]

  President James MacPherson overnight ordered U.S. forces to Defense Condition One—war—and authorized a massive air strike against Iraq, government sources tell the DRUDGE REPORT. American airplanes began pounding Iraqi military bases, radar sites, and SAM (surface-to-air missle) sites at approximately 4:30 A.M. Eastern time. U.S. troops are also headed to the region.

  “Forget surgical strikes,” said one senior offical. “The Iraqis tried to kill the President. We’re responding. This is war. And Saddam is finished. Period.”

  DEVELOPING

  Filed by Matt Drudge

  Reports are moved when circumstances warrant

  http://www.drudgereport.com for updates

  Doug Reed was an eighteen-year veteran of the FBI.

  Former deputy chief of the Bureau’s counterintelligence section, he’d also once served as chief of the Bureau’s international terrorism section and as head of the Iraq unit of the counterterrorism section. He was also Dietrich Black’s direct supervisor and mentor, though they rarely saw much of each other these days.

  Reed closed the file and looked up.

  “Sir, the good news is it looks like you just bagged yourself the highest-ranking spy in American history.”

  “And?”

  “And a definite co-conspirator in the assassination attempt against the president.”

  “So what’s the bad news?”

  “The bad news is the guy who wants to kill the president is the head of the Secret Service. We don’t know whom he’s working with. He may not be the only mole inside the highest levels of the U.S. government. There’s a killer out there named ‘Mr. C.’ who’s apparently planning to finish the job if Iverson doesn’t. My guess would be that Iverson probably doesn’t have the foggiest idea who ‘Mr. C.’ is. And we don’t have much time to figure it out ourselves. Nor do we really know where to begin looking. And to top it all off, we don’t know who we can trust. ‘Mr. C.’ could be anyone, beginning with the White House chief of staff.”

  “Corsetti?”

  “Or the White House Press Secretary.”

  “Murray?”

  “Chuck Murray. I mean, the list goes on and on.”

  “I need a plan,” pressed Harris. “And I need it yesterday.”

  At 40,000 feet, the skies are sunny and blue and cloudless.

  Even if the world is at war seven miles down.

  With Colonel Frank Oakland and his copilot, Lieutenant Colonel Nick Brindisi—dubbed by Bennett as his team’s “designated drivers”—at the controls, the G4 streaked towards Tel Aviv at nearly the speed of sound. McCoy uploaded the latest intel from Langley as Black worked the phones to nail down ground transportation and all their security arrangements. Bennett gulped down his third cup of coffee and waited for the call from Washington.

  The statutes were crystal clear.

  Like Title 18: Part I: Chapter 37: Section 794.

  “Whoever, with intent or reason to believe that it is to be used to the injury of the United States or to the advantage of a foreign nation…”

  That wouldn’t be tough to prove. Iverson’s actions clearly intended to injure—read: kill—the leader of the United States to the advantage of Iraq.

  “…communicates, delivers, or transmits, or attempts to communicate, deliver, or transmit…”

  Harris now had the damning emails—true smoking guns.

  “…to any foreign government, or to any faction or party or military or naval force within a foreign country, whether recognized or unrecognized by the United States, or to any representative, officer, agent, employee, subject, or citizen thereof, either directly or indirectly…”

  This would be a bit tougher. But here Mitchell at CIA would be helpful. He needed to be able to prove that at the time the emails were written, Gogolov was somehow operating as a faction of—operating in concert with—Iraqi military intelligence and/or the Iraqi president himself. Harris didn’t have that intelligence on hand at the moment. But he was sure the CIA would have what he needed when it was safe to ask for it.

  “…any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, photographic negative, blueprint, plan, map, model, note, instrument, appliance, or information relating to the national defense…”

&nb
sp; Would details of how to foil the Secret Service’s protection of the President of the United States—the country’s Commander-in-Chief—qualify under this statute? The FBI Director was pretty confident it would.

  “…shall be punished by death…”

  Technically, life imprisonment was also a possibility. But Harris could think of only one reasonable solution for a man who attempts to kill not only the President of the United States, but one of his best friends as well.

  Drop the pellets.

  “Mr. Bennett, this is the White House operator.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This is a secure line. Please stand by for the president.”

  Bennett waited a moment, then heard the familiar voice of his friend and mentor—and now boss, yet again.

  “Hello? Jon? That you?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’m here.”

  “Good. Hey, look, we’ve got the air war underway. Cruise missiles. F-15s. F-16s. F-111s. The whole thing. Plus we’ve got boots on the ground in western Iraq hunting down Scuds. I just got off the phone with Doron again. We talked for almost twenty minutes. He’s willing to hold back and not go nuclear for awhile—so long as we get results. Now, I told him you guys were coming. I told him we had some ideas for how we might get some lasting peace and prosperity on the other side of all this. And he’s open to listening. But I got to tell you—right now, he’s frankly not all that interested in next month or next year. He’s trying to defend his country hour by hour. I can’t say I blame him and so we talked mostly about military details—not oil deals and peace treaties.”

  “Mr. President, that makes sense and I totally agree. But, you know, that just begs the question—what role can I really play in all this? I mean, should we even be going over there at all right now?”

  “No, no, you’ve got to go, Jon—for two reasons. Listen, first of all, I’ve got to persuade him that we are committed to Israel’s security and prosperity for the long haul. That we’re in this thing together. That they don’t have to feel isolated and alone. That we’ve got a serious stake in their survival. The moment they conclude they’re all alone in the world, that’s when they’re going to strike on their own and that, I fear, would be catastrophic. By you going over there—with the initial outlines of an endgame strategy for a real, lasting, enduring peace—that’s got to be part of my overall strategic concept to keep the Israelis out of this war and to not go nuclear. You with me?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “You’re my ambassador on this thing, Jon. You’re proof that I’m dead serious about working with them for the long haul—and, frankly, that the U.S. no longer believes that hammering Israel to make more and more concessions to Arafat is the right policy. I totally believe—and I know you do, too—that an Israeli-Palestinian peace has to bring serious, tangible benefits to everybody. It can’t be seen as a series of concessions. It has to be seen as an investment with a big payoff. And not a payoff of billions of dollars of American and European aid. But the payoff of real wealth generated by Israelis and Palestinians cooperating on this oil and gas venture. I’ve got to make that real to Doron and his team somehow, so they see a real upside potential in not going nuclear. Does that make sense?”

  “It does. But you mentioned you had two key reasons for me going. That’s the first. What’s the second?”

  “I’ve got to be blunt, Jon.”

  “OK…”

  Bennett was wary. He had no idea what the president was going to say next, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “I need to give Israel a ‘hostage.’”

  “What?”

  “A hostage, Jon. I need to give Doron and his team someone close to me who will be on the ground in Israel in harm’s way for the next few days or weeks until this thing is resolved. They’ve got to believe that, even more than the prospect of peace, I’ve got a real-life tangible stake in whether they all live or die.”

  “And I’m it.”

  “Well, you and Erin and Deek.”

  Bennett didn’t know what to say.

  “Did the Israelis ask for that?”

  “No. I offered.”

  “You offered to put us in Iraq’s crosshairs to keep Israel out of the war?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  Bennett just stared out the window of the G4 into the brilliant blue skies and the fields of white clouds below them. He’d basically just been given a death sentence by the President of the United States. And he could feel the blood rising up the back of his neck and his ears. His face was flushed and hot and he fought to control his voice.

  “OK, then. Anything else, sir?”

  “Jon?”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you guys. I promise. But, I’ve got to go. Harris is on the other line from the FBI. Call me when you guys touch down.”

  And with that, the line went dead.

  Harris considered his options—and he wasn’t pleased.

  The only thing more difficult than tracking and capturing a Mafioso or terrorist—surrounded by bodyguards trained to kill—had to be tracking and capturing the U.S. Treasury Secretary, surrounded by Secret Service agents trained to protect him. Nevertheless, the hunt was on, and the noose was tightening. Stuart Morris Iverson was now Number One on the FBI’s “Most Wanted” list. Wanted for multiple counts of murder. Multiple counts of attempted murder. Multiple counts of conspiracy. Multiple counts of espionage. And treason. The world didn’t know that, of course. Nor did Iverson. Or his protective detail. Only twelve people on the face of the earth knew. But one more was about to find out.

  Black thanked Mitchell at CIA and hung up the phone.

  “The director wants Galishnikov and Sa’id to meet us at the home of Dr. Eliezar Mordechai in Jerusalem,” he told his colleagues.

  “Who’s he?” asked Bennett.

  “Dr. M’s a good man. Former director of the Mossad. Knows Saddam Hussein better than almost anyone else on the planet. He’s also close to Doron, and has worked as a back channel to Arafat for President MacPherson over the last few years. He and the president are very close. It’s a long story. But let’s just say they see the world the same way. The good thing is that he doesn’t really work for the Israeli government anymore. So he can help us figure out our strategy to hold Doron’s hand while also helping us navigate how best to have a conversation with Arafat and his team.”

  “OK,” said Bennett, not really in a mood to talk but privately grateful for any help he could get.

  “By the way,” Black added. “When we arrive, we’ll be met by an armored Chevy Suburban from the embassy. I’ve got one of my counterterrorism teams sweeping Dr. M’s house for any potential problems. We’re also running background checks on his housekeeping staff and his neighbors, and we’re cross-checking everything with Shin Bet and Mossad, just in case.”

  Black was paid to be suspicious. So he was.

  “Dr. M?” asked McCoy. “You guys close?”

  The three of them now gathered around the conference table with their laptops and coffee. McCoy helped Bennett log onto the secure, satellite-enabled CIA computer network, allowing him—and all of them—to access files and share them with one another during their discussion.

  “I’ve gotten to know him fairly well over the years I’ve been in Israel,” Black told them. “He’s been somewhat of a mentor of mine.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” McCoy continued.

  Black opened up a top-secret FBI computer file called “DEM-TRACK” and emailed it to Bennett and McCoy. It contained an updated photo of “DEM”—Dr. Eliezer Mordechai—along with basic biographical history and a “TRACK” report of his involvement in Israeli intelligence over the last several decades. Bennett and McCoy opened the file on each of their computers and took a moment to read the highlights.

  Eliezer Samuel Mordechai, Ph.D. Only child. Born May 28, 1935 in a little city in
Siberia known as Tobolsk. Family escaped in the spring of 1941 through central Asia, Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq, finally arriving Palestine in the fall of 1945. Father, Vladimir, fought in the Israeli War of Independence in 1948 and went on to become a professor of Russian Studies at Hebrew University. Mother, Miriam, was a nurse. Both died in a terrorist bombing of a Jerusalem restaurant in 1953 while Eliezer was away in IDF boot camp. Eliezer went on to become an intelligence officer, first in the military intelligence organization called Aman, then later in the Mossad. Graduated from Hebrew University with two undergraduate degrees—one in Russian Language Studies, one in Soviet Studies—and a master’s degree and doctorate in Near Eastern Studies.

  Worked his way up through the Mossad, first as an operative, then becoming an analyst, specializing in Soviet foreign policy. Fluent in Russian, Arabic, Farsi, and English, as well as his native tongue, Hebrew.

  Director of the Mossad’s Arab Desk from 1976 to 1984.

  Director of the Mossad’s Nuclear Desk from 1985 to 1987.

  Full Director of the Mossad from 1988 to 1996. Helped develop the plan to rescue Israeli hostages held in Entebbe, Uganda in 1976. Helped develop the plan to bomb the nuclear reactor in Osirik, Iraq in 1981. Helped develop the plan to assassinate Khalil al-Wazir (aka Abu Jihad)—a major PLO figure responsible for numerous terrorist attacks on Israelis—in Tunis on April 16, 1988. And so forth. The brief went on page after page.

  “Bottom line,” McCoy concluded, “this guy was Israel’s top spook.”

  “Still is, as far as I’m concerned,” said Black. “One of the best in the world. Maybe the best. When he retired, he got into the stock market and apparently hit the jackpot. I’ve always suspected he picked up some good intel on Intel during his Mossad days, but don’t quote me on that. Anyway, he built a huge home on this gorgeous plot of land in the hills overlooking Jerusalem. Never been there, but it’s supposed to be spectacular.”