The Last Days (14 page)

“Then who's it going to be, the U.N.?” Mitchell snapped. “Come on, Jon, wake up. People are killing each other over there and your polls don't mean squat. That ‘silent majority' you talk about—all those Palestinians you say want peace—first of all, I'm not sure I buy the premise. But second of all, none of this so-called ‘silent majority' is going to lift a finger to take on all these security forces. So a whole lot of innocent people are going to die, and who's going to get blamed? Not Arafat. He's dead. Not Mazen. He's dead. Not the E.U. They're not there. We're going to get blamed. Why? Because we sent the Secretary of State to stir up a hornet's nest. And if the Israelis don't go in with an overwhelming show of force, and if we just sit back and watch thousands of Palestinians get slaughtered on the evening news, I don't see how that exactly furthers the cause of peace. Do you?”

No one said a word. Mitchell had a point, and it was obvious most of the president's senior team agreed, or were certainly leaning that way.

McCoy didn't know what to say. She'd seen Bennett in hundreds of meetings and negotiations over the years. She'd seen him speak his mind and play hardball when necessary. But this was completely different. She was used to hearing him make utilitarian arguments based on economic and financial considerations. She was not used to him making moral arguments based on right and wrong, good and evil. Bennett wasn't exactly known for waxing philosophical in strategy sessions of any kind, least of all closed-door sessions of the National Security Council, and given his newcomer status to the team and its standard modus operandi, it was risky. He was rocking the boat in a storm and about to be thrown overboard.

Bennett knew he was outgunned. The CIA director was, after all, one of the president's best friends and closest confidants. Moreover, even half a world away he could feel the mood turning against him. It wasn't a sensation he was used to, and he didn't know quite what to do next. He finally looked away from Mitchell and found Kirkpatrick, then looked to the president, hoping to find a bit of reassurance. But Kirkpatrick was staring down at her notes. The president looked around the table at the others gathered with him in the Situation Room and tried to gauge their mood.

Bennett knew he had to say something. Leave no charge unanswered. It was the cardinal rule of brinksmanship, business or political. But what exactly was he supposed to say? He was already sinking fast. Was he now going to recommend that the president send ground troops into the West Bank and Gaza instead of the Israelis? Was he insane? Why not just play Russian roulette with every chamber loaded?

The silence was unnerving. He had to speak. If not, the case would be closed. He'd lose by default. The peace process would be finished for decades to come, and all these deaths would be for naught. Bennett cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. But before he could speak, the vice president suddenly stepped in and cut him off.

“Mr. President, with your permission, I'd like to say a few words.”

That was it. He'd waited too long.

“Please, Bill, go right ahead,” said the president, almost visibly relieved.

“Thank you, Mr. President. I'll be brief.”

McCoy quietly slid a piece of paper across the conference table, out of camera range. Bennett opened the note, read it to himself, then crumpled it and looked back at the VP, now beginning to speak.

“I've been listening to this conversation with great interest.”

Bennett braced himself. Oaks was about to lower the boom.

“I must say that with all due respect to my friend Jack Mitchell, for whom I have the highest regard, I'm afraid I find myself with Jon on this.”

Bennett looked up. So did McCoy.

“Look, all of us know our Edmund Burke—‘The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing,'” the VP continued. “We have to do
something.
But the more I look at the situation, the less comfortable I am with the Israelis going in. Not because I don't trust them. I just think Jon's right.”

No one was more surprised than Mitchell. His stony expression said it all.

“An Israeli invasion,” the VP continued, “even if it's called a rescue operation, will simply inflame an already terrible situation and make peace efforts all but impossible. The Jordanians and Egyptians want to be helpful, but won't be—can't be—if the Israelis invade. Russia is offering intelligence assistance. But that's off if Israel moves in. And given what else is happening in the region, the risk of a wider war is too big. I'm not saying I've got a perfect solution. I'm not saying I've got any solution at the moment. But, Mr. President, I'm pretty clear on what
not
to do.”

McCoy reached over and squeezed Bennett's left hand. It was trembling. He'd just gained a major ally. But would it be enough?

Checkpoints were up on all roads and bridges leading into Washington.

It was still dark, still well before morning rush hour. But the Secret Service and DC Metro Police were taking no chances. The security perimeter was rapidly being expanded. Concrete barricades were being put into place in a five-block radius around the White House, Capitol, Supreme Court, and other major landmarks. SWAT teams began taking up positions on the roofs of key buildings. Counterterrorism assault units armed with Stinger missiles were being deployed throughout the city. Avenger antiaircraft missile batteries surrounded the Pentagon. Police reconnaissance helicopters patrolled the skies—spotlights and thermal imaging cameras looking for any signs of trouble—while U.S. Air Force F-16s armed with Sidewinder missiles roared overhead.

The White House itself was in total lockdown. Even staff members with West Wing clearance would be subject to extensive searches, metal detectors, and questioning by the Secret Service.

Jack Mitchell regrouped. He wouldn't argue with the VP directly. He'd simply focus the president on the facts. He introduced Jack Ziegler, his man in Gaza, then fired a series of questions at him, each more difficult than the one before. What did he make of all the horrific video images they were seeing flashing across their screens? What exactly was happening on the ground? Who was doing what to whom? And, more important, were Jon Bennett and the vice president right? Should the Israelis stay out of the territories, or was it essential for them to move in immediately, before the situation really got out of hand? And if the Israelis did move in, what were the prospects that such a move could trigger a wider conflict in the Middle East, drawing in the Syrians, or the Egyptians, or Hezbollah forces in southern Lebanon, backed by the mullahs in Iran?

Jake Ziegler was about to get caught in a political cross fire. He began on safe, neutral ground, explaining that the stakes couldn't be higher. There was no question the region was a powder keg, and the fuse was already lit. They did need to be careful of how to proceed. But there was no clear right or wrong answer.

Iraq, of course, was in shambles, and Palestine was going up in flames. More than a million Iraqi Shi'ites were expected to take to the streets in the next few days in southern Iraqi cities such as Karbala and Al Kut. Iran was adding fuel to the fires. The latest satellite photos and reports from sources on the ground indicated Iranian Shi'ite intelligence agents and volunteer agitators were infiltrating southern Iraq. Using smuggling routes dating back for centuries, routes that ran through Baluchistan, Halabjah and the island of Abadan in the southwest corner of Iran, these provocateurs were stirring up the local populations against the United States and calling for an independent, pro-Iranian state. Sixty percent of Iraqis were Shi'ites, after all, and shared not just a religious affinity with Iran but a mutual hatred for Saddam's regime.

Tehran also seemed to be opening up lines of communications with Damascus, encouraging the Syrian regime to continue accepting senior Iraqi military officials and to resist any and all American pressure to the contrary. And Hezbollah did appear to be moving militia units and Kaytusha rocket forces from the Bekaa Valley in eastern Lebanon, along the Syrian border, southward toward the border with Israel.

How would it all play out?
Ziegler thought to himself. How was he supposed to answer that? He had no idea. He was a station chief, not a god. The director of Central Intelligence was asking him to predict the future. But the events of the past few hours had rattled him. How could he predict the future when he could barely understand the past? He and his team had missed all the signs of an assassination plot against the Secretary of State, Yasser Arafat, and Abu Mazen. What right did he have to speculate on what else might be coming? But the president was waiting for an answer, so he plunged in.

“What does all this mean here in the West Bank and Gaza? Well, sir, I think the best way to understand what's going on right now is to take a step back and think about
The Godfather
movies.”

“The
Godfather?
”

“Remember in the first movie, when Marlon Brando—Vito Corleone—has a heart attack in the garden while playing with his little grandson?”

“Of course.”

“Remember what his son Michael worries might happen?”

Ziegler let the question hang in the air for a moment, then answered it himself.

“Michael worries that now that his father is dead, someone close to him—perhaps one of his own bodyguards—will conspire against him, even while claiming to set up a meeting to talk about a peace deal. That's what the Godfather warned Michael about shortly before his death, right? ‘The one that comes to you to set up a meeting, he's the rat, he's the Judas, he's the betrayer,' right?”

“Right.”

“OK, and that's exactly what happens. The Corleone family is betrayed by one of their bodyguards.”

Ziegler had the president's attention now. He had all their attention now.

“I'm with you,” MacPherson said. “Continue.”

“OK, next, Michael worries that the result of the betrayal will be that other crime families in New York will try to have him assassinated. Why? So they can take over the operation and consolidate their power base. And it's not an idle concern, is it? Again, that's exactly what happens. The Corleones' enemies are, in fact, plotting to move into the power vacuum created by the death of the Godfather to seize control and wipe out Michael and his family. But that's not all. Third, Michael worries that one of his own brothers—someone he loves, someone he thinks he can trust—will sell him out, maybe for money, maybe for power, maybe for a little respect from someone, somewhere. It's not really important why. It's not the motivation behind the betrayal that worries Michael so much as the act of conspiracy and betrayal itself. So remember what happens next?”

The president didn't. Neither did Bennett.

“Coolly, methodically, mercilessly, Michael sends his thugs to hunt down and kill his enemies, one by one,” Ziegler continued. “He has competing crime bosses killed. He has his brother-in-law killed. He even has his own brother killed after that whole thing in Cuba. The point, sir, is that we're watching the same thing play out right in front of us. We're watching a series of mafia crime families battle for control. The big question isn't whether they're all going to fight to the death until someone gains total control. That's a given. The question is, which one of the Palestinian faction leaders is actually Michael Corleone? Who's the real heir to the throne? Who's thinking strategically? Who's thinking ahead? Who's playing speed chess, and which one of these guys can see five, ten, fifteen moves ahead? The war to succeed Arafat—the Godfather, the last Don of Gaza—is under way, Mr. President, and things are going to get far bloodier.”

Ziegler took a drink of water, in part to catch his breath and think about what he needed to say next, and in part to let the grim truth of what he was saying sink in. A moment later, he cleared his throat and continued.

“In Gaza, troops controlled by Interior Minister Mohammed Dahlan—basically the overall head of security for the Palestinian Authority—appear to be squaring off against Marwan Barghouti's Fatah Tanzim faction. Dahlan's forces are also being activated in the West Bank. My team just intercepted a flurry of calls from Dahlan's headquarters to his commanders in Ramallah, Hebron, and Jericho, all on the West Bank. They're mobilizing every fighter they've got and vowing not to leave any enemy standing. Still, that said, for the moment, Dahlan's forces—strong as they are—will have to play catch-up on the West Bank.”

“Why? Who's in control there right now?”

“On the West Bank, Colonel Jibril Rajoub's forces seem to have the upper hand. Now, technically—legally—Rajoub and his West Bank security forces are supposed to report to Dahlan. But it's not playing out that way. Most of Rajoub's forces are loyal first and foremost to Rajoub himself. He's commanded them for years. And now comes the moment of truth. What's interesting is that the moment Arafat was assassinated Rajoub personally got on the phone and started mobilizing his troops. We picked up that call. They hit the streets immediately. They're seizing PA buildings. They're seizing radio stations and newspaper offices. They've begun moving into Hebron, where an intense gun battle is under way, one of the bloodiest anywhere in the territories. Marwan Barghouti's Tanzim forces are fighting back. But early indications look as though they're being overrun by Rajoub's guys.”

The vice president cut into the conversation now.

“JZ, it's Bill Oaks.”

“Yes, Mr. Vice President.”

The two had known each other for several years, having met during a Senate Intelligence briefing on Capitol Hill sometime back.

“JZ, what's unclear to me is whether one of these factions set all this into motion. I mean, is it possible to tell who started all this? Did this al-Rashid character, Arafat's personal security chief, do all this on his own? That's hard to believe.”

“The ‘lone gunman theory' does seem suspect, I agree,” Ziegler answered. “My initial sense is that al-Rashid was told to do this suicide bombing. I don't know by whom. Was it one of the faction leaders—one of the sons, as it were? Or was it by someone from the outside? I don't know. There were obviously others planted in nearby buildings, armed with AK-47s and RPGs, who were told to move in and attack our guys once the initial suicide bombing occurred. So who was controlling them? I'm afraid all we have right now are questions, not a whole lot of answers.”

“I know I'm asking you to guess,” said the president, “but what I want to know is whether there's one suspect in your mind that emerges out of the pack?”

“Any one of these guys—Dahlan, Rajoub, Barghouti, you name it—any of them could plausibly be responsible. They've all had their blowouts with Arafat. They've all had reason to hate him, and each of them is poised to benefit enormously by his death, if they can wrestle control from the others. The only thing for sure right now is that nothing's for sure.”

 

It was getting dark and he had no choice.

Daoud Juma flipped on his headlights and pushed the Renault to its limits. Along a highway hugging the contours of the Euphrates River, he raced westward across the desert at almost eighty miles an hour. But with all of the sand and dust he was terrified of clogging up the car's systems and breaking down in these godforsaken wastelands. The last thing he could afford was to be stranded in western Iraq, while U.S. Special Forces were still on the hunt.

His last set of instructions couldn't have been more clear. He needed to be in Damascus. Syrian intelligence would be waiting for him in the Iraqi frontier town of Al Qa'im, if he could make it that far, then smuggle him across the border into the Syrian village of Abu Kamal. They would then hide him in the trunk of a car and head north, taking him to a mosque on the outskirts of the capital. He'd meet up with an Al-Nakbah control agent, receive food, cash, new clothing, new passports, and a green light to carry out his mission.

He'd been studying English for almost two years now. But he'd never actually set foot in the United States. He would soon. This was it, he told himself. The moment for which he'd been training—and for which he'd been training so many others—was almost here, and he could hardly wait.

Suddenly, up ahead—near the junction of the ancient town of Annah—Daoud saw two vehicles pulled over on the side of the road. One looked like a Range Rover. The other looked like a minivan of some kind. Daoud began to worry. He couldn't turn around now. They'd already seen him, and where was he supposed to go? He turned his high beams on to get a better look. A number of men were milling about, and two were standing in the road pointing rifles at him. He glanced into his rearview mirror. There was no one behind him. Should he gun it and plow through these guys? The chance of making it through alive seemed remote, at best. He slowed down and pulled the Renault onto the shoulder, trying to be as careful and nonconfrontational as possible.

The men's faces were covered by kaffiyahs. At first glance, they didn't appear to be Americans or Brits, but one couldn't be sure. He considered reaching under his seat and grabbing his 9-mm, but thought better of it. He could now see four more men aiming rifles at him. He'd never survive a firefight under these conditions. He was alone, without his “followers.”

One of the men rapped on his window with the barrel of a pistol. He spoke Arabic, with a Tikriti accent. Daoud rolled down the window and felt the gun press against his left temple. The men were shouting at him now, cursing and waving their guns at him. When they told him to get out of the Renault with his hands in the air, he complied without a word. When they told him to lie down in the middle of the road, spread-eagle, he did that too without a sound. Now a cold steel barrel was pressed into his right ear. A man was standing over him, his foot on Daoud's back, barking questions.

Yes, he had extra cans of fuel, Daoud answered. Yes, he had enough to get to the Syrian border. Yes, he had supplies of food and water and cell phone batteries. But when they asked him his name, Daoud refused to speak.

The man standing over him asked him again. But Daoud refused to say anything. He didn't know who they were. He couldn't afford to trust them. He had his mission and he wasn't about to compromise it now, so close to the goal. He heard the bolt action of several rifles. He could see men inside his car, opening up boxes and rifling through his papers. A few seconds later, one of the men shouted out his name. Was that fear in his voice, or just surprise? Daoud's entire body stiffened. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to Allah. He wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

Are you
the
Colonel Daoud Mohammed Juma?