The Last Days (43 page)

As Nadir pulled up to the orange cones, he was asked for his driver's license and registration. He gave the officers all his rental papers and his fake Italian passport.

“Mario Iabello, that you?” the officer asked, staring at the photo and Nadir's face.

“Afraid it is,” Nadir said with a slight Sicilian accent. “Of course, they say if you look as bad as your passport photo, you're too ill to travel.”

The officer wasn't amused, especially not standing outside on a bone-chilling January afternoon. He gave the passport to another officer, who called the number into the FBI and DHS to check against their watch lists. At the same time, he asked “Mr. Iabello” if his fellow agents could check through the contents of his car. “Mr. Iabello” readily agreed. He had nothing to hide. All they would find was luggage and a trunkful of software. After a few more questions, and a thorough search, the lead officer wished “Mr. Iabello” a pleasant stay in the nation's capital, and waved him through.

Easing the gas pedal down, he moved forward across the bridge, silently thanking Allah. He couldn't believe it. Again, he was in.

 

It was nearly four o'clock Monday afternoon when Bennett woke again.

He'd sleep all day if he could, and almost had. His physical and emotional systems were verging on overload again. But there was a peace process to attend to.
The New York Times
story speculating on covert peace talks had everyone rattled. The precise location of the “Mount of Olives” might still be a secret, but the code name wasn't. Nor was their mission.

The White House was getting a barrage of questions, as were the Israeli and Palestinian governments. This was complicated by new battles in the West Bank and Gaza, the bloodiest to date. Twenty-six Palestinian gunmen were killed overnight. Nine more on the DIA's most wanted list were taken into U.S. custody. But five American Rangers were dead and sixteen were wounded. The White House was going to have to issue a statement soon. Bennett's team had to get as much done as they could before their cover was completely blown.

Bennett took a shower, got dressed, and popped his head out the door to ask one of the guys on his security detail where McCoy, Doron, and Sa'id were. They weren't answering their phones. Even Galishnikov wasn't answering his phone.

“They're all in the dining room, sir. Been there most of the day.”

“Doing what?” Bennett asked with a yawn.

“Yelling about a security fence, I guess. I don't know for sure, Mr. Bennett. I've been here standing post since eight this morning.”

Bennett and his four-man detail headed down to the dining room where he couldn't have been greeted more warmly by the two prime ministers and McCoy. Mordechai and Galishnikov were sitting in on the session as well. Yes, they'd been duking it out all day over the security fence, but they'd shifted to talking about the prospects of a Medexco deal. Now they were ready for a break and grateful Bennett's mom was safe and sound.

“This calls for a celebration,” Galishnikov boomed, glad to be back with everyone after being asked to stay in the background a few days until the Doron–Sa'id relationship warmed up. “Let's all go out for some dinner.”

“Always thinking with your stomach, Dmitri,” quipped Sa'id. “That's what I like about you.”

“That's a great idea,” Dr. Mordechai added. “And I know just the place—the Top of the World restaurant, they just opened it last fall on the Summit of the Rock. Great food. Incredible view. You can take the cable cars up there. And I'm paying.”

“Well, well, now we're talking,” said Bennett, surprised by how relieved he felt to be doing anything but haggling over the peace plan tonight. “When do we leave?”

As the men chatted for a few minutes, McCoy stepped to the door to consult with Tariq, overseeing all security operations. McCoy and Tariq, in turn, huddled with the Israeli Shin Bet team there to protect Doron. It only took a few moments. The unanimous answer was no. Not tonight. It would be impossible for them to secure the route, and the restaurant and the food for the two prime ministers in just a couple of hours. After all, among other things, they'd need to clear the place of all employees so no one would recognize Doron or Sa'id. Perhaps they could arrange things for the next night. But tonight was off.

McCoy relayed the news to the group. Doron and Sa'id said Tuesday night would be fine. They could yell at each other all day, then cap off the night with a lovely dinner on top of the world. Mordechai asked if it would be a problem for him to take Bennett, McCoy, and Galishnikov up there tonight, just to check things out. Tariq thought about it for a moment, consulted with the others, and agreed it would be fine. He'd just need to send a protective detail with them.

“So, Dr. Mordechai, that mean you're paying both nights?” asked Bennett.

The old man laughed.

“In your dreams, Jonathan. You were almost a billionaire. Why don't you pay tonight?”

“
Nyet, nyet, nyet,
” Galishnikov cut in. “I will be a billionaire soon. The least I can do is buy dinner for a few ugly old friends, and for the lovely and beautiful Miss Erin.”

They all laughed again. It was settled. Tariq said he'd have the cars ready in fifteen minutes. That was good enough for Bennett. He was ready for a night on the town. All he needed to do before dinner was stop off at a few gift shops along the way to pick up something for his mom.

 

“You've got mail.”

It was past midnight Tuesday morning in Tehran, but Mohammed Jibril was restless. He deleted most of the garbage in his in-box. It was a mishmash of different stuff from operatives and informants around the world. But none of it was what he was looking for. But just as he was about to log off, an instant message came in. It was from Harrod's in London. Jibril's stomach tightened.

“The gift shop in Gibraltar may have found the item you were looking for…please IM back or call our toll-free secure number if you're interested…. Time sensitive…product may not be in stock for long.”

The gift shop in Gibraltar?
That was the cutout man they'd used to transmit messages to Khalid al-Rashid, the Arafat security chief who'd set the whole last week in motion. He had no idea what the guy's name was. But it didn't really matter. How would they know anything about…

Jibril froze.

“Please remind me…which product are we talking about again?”

He pressed Send and waited. A few seconds later, the reply popped up.

“…hand-painted chess set for your friend…understand he lost his two kings…our supplier in Gibraltar thinks he's stumbled upon just what you wanted.”

Jibril just stared at the screen.

“…need 100 percent confirmation…are you sure?”

“…supplies limited,” came the reply, “…cost triple what we quoted you before…. must be wire transferred by day's end….”

Jibril had no problem with that. If they really had what he thought they had, he'd have paid them ten times their asking price.

“…have to check with my friend…but latest price quote shouldn't be a problem…but how can I know you have precisely the two kings he's looking for…”

Again he hit Send. This time the reply took longer. Almost a minute. Jibril was dying for an answer. Should he resend his last message? Had it not gone through?

BEEP.

There it was.

“…my supplier is sure…the knight just walked into his store not ten minutes ago with a queen and some pawns…bought a gift for his mother…actually paid with a credit card…couldn't believe it…will fax copy of the transaction if you'd like….”

Jibril pushed away from the computer. This couldn't be accurate. Jon Bennett was on Gibraltar? With Erin McCoy and a team of bodyguards? A thousand thoughts flooded into his mind. It could be a mistake, or a gift from Allah. He had to confirm it. But how? The Libyans, perhaps. They had an operative on the Rock, some woman who ran a travel agency, if he remembered correctly.

If it were true, if Bennett was there, then Doron and Sa'id had to be there as well. But for how long? Given the leak to the
New York Times,
they could be leaving any minute. Especially if Bennett was buying gifts to take back home. If they were going to strike, they'd have to strike fast. Jibril typed in one final message. He was already taking a risk staying on line for so long.

“…if we wanted to have some friends drop in and see the merchandise, could you help us?”

“…that might be a problem….”

“…how much more of a ‘problem' are we talking about?”

Another delay. Jibril couldn't take it. Two minutes later, the IM came back again.

“…my supplier says a new price of five times our original quote would do….”

The middlemen on Gibraltar were greedy. But not nearly greedy enough, thought Jibril. They had a deal, he wrote back. The money would be in their account by morning. Then he logged off and got dressed. First he'd track down the deputy chief of Libyan intelligence. It was still early in Tripoli. Then he'd wake up Gogolov.

The view was better than Mordechai had promised.

The food was better than Galishnikov had expected. The maïtre d' was British. The wines were French. The food was Italian and North African. The chefs were Moroccan and Sicilian. The atmosphere was quiet and intimate. And every sixty minutes, the rotating restaurant took you on a 360-degree tour around the Med.

To the north, they could see the sandy beaches of the Spanish Costa del Sol and another storm moving their way. It was still fifty or sixty miles out. But it wouldn't bother them tonight. They opened a 1967 Burgundy and Galishnikov said a toast to Ruth Bennett's health and a speedy and safe reunion with her son. Soon they were working on their salads and looking southeast toward the Rif Mountains of Morocco. Mordechai kept them spellbound with tales of hunting Russian and Libyan spies through the alleyways of Casablanca as a junior Mossad agent.

Neither Israeli kept kosher, so steaks and lobster tails were served all around. It was the clearest evening on the Rock in weeks, and despite the storm clouds behind them, they could still enjoy a breathtaking sunset. The conversation meandered and after a while Bennett was looking at the sparkling lights of the City of Gibraltar, now shutting down for the night. He could see the commercial ports below them, the blinking strobe lights of the runway, and the narrow roads zigzagging up the mountain. He could see the cable car station where they'd arrived, and silently hoped Tariq would insist on driving them all down the Rock at the end of the night. He wasn't sure he was ready for another wind-battered adventure. He'd had enough adventures for one lifetime. But he could picture bringing his mom up here one day. Gibraltar was one place she'd always wanted to go and had never been. She'd never survive the flight. Maybe they could take a cruise.

 

Gogolov hated being woken up.

But he softened when he heard the news.

The “Mount of Olives” was the Rock of Gibraltar. How fitting, he thought as he cleaned his glasses and dressed for a long night. A NATO stronghold. A joint U.S.-British espionage base. Another example of failed treaties and the arrogance of Western imperialism. And a perfect target for his assassin teams, already poised to strike.

 

They finished their steaks and three waiters cleared the table.

Galishnikov ordered a tray of French pastries and a bottle of the best brandy in the house for his friends, a bottle of their best vodka for himself, and a pot of Turkish coffee for any weaklings among them. The bill had to be quickly approaching seven or eight hundred dollars, thought Bennett. But this Russian simply didn't care. And why should he? He was with his friends. They were all alive and in one piece. And he was about to become the richest man in Israel.

“So, Dr. Mordechai,” Bennett began after everyone had been served.

“Please, Jonathan, how many times must I ask you to call me Eli? All my friends call me Eli. Why won't you?”

“Because you're practically old enough to be my grandfather.”

Everyone laughed, but Bennett was ready to be serious, and Mordechai could tell. So could McCoy. The only thing Galishnikov was serious about, at the moment at least, was polishing off his bottle of Absolut.

“OK, Eli,” Bennett continued, “here's my question.”

“Fire away, my boy.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Mordechai was a bit taken aback by the intensity of the question. So were McCoy and Galishnikov.

“What do you mean, Jonathan?”

“I mean what in the world is going on, Eli? Things are out of control. Kamikazes, snipers, anthrax—suicide bombers? What is this? We've got a war in Iraq, a Palestinian civil war, people trying to blow up the Temple Mount. I mean, I don't know, I just…”

“It's scary, isn't it?”

“Damn right it's scary. One minute I'm working on Wall Street. The next minute I'm in the middle of something…I don't know what I'm in the middle of. Everyone I know is getting killed. I can't sleep. I thought I almost lost my mom…”

Bennett finished off his brandy and stared out the window at the lights of a jet in the distance. Galishnikov poured him another glass.

“You used to run the Mossad,” said Bennett, turning back to Mordechai. “You're a pretty smart guy. So tell me—what's going on?”

 

Jibril couldn't believe it.

Colonel Khaddafi wasn't simply promising to help. He was dramatically upping the ante. Yes, he had an agent on Gibraltar who ran a travel agency. Yes, she would be activated immediately. But there was more that Libya could do, if she were needed. Much more.

Jibril didn't know quite what to say, except thank you. It was a generous offer, to say the least. Almost too generous. He said he'd have to discuss it with Gogolov and get back to the colonel as quickly as possible. And then he did. Gogolov, too, was stunned. This could change everything.

 

“Jon, do you believe in the supernatural?”

“I don't know, why?”

“Angels, demons, Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“Eli, really, I don't know what you're talking about.”

The old man was always full of surprises, but Bennett respected his experience and his wisdom.

“Sure you do. I'm asking if you believe that there's an unseen battle going on all around us—a cosmic showdown between good and evil. That there's an all-knowing, all-powerful force in the universe that can enter time and space, that can alter the course of human history, that can destroy the living and raise the dead.”

“You're asking if I believe in God?”

“No, no. Not just God. A God who is at war with evil. A God with a plan and a purpose. A God who has the awesome, fearsome power to achieve that plan and accomplish that purpose.”

Bennett looked at McCoy, then to Galishnikov. He wasn't sure where this was going.

“I don't know, Dr. Mordechai. I mean, I work at the White House, not the Vatican. The whole ‘God thing' is a little above my pay grade.”

Mordechai said nothing. Neither did McCoy or Galishnikov. It was as though all the molecules in the room were suddenly rearranged. He didn't know why, or how, but Bennett suddenly felt embarrassed. He could feel the blood rising behind his neck and ears. He just stared into Mordechai's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. They were somber and sober and serious—and they weren't backing down.

“I don't know,” Bennett said finally, quietly. “I don't know what I believe.”

“Then I suggest you figure it out—quickly.”

“Why?”

Dr. Mordechai let the question hang in the air for a moment. “Because that's the answer to your question.”

“I don't understand.”

“Jonathan, I've spent my whole life lurking in the shadows, cultivating sources, paying off informants, desperately hoping I would find my enemies before they found me. Why? Because I wanted someone to put a bullet in my head? No. Because knowledge is power. Because what you don't know can kill you. Because the more you know about your enemy, the more likely you are to outlive him.”

The old man took out his pipe and a package of tobacco.

“When the FBI wants to know what the mob is up to, what do they do? They send in a Donny Brasco, right? When the KGB—or now the FSB—wants to know what the CIA or FBI is up to, what do they do? They recruit an Aldrich Ames or a Robert Hanssen, right? On Wall Street they call it insider trading. It's illegal. In the intelligence business, it's a matter of life and death. But in the '90s, the CIA stopped paying off ‘unsavory characters' as sources. Why? It's a long story. The point is, America went dark. You stopped being able to see inside the mind of evil. You let evil go unchecked. And you paid a terrible price. You got September eleventh. And you got Saddam Hussein without any weapons inspectors. Now, which is really worse? Paying off a greedy Iraqi scientist to tell you how and where he's helping Saddam build the bomb, or having to bomb Baghdad and kill a whole lot of people?”

No one said a word. Morechai lit a match and took a few puffs, letting the smoke gently curl upward toward the ceiling fan above them.

“My business is all about sources. So is yours. Who you know and what they know. Maybe you can't stand your sources. Maybe you wish they'd all rot in hell. You know what? Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what we think about a source. The only thing that matters is whether that source is credible, whether he or she is telling you the truth, even if the truth is ugly, even if the truth doesn't make sense. Right?”

Bennett nodded.

“Good. Now I'm going to tell you what you want to know. I'm going to tell you why all hell is breaking loose. But I'm going to cite you a source you may not like. That's not the point. The point is: does the information make sense? Is it credible? Is it true? If it isn't, don't worry about it. Blow it off and move on. But if it is, then you've got a decision to make: what are you going to do about it, and how long are you going to wait?”

 

Nadir pulled up in front of the Willard Intercontinental.

He waited for one of the valets to park his car, and another to help him with his suitcase, briefcase, and laptop. He tipped them both generously, then went inside to check in. In a few minutes, he'd fire off an e-mail to his contact. By tomorrow morning, he'd have exactly what he needed. Tonight he'd go for a long walk and get the lay of the land.

“Will you be paying by credit card?” the clerk asked.

“Yes, please,” he said, pulling out an American Express Gold Card.

It was all Nadir could do to suppress a smile.
Put it all on the card,
he thought.
He'd never be around to pay it anyway.

 

“Fair enough,” said Bennett. “So what's the answer?”

Mordechai took a sip of brandy, stared at his pipe for a moment, the sweet smoke filling the air, then looked back at Bennett and continued.

“We're not living in normal times, Jonathan. We are now living in what the Hebrew prophets called the last days.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'll give you an example. Remember the story of the Dead Sea Scrolls?”

“No.”

“Erin?”

“The little boy throws a few rocks in some caves, looking for his sheep, hears a bunch of pottery break. Turns out the caves are the hiding place for hundreds of ancient Biblical scrolls.”

“Exactly. And part of those scrolls contained the Book of Isaiah, almost three thousand years old, written exactly like what's in the Bible today.”

“OK, I'm with you.”

“So here's what Isaiah said in Chapter Two,” Mordechai continued, from memory. “‘In the last days, the mountain of the Lord's temple will be established as chief among the nations; it will be raised above the hills, and all nations will stream to it.'”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning three thousand years ago, Isaiah said the Temple would be rebuilt in the last days. Daniel said the same thing. So did Ezekiel. In Chapter Thirty-seven he predicts the rebirth of the modern state of Israel after centuries of neglect. In Chapter Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine he references peace and prosperity in the land of Israel, as well as a bunch of other events I won't go into now. In Chapter Forty onward, he talks in great detail about the Temple yet to come.”

“OK, OK,” said Bennett. “I got it, I got it. But there is no Temple. Are you saying you support what the Temple Mount Battalion was trying to do?”

“No, of course not. What those guys were trying to do was terrorism, pure and simple. Nobody should try to force the hand of God. I'm just saying there's a whole lot of people out there—Christians and Jews alike—who believe we've entered some new phase of history and the Temple's coming. And this is why.”

Bennett took a deep breath and tried to process that.

“Fair enough. Go on.”

“The same thing's true about Babylon. Is it a wealthy, powerful city right now? No. But watch out. The prophets say Babylon will rise from the ashes. ‘O great city, O Babylon, city of power,' says the Book of Revelation. Babylon will have ‘riches and splendor' and ‘great wealth' and ‘the merchants of the earth' will grow ‘rich from her excessive luxuries.' But Babylon will also become ‘a home for demons, and a haunt for every evil spirit' and ‘she will be consumed by fire, for mighty is the Lord God who judges her.' Jeremiah says the same thing in Chapter Fifty-one. ‘The Lord will carry out His purpose, His decree against the people of Babylon. You who live by many waters and are rich in treasures, your end has come…Before your eyes I will repay Babylon and all who live in Babylonia for all the wrong they have done in Zion.'”

Bennett shifted in his seat and leaned across the table toward Mordechai.

“Fine—Babylon, the Temple, that's all well and good. But none of that proves we're in the last days right now. That's what I want to know. What's going on
right now
?”