Bennett quietly took a seat across the desk from the president.
“Jon…I…I want you to know…well, I’m sorry.”
“Mr. President, please…”
“Jon, I’m serious. I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am…I know that’s not enough…but I really don’t know how to…”
“There’s no need, Mr. President.”
“No, Jon, there is, really. You’re a colleague. You’re a friend. You’ve always been…loyal…and…well, you’re practically family to Julie and the girls and me. And I feel terrible about all this…but, I do take full responsibility.”
“Sir…”
“It was my decision. And honestly, I’d do it over again if I had to.”
What was he supposed to say? Bennett had trouble even looking at the president, not really out of anger or resentment but just out of sheer pain at seeing him in such terrible condition and knowing how close the man came to dying in that attack. It was some kind of miracle that he had survived, and it seemed to make the trauma he’d just gone through somewhat more bearable.
“Julie and the girls baked you a pumpkin pie.”
The president nodded to the corner of his desk and the Saran-Wrapped pie tin with a little note with his name on the envelope and a smiley face. Bennett just nodded, but said nothing.
“Deek and I spoke by telephone while you were sleeping on the plane.”
“You know him?”
“His brother and I flew jets in Vietnam.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Did you know he was tailing you in Israel?”
“No.”
“Did you know he had agents within twenty feet of you every step you took from the moment you got off the plane at Ben Gurion to the moment you reentered the airport to come home?”
Bennett shook his head quietly.
“Did you know that I spoke to the prime minister of Israel before you left to go over there, requesting his personal assurance that no harm would come to you while you were in the country? Did you know that Barshevsky works for us?”
Bennett quietly shook his head again.
“Did he tell you that he and the CIA have been vetting Sa’id and Galishnikov for the past six months?”
“Not exactly.”
“Every phone call. Every associate. Every meeting. Every letter. Every email.”
“Why?”
“I think you know why.”
Bennett nodded.
“Jon, I’ve talked to every person involved in this operation, every single one of them…and…”
This was not a side to MacPherson Bennett had ever seen and he could see the president struggling to find the words. The president winced.
“…every single one of them…they tell me you never gave in…never broke on the oil deal…never gave up your friends…”
The president’s eyes were now red and moist. Bennett’s bottom lip now began to quiver. Both were restrained and careful men. They were not given to displays of emotion, in public or private, and the events of the past twenty-four hours or so had done nothing to change that.
“Well…I just wanted…you know…I just wanted to say thanks.”
Bennett glanced at Sanchez, who stared at him, but showed no emotion. The other agents all stared at him as well. Was that suspicion in their eyes? Or sympathy? Or both? It didn’t really matter. But he was curious.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. President. I’m just glad you’re OK.”
Bennett was completely confused. His still-fuzzy mind was now swirling with emotions and thoughts and reactions he didn’t begin to have the strength to identify, sort out or understand. Not yet. So he said nothing. The room was silent, but for the crackling of the fire beside them and the lulling tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner.
“I am. I’m OK. Thanks,” said the president.
Bennett suddenly seemed to snap back, back to his old self.
“Good—because you look like crap.”
Startled, the president just stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Bennett quickly joined him.
“You want a drink?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Good man. Sanchez, get your men to rustle us up two glasses and some brandy or whiskey. Something old. Something expensive.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“I’m not kidding, Sanchez. Call the commander. Ask him what he has stashed away in case he ever finds out the birds are flying and heading straight for him. Then tell him to get his butt down here and break it open for us.”
“You got it, sir. I’ll check with your doctor as well.”
“Oh, Sanchez, now don’t go ruin it for us. Be a sport, wouldya?”
Sanchez smiled and moved to the far end of the room where she picked up a phone. The president now turned back to Bennett.
“Jon, I’ve got a National Security Council conference call in a little while. And we may be interrupted by some phone calls. But I wanted to talk to you heart-to-heart for a bit. And I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Please, no more surprises.”
“No, this is a good one.”
The president picked up the phone.
“Hi…would you send in Kojak?…No, right now…well, I guess…all right…that’s fine…OK…thanks.”
He hung up the phone.
“Kojak?” Bennett asked.
“It’s a code name.”
“You don’t have Telly Savalas stashed away someplace?” quipped Bennett.
“Very funny.”
“Really. Who is it?”
“Your partner in crime.”
“My what?”
“Your partner. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, Jon. Can’t do it alone.”
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The president just looked at him for a moment.
“Jon, why do you think I just put you through all this?”
“How should I know? I have no idea.”
“Sure you do.”
“I do?”
“Of course.”
Bennett looked over at the flickering fire. It felt warm and peaceful and safe.
“Well…I mean…I guess you wanted to make sure I was loyal…honest…not some kind of security threat.”
“What else?”
“Sir, really…I…”
“Jon—listen to me.”
Bennett turned back and looked the President in the eye.
“I need you on my team, Jon. Not on Wall Street. Not in Denver. I need you on my team.”
“What are you saying, sir?”
“I want you to work for me.”
“Full time?”
“Of course.”
“At the White House?”
“Where else?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I…”
“All due respect? Jon, you just told me I look like crap.”
Bennett had to laugh. The man might have almost been killed, but he still had his sense of humor.
“Well, yes, that’s true, sir, but I…”
“But what?”
Bennett scrambled to put a coherent sentence together.
“I…sir, I…in case you didn’t notice, I’ve just negotiated a billion-dollar deal.”
“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”
“Well, you know, I mean, the White House sounds fun but, sir, I’m on track to become a billionaire over the next few years. A billionaire, sir. I mean, I…”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m not.”
“Jon, I know those drugs in you haven’t completely worn off yet. But I don’t think you’ve fully grasped what’s going on here. You and I are at NORAD. NORAD, Jon. I was just attacked by terrorists. Terrorists just bombed Buckingham Palace. Bombed Paris. Attacked the Canadian prime minister. They just flew a fully loaded 747 into the palace of the Saudi Arabian royal family. Jon, it’s over
. The world the way you and I knew it twenty-four hours ago is over.”
MacPherson at heart was a mentor, always trying to help Bennett discover the bigger picture, the story behind the story.
“Unless…” added the president.
Rattled by his own lack of instincts, Bennett took the bait.
“Unless what, sir?”
“Unless, Jon, you and I rebuild it.”
“Rebuild it?”
“That’s right.”
“How, sir?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“But first I need to join the White House staff?”
“Exactly.”
Bennett leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Where was that drink Sanchez was fetching?
“Sir, I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes.”
“Sir, what would I do? I don’t know anything about Washington, about politics, about terrorism,” Bennett protested. “I’ve spent my whole life thinking about investment strategy, not…you know…not…well, whatever.”
“Bull.”
“Beg your pardon.”
“Jon, your expertise is deal-making, research, analysis, assessing leaders and companies and industries for opportunities and signs of trouble. You have a knack for reading the tea leaves and convincing people to buy the tea company. That’s exactly what I need right now.”
Bennett just sat quietly.
“Jon, unless I act—and act fast—the markets are going to tank. The world is going to slip into a recession. Maybe a depression. But we’re going to act. And when we do, we need a strategy for peace, not just for war. And that’s where you come in.”
“What, some kind of twenty-first-century Marshall Plan? Mr. President, you know…”
“No, no, no. Come on, Jon. Think. I guarantee you when the dust settles, we’re going to find Saddam Hussein behind all this. And if we have to go to war with Iraq, when we win, who benefits, besides us?”
“Well, sir, it depends…”
“Come on, Jon. If you woke up a few months from now and Iraq was no longer a threat—just suppose—who benefits?”
“Israel, I guess.”
“Exactly. Now, Jon, think about it. If we do this right, your oil deal is going to happen. We can defang the biggest geopolitical threat in the Middle East—the epicenter of evil—and then help Israel and Palestine become two of the wealthiest countries in the history of mankind. We can wipe out terrorism and bring peace and prosperity to the modern Middle East. We can do what people have been thinking about and dreaming about and praying about for five thousand years, Jon. Next year in Jerusalem. Peace in the Middle East. And your deal, Jon, has to be the centerpiece.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve been thinking about this for months. For quite some time now, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about turning your oil deal into a historic peace deal. But it wasn’t really until I woke up here—at NORAD—did I understand precisely what I really needed to do.”
“So why don’t I stay where I am?”
“Because I need you where I am. Jon, forget it. You’re not going to be a billionaire. It’s not going to happen. And the problem is if you stay with GSX, then I can’t use your deal as the centerpiece of my peace strategy.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a conflict of interest, and you know it.”
“What about Stu?”
“Stu sold off everything to become Treasury Secretary. I made him do it. Of course he could have made a fortune. But hey, he’s already loaded. So he is my right-hand man at Treasury. But on this deal, I want you working with me to oversee it day-to-day, to help me navigate this baby and pull it off.”
“Sir, I just don’t exactly see where you’re going. I mean…”
“Jon, look, it’ll all be clear soon. But first—first, I need an answer from you.”
Bennett leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.
“Leave GSX and move to Washington?”
“Senior Advisor to the President.”
“And join the White House staff?”
“I know just the guy I’m going to kick out and give you his office.”
Bennett laughed.
“Bob?”
Now the president laughed.
“No—not that I wouldn’t like to sometimes, but…”
Bennett pondered the whole thing. Yet again, his life was about to change radically. He didn’t like it, but there was obviously nothing he could do about it either.
“Well, I guess I owe you for not having me killed off, right?”
The president smiled and slid a black leather folder with the gold presidential seal across his desk.
“That’s the spirit, Jon. Now sign here.”
“What am I signing?”
“The top one is your resignation from GSX, effective immediately. The next one is your acceptance of my job offer. Senior Advisor to the President. Ninety a year, plus all the government benefits.”
“Bob makes one-forty.”
“Don’t push it, Bennett. I didn’t make Bob a millionaire at GSX.”
“Oh, and he didn’t have a cut of all the ad buys during the campaign?”
The president smiled again.
“OK, I did make him a millionaire—but not at GSX.”
“Whatever.”
“Jon, look. First of all, you can afford a pay cut. Second of all, the whole point is that you need to be incognito. If you make more than a hundred, you’re going to pop up on everybody’s radar screen. The press is going to be all over it, and that’s something I just can’t afford right now.”
“You always were a pretty good salesman.”
“Son, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Bennett began to look over the documents in the folder.
“So who’s Kojak?” Bennett asked, pulling out his Mont Blanc pen to sign.
“Oh, that’s right. Sanchez?”
The agent picked up a phone to find out what the delay was.
“It’s Black, isn’t?” Bennett asked.
“No, but I do want him on your team. I want you to set up a small team inside the White House that can coordinate with me and the NSC. Publicly, you won’t exist. Privately, while I run the war, you guys will run point on turning this oil deal into a peace deal. You’ll report directly to me and Marsha Kirkpatrick.”
“Captain Kirk?”
“You’ve got good sources, Bennett. I like your spunk.”
“So why do you call this guy ‘Kojak’? I mean, you know, I just figured it was Black, ’cause he’s bald.”
“Yeah, well, nice guess—but wrong.”
“All right, well, what then?”
“Kojak’s been with CIA for five years. Top-secret security clearances. Top assistant to the director. Knows everybody. Knows me. Knows this oil deal. Been working as a field agent the past two years—keeping an eye on you, as a matter of fact.”
Bennett was lost. It sure better not be that sick, demented, deranged CIA guy in Israel, the one with the yo-yo, he thought. He’d rather retire and join Greenpeace than work with that lunatic.
The door at the far end of the room opened, the same door Bennett had come through earlier. Bennett couldn’t believe it. He felt like the wind had just been knocked out him.
Kojak wasn’t a he. He was a she. His new “partner in crime” was Erin McCoy.
EIGHT
“Hey, Jon,” said McCoy with a smile, a grape lollypop in her mouth. “Heard you took a bullet for the president.”
Bennett just sat there bewildered as McCoy slowly walked over to the two of them and sat down in the other green leather chair. Her sea green eyes sparkled with amusement.
“I think you two have been introduced,” said the president, savoring the moment.
“Very funny,” Bennett quipped. “CIA?”
“Yep.”
“Not GSX?”
“Well, both.”
“Both?”
“Yep.”
“What are you, like an analyst?” asked Bennett, with an edge of derision.
“What are you, like a moron?” McCoy shot back, never losing her smile.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No, I’m not an analyst. I’m an agent. Operations.”
“Operations?”
“You got it, friend.”
“What are you talking about?”
McCoy laughed.
“No, I’m serious. I was paying you $200,000 a year—plus options, plus health care, plus profit sharing—and you were really working for the CIA? In ‘operations’? I mean, come on. What’s going on?”
“Hey, it’s good work, if you can get it.”
“Well…well…I mean, isn’t that illegal or something?” he snapped, turning to the president for an ally.
“No, it’s not illegal,” replied the president, bemused by Bennett’s reaction. “In fact, I think it’s kinda cool.”
Bennett turned back to McCoy.
“Cool? What are you, Jane Bond—double-O, you know, whatever?”
McCoy glanced at the president.
“I told you, sir,” she said. “That guy in Israel should’ve finished the job.”
It was known in Iraq as “Al Nida,” the German camel of the Middle East.
Of course, this Daimler-Benz tractor-trailer looked like any other U.N. truck that delivers humanitarian food and medical supplies from Jordan to the ancient homeland of King Nebuchadnezzar. It was large and long and white, with big pale blue “U.N.” block letters painted on every side and on the top of the truck to prevent any mistakes in identification by Iraqi military forces or U.S. spy satellites orbiting overhead.
Like the handful of other trucks traveling back and forth week after week, month after month, along the lonely, seemingly godforsaken Highway 10 from Amman to Baghdad, this one always traveled in a small caravan of four other white vehicles—British Range Rovers, actually—all with U.N. markings.
Few things were worse than breaking down, finding yourself stranded and alone in the western deserts of Iraq where blinding, suffocating sandstorms can descend upon you without a moment’s notice, and where daytime temperatures can easily top one hundred and twenty degrees. Traveling in teams, therefore, with more-than-adequate supplies of water, food, and fuel was not the exception but the rule.
An hour and a half after leaving the outskirts of Baghdad, the caravan known to Iraqi officials as Q17 was flagged down by police officers and diverted to Al Habbaniyah, a military compound and air force base heavily guarded by elite forces of the Republican Guard, where it disappeared into Hangar Number Five.