The Last Days (42 page)

“Try me,” said Bennett, now fully engaged.

“For starters, just take a guess at how much money since 1998 the Saudis have pumped into the hands of Yasser Arafat, his henchmen, and the other Islamic extremist groups in the territories to conduct ‘martyrdom operations' against us?”

“I have no idea. A hundred million?”

“Not even close.”

“
Five
hundred million?”

Mordechai shook his head.

“A
billion?
” asked McCoy, incredulous.

“That's what we thought,” Mordechai admitted, “a billion and change.”

“Not true?”

“Not even close.”

“Well?”

“You ready for this?” Mordechai asked, then pulled out a pen, and began writing on a clean paper napkin: 15,442,105,150 Saudi riyals.

“What's that in real money?” asked Bennett.

“No pun intended?”

“Very funny.”

Mordechai smiled, then wrote down the translation—$4 billion U.S.

Bennett couldn't believe it. He just stared at the figure for a few moments, then looked at McCoy. She, too, was stunned.

“You're telling me the Saudis gave the Palestinians four billion dollars since 1998 to wage war against Israel?” asked Bennett.

“That's what I'm telling you.”

“All to Arafat?”

“No, some went to the Palestinian Authority. A lot of it went directly to the PLO, Fatah, Hamas, and Islamic Jihad—before we destroyed them a few years ago—and more recently to Al-Nakbah, which is slowly picking up the pieces left behind by Hamas and Islamic Jihad. Most of the money, though, does seem to have gone through Arafat and his henchmen. The unifying factor was an organization's willingness to conduct, facilitate or condone jihad—including suicide bombings—against Israeli civilians.”

“How did it all work?”

“We're still piecing that together,” said Mordechai, pulling several documents from the file. “Since the Six Day War in '67, the Saudi government as well as many wealthy Saudi individuals have funneled money to the Palestinian leadership through a number of so-called charitable organizations. The first and oldest is the Popular Committee for Assisting Palestinian Mujahideen. A second and more recent one is called the Support Committee for the Al-Quds Intifada and the Al-Aqsa Fund. And there are others. Since the late '90s, the Saudis have dramatically stepped up their giving, and earmarked large amounts of it to the families of suicide bombers and others killed or wounded in operations against Israel. They say it's for humanitarian purposes, for families grieving over their losses. But each family gets a check for five to ten times its normal annual income. It's clearly a payoff for families to brainwash their children to give themselves up for the cause while they get the cash.”

Bennett and McCoy sifted through the documents, skimming the English translations and trying to grasp the magnitude of what they were looking at.

“It's not easy to move huge amounts of cash like that,” McCoy observed.

“Apparently it's easier than we thought. The records seem to indicate that vast amounts of Saudi funds were wire transferred from a bank in Jeddah to the Palestinian Authority Treasury Department. We've even uncovered the main account number.”

“How come nobody's told Erin and me about this yet?”

Mordechai scooped up a forkful of fish and considered how to answer that.

“They think you've got enough on your plate. They don't want you focused on anything but making peace.”

“So why are you telling us now?” asked McCoy.

Mordechai said nothing. He took yet another forkful of food and poured himself another cup of coffee. Bennett could see the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Dr. Mordechai seems to be sending us a little message,” said Bennett.

“Oh, really?” said McCoy. “And what's that?”

Bennett looked over at Mordechai and raised his eyebrows, but the mystery man didn't take the bait.

“Please, go right ahead,” said Mordechai. “You're doing fine.”

So Bennett continued.

“Making peace, according to the good doctor, isn't simply about cutting a deal, good as that might be. It's time to follow the money—and cut it off.”

McCoy looked back at Dr. Mordechai.

“How's he doing?” she asked.

“He's getting warmer.”

“All right, Jon, carry on.”

Bennett wiped his mouth with a napkin, and took a few sips of water.

“If I'm hearing him right, he's saying the suicide bombers and other terrorists on the front lines are largely motivated by ideology, religious and political. They want to do something heroic, something they'll be remembered for,” Bennett continued. “But Dr. Mordechai doesn't believe their leaders—the men who send these bombers into battle, the men who are more than willing to sacrifice hundreds of their own countrymen while they themselves live in walled compounds, surrounded by dozens of bodyguards, driven around in bulletproof limousines—such leaders aren't driven purely by a cause, certainly not the glory of Islam. They're driven by old-fashioned greed.”

“So the whole Palestinian liberation movement is corrupt?” asked McCoy. “Nobody's fighting for the good of the cause?”

“I didn't say that,” said Mordechai.

“Then what are you saying?”

Bennett was tracking with Mordechai, so he continued.

“Dr. M. here isn't saying there aren't plenty of foot soldiers willing to die for the cause. There are. But for the old guard running the show, the war against Israel and us is now a multibillion-dollar business. Which means that if our little peace deal has any chance of working over the long haul, then we've got to get a whole lot more serious about pressuring the Saudis to cut off the cash.”

“True,” said Mordechai. “The Saudis are a very serious problem. But it's not just the Saudis. The Iranians are doing the exact same thing, and far too few people are paying attention. Think about it. They're directly across the Persian Gulf from the Saudis and the United Arab Emirates. They've got massive reserves of oil and gas. And what are they doing with all that money? Building a modern society? Educating and employing their young people? No. The mullahs want to rebuild the Persian Empire. And with Iraq out of the way now, they just may have a shot. They're buying weapons from the Russians, who are so broke they'll sell to anyone for the right price. They're buying nuclear power plants from the Russians. Why? Because they need nuclear power? Of course not. They're sitting on some of the richest petroleum reserves in the world. No, the Iranians are building nuclear bomb factories, and the Russians are helping them. And while they're at it, they're building a new worldwide terrorist network as well. Once they helped fund Hamas and Hezbollah and the rest. Now it looks like they're funding, housing and aiding Al-Nakbah, a terror network that I'm beginning to think may be more dangerous than all of its predecessors.”

“Al-Nakbah? Why's that?” asked Bennett.

“You've seen the transcripts of the interrogations of your old friend Stuart Iverson?”

“No. Have you?”

Mordechai gave him another mischievous smile.

“What are you talking about?” asked Bennett, astounded. “How could you have possibly seen the transcripts? There are only a handful of people in the world who even know we cut a deal with him, much less that he's actually talking.”

“I guess I'm one of them—the president cut Iverson a deal a couple of days ago. Took the death penalty off the table. Now he's singing like the Dixie Chicks.”

McCoy couldn't believe it either. Who was this guy?

“All right, so what's he saying?” she asked.

“He's painting a portrait.”

“Of who?”

“Of Gogolov and Jibril—their personalities, their motives, their objectives—unlike anything we've ever seen before. These guys are scary. But they're also smart. They're playing both sides of the street. Ostensibly they're an independent organization, started to wage jihad against the Russians in Chechnya. But they've expanded—metastasized. Jibril is working his Iranian connections. Gogolov is working his Saudi connections. And it's working, better than we realized.”

“What else?” asked Bennett.

“From what I can see, we've all been missing the forest for the trees. We've all focused on Iraq and this civil war and cutting this peace deal, and we should be. Don't get me wrong. These are important battles in the war on terror. But it's now clear that there's something else going on here. Another evil is growing in the shadows—Gogolov and Jibril—Al-Nakbah. They're planning something. I don't know exactly what it is. I'm not sure if Iverson knows exactly. But it's worse than anything we've seen so far. Their fingerprints are everywhere. And what's beginning to worry me is that if we don't deal with this threat head-on—and soon—the consequences could be catastrophic.”

“
Sir, we got a hit.
”

“Talk to me.”

“
Bennett's cell phone—it just went live.
”

“I need a location.”

“
Hold on. Hold on.
”

“Come on, come on, let's go.”

“
Just a second, the computer's triangulating the cell towers right now.
”

“Come on, come on.”

“
Give me a second, sir, we've almost got it.
”

It was just before eleven o'clock Sunday night in New York. The voice of the senior ELINT officer was secure, thanks to the Bureau's digitally encrypted wireless network. Still, it was muffled. He could barely be heard over the roar of the helicopter as the surveillance team maintained its round-the-clock vigil over Manhattan. Still, the message got through and a bolt of adrenaline shot through the entire team.

The lead chopper pilot contacted FBI Operations in Washington. A minute later, Scott Harris burst into the room and got the update from the senior watch officer on the night shift. Forty-five seconds after that, the location came through.

“Sir, you're not going to believe this.”

“Come on, let's go, let's go.”

“It's Greenwich Village, sir.”

“What?”

“That's what the computer says—Regency Towers—penthouse suite.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“No, sir. That's what it says.”

“Son of a…”

Harris speed dialed Special Agent Neil Watts, his Joint Task Force commander.

“You getting this?”

“
Just did.
”

“You think it's legit.”

“
I don't know what to make of it.
”

“No chance it's a mistake?”

“
I doubt it. Has anyone been there before?
”

“Once. At the beginning. Looked secure so we never went back.”

“
Is there a security system?
”

“No. We checked.”

Harris didn't have time for recriminations. His mind raced through his options and his troops were waiting for their orders.

“
Just give us the word, sir.
”

“You got it, just as we war gamed. Nobody goes in till I give the order. Clear?”

“
Clear.
”

“Good. Let's just hope it's real.”

Two minutes later, the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team was airborne. Forty-five seconds later, so was the NYPD's SWAT Team Two. Twenty-four heavily armed men sliced through the icy cold air as four Blackhawk helicopters banked hard to the south.

“You still got the signal?” Commander Watts asked as they approached the perimeter.

“Strong and clear. Definitely the penthouse.”

“Have they made a call?”

“They're checking voice mail.”

“You're serious?”

“I am.”

“Guess we should've left a message.”

“Very funny, sir. I think they'll get our message—loud and clear.”

“What about ground units?”

“On their way, sir. We've got two unmarked Bureau cars—four agents—sixty seconds out. Tactical Unit is inbound from Wall Street. ETA about two minutes. And you'll have a hundred more cops there in less than five.”

“Good. Cut off the streets in a four-block radius—and no sirens.”

“Don't worry. No sirens.”

Watts assessed the situation. They had to be idiots to be there. Unless it was a trap. How many did they have with them? And how well armed were they?

“Watts, it's Scott Harris, how soon?”

“My guys are ready, on the perimeter. Everyone else is moving into position.”

“What's the plan, Commander?”

“We can surround the place or we can storm it right away. It's your call.”

“What do you recommend?” asked the FBI director.

“I don't know yet.”

“Come on, Watts, give it to me. What's your gut telling you?”

Watts exhaled. He honestly didn't know. He always preferred taking his time, gaining as much intel as possible, and planning a raid in precise detail. But this was different. If they were really dealing with suicide bombers, negotiations weren't going to work. The minute the bad guys knew they were surrounded, anyone in the apartment—including the hostage, if there
was
a hostage—was as good as dead. Storming now would give Hostage Rescue Team maximum tactical surprise. But there were no guarantees.

Another radio crackled to life.

“Tactical is on the scene, sir. Permission to set up?”

“Do it—just be careful,” said Watts, straining to see the building through high-powered binoculars from a half mile away—any closer and the roar of the choppers would give them away.

“Come on, Watts, give me your best call,” ordered Harris.

“I don't know, sir, I…”

“Watts, I've got the president on the other line.”

Watts couldn't see the building clearly enough. He'd be getting a live audio and video feed momentarily from agents sneaking up the stairwells. But they had fifteen flights to climb and that still might not give him enough information. He was out of time.

“
Storm it,
” Watts said, finally.

He just hoped to God he was right.

“Fine. Put your men on notice. I'll talk to the president.”

Every minute that ticked by felt like an hour. But it also brought more data. The first audio probe agents attached to the front door indicated a television was on somewhere in the penthouse suite. No voices. No footsteps. And still no outbound calls had been made. Snipers took up positions on the roofs of four adjacent buildings as plainclothes agents began evacuating lower floors of the Regency Towers, as quickly and carefully as possible.

The president didn't agonize over the choice. If the on-scene commander wanted to go in, he wouldn't second-guess him. Everyone knew the stakes. Everyone had trained for this moment. And everyone knew the president would have to call Jon Bennett the minute the operation was over, regardless of how it turned out.

Harris relayed the message to Watts. Watts passed it on to his men. It was a go.

“OK, guys, on my mark.”

Twenty-four commandos rechecked their weapons. The Blackhawks gained altitude—a thousand feet, two thousand, three thousand and climbing. When they reached five thousand feet, the lead pilot guided the rest of the choppers over the strike zone, then gave Watts the thumbs-up. Watts sucked in some air and clicked on his radio.

“
Fox Five, Fox Five—go, go, go!
”

The Blackhawks dived for the roof. Coming in fast and high would minimize the chance of being heard. But it was still a risk. Snipers readied their weapons. SWAT Team One waited outside the penthouse doors. Medical teams huddled in the lobby, ready to triage any casualties. Each Blackhawk now leveled off, each on its own predesignated side of the building. Watts gave the signal.

“
Fire, fire, let's go, let's go.
”

Suddenly, all power in the building went down. FBI snipers unleashed a fusillade of tear gas and flash bombs. The night erupted with explosions. Windows shattered. The penthouse filled with smoke. The Hostage Rescue Team and SWAT Team Two fast roped from the Blackhawks. They burst in through the windows. SWAT Team One blew off the front door and stormed in from the hall. Thin red beams from laser sights crisscrossed through the noxious fog as the commandos hunted their prey.

More agents rushed up the stairwells and elevators. Watts could hear the chaos from his command chopper, hovering over the roof. Harris demanded answers, but there were none to give. Not yet. The drama inside was still unfolding.

Watts ordered the search lights on. Each chopper lit up the tower and trained their video cameras on the scene. Harris could now see what was happening—outside at least—and immediately ordered the images cross-linked via secure fiber-optic trunk lines to Langley and the White House Situation Room, where the president and his senior advisors were huddled and waiting.

And then, suddenly, all went silent.

Watts waited, his heart pounding. Harris held his breath. The silence was eerie. Then a radio crackled back to life.

“Chopper One, this is Black Leader, over.”

“Black Leader, go ahead.”

“It's done, sir—we've got her.”

“You've got her?”

“Affirmative.”

“You
sure
?”

“Yes, sir—same as her picture.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes, sir—unconscious—knocked out by the gas—but she should be OK.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the others? How many were there?”

A flash of static garbled the transmission.

“How's that, sir?”

“I said the others—the terrorists—how many were there?”

“None, sir.”

“What's that? Say again.”

“None, sir—the place is empty—it's just her.”

 

Bennett hung up the phone.

It was three minutes after six Monday morning, Gibraltar time. He'd been up since just after four, and he still couldn't believe it.

She was safe—in stable condition at an undisclosed hospital. Under the watchful eye of a dozen FBI agents. The lead story on every TV network. Front-page news around the world again. But she was safe, and he'd just talked to her, and that was all that really mattered to him now.

Bennett turned off the lamp beside the bed and closed his eyes. The whole thing was unbelievable. There'd been no kidnapping. No Al-Nakbah terror cell. His mom hadn't even known the world was looking for her. She'd just wanted to get away for a while. Far away. Someplace where no one would call her. Where no one would bring over flowers. Where no one would stop by to “see how she was doing.”

Ruth Bennett simply wanted to be alone. Where it was snowing and the trees glittered with Christmas lights and she could lock herself away and hide. Where she could ignore the news and turn off the phones and watch
Miracle on 34th Street
and
It's a Wonderful Life
and get lost in a sweet and simple—albeit imaginary—world of good friends and happy endings. So she'd hopped on a train—she'd always hated to fly, despite her late husband's jet-setting—and headed to the Big Apple to spend a week at her son's place. She had his spare key. He was out of the country. What harm could it do?

The ATM card?
Of course she'd used it. Back in Florida, she'd used most of the cash she had on her to pay for the train ticket to New York. She always paid cash. Once she got to Manhattan, she'd needed some cash to buy some milk and bread and few groceries. With Jon in Israel and Germany and Washington and back to Israel, the place had been empty for a month, after all.
The cell phone?
Yes, that was her. She'd found it on Christmas Day as she did some housecleaning and tried to keep her mind off being all alone. But Jon had given her his voice-mail number and password in case she found it. So she'd taken it with her, just in case.
The two calls to her sister—why hadn't she left messages?
“Jon,” she'd said, “you know me. I hate answering machines. They're so impersonal. I just figured I'd call back.”

Why hadn't she kept the cell phone on all the time?
Just trying to conserve the battery. She didn't have the charger.
Hadn't she gone out?
Too cold.
Hadn't she read a paper or watched the news?
Of course not. That's exactly what she was trying to avoid.
Hadn't anyone seen her?
She had no idea. “You know New Yorkers, Jon. I was one of them for twenty-five years. Nobody makes eye contact with strangers. And certainly not all bundled up in weather like that.”

The whole thing was so ridiculous, so anticlimatic, thought Bennett. Yet it was also surreal. For days, the world had followed the hunt for the suicide bombers and the hunt for his mother hour by hour, hanging on every detail. But had they really overreacted? The police? The media? Had he? No, Bennett thought. No, they'd been reacting to the moment.

The country was at Threat Level Red, for crying out loud—its highest alert status—and the threats were real. They still were. The whole world had seen the suicide bombing in Gaza live on TV. They were all watching wall-to-wall coverage of the civil war in the Holy Land. Everyone was following the hunt for suicide bombers headed to America. The gun battles on the borders. The plane forced down over Rochester. A body floating in the East River.

With all that, how could the FBI, let alone the media,
not
react? How could they ignore the serious possibility that the mother of a senior aide to the president was kidnapped by terrorists? In the context of what they were all going through, everyone assumed the worst. It wasn't an overreaction. This was life in the age of terror.

Still, what was the world coming to? Was it now a crime to disconnect for a few days from voice mail and cell phones and pagers and Blackberries—or, God forbid, not use them at all? Was it a crime to use cash, not a credit card that told every cop exactly where you were, exactly what you were buying? Was taking a week to get away and hide to rest and read and think and turn off the news and not read the paper such cause for suspicion? Was going missing from the world for a few days now a federal offense?

It felt that way. In part because evil was seeping into the windows, under the doors, through the vents. People sensed it, and they were scared. The country was on edge. Go missing for a few days and the world could change forever.

 

Nadir Sarukhi Hashemi pulled off I-95 North and headed for D.C.

As he came up Route 395, he hit a backup of cars trying to cross the Fourteenth Street Bridge into the city. Every car was being stopped and searched by the police at the checkpoint a few hundred yards before the bridge, and every officer was armed with a submachine gun and a variety of instruments capable of detecting metal, radiation, biological and chemical toxins, and a full range of explosives.