The Last Jihad (20 page)

“How would one know?” the president quipped.

“Fair enough, sir. But there is some disturbing circumstantial evidence to consider. About eighteen months ago, British intelligence intercepted a phone call between Saddam Hussein’s personal physician and the physician’s father. The call was cryptic, but seemed to suggest that Saddam may have just been diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. Then, about nine months ago, Saddam’s eldest son, Uday, was killed in a car crash outside of Tikrit. We don’t think it was foul play or anything. The kid—well, he was forty-eight—did have a long history of fast cars and fast women. But we’re not sure. The bottom line, however, is that our analysts believe the death hit Saddam incredibly hard. He’d been grooming Uday to succeed him and he may very well blame us, or the Israelis, for trying to take him out. Back in 1996, you may recall, someone—we don’t know who, it wasn’t us, we think it may have been the Iranians—did try to assassinate Uday. They failed, but eight bullets left the young man paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Mr. President, you may reacall that two and a half months later, Saddam’s younger son, Qusay, was killed in a car bomb explosion in downtown Baghdad. We believe that was the work of a Kurdish rebel faction. But it doesn’t really matter. We’re certain that regardless of who was really responsible, Saddam blames you and Prime Minister Doron. The bottom line, sir, is that Saddam Hussein is now seventy-three. He is dying. He has no sons. No direct offspring. No direct line of succession. No one to pass on his power to. If he really believes time is running out, there’s no telling what he might do.”

The president was quiet, sober, distant.

“What about the G4?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “Is there any evidence Iraq was connected to that?”

“Actually, there is, sir,” Mitchell responded. “The Canadians just found the two pilots who were supposed to be flying the Gulfstream IV that attacked you. They were bound, gagged, and double-tapped to the head, then left in a Dumpster outside of a Toronto hotel, near the airport.”

“Good God.”

“We also found the three oil executives who were supposed to be on that flight. Same thing: double-tapped to the head and dumped in some woods beyond the perimeter of the airport.”

“So it wasn’t actually hijacked in flight?”

“Not exactly.”

“Any idea who took the plane?”

“Yes, sir, we do,” added Mitchell. “We have the thugs on a security tape.”

“Who?”

“Two men, dressed as pilot and copilot of the G4. The images are as clear as a sunny day in Houston—one from a camera aimed at the front door of the private terminal, and one behind the counter as they signed a credit card—stolen, of course—paying for their fuel.”

“Names, Jack, names.”

“We checked the tapes against our database. You won’t believe who popped up?”

“Who?”

“Daoud Maleek and Ahmed Jafar. Both are members of
Al-Nakbah
—which translated into English means, ‘The Disaster.’ It’s a Shi’ite group set up originally by the Iranians to help fight in the war in Chechnya. Run by a guy named Mohammed Jibril.”

“The guy who seems to be trying to take the place of bin Laden?” asked the vice president.

“Exactly.”

“OK, keep going,” pressed the president.

Bennett couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was a long way from Wall Street, riveted by the discussion and increasingly anxious about where it might lead. He poured himself a glass of water, and silently offered to do the same for others. All but McCoy turned him down.

“We’ve been hunting Maleek and Jafar for the last several years. We had a pretty solid report that they were hiding out at a training camp in the Ural mountains outside of Moscow. Obviously, we haven’t caught them yet.”

“Obviously.”

“But we do know Saddam Hussein has been funding Mohammed Jibril.”

“I thought you said the Iranians were funding him,” said Kirkpatrick.

“The Iranians did give
Al-Nakbah
some initial seed money to wage war against the Russians in Chechnya.
Al-Nakbah
has also received some funding from Yuri Gogolov’s ultranationalist faction in Russia.”

“Ultranationalist? Try fascist fanatics,” said the attorney general.

“True.”

“God help us if Gogolov ever becomes the next Czar of Russia,” added the AG.

“Amen to that,” said Kirkpatrick.

“Why’s Gogolov involved?” asked the president.

“Well, sir, it’s complicated. Gogolov is Russian. But he hates the current Russian government, led by President Vadim. He thinks Vadim’s a traitor. Too cozy with the West. Too nice to Israel. Too soft on Russian Jews emigrating to Israel. Gogolov’s furious that you and Vadim have gotten so close in the last few years, and particularly that we worked so closely to destroy
Al-Qaeda
and the Taliban. He’s been willing to fund any rebel or terrorist group that might weaken Vadim, including
Al-Nakbah
.”

“OK, Jack. So tie it all together. What does this all mean?”

“Sir, Mohammed Jibril and
Al-Nakbah
have gotten help from several sources, including the Iranians and Gogolov. But in the past few years, the bulk of Jibril’s money—about six million dollars—has come from Iraq. Specifically from Saddam Hussein’s right-hand man, General Khalid Azziz, head of the Republican Guard. That ties the Iraqis in directly with this attack on you.”

“We know all that for sure?” asked Kirkpatrick.

“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t take it to court. Not yet. But it’s pretty solid. We photographed Maleek and Jafar in Berlin eighteen months ago.”

Pictures of the two now flashed on the video screen before them.

“They hadn’t done anything yet. But they were meeting with an Iraqi intel guy in Prague for more than four hours inside a local hotel.”

More pictures flashed on the screen.

“We were kind of curious about them. So we trailed them to Madrid, where they set up shop for two months. They kept getting wire transfers from Berlin and Prague, money washed through a Swiss bank in Basel. But it was all coming from payments made for Iraqi oil sold illegally on the black market, despite the U.N. embargo. We’ve got all the paperwork on this. That’s where the $6 million figure comes from. Then Maleek and Jafar left Madrid for Cairo. We believed the two were heading back to Baghdad. That’s when we had the Egyptians nab them.”

“Why didn’t we nab them ourselves?”

“We didn’t have enough to hold them, sir. But you’d just threatened Egypt’s foreign aid and they happened to be in a mood to help us out.”

“So how did they escape?” asked the president.

“Honestly, sir?”

“Jack.”

“Sir, you’re not going to be happy.”

“I’m not happy now.”

“Maleek and Jafar were released the day the latest U.S. foreign aid wire transfer was deposited in the Cairo account.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, sir. On a hunch, I had my station chief in Cairo make some calls the day before the wire was authorized. You know, just to let them know we were watching.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t get a call back ’til the next day—the next night actually. By that time, the two were gone. Of course, the Egyptians said they felt terrible.”

“I bet they did.”

“So where’d these Maleek and Jafar characters go?”

“Well, sir, we’re not positive. But we believe they headed back to Baghdad via Khartoum. We have photos of a Gulfstream jet that landed in Khartoum the next day, refueled and headed for Baghdad.”

These pictures, too, were on one of the screens for the NSC team to see.

“A Gulfstream, huh?”

“Yes, sir. We didn’t actually see anyone on the plane—no one got on or off—they just refueled. We didn’t have enough guys on the ground to do anything about it, much less authorization to do anything if we had.”

The president leaned back in his wheelchair and tried to get comfortable.

“What about London and Paris and Riyadh? What do we know about those operations?”

“Nothing—not yet, sir. We’re lucky to have as much as we do already.”

The president nodded, looked over his notes, and took a sip of water.

“So, let me get this straight, Jack. We have positive ID on the two guys that tried to kill me?”

“Check.”

“And we’re positive these guys were top lieutenants of Jibril and
Al-Nakbah
?”

“Check.”

“And we’re convinced that
Al-Nakbah
was begun with seed money from the Iranians and some Russian ultranationalists, but has been receiving most of its money in the past two years or so from Iraq?”

“Check.”

“And Maleek and Jafar were in Baghdad a few months ago?”

“Check.”

“Anything else?”

“Mr. President, we’re concerned about a new intercept NSA just picked up.”

“What intercept?”

“NSA picked up a phone call through its Echelon facility on Gibraltar. We’re pretty sure it came out of the desert of Western Iraq.”

“Who’s making cell phone calls in the middle of the night in the desert?”

“Well, sir, that’s just the thing. It doesn’t make any sense. Plus, about an hour or so before we intercepted that call, one of our military satellites got a GPS request in Western Iraq. From a vehicle on Highway 10 to Amman. The only thing we know was on that road was a U.N. relief convoy—a large truck and four Range Rovers. But the convoy has now disappeared without a trace.”

“What was said on the call?”

“We’ll have that in a few minutes, sir.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“Honestly, Mr. President, I don’t know yet. But given all the rest that the Iraqis are up to, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We’re trying to track it all down. I’ll get you more just as soon as I can.”

The president was in serious and increasing pain. He whispered something to Agent Sanchez, then addressed the group.

“Guys, I apologize. I’m really getting uncomfortable up here. I think my pain medications are wearing off. Let’s take a break for a few minutes. I’ll huddle with my doctors. Then we’ll pick this thing back up in a few minutes. OK?”

“No problem, Mr. President,” said the VP. “Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

Fourteen minutes later, Marsha Kirkpatrick reentered the PEOC.

A moment later, Agent Sanchez wheeled the President back into the conference room. The president’s punctuality was legendary and consistent, even if he was on heavy medication. The NSC meeting was back in progress.

“Marsha, let me start with you for a moment,” the president began promptly. “What’ve you got?”

Kirkpatrick poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

“Mr. President, I just got off the phone with Marcus Jackson at the
Times
. He’s salivating. The story’s running front page, top of the fold, banner headline.”

“What’s it say?”

“He wouldn’t say. But I think you’ll be happy.”

The president glanced over at the vice president.

“Bill, when was the last time I was happy with a story by Marcus Jackson?”

“I have no idea.”

“The profile of you after the Gulf War for the
Denver Post
,” noted Bennett.

Everyone looked at him like he’d just sworn to the Pope’s face. Black and McCoy winced. For a moment, no one said a word, until Kirkpatrick broke the silence.

“Mr. Bennett, you’re here as a courtesy, not a participant,” she said, with a tone of voice that made Bennett feel like his father had just grounded him for a month.

“That’s true—but he’s right,” said the president. “Jackson was nice to me once. Since then he’s been a total…well, a total idiot.”

“Big time,” added the VP.

“This conference call is completely secure, isn’t it?” asked the president.

“It better be,” said the VP.

Everyone laughed.

Bennett crawled back into his shell. Better to be seen than heard, he told himself. This was the big leagues and he was a rookie.

“All right. Back to business. Jack, let’s pick up with that intercepted call.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got the transcription of the intercepted Iraqi cell phone call.”

“Good. What is it?”

“It was in Farsi.”

“What did they say?”

“The caller says, ‘The letter is stamped and ready for the post office.’ That’s it. Then the receiver says, ‘Praise be to Allah. Go ahead and mail the letter.’ Then there’s some static, and that’s it.”

“That’s it?” asked the president. “So? What does that tell us?”

“On a normal day, sir, nothing,” said Mitchell. “On a normal day, we wouldn’t have even noted or transcribed—much less interpreted—that three-second call for a couple of weeks, at best. Today, we’re watching things a lot more closely.”

“And?”

“And, sir, I’m concerned a new operation is underway someplace.”

“Iraqi or Iranian?”

“Iraqi.”

“Then what’s the deal with the Farsi?”

“That’s partly why I think it’s an operation. Sir, the Iraqis aren’t sure about our intercept capability. Not exactly. And we believe that they believe that even if a quick call like that is picked up and recorded—which is highly doubtful, but thank God it happened—that even if we got it, we couldn’t precisely trace it. We might think it’s coming from Jordan or Saudi Arabia or Syria—but not Iraq. And even if we could trace it precisely, the Farsi would confuse us and cause us to suspect the Iranians.”

“OK. But…?”

“But, because of the GPS intercept an hour before, our analysts are sure the call was made by one of the U.N. Range Rovers we lost along Highway 10.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the U.N. vehicles could actually be part of an Iraqi military or intelligence operation, not a relief convoy.”

“Burt, what do you think?” asked the president.

“My gut tells me it’s military in nature,” said Secretary Trainor.

“Why?”

“The Jordanian military sealed its border minutes after the attack on you, Mr. President. Nothing’s come over from the Iraqi border, and they haven’t even seen anything come that way.”