The Last Jihad (29 page)

Black was paid to be suspicious. So he was.

“Dr. M?” asked McCoy. “You guys close?”

The three of them now gathered around the conference table with their laptops and coffee. McCoy helped Bennett log onto the secure, satellite-enabled CIA computer network, allowing him—and all of them—to access files and share them with one another during their discussion.

“I’ve gotten to know him fairly well over the years I’ve been in Israel,” Black told them. “He’s been somewhat of a mentor of mine.”

“What can you tell us about him?” McCoy continued.

Black opened up a top-secret FBI computer file called “DEM-TRACK” and emailed it to Bennett and McCoy. It contained an updated photo of “DEM”—Dr. Eliezer Mordechai—along with basic biographical history and a “TRACK” report of his involvement in Israeli intelligence over the last several decades. Bennett and McCoy opened the file on each of their computers and took a moment to read the highlights.

Eliezer Samuel Mordechai, Ph.D. Only child. Born May 28, 1935 in a little city in Siberia known as Tobolsk. Family escaped in the spring of 1941 through central Asia, Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq, finally arriving Palestine in the fall of 1945. Father, Vladimir, fought in the Israeli War of Independence in 1948 and went on to become a professor of Russian Studies at Hebrew University. Mother, Miriam, was a nurse. Both died in a terrorist bombing of a Jerusalem restaurant in 1953 while Eliezer was away in IDF boot camp. Eliezer went on to become an intelligence officer, first in the military intelligence organization called Aman, then later in the Mossad. Graduated from Hebrew University with two undergraduate degrees—one in Russian Language Studies, one in Soviet Studies—and a master’s degree
and
doctorate in Near Eastern Studies.

Worked his way up through the Mossad, first as an operative, then becoming an analyst, specializing in Soviet foreign policy. Fluent in Russian, Arabic, Farsi, and English, as well as his native tongue, Hebrew.

Director of the Mossad’s Arab Desk from 1976 to 1984.

Director of the Mossad’s Nuclear Desk from 1985 to 1987.

Full Director of the Mossad from 1988 to 1996. Helped develop the plan to rescue Israeli hostages held in Entebbe, Uganda in 1976. Helped develop the plan to bomb the nuclear reactor in Osirik, Iraq in 1981. Helped develop the plan to assassinate Khalil al-Wazir (aka Abu Jihad)—a major PLO figure responsible for numerous terrorist attacks on Israelis—in Tunis on April 16, 1988. And so forth. The brief went on page after page.

“Bottom line,” McCoy concluded, “this guy was Israel’s top spook.”

“Still is, as far as I’m concerned,” said Black. “One of the best in the world. Maybe
the
best. When he retired, he got into the stock market and apparently hit the jackpot. I’ve always suspected he picked up some good intel on Intel during his Mossad days, but don’t quote me on that. Anyway, he built a huge home on this gorgeous plot of land in the hills overlooking Jerusalem. Never been there, but it’s supposed to be spectacular.”

“What kind of guy is he personally?” asked McCoy.

“Quiet. Gentle. You’d never know he was head of the Mossad. I mean, he looks kind of bookish, like an old English professor at Oxford. Gray. Balding. Thick spectacles. Cardigan sweaters. Smokes a pipe.”

“We should have brought him some good tobacco.”

“Who says we didn’t?” said Black, producing a small package from his briefcase.

“Hey, nice work.”

“That’s why I make the big bucks,” Black added.

“You said you’ve worked with him pretty closely, right?”

“We get along pretty well. And he’s been invaluable to me as I’ve tried to build an effective counterterrorism team and strategy over there. I first met Dr. Mordechai at a party at the U.S. ambassador’s home in Herziliya back in the summer of 1990—June or July, I think—right before Saddam made his move on Kuwait. I hadn’t really done any work in Israel to that point. Only been there once on a vacation with my wife. But Iraq was doing a lot of ‘saber-rattling’—that was the catchphrase everybody seemed to be using at the time—and the Bureau thought we’d better beef up our work in Israel and spend more time with the guys from Shin Bet and Mossad. Our specific mission, though we didn’t tell the Israelis this at the time, was to develop an evacuation plan. In case war broke out and the president gave the word, we needed to know where every American citizen living, working, or visiting in Israel was at a given moment, how to round them up, how to get them to one of six different extraction points, and what resources we’d need from the Sixth Fleet out there in the Med to get them out and home safely. As it turned out of course, war did break out, and Saddam did start lobbing missiles. But we never had to make good on the evacuation plan.”

Bennett was staring out the window. Black wasn’t sure he was really paying attention. But he continued anyway.

“Anyway, I met with Dr. Mordechai at this party and then we had lunch the next day. We talked a lot about Saddam and Iraq and the prospect of something going down. And I’ll never forget something he said.”

“Why? What was it?” asked McCoy.

“He said, and I quote: ‘The problem with you Americans is that you don’t believe in evil.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s what I said. So he went on to explain that in his opinion, the CIA and FBI and definitely the guys at State don’t properly anticipate horrible, catastrophic events because we don’t really believe in the presence of evil, the presence of a dark and wicked and nefarious spiritual dimension that drives some men to do the unthinkable. So I say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And he goes, ‘Exactly. A man like Saddam Hussein, for example. Saddam tells the world for years that he has a territorial claim on Kuwait. Builds up his armed forces. Develops weapons of mass destruction. Moves troops to the border. Signals everyone he’s going in. But all the boys and girls at the CIA and DIA say Saddam won’t do it. Just wants to drive up the price of oil. Just saber-rattling. Just flexing his muscles. Couldn’t possibly invade. Why would he? It would make no sense. It would be irrational. No Arab nation has ever invaded another Arab nation. Why start now?’”

“And the good doctor thought our guys were wrong?” asked Bennett, apparently listening more closely than Black had realized.

“They were wrong.”

“Well, obviously. But we couldn’t have known that at the time.”

“No, we could have. That’s what he was saying. Saddam was painting us a road map, and we simply didn’t believe he’d start the car and take the trip.”

“Nobody did, Deek. You’d have needed a crystal ball to get inside the mind of Saddam Hussein and divine what he was going to do next. The guy’s a lunatic.”

“No, no, no,” said Black. “You’re missing the point. That’s exactly what Dr. Mordechai was trying to say. On the one hand, we tell ourselves that Saddam is a rational person but a liar. He says he’ll invade Kuwait, but we say he doesn’t mean it. He’s just lying. He’s just bluffing. He’s just playing with our heads. But then when he did invade, we decided he was a lunatic—crazy, unpredictable, irrational, a nut case.”

“So what’s your point? Or his?”

“Dr. M’s point is that there’s a third option—Saddam Hussein is not a lunatic and, in that case, he wasn’t a liar. He was rational and calculating and evil. So he told the world what he was going to do—commit an act of evil, not an act of madness—and then he did it. It took a bunch of highly paid analysts with Harvard degrees to completely miss the simplicity of the moment.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” deadpanned Bennett, with his MBA from the Harvard Business School.

“Hey, so do I, brother,” Black reminded him, another Harvard alum.

“That’s why I went to Wharton, boys.” McCoy smiled. “But seriously, he thinks he could have done better?”

“He did do better. We were having lunch at an outdoor café in the Old City and he told me point-blank Saddam was going in, even told me the day—August 5. He was only off by three days.”

“Did he have some inside info?”

“No. He said he didn’t need any. He said everything a person needed to know in terms of basic intelligence, basic fact-finding, could be found in the newspapers. But he stressed that intelligence is about more than simply finding out facts. It’s about properly analyzing those facts. It’s about drawing the right conclusions, even based on incomplete evidence. In this case, the only difference between Dr. Eliezer Mordechai and the top leadership of the U.S. government was that Mordechai took Saddam Hussein at his word, and we didn’t. Or, to put it in his words, and I quote: ‘I believe Saddam Hussein is both capable of and prone to acts of unspeakable evil, and you don’t. I’m right, and you’re wrong. It’s not because I know more than your government. I don’t. I know less. But I believe that evil forces make evil men do evil things. That’s how I anticipate what can and will happen next in life. That’s how I got to be the head of the Mossad, young man. And why I’m good at it. It’s going to be one hell of an August, and my country is going to suffer very badly because your country doesn’t believe in evil, and mine was born out of the ashes of the Holocaust.’”

The three were silent for a moment.

“What happened then?” McCoy asked finally.

“He got up, paid his bill, and left.”

Bennett leaned back in his leather executive swivel chair, ran his hand through his hair, then reached for a crystal dish of red and green candies.

“Hmm, well, can’t wait to find out his next prophecy,” he said quietly, staring out the window of the G4 at a brilliant blue sky, not quite sure what to say.

“M&Ms anyone?”

General Azziz knew he was gambling with his life, but he was ready to die.

He knew full well that he breathed only at the pleasure of Saddam Hussein. He was wholly devoted to the regime. He was a widower with no children. And he was willing—even eager—to sacrifice himself and his countrymen to inflict vengeance on Israel and the U.S. It was the right thing to do—the ultimate suicide bombing mission—and a tremor of energy rippled through him in anticipation of all that was waiting for him.

He knew, of course, that Saddam wanted results. And there were results to be had. But his gut told him to wait. He needed just a little more time to orchestrate this final concerto of his career.

The only question was: Could he and his colleagues survive this brutal, relentless American bombing campaign until everything was ready and the moment of eternal glorification had arrived?

As the proud architect of this incredible bunker complex, Azziz knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the answer was “yes.” He would wait, until he was good and ready.

The president hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling.

Two Secret Service agents stood post outside the French doors. The First Lady was sound asleep. He’d only been asleep for fifteen or twenty minutes—trying to catch a few hours rest upon his doctors’ orders—when the call had come in. Now his mind raced. This couldn’t be true. It wasn’t possible. He had to know for sure. But how?

MacPherson picked up the phone again and got Corsetti on the second ring.

“Bob, I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Call Stu. Tell him to meet me at Camp David at noon. I have a little project I need done just right. And I think he just might be the right guy to help me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s Shakespeare doing with my speech for tonight?”

“Not bad. Marsha and I are meeting with him at noon to go over it.”

“Good. Now call Stu. Make sure he’s at Camp David at twelve sharp.”

“High Noon it is.”

Bennett’s BlackBerry started beeping.

He leaned back in his seat and quickly checked the incoming email. It was his mother in Florida, and it was urgent—911. He called her cell phone immediately.

“Mom, it’s Jon. What’s going on?”

She was hysterical.

“Jon…it’s your father, Jon…”

She could barely get the words out.

“What? What happened?”

“…He’s…he’s had a massive heart attack…”

“Oh my God.”

“…They don’t think he’s going to make it…They’re giving him twenty-four hours to live—at the most…”

He didn’t know what to say.

“…Where are you, Jon?…You’ve got get here right away…I need you…”

Bennett was in shock. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t tell her where he was. And worst of all, he couldn’t say why.

Marine One landed at Camp David just before eleven
A.M.
Friday morning.

A storm was moving in and the wind and rains were picking up. Only MacPherson, Special Agent Jackie Sanchez, and the flight crew were on board. Waiting for the president at Camp David were FBI Director Scott Harris, Special Agent Doug Reed, three members of Reed’s team, and computer specialist Carrie Downing. They huddled in the Aspen Lodge and reviewed the plan. The president kept asking if it would work. It better, thought Harris and Reed; there was no Plan B.

Reed’s earpiece crackled with the voice of one of his agents.

“Sierra One to Romeo. Swiss Cheese is on the ground. Sixty seconds out.”

“Copy that, Sierra One—Mr. President, he’s here.”

Reed’s deputies took up positions around the room, checked their weapons, and waited, hearts pounding. Reed slipped behind the door while Harris stepped in front of the president. Downing moved to the far side of the room, as Reed had instructed. She had no weapon, no place to hide, and no desire to get caught in a crossfire.

“Sierra One, Swiss Cheese is ten seconds out.”

Reed didn’t respond. He could hear the outer doors of the lodge opening and the secretary and his chief of staff, Linda Bowles. Iverson’s agents were being asked by Sanchez’s team to wait outside until the meeting was over.

Then it came. Two hard, sharp knocks.

“Stu, that you?” shouted the president. “Come on in.”

“Mr. President, Scott, gentlemen,” Iverson said calmly. “Hell of a storm, huh?”