The Last Jihad (10 page)

“You say you know the president?”

“Yes, I told you. I’m a personal friend of the president. I’m the senior vice president of the investment house he used to run out of Denver, Global Strategix. I’m here on business. I’ve been asked to go out and see him as quickly as I possibly can.”

“And you spoke with him this morning?”

“No, I told these gentlemen already—I spoke with Stuart Iverson.”

“The Treasury Secretary?”

“Exactly, and the former chairman of GSX.”

“And who’d you say he’s with right now?”

“He and Bob Corsetti are on their way to see the president. I just spoke to them an hour or two ago.”

“Bob Corsetti, the White House chief of staff?”

“Right.”

“And you’re supposed to meet up with them?”

“That’s right.”

“Where again?”

“Colorado Springs.”

“Where in Colorado Springs?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I’m supposed to get there and wait for instructions.”

“From whom?”

“From Stu or Bob, I guess—I don’t know yet.”

“I see. That’s interesting.”

The room fell eerily silent. The man just played with his yo-yo. He certainly didn’t identify himself, though two identification badges hung over his neck by a thin metal chain. One was clearly a U.S. government ID of some kind, probably from the FBI, though it was hard for Bennett to get a good look since the man stood behind him most of the time. The other ID was some kind of Israeli airport security pass, but again, Bennett couldn’t really tell. All he knew was that nothing he said was getting through. The man behind him clearly didn’t believe a single word Bennett was saying. But why not? A few quick phone calls could check out Bennett’s story and be done with it. What was wrong with this guy?

At least five minutes passed, though it might have been more. Bennett wasn’t sure what to do. The more he pled his innocence, the quieter the man became. The more angry he got, the more suspicious the man became. The problem was these questions. The more Bennett thought about it, the more he realized that the questions weren’t designed to elicit answers, facts. They held implications, insinuations. They were accusations. Bennett had heard a million stories about Israeli airport security. But not like this. This was no longer an interview. It was an interrogation. And it wasn’t being conducted by an Israeli. It was being conducted by an American. And it wasn’t any American. It was an American with an ax to grind, an American whose president had just been viciously attacked by men on a plane, maybe a plane that had come from the Middle East.

Bennett fought to control his anger, simmer it, check it, and wall it off from his logic. He was an analyst, a strategist. So analyze this. He winced at the sharp metal now digging into his wrists. But he refocused and tried to clear his thoughts.

The man who stood behind him was a loner, single, probably had never been married. He wore no wedding ring. He wore no rings of any kind. He was a solitary man, a man who lived not off the warmth of family and friendships but off the cold adrenaline of fear and doubt and danger.

He was a driven man, a man with a mission and a purpose. But he was a frustrated man, a man whose job was impossible, really—to know the mind and intentions and imminent actions of evil men determined to do his country great harm. His sole purpose in life was to outfox men from an alien mindset, men who lived in a hellish, ghoulish world of death and deception—educated and moderately wealthy men with wives and children and futures who would willingly decapitate a pilot with a box cutter and their bare hands and steer a 757 loaded with jet fuel into a 110-story monument of steel and glass and concrete and somehow enjoy being incinerated in an 1,800-degree fireball, believing they were on the way to glory at the right hand of Mohammed.

The man who stood behind him with the yo-yo was a man with a job. His job was to stop planes from being hijacked, to stop planes from being turned into human missiles, weapons of mass destruction. And he had just failed. Not just him, of course. He and his colleagues had just failed. Again. The system had failed. The world had failed. But this man was taking it personally. And now this man was a bubbling cauldron of suspicions. He believed he had a suspect and circumstantial evidence, a man with means if not yet an evident motive. And now this man was considering his options.

He said nothing. He just sucked on one cigarette after another and slowly circled Bennett again and again, first one way, then the other, like a shark circling a wounded, bloody fish. The man clearly held seniority in this room. The others stayed pressed against the wall, giving him room to play with his yo-yo, and with the mind of his intended victim. As the minutes ticked by, Bennett could sense the man’s rage. It was real. It was rising. And it was palpable.

He wore brown slacks, a wrinkled white shirt with a worn collar, a thin brown tie, an old, navy blue sports coat and shiny new black dress shoes. His hair was black and thin and cut short, though it was not quite a crew cut. He wore a thick mustache that partially covered a large, jagged scar that started beside his left eye and went down to his mouth. He was taller than Bennett, about 6'2", maybe two hundred pounds, and his eyes were small and black and fierce. No, it was more than that. They seemed hollow. They seemed glassy, lifeless. It was then that Bennett’s anger began turning to fear.

“OK, get started,” the man calmly told the agent with the gold-rimmed glasses.

This agent quickly complied, stepping behind Bennett, removing the cuff link on Bennett’s left wrist and rolling up his sleeve. From inside his jacket he pulled out a small piece of cotton and dabbed it against a tiny flask of a clear liquid, probably rubbing alcohol, Bennett figured. He cleaned a section of Bennett’s left arm, just below the elbow and straightened, standing before Bennett.

Next, he removed from his other jacket pocket three plastic syringes—one green, one yellow, one red. He removed the caps from all three, exposing three two-inch needles. Bennett’s heart raced. Beads of sweat were now dripping down his face and he suddenly realized his shirt was almost completely soaked. The agent held the syringes in front of Bennett’s eyes for ten or fifteen seconds.

“You have a choice, Mr. Bennett,” the man with the jagged scar began.

Bennett tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.

“Life, or death.”

Bennett’s mind reeled. This could not be happening. There had to be something he could say, something he could do.

“Needle one, the green needle? Sodium Pentothal.”

Bennett’s stomach tightened.

“We call it truth serum.”

Bennett struggled to maintain his composure.

“You talk. I listen. You live.”

The two guards by the door shifted nervously.

“Needle two, the yellow one? Sodium thiopental.”

One of the guards slowly wiped drops of sweat from his nose and chin.

“That was Rickey Ray Rector’s favorite. You remember him? Rickey Ray Rector. Arkansas mental patient. Murderer. Arrested. Tried. Convicted. Then denied clemency by good ole Bill Clinton during the ’92 election. Remember that? Executed by—what?—oh, that’s right—lethal injection. I heard it took the doctors forty-five minutes to find a good, clear vein. But they did it. Oh, they did it all right. Rickey Ray Rector. Put him right in a nice, long, deep sleep with the yellow needle. But that wasn’t the end. The end is needle three. That’s the red one. You know what that one’s called?”

Bennett sat motionless, frozen, unable to speak.

“Potassium chloride. You know what that one does?”

The room was silent.

“Stops your heart. Shuts you down. Does you in.”

The man with the jagged scar began to play with his yo-yo again.

“Now, Mr. Bennett, you’re gonna get the first one, the green one. That’s nonnegotiable. Done deal. The question…well, I’ll just let you figure that one out for yourself. You’re a pretty bright man, Mr. Bennett. Working on Wall Street. Hell, you’re a friend of the president, and what are friends for?”

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses handed the green needle over Bennett’s head. Bennett suddenly stiffened—and waited. What would happen? What did Sodium Pentothal do?

That’s when he felt the needle drive deep into his vein. Bennett screamed, and shook uncontrollably. And then, in an instant, he felt drowsy and weak. His heart rate slowed. Every muscle relaxed. He could feel himself losing control. He could feel a warm sensation passing through him. He could feel himself drifting, lingering on the edge of unconsciousness. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed, and he felt safe.

“Now, let me get this straight,” the man began, quietly, almost in a whisper.

“OK,” Bennett replied softly, wearily, almost in some kind of hypnotic state.

“Jonathan Meyers Bennett.”

“Right.”

“Forty.”

“Multimillionaire.”

“Right.”

“Gonna be a billionaire.”

“Maybe…hopefully.”

The man now began to circle Bennett slowly, twirling his yo-yo around his fingers.

“Grew up in Moscow.”

“For awhile.”

“You speak Russian.”

“A little.”

“Dad worked for the
Times
.”

“Right.”

“Sources in the KGB.”

“Sure.”

“Worked for the KGB?”

“No.”

“Maybe?”

“No…no…I don’t think so…no.”

“Do you like your father, Mr. Bennett?”

“Well, sure, I…”

“Don’t you resent him?”

“No.”

“Never spent much time with you. Always working. Always too busy.”

“Well, yeah…but, I…”

“You don’t talk to him much.”

“Right.”

“You don’t call him.”

“Not often.”

“He’s doesn’t call you.”

“Not that much, no.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, too busy, I guess.”

“Seeing someone?”

“No.”

“Close friends?”

“Some…a few…not really.”

“Why not?”

Bennett took a deep breath.

“I…I just don’t.”

“You religious?”

“No.”

“Believe in God?”

“Well…no…I don’t know.”

“You don’t believe in God?”

“I…I don’t know…I just…I don’t think about it much.”

“What do you believe in?”

Bennett was silent. Drugged and drowsy, drifting in a murky fog of semiconsciousness, the question seemed to confuse him all the more.

“You must believe in something, Mr. Bennett. What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“In your gut, in your heart, in your soul—isn’t there something you live for?”

Bennett hesitated, grasping for something slippery and elusive.

“I don’t know…I want to…make a difference somehow.”

“Have you?”

Bennett thought about that for a moment, didn’t like his answer, and kept quiet.

“Pathetic. So, you say you know the president personally.”

“I do.”

“Know where he lives?”

“Yep.”

“Been to his house?”

“Yep.”

“Been up to the lodge?”

“Yep.”

“Slept in his beds?”

“Yeah.”

“Played with his daughters?”

“Yeah.”

“Helped them pick out colleges?”

“Yeah.”

“Attractive?”

“Yeah.”

“Flirtatious?”

“A little.”

“Ever gone out with them?”

“No.”

“Ever wanted to?”

Bennett was silent.

“Really…”

The man stopped, stared at Bennett, whose eyes were now closed and was nearly asleep. Now he reversed course and began slowly walking in the opposite direction.

“You know the agents around the president?”

“Yes.”

“They know you by sight?”

“Yes.”

“Been in the Oval Office?”

“Yes.”

“Hung out in the chief of staff’s office?”

“Yes.”

“Know all the corridors of the West Wing?”

“Pretty much.”

“Knew when the president was flying to Denver?”

“Yes.”

“Knew what time he’d land?”

“I guess.”

“Knew which car he’d be in?”

“Probably.”

“But you weren’t there.”

“No.”

Again, the man stopped, right behind Bennett.

“Now you listen closely, you understand?” he whispered. “You come to Israel for a day. One day. You have dinner with a Palestinian Muslim and a Russian Jew, both of whom work on some oil-and-gas project. Gonna make you all rich, right?”

How did he know all this?
thought Bennett. The man grew louder.

“Then you just happen to meet with this Russian again—for breakfast. Just so happens to be at the same exact moment that someone is trying to kill the President of the United States. But you don’t take your original flight back home through London. Oh no. Because London’s under attack. Buckingham Palace is being blown back to the Stone Ages. No. Instead, you buy a one-way ticket back to the U.S. and try to figure out some way to get to Colorado Springs. Why?”

Silence. Bennett’s head began to lean forward, his eyes still closed, his mind still swimming. The man with the scar began pacing quickly as his voice grew louder, angrier.

“Why? Why? Oh, I know why. Because you’re supposed to see the president. Because he wants to see you right away. ASAP. Pronto. Yesterday. Right?”

“That’s the truth.”

“
Shut up.
”

Bennett was scared—suddenly, distantly aware of the man’s rising anger and frustration.

“But you have no idea where, or when, or why. You’re just supposed to ‘wait for instructions.’ That’s interesting—‘wait for instructions.’ Some mysterious instructions.”

Blood started rushing back to Bennett’s head. His eyes suddenly snapped open. He tried to refocus.

“And now, now you want me to clear you to board this American aircraft so you can go see the president. So you can go meet the president. So you can go kill the president. Isn’t that right?

“No,” Bennett insisted.

Either the sedative was beginning to wear off or it was beginning to be overridden by Bennett’s own growing anger. The agent was in Bennett’s face, blowing a mouthful of smoke into his eyes, causing him to begin to wince and choke.