Joel Rosenberg - The Last Days

THE LAST DAYS

Also by Joel C. Rosenberg from Forge Books THE LAST JIHAD

Joel C. Rosenben

A Tom Doherty Associates Book New York

This is a work of fiction. AQ the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used

fictitiously.

THE LAST DAYS

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rosenberg, Joel C, 1967-

The last days / Joel C. Rosenberg.—1st hardcover ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-765-30928-9

1. Americans—Middle East—Fiction. 2. Arafat, Yasir, 1929—Fiction. 3. Palestinian Arabs—Fiction. 4. Middle East—

Fiction. 5. Jerusalem—Fiction. I. Title. PS3618.O832L36 2003 813'.54—dc22

200317063

First Edition: October 2003

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

This book is dedicated to our Arab and Jewish friends

in and around the Middle East who are pouring out their very lives

for the peace that passes all understanding.

To my incredible wife, Lynn—my hero and best friend. You constantly amaze me with your grace and discernment,

your kindness and stamina. I don't know how I'd survive without you. Every day we walk together I learn something

more wonderful about you. I love you so much. Thanks for loving me and doing this adventure together. We're living

our dreams, and this is just the beginning. To Caleb, Jacob, and Jonah, my prayer warriors and "traveling buddies." I

love being your dad. I love seeing your faith, hope, and love growing day by day. Spain, Morocco, Gibraltar, Jerusalem

—who knows what's next! To everyone in our previous acknowledgments, especially our families, friends, and

kindred spirits from Syracuse, Washington, McLean, and Frontline. To our November Communications compadre,

"John Black John Black," thanks for all your "air support" and wisdom! To Dan ("Duncle") Rebeiz, welcome aboard;

Marcus and Tanya Brackman; the "Posse"; our Spain '03 team; the Stahls; the Rose family; Shirley O'Neill; and the

team at World magazine. 1 hanks for your faithful friendship and for making us part of your lives.

Special thanks to Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity. You sent The Last Jihad into the stratosphere and our lives into

hyperspeed with your passion and enthusiasm. We couldn't have been more surprised or had more fun. And many

thanks to Steve and Sabina Forbes and Bill Dal Col for your enduring friendship and tremendous encouragement.

We're still so humbled and grateful. God bless you guys!

To those who've been so generous with their time, research, and insights, including Allen Roth, Steven Schnier, and

their colleagues; Ambassador Dore Gold; Mey Wurmser at AEI; Jim Phillips and Ariel Cohen at Heritage; and to so

many Palestinian and Israeli sources who wish to remain anonymous.

To everyone who put together such wonderful book events for us over the last year, and have blessed our lives in so

many ways, including Stanley and Gay Gaines; Janet Westling and her family; Bridgett Wagner at Heritage; Jeff

Taylor; Nancy Streck, Steve Scheffler, and their team in Iowa; David Keene, Diana Banister, and everyone at CPAC;

and even the kind folks who invited me to do the "Pat the Bunny" readings on that beautiful Saturday afternoon—

thanks so much!

To Greg Mueller, Leif Noren, Keith Appell, Mike Russell, Peter Robbio, Suzanne Bakri, and the wonderful team at

Creative Response Concepts for everything you did for me.

To Tom Doherty, Bob Gleason, Linda Quinton, Elena Stokes, Brian Callaghan, and the stellar team at Tor/Forge

Books. You guys are absolutely amazing. Thanks so much for all you did to make The Last Jihad a bestseller and for

giving me the opportunity to do what I love. I couldn't be more grate-fill.

And to Scott Miller at Trident Media Group, the best agent in the business. What an amazing year—who woulda

thunk it? Thanks again for your wisdom and candor, your willingness to go the extra mile, and most of all for your

friendship. Let's hope there's more to come.

THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

James "Mac" MacPherson

THE VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

William Harvard Oaks

THE PRINCIPALS ,

Scott Harris, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Stuart Morris Iverson, former Secretary of the Treasury

Lee Alexander James, Secretary of Homeland Security Marsha Kirkpatrick, National Security Advisor Jack Mitchell,

Director of Central Intelligence Tucker Paine, Secretary of State Burt Trainor, Secretary of Defense Neil Wittimore,

Attorney General

SENIOR WHITE HOUSE STAFF

Jon Bennett, Senior Advisor to the President

Bob Corsetti, White House Chief of Staff

Erin McCoy, Deputy to Jon Bennett and CIA operations officer

Chuck Murray, White House Press Secretary

OTHER KEY ADMINISTRATION ADVISORS

Marty Benjamin, State Department's Policy Planning Staff director Dick Cavanaugh, Deputy Secretary of State Ken

Costello, Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs Troy Moreaux, U.S. Ambassador to Iraq, head of ORHA General

Ed Mutschler, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Danny Tracker, CIA Deputy Director for Operations

U.S. SECURITY OFFICIALS

Tariq Abu Ashad, CIA agent

Max Banacci, DSS agent

Dietrich Black, late FBI agent

Hamid, CIA agent

Sergeant Hunt, Navy SEAL

Kyi Lake, DSS agent

Maroq, CIA agent

Donny Mancuso, DSS agent

Nazir, CIA agent

Bud Norris, Director of the U.S. Secret Service

George Polanski, FBI agent

Eduardo Ramirez, SEAL Team Eight commander

Jackie Sanchez, Secret Service agent

Robbie Trakowski, DSS agent

Neil Watts, FBI agent

Jake Ziegler, CIA Gaza Station chief

IRAQI LEADERS

Ayad Allawi, Iraqi National Accord

Mustafa al-Hassani, Iraqi National Alliance

Abdel-Aziz al-Hakim, Supreme Council for Islamic Revolution in Iraq

Masoud Barzani, Kurdistan Democratic Party

Achmed Chalabi, Iraqi National Congress

Jalal Talabani, Patriotic Union of Kurdistan

ISRAELI LEADERS

David Doron, Prime Minister of Israel Dmitri Galishnikov, CEO of Medexco, Inc. Dr. Eliezer Mordechai, former head of

Mossad Yossi Ben Ramon, head of Shin Bet

avi\ Zadok, current head of Mossad

Uri "The Wolf" Ze'ev, chief of staff of the Israeli Defense Forces

PALESTINIAN LEADERS

Yasser Arafat, Chairman of the Palestinian Authority

Abu Mazen (a.k.a., Dr. Mahmoud Abbas), Palestinian Prime Minister

Marwan Barghouti, Fatah Tanzim leader

Mohammed Dahlan, Palestinian Interior Minister

Tibril Rajoub, Palestinian security chief on West Bank

Khalid al-Rashid, personal security chief for Chairman Arafat

Dr. Ibrahim Sa'id, CEO of Palestinian Petroleum Group

Achmed Qurei, Speaker of the Palestinian Legislative Council

AL-NAKBAH LEADERS

Yuri Gogolov, Russian co-founder of Al-Nakbah terrorist movement Mohammed Jibril, Iranian co-founder of

Al-Nakbah Nadir Sarukhi Hashemi ("The Viper"; "Mario Iabello"), terrorist Daoud Juma, terrorist

OTHERS

Akiva Ben David, founder of the Temple Mount Battalion

Ruth Bennett, mother of Jon Bennett

Solomon Bennett, late father of Jon Bennett

Marcus Jackson, New York Times White House correspondent

Dorothy Richards, sister of Ruth Bennett

Then Jacob called for his sons and said:

"Gather around so I can tell you what will happen to you in the last days. . . —Genesis 49:1

The real test of a man is not

when he plays the role

that he wants for himself,

but when he plays the role

destiny has for him.

—Vaclav Havel

"You really want me to kill him?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, and neither said another

word.

The flames crackled in the fireplace of the elegant penthouse apartment overlooking central Tehran. Light rain fell on

the clay balcony tiles. Bitter December winds howled outside, rustling trees and rattling windows. Thun der rumbled

in the distance. And the room and the sky grew dark.

Mohammed Jibril looked out over the teeming city of his youth, as the haunting call to prayer echoed across the

rooftops. He knew he should not feel so tired, but he did. Tired of sleeping in different beds, different houses,

different cities. Tired of constantly watching his back, and that of Yuri Gogolov, the man sitting in the shadows

behind him, puffing casually on one of his beloved Cuban cigars. Jibril considered his options. There weren't many.

You understand, of course," Jibril continued, "that you will be unleashing a war that could escalate beyond our

control—beyond anyone's control?" A silent, unnerving pause.

And you're ready for this war?" Jibril asked, perhaps too bluntly. Instantly regretting the question, he could feel a chill

descend upon the room. Gogolov sat motionless in an overstuffed velvet chair. He looked out at the mountains and

the minarets and the twinkling lights of the ancient Iranian capital. He drew long and hard on the Cohiba, and the cigar

glowed in the shadows.

Air Force One roared down runway 18-36 "Lima."

Flanked by four F-15E Strike Eagle fighter jets, the gleaming new Boeing 747 quickly gained altitude and banked

toward the Atlantic. President James "Mac" MacPherson stared out the window. He could no longer see the lights of

Madrid Barajas International Airport, or the lights of the Spanish capital itself, just nine miles away. The emergency

one-day NATO summit was over. In a few hours, he'd be home, back at the White House, under pressure to answer

the question on everyone's mind: Now what?

Osama bin Laden was dead. Al-Qaeda and the Taliban were obliterated. And now—just three and half weeks after it

began—the war in Iraq was effectively over. Saddam Hussein was dead and buried under a thousand tons of rubble.

His sons were dead, too, cut down in a hail of allied gunfire. His murderous regime had been toppled. His henchmen

were being scooped up by U.S. Special Forces, one by one, day by day. But the president had never felt more alone.

Rebuilding Iraq and keeping it from blowing apart like Bosnia would be difficult enough. But that wasn't the only thing

on his plate. Wars and rumors of wars dominated the headlines. New threats surfaced constantly. North Korea was

just months away from building six to ten nuclear bombs. Iran would soon complete a nuclear reactor with Russian

assistance, capable of producing two to three nuclear warheads a month. Syria and Iran appeared to be harboring top

Iraqi military officials and scientists. NATO was badly divided. The U.N. was a mess. Democrats threatened to

filibuster most of the White House's major legislative priorities. And now this: the FBI and Justice Department were

recommending the death penalty in United States v Stuart Morris Iverson, one of the most chilling acts of espionage

in the nation's history, not to mention one that involved one of the president's closest friends and a man who was,

until a month ago, Secretary of the Treasury.

Saudi Arabia, meanwhile, was insisting that all U.S. forces leave its soil immediately. And OPEC—outraged by the

U.S. strikes against Iraq—was threatening an all-out oil embargo unless war reparations were made to the Iraqi people

and pressure was brought to bear on Israel to allow the creation of a Palestinian state. The president recoiled at the

thought of an ultimatum from countries he had just saved from nuclear, chemical, and biological an nihilation. He

wasn't about to submit to blackmail, but he was painfully aware of the risks he was running. Even now, his handpicked

diplomatic team were on their way to Jerusalem.

MacPherson—feeling quite vigorous at sixty until a team of Iraqi assassins nearly took his life the month before—was

beginning to feel his age. He

swallowed a handful of aspirin and washed it down with a bottle of water, His head was pounding. His back and neck

were in excruciating pain. He needed sleep. He needed to clear his head. The last thing he needed was an oil price

shock reminiscent of '73. So much of the road ahead was foggy, But one thing was painfully obvious: the horrific

battle of Iraq wasn't the end of the war on terror. It was just the beginning.

When ordering a hit, Jibril preferred the anonymity of an Internet cafe.

No one would bother him. No one could trace him. And at less than 25,000 rials an hour—about three U.S. dollars—it

was far cheaper than using his satellite phone.

Tehran alone boasted more than fifteen hundred cyber shops, which had exploded in popularity ever since

Mohammad Khatami was elected president in 1997 and gave the fledgling Internet sector his blessing. The hard-line

religious clerics continued to be wary. In 2001, they'd forced four hundred shops to close their doors for operating

without proper business licenses, breaking Islamic laws and trafficking in "Western pollution." They'd insisted that

the government deny anyone under the age of eighteen from entering the shops. But that just made the idea of an

electronic periscope into the West all the more alluring, and Web traffic shot up faster than ever.

The bulletproof sedan eased off the main boulevard. Mohammed Jibril told his driver to drop him off at the Caspian

Cyber Cafe on Enghelab Avenue, across from Tehran University. A moment later he logged on, and sent a half dozen

cryptic e-mails. Next, he pulled up the home page for Harrods of London and quickly found what he needed. "Harrods

Chocolate Batons with French Brandy—twelve individually wrapped milk chocolate batons filled with Harrods Fine

Old French Brandy. Made from the finest Swiss chocolate. 100g." He hit the "buy now" button, typed in the

appropriate FedEx shipping information, paid with a stolen credit card, and left as quickly as he came. Now all he could

do was wait, and hope the messages arrived in time.

The eyes of the world were now on Jon Bennett.

A senior advisor to the president of the United States, Bennett was the chief architect of the administration's new

Arab-Israeli peace plan. The frontpage, top-of-the-fold New York Times profile the day before—Sunday, December 26

—had just dubbed him the new "point man for peace." The media was now tracking his every move and the stakes

couldn't be higher.

The president was eager to shift the world's attention from war to peace, to rebuilding Iraq and expanding free markets

and free elections in the Middle East. The Pentagon and CIA insisted the next battles lay in Syria and Iran. But the

State Department and White House political team argued such moves would be a mistake. It was time to force the

Israelis and Palestinians to the bargaining table, to nail down a peace treaty the way Jimmy Carter did with Menachem

Begin and Anwar Sadat at Camp David in '77, and the way Clinton tried to do with Barak and Arafat in the summer of

2000. "Blessed are the peacemakers," they reminded the president. And the president was listening.

Bennett wasn't so sure it was the right time, or that he was the right man. He hadn't asked to be named "point man for

peace." He hadn't wanted the job. But the president insisted. He needed a deal, he needed it now, and Bennett

couldn't say no.

At forty, Jonathan Meyers Bennett was one of the youngest and most successful deal makers on Wall Street, and a

guy who had everything. An undergraduate degree from Georgetown. An MBA from Harvard. A thirty-eighth-floor

office overlooking Central Park. A forest green Jaguar XJR, for business. A red Porsche turbo, for pleasure. A

seven-figure salary, with options and bonuses. A seven-figure portfolio and retirement fund. A $1.5 million penthouse

apartment in Greenwich Village near NYU, for which he'd paid cash. Closets full of Zegna suits. And Matt Damon

good looks.

Few people on Wall Street knew much about this shadowy young man, but he was the talk of all the women in his

office. Six feet tall with short dark hair and grayish green eyes, he had a picture-perfect smile after a fortune in dental

work as a kid. He'd once been voted the office's "most eligible bachelor," but only part of that was true. He was a

bachelor, but not all that eligible. He dated occasionally, but all his colleagues knew Bennett was married to his work,

pure and simple. He typically worked twelve to fourteen hours a day, including Saturdays. None of that had changed

at the White House, and now he was at his desk by ten-thirty on Sundays, too, watching Meet the Press and planning

for the week ahead.

Before coming to Washington, Bennett was the senior VP and chief investment strategist for Global Strategix, Inc.,

one of the hottest firms on the Street. Part strategic research shop, part venture capital fund, GSX advised mutual and

pension funds, as well as the Joshua Fund, which had $137 billion in assets under management. Over the years, GSX

had become known as the financial industry's "AWACS"—its airborne warning and control sys tem—able to alert

money managers of trouble long before it arrived. GSX also had a reputation of finding "sure things," early

investments in start-up

ventures that hit the jackpot and paid off big. Most of the credit went to Bennett. He had a sixth sense for finding

buried treasure, and he loved the hunt. The plaque on his desk said it all: "I'm not the richest man in the richest city in

the richest country on the face of the globe in the history of mankind. But tomorrow is another day."

Then "tomorrow" threw him a curve ball. Suddenly he was off the Street, out of GSX, working for the White House,

and on the Secretary of State's 757, headed for the Holy Land. It was surreal, to say the least, but the package came

with one big incentive: the chance to cut a deal they'd be writing about for decades, and Bennett was determined to

see it through.

"Hey there, Point Man, we there yet?"

Erin McCoy rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She put her seat back in its upright position and prepared for landing. A

senior member of Bennett's team for the past several years, she'd been teasing him about the Times profile for the last

twenty-four hours, and enjoying every minute of it. After takeoff from Andrews, she'd persuaded the pilot to welcome

the entire American delegation, including "our own Jon Bennett, the esteemed point man for peace." She'd even

plastered the interior of the plane with big red, white, and blue signs asking, "What's the point, man?"

"You kill me, McCoy."

"Don't tempt me, Jon." She smiled.

Bennett stared back out the window, trying to ignore how good McCoy looked in her ivory silk blouse and black wool

suit. She really was beautiful, he thought. Why hadn't she become a model instead of joining the CIA? She was

five-foot-ten with shoulder-length chestnut brown hair, lightly tanned skin, sparkling brown eyes, and a

picture-perfect smile that hadn't required any dental work at all. All that, and she was ranked an "expert marksman"

with six different kinds of weapons, including her favorite, a 9-mm Beretta, which she carried with her at all times. How

could this girl still be single?

"Just give me a copy of the schedule, would you?" Bennett asked.

"You got it," said McCoy as she pulled out a few pages from her briefing book. "Point Man touches down at 0700

local time, Monday, December 27th; meets with the Palestinians; then the Israelis; saves the world; spends New

Year's in Cancun; then cuts large check to beautiful deputy for saving his life, and his job."

Bennett fought hard not to give her the satisfaction of a smile. But it wasn't easy.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, McCoy," he said, snatching the pages from her hands. "But believe me, I'll

think of something."

The Web master in London instantly recognized the e-mail address.

This was no order for chocolate. And she knew it was urgent. She quickly e-mailed a copy to Harrods' shipping clerk

downstairs for immediate proc essing, then logged onto AOL and IM'd a gift shop on the Rock of Gibraltar.

Thirty minutes later, they sped along Highway One toward Jerusalem.

Through driving rains. Past huge green road signs in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. Past the rusted shells of armored

personnel carriers destroyed in the 1948 war. Past roads that would lead them, if they wanted, a few miles and a few

thousand years away to ancient biblical towns like Jaffa and Bethlehem and Jericho.

Two blue-and-white Israeli police cars led the way. Two more brought up the rear. In between were a jet black Lincoln

Town Car carrying the advance team from the embassy, two bulletproof Cadillac limousines, two black Chevy

Suburbans carrying heavily armed agents from the State Department's Bureau of Diplomatic Security, and four vans of

reporters who would beam the historic words and images to a global audience desperate for some good news from the

war-torn Middle East.

The first limousine—code-named Globe Trotter—carried the Secretary of State and his aides. Bennett and McCoy

rode in the second limo—code-named Snapshot—joined by two old friends upon whose wisdom they now greatly

counted. The first was Dmitri Galishnikov, the hard-charging CEO of Medexco, Israel's fastest-growing oil and gas

company. The second was Dr. Ibrahim Sa'id, the soft-spoken, Harvard-educated chairman of PPG, the Palestinian

Petroleum Group, which had made a fortune in the Gulf and now had everyone in the West Bank and Gaza buzzing

with excitement.

"Miss Erin, I must say, you look like an angel—like my wife on our wedding day," Galishnikov boomed. "As for you,

Point Man, you look like hell."

That got a laugh from everyone, even Bennett.

"Seriously, how are you feeling, Jonathan?" Sa'id asked. "We were worried about you. It's a miracle that you're alive,

much less here."

It was a miracle. The last time they'd been together, they'd been under attack by Iraqi terrorists. Bennett took two

AK-47 rounds at point-blank range. He'd practically bled to death before being airlifted to Landstuhl Regional Medical

Center in Germany. Three weeks of recovery and rehab later, he was still not 100 percent.

"Good days and bad, you know." Bennett shrugged. "But it's good to see you two again."

"You, too, my friend," Sa'id agreed. "And your mother? How is she?"

McCoy watched Bennett shift uncomfortably.

"Well, she's not exactly thrilled about me coming back, that's for sure. Dad's heart attack, the funeral, what happened

to me—she's been through a lot. But she's hanging in there. I'll head down to Orlando to see her for a few days when

we get back."

"That's good." Sa'id smiled. "You're a good son, Jonathan."

Bennett wasn't so sure about that, but he said nothing.

An e-mail arrived in a small gift shop on Gibraltar.

It was quickly forwarded to a wood-carving shop in Gaza. Soon it drew the attention of an immaculately well-dressed

young man by the name of Khalid al-Rashid. To anyone but him, the message would mean nothing, just an old family

relative sending greetings for the holidays. But to the third most powerful man in Palestine, it could only mean one

thing—his date with destiny had arrived.

The motorcade began to climb the foothills leading to Jerusalem.

That night, the U.S. delegation would take up two entire floors of the King David Hotel, overlooking Mount Zion, the

stone walls of the Old City, and the Mount of Olives just beyond them. Tomorrow, they'd have a long working lunch

with Israeli prime minister David Doron. But soon, they would actually be sitting in Gaza City, overlooking the stormy

Mediterranean, drinking coffee and eating baklava with Palestinian Authority chairman Yasser Arafat, and his

hand-chosen, silver-haired successor, Prime Minister Mahmoud Abbas, better known by his nom de guerre Abu

Mazen.

It would be a long day. Diplomatic formalities and endless pleasantries would likely take until lunch. They'd eat lentil

soup and lamb until they couldn't stuff down another scrap of pita. Then they'd get down to business.

At the heart of the proposed treaty was the discovery of black gold deep underneath the Mediterranean—a massive

and spectacular tract of oil and natural gas off the coasts of Israel and Gaza that could offer unprecedented wealth for

every Muslim, Christian, and Jew in Israel and Palestine. And the American message they were about to deliver was

as daring as it was direct: both sides must put behind them centuries of bitter, violent hostilities to sign a serious

peace agreement. Both sides must truly cooperate on drilling,

pumping, refining, and shipping the newly found petroleum. Both sides must work together to develop a dynamic,

new, integrated economy to take full advantage of this stunning opportunity. Then—and only then—the United

States would help underwrite the billions of dollars of loan guarantees needed to turn the dream into reality.

Bennett's "oil for peace" strategy was controversial, to be sure. It shifted the discussion from simple "land for peace"

—long the central premise of fruitless diplomacy between the Israelis and Palestinians—to a shared vision of

economic growth and wealth creation. Secret polls commissioned by the White House found 63 percent of

Palestinians in favor of the idea, though 71 percent opposed U.S. military action in Iraq. More troubling: 14 percent of

Palestinians—the hard-core Islamic militants—vowed to stop the American peace process at all costs.

The key was Yasser Arafat. He'd repeatedly hailed the discovery of petroleum off Gaza as "a gift of God to our

people" and the basis of "a strong foundation for a Palestinian state." But the big question remained: was the isolated

and aging Arafat—at eighty-one, now in the cold, cruel winter of his life—finally ready to make peace with the Jews?

On that, the jury was still out. But that's why Bennett and his team were there.

Khalid al-Rashid was born on June 6, 1967.

It was the day the shooting started, a struggle the Jews called the Six Day War, and the Arabs called Al-Nakbah—

"The Disaster."

Raised in an apartment over a woodworking shop on the outskirts of Gaza City, al-Rashid was no maker of tourist

trinkets. That was his father's work, before he was gunned down by Israeli soldiers during the first intifada, the

Palestinian uprising against Israeli occupation, in February of 1988. The son had risen through the ranks of Force 17,

Arafat's Fatah security apparatus— first as an errand boy, a driver, then a bodyguard, and now Arafat's personal

security chief.

It was al-Rashid who now ensured the survival of Arafat from all threats, foreign and domestic. It was al-Rashid who

handpicked Arafat's security team, grilled them, trained them, and either rewarded or punished them for their loyalty to

him, and to the cause of liberating all of Palestine from the River to the Sea. And though the Israelis and Americans

were not yet able to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, it was in fact al-Rashid who for years had personally

selected and then paid the family of each suicide bomber who slipped across the Green Line into an Israeli coffee shop

or pizza parlor or bus station or elementary school to blow themselves up, kill as many Jews

as possible, and deliver themselves into the arms of Allah.

But this was different. Now, with the Secretary of State and U.S. delegation en route from Jerusalem and the whole

world watching, al-Rashid sat in his father's home, thinking the unthinkable.

Ahead of the motorcade lay the Erez Checkpoint.

The Gaza Strip. No-man's-land.

Here in a sliver seven miles wide and twenty miles long lived more than a million souls—half under the age of fifteen—

and the population would double over the next decade. Six in ten men were unemployed. Most families lived in

refugee camps amidst unimaginable squalor. The Strip was a breeding ground for radical Islam and volcanic hatred of

Israelis and Americans that could erupt in a firestorm at any moment—without warning—and often did.

The motorcade slowed. Bennett's heart beat a little faster. Jittery Israeli soldiers, their M-l6s locked and loaded,

opened the steel barricades and guided them past concrete bunkers, guard towers, searchlights, and barbed-wire

fences. Border guards in Humvees and army Jeeps mounted with heavy machine guns watched their every move. It

was an eerie experience. For they were leaving Israel proper and entering the most dangerous and densely pop ulated

hundred forty square miles on the face of the earth.

Secretary of State Tucker Paine took Bennett's call.

Bennett wanted to brief him on his conversations with Ibrahim Sa'id, and Paine needed to sound interested. Paine

didn't appreciate the New York Times profile that made Bennett, not Paine himself, appear the mastermind of this deal.

He felt quite sure his unattributed quotes had done their appropriate damage, reminding Bennett who was in charge.

But he also had to watch his step. The president trusted Bennett a great deal, and the last thing Paine needed was

more trouble from the Oval Office.

Indeed, Tucker Paine had been dispatched for this delicate mission precisely because he could truthfully tell Arafat

how vehemently he had opposed the president's decision to attack Iraq. Who better to win a hearing with Arafat than

a Secretary of State who'd almost been fired for his heated opposition to the president's policy of "regime change," a

policy that had left Baghdad in ruins and the Atlantic alliance in tatters.

Time was running out.

But al-Rashid couldn't think clearly. He knew what they wanted. It was something he'd considered for months. But the

implications were enormous.

The American, after all, was bringing a death sentence for the Palestinian revolution. Did he think they could be

bought off? Had the Americans no idea what this revolution was all about, what fueled these fires? Why not simply

destroy this infidel and send the world a message. Surely that was a cause worth dying for, was it not? And yet, who

was more culpable—the infidel, or the betrayer?

How could he do it? How could he even consider this meeting? How could he even consider cutting a deal with these

devils? How could he betray the martyrs—the blood of al-Rashid's own father—now, of all times, with their brothers

decimated in Baghdad? For what? To make the Palestinians rich? To let their sons become fat and happy? To let their

daughters grow up to drink Starbucks and listen to Britney Spears and shop at Victoria's Secret? Again al-Rashid

glanced at the e-mail. He knew what the answer must be. He could not merely send little girls to do the cause of

justice. It was time to be a man. It was time to do the job himself.

The motorcade roared through Beit Lahiya.

Uniformed policemen of the Palestinian Authority—commonly referred to as the PA—manned checkpoints at every

major intersection. But it hardly made Bennett feel more secure. The PA was arguably the most dysfunctional

pseudogovernment on earth. It remained Yasser Arafat's private fiefdom. The security forces operated at his pleasure.

If Arafat said you were safe—and meant it—you probably were. If not, you'd be advised to stay as far away as

possible. So "supplementing" the Palestinian police presence were heavily armed American DSS agents, strategically

positioned along the way. Not since President Clinton's visit to Gaza in December 1998 had security been this tight.

Anti-American sentiment was running high. But so, too, were hopes that a Palestinian state might not be so far off.

They gathered in the White House Situation Room.

National Security Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick and White House Chief of Staff Bob Corsetti drank coffee and watched

the live coverage. From a Fox camera positioned on the roof of a hotel near the PLC headquarters, they could see the

motorcade coming down Salah El Din Street, packed with crowds spilling into the road despite the metal barricades

and hundreds of

Palestinian security forces set to work a double shift. A moment later, they could see the motorcade turn onto Omar El

Mukhtar Street, past the Great Mosque on the right and the Welaya Mosque on the left.

Just past Jumal Abdel-Nasser Street, the motorcade finally turned into the gates of the PLC's executive compound,

past a dozen Palestinian flags snapping in the winter winds. A CNN shot from the roof of the Rashad Shawa Cultural

Centre across the street showed the vehicles pulling into a huge courtyard. Two new five-story glass-and-steel

administrative buildings stood to the left and right. Each was connected to an impressive three-story legislative

headquarters upon which towered a thirty-foot gold dome. The entourage pulled into the compound's semicircular

driveway, and parked behind huge, waist-high concrete barriers designed to minimize—if not fully prevent—the

prospect of Israeli tanks driving straight into a cabinet meeting and obliterating the Palestinian Authority. DSS agents

jumped out of the last Suburban. They took up positions around the secretary's limousine and ran a sector check.

"Globe Trotter is secure," lead DSS agent Doug Lewis told his team.

"Blueprint, secure."

"Fog Horn, secure."

"Perimeter One, secure."

"Perimeter Two, secure."

"Rooftop team leader, we're secure." 6

"Snapshot, secure."

"Roger that, we're good to go."

Agent Lewis stepped out of the lead limousine.

He opened the door for Secretary Paine, code-named Sunburn for his nearly albino complexion. The secretary was

immediately greeted by a blind ing flurry of flashbulbs and questions. The secretary simply smiled and waved.

Bennett got out of his car and watched Paine button his Brooks Brothers coat, straighten his red silk power tie, and

begin walking across the courtyard to center stage, trailed by Lewis and two more DSS agents. It was quite a walk—

almost forty yards to the front steps of the legislative building, past three marble fountains and a huge bronze replica

of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.

Following strict protocol, Bennett, McCoy, and the others would hang back and wait for the statesmen to shake

hands and go inside before joining them. Over the hood of the limousine, Bennett could see Arafat emerging from the

front door in a wheelchair—flanked by Prime Minister Abu Mazen

with his distinctive silver hair, silver mustache, and wide-rimmed glasses.

Arafat's wheelchair was being pushed by his ubiquitous security chief, Khalid al-Rashid. What struck Bennett first

Joel Rosenberg - The Last Days

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