The Last Jihad

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Downing. Come on. Move it.”

  “Hold on. Almost.”

  “Downing.”

  “Here, here it comes—‘take him out.’ It says, ‘take him out.’”

  “Who’s it to, Downing? Who’s it to?”

  “Hold on, sir. I don’t have it yet.”

  “Downing…”

  “I know. I know. I’m—here—hold on—here it comes. Got it.”

  “A name, Downing. Give me a name.”

  Sanchez signaled to the president.

  It was time to move. But the president waved her off and continued talking to the vice president, Kirkpatrick, and Corsetti in the PEOC. Kirkpatrick and the VP insisted the president should stick with his script, stay on message, and ignore Saddam.

  “The United States Air Force is responding even as we speak,” said the VP. “You’ve got a great speech to give. It’s strong. It’s eloquent. It’s spiritual. And no one’s going to miss the moral clarity of the contrast.”

  Kirkpatrick agreed.

  “Stay the course, Mr. President. Let us worry about the rest.”

  Corsetti went nuts. He argued it was political and strategic suicide not to respond immediately. To sidestep Saddam Hussein’s direct threats would look to the entire world weak and out of touch with reality. The death of several Secret Service agents was a terrible thing. But the world was watching a nuclear holocaust unfold. It needed to hear the president give them some kind of assurance—any assurance—that there was at least a ray of light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. This was the moment. Use it or lose it.

  “It’s coming, sir. Hold on. AOL account. Washington. Northeast—transmitted from Moscow, but forwarded from Baghdad.”

  “Give me the freaking name, Downing.”

  “Here it is—Gary Sestanovich.”

  “Spell it.”

  “G-A-R…”

  “No, the last name.”

  “Sorry, sir. S-E-S-T-A-N-O-V-I-C-H.”

  As Downing spelled, Harris relayed the name to Agent Maxwell, who typed it into the FBI’s massive computer system and hit return.

  “Come on. Come on. Who is this guy?” shouted Harris, hoping against hope that the name was somewhere within the billion-dollar database.

  “Oh my God,” Maxwell stammered at the other end of the Op Center.

  “What? Who is it?”

  “He’s an agent.”

  “One of ours?”

  “No.”

  “Then whose?”

  “Secret Service—former CIA, special ops.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “You’re not going to believe it, sir.”

  “Maxwell, I don’t have time…”

  “Sir, he taught mujahedin how to kill the Russians.”

  The four settled on a compromise.

  Corsetti dictated a few lines to add to the beginning of the speech. The vice president and Kirkpatrick insisted on modifications. The president took notes as fast as he could.

  All the networks were cutting away from the Baghdad transmission and now focused on the president’s storm-battered limousine, parked in front of the National Cathedral. But the president was still inside.

  Around the globe, people couldn’t help but wonder: Why wasn’t the president getting out? What was wrong?

  Harris speed-dialed Bud Norris at the Secret Service Op Center.

  “Norris—go.”

  “Bud, it’s Scott. Gary Sestanovich. Who is he?”

  “Why? What are you—”

  “Bud, just tell me—now.”

  “One of my best guys—you know, code-named Cupid—the guy helped save the president in Denver. Remember?”

  Harris froze. Cupid was “Mr. C”? The guy was standing in the bell tower with a Stinger missile aimed at the president’s head. How was that possible? Why?

  Harris didn’t have time to think.

  “Scott? What’s this all about?”

  “Can’t say—I’ll get right back to you.”

  But that was a lie. Norris hadn’t been briefed. He had no idea that Iverson was in federal custody or the subject of a high-tech sting operation the president had set into motion. But Harris didn’t have time to brief him or argue with him. At best, he had a few seconds to save Gambit’s life.

  Harris punched the mute button so Norris couldn’t hear him. Then he picked up the other line, with Downing at the other end.

  “Downing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has this guy read his email yet? I mean, do we know if he’s even received the thing yet.”

  “He just did, sir. I was trying to tell you but you had me on hold.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That the email went to his personal computer—at his home—but was then forwarded to his wireless, probably a BlackBerry. I’m actually watching him open it right now.”

  Harris’ mind raced. There wasn’t time to tell Norris. And what would he do, anyway? True, Norris had two other sharpshooters in the bell tower. But if he said anything over any of the Secret Service radio frequencies, Cupid would hear it and could fire before he could be stopped.

  Harris grabbed his handset and punched a button on the console before him.

  “Blowtorch to Sierra One. Copy?”

  “Sierra One, copy,” replied Burdett.

  “Sierra One, suspect is the Stinger missile operator in bell tower. Can you see him?”

  Burdett could barely believe what he was hearing.

  “Copy that. Which one, sir?”

  “Cupid—you know him?”

  Know him? Cupid? Of course he knew him. Their daughters went to the same school. They’d trained together at Quantico every three months for the last ten years.

  “Sir, I…”

  “Sierra One—can you see him?”

  Burdett quickly opened the apartment window, aimed the forty-power Burris scope atop his Remington Model 700 sniper rifle, and put Cupid in his crosshairs.

  “I’ve got him, sir. But…”

  “Do you have a shot?”

  “I do. But, sir…”

  Through his sights, Burdett could see his friend and colleague pressing the IFF challenge switch on his Stinger missile launcher, and pushing the actuator button forward and downward, warming the battery coolant unit to make the weapon go live.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Sierra One, what is it?”

  “He’s preparing to fire at the president.”

  “Sierra One, take him out. I repeat—take him out.”

  Burdett clicked off the safety, took a deep breath, and tried to adjust for the whipping winds.

  Suddenly glass exploded all around him. Burdett dove for cover, but more gunfire came blazing through the window.

  What were these guys doing?

  The gunfire erupting from the two sharpshooters to his left and right stunned Cupid, jarring his concentration.

  “Code Red. Code Red. Sniper at one o’clock,” shouted one of the sharpshooters, instantly turning all of the Secret Service’s ferocious firepower on the apartment complex Burdett was hiding in.

  Cupid’s colleagues had seen the barrel of Burdett’s rifle emerging from the window. Not knowing FBI snipers were shadowing them, they’d obviously read it as hostile, and began firing.

  But who was out there, preparing to take a shot at Gambit? Cupid wondered. Did Gogolov, Jibril and/or Azziz have another sleeper agent in place?

  Poor soul, Cupid thought. Whoever that guy in the apartment building was, he’d never be an Islamic hero. At best he was about to become a new martyr.

  “Blowtorch, Blowtorch. Sierra One taking fire. I repeat, Sierra One taking fire.”

  A hail of bullets, shattering glass and exploding concrete now poured into the sniper’s lair, filling the room with fire and smoke and dust.

  “No shot. I have no shot. Abort. Abort. Abort.”

  Burdett scrambled for the door, trying to get out in the hallway, trying to stay alive.

  Ses
tanovich—aka, Cupid—found himself oddly mesmerized by the firefight.

  So was the rest of the world. The entire gun battle was being broadcast live by local and international TV news crews to a worldwide audience of more than two billion people.

  Suddenly, a flash of lightning and crash of thunder startled him back to reality. He glanced down at the BlackBerry attached to his belt, wiped away the rain fogging up the display, and reread the message, just to be sure. The three-word message—and its origin—were unmistakable: “Take him out.”

  This was it. Yuri Gogolov, the financier of his partner, Mohammed Jibril—the man he’d met and trained so long ago in the mountains of Afghanistan, the man who’d become his lover and his leader into the Way of Islam—had a mission for him. The fact that it originated from inside Saddam Hussein’s bunker made no difference. And he was not about to fail.

  He quickly reengaged, only to see the president’s limousine roaring out of the driveway in an evasive maneuver. Cupid checked his Stinger, flipped off the safety, recharged the BCU, and took aim. This was it. One shot, and it was over.

  “Sierra Two, Sierra Two. This is Blowtorch. Do you copy?”

  “Roger that, Blowtorch.”

  “Sierra Two—do you have a shot? Repeat: Do you have a shot?”

  Special Agent Daryl Knight, high up in the second apartment complex, could barely see through the raging electrical storm outside. But at least his window was already open a crack, and the Secret Service’s attention—and firepower—were concentrated elsewhere. Even if it was on his colleague Burdett.

  “Stand by, Blowtorch—hold on…”

  Harris—his head pounding and heart racing—could see the president’s limousine peeling out onto Wisconsin Avenue on the video monitors in front of him.

  “Sierra Two.”

  In the crosshairs of his Remington, Knight lined up Sestanovich’s head…

  “There’s no time,” Harris screamed.

  …covered in the black ski mask that had become Cupid’s trademark…

  “Take him out.”

  …He adjusted for the gale-force winds…

  “Now.”

  …and squeezed the trigger…

  The .308 caliber hollow-point bullet flew straight and true.

  It was the last image Knight remembered—Sestanovich’s head exploding in a spray of blood and bone.

  FIFTEEN

  Bennett and his team stared at the TV screen.

  They could not believe the horror unfolding back in Washington. Then—without warning—the living room was plunged into darkness. The television shut down. As did all the lights in Dr. Mordechai’s home. Something wicked was here—something evil, deadly and dark. Dr. Mordechai’s Mossad training kicked in instantly.

  “Follow me,” he shouted, hitting the deck and beginning to crawl on his belly towards the west wing.

  Galishnikov and Sa’id immediately dropped to the ground and scrambled after Mordechai. Bennett hesitated. He was sure he could find his own way back to his room. But then what? What good would it do him to be separated and alone, unarmed and unprepared for what might happen next?

  Against his natural instincts, he turned around, joined Galishnikov and Sa’id, and followed the sound of Mordechai’s voice as he led them quickly across the living room, down the hallway, past the kitchen, through his office and into the only sure escape route the house had to offer.

  “Quick, through that door,” Mordechai yelled.

  Amidst an almost blinding flash of lightning, Bennett could see Mordechai pointing to the elevator door he’d shown them earlier.

  “But there’s no power,” Bennett shouted back, as he brought up the rear.

  “Don’t worry. It works on a separate power system. But hurry.”

  Black and McCoy stayed back, guns drawn.

  A powerful storm had been building over Jerusalem for hours. But their instincts told these two that this was no weather-related blackout.

  “Erin, this way,” Black whispered.

  They began moving the other direction, away from Mordechai, Bennett and the others, down the hall through to the east wing, to the bedroom Black had been using.

  “You got your goggles?” McCoy whispered—the pair of night-vision goggles Black kept with him wherever he went, standard operating procedure for the counterterrorism specialist he was.

  “In my bag—hold on a second.”

  “This way. Stay down.”

  Mordechai and the three men with him stayed low, crawled through the walk-in closet, and piled into the elevator. Sure enough, it had a different power system and was fully operational. Mordechai punched in his own personal seven-digit access code and, in the blink of an eye, a heavy steel door slammed closed behind them and they were immediately plunged deep inside the mountain, far below the mysterious house above.

  Bennett couldn’t believe what he saw when the elevator door finally opened. It was like another world—a series of interconnected, state-of-the-art, high-tech, computerized war rooms worthy of the best NORAD or the CIA had ever designed. Sleeping quarters. A fully stocked kitchen. Bathrooms and showers. Independent communications, power, water, and HVAC systems. It was remarkable. And Bennett figured the bunker could hold a dozen or more people for several weeks, at least.

  THREATCON maps equal to that in the White House Situation Room displayed the latest Israeli and enemy movements on land, at sea and in the air, all updated in real time. A bank of computers tracked the latest intelligence assessments from Mossad, Shin Bet, and Aman.

  Five large-screen TVs displayed the latest satellite feeds, while a dozen smaller black-and-white monitors showed the images from tiny security cameras positioned all over the house and grounds. The images were as startling as they were brutal—the bodies of the U.S. and Israeli security force, all shot dead.

  Bennett’s mind reeled. What was going on upstairs? Who was trying to kill them and why? Moreover, where was he now? How had Mordechai done all this? How had he financed it? How long had it taken to prepare?

  Bennett’s thoughts were consumed by questions. But there wasn’t time to ask. Not now.

  There was only one question that mattered to him now: How could he find his friends and get them down here to safety?

  “Man down. Man down. Cupid hit. I repeat—Cupid hit.”

  Sanchez could hear the furious chatter over the emergency frequencies as the president’s limousine raced back for the White House.

  Back at the Cathedral, an Apache helicopter gunship—battered by wind and rain—began unleashing its 30mm front-mounted machine guns into the apartment identified by a Secret Service surveillance team as the one from which a sniper’s gun barrel had emerged.

  It was a devastating response, and Bud Norris had no idea what was going on.

  Then Norris’s phone rang. It was Scott Harris at the FBI Op Center—with some semblance of an explanation for all this madness.

  Black slipped quickly and quietly into his room, first on the right.

  He lay on his stomach, careful to keep his head down lest enemy eyes be watching through the plantation shutters. Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the house. McCoy—still out in the hallway—went flying, stunned by the deafening roar of the blast. Fire, smoke and glass were raining down everywhere.

  And then she heard it—men shouting in Arabic.

  “Go, go, go.”

  Black heard them too. Unlike McCoy, he didn’t understand what they were saying, but it didn’t really matter. He grabbed his night-vision goggles, pulled them over his head, grabbed a spare set and ducked his head into the hall and looked left. He could see two men in black helmets and black jumpsuits, rapelling down from the gaping hole in the roof over the circular stairwell, where Mordechai’s gorgeous glass dome had been. Wooden beams from the roof were now burning in the middle of the living room, providing some light but not much protection.

  His head snapped to the right and he saw McCoy, crumpled in the corner at the end of the ha
ll—exposed. She immediately caught Black’s eye though, and he quickly tossed her his spare set of goggles and motioned for her to get into Sai’d’s bedroom at the end of the hall on the right. He had no idea where Bennett, Mordechai, and the others were. But at least he and McCoy were alive, and armed.

  They could hear the ferocious blast up above.

  Dr. Mordechai rapidly closed the three-foot-thick steel door behind them and sealed off the elevator shaft, preventing whoever was upstairs from descending, even if they could somehow bypass the elevator’s security code. Next, he directed Galishnikov and Sa’id to park themselves in two cushioned swivel chairs in front of the bank of computers and television monitors.

  To Galishnikov he gave a set of headphones and told him to provide constant updates on what was happening in Washington. They could all see the gun battle going on around the National Cathedral and the images of the presidential limousine racing back to the safety of the White House complex and they needed to keep a close eye on the unfolding drama.

  To Sa’id he gave the job of scanning the security monitors and providing him and Bennett continuous updates of what was going on upstairs. Top priority: locating Black and McCoy and finding some way to help them if they possibly could.

  Next, Mordechai grabbed Bennett, pulled him into a side room, flipped on the light and unlocked a cabinet full of automatic weapons, gas masks, Kevlar vests, and radio headgear.

  “There’s two of them up there, both with AK-47s and night-vision goggles,” Sa’id shouted, the tension in his voice thick and real. “They’ve just dropped down through the dome and are spreading out through the living room.”

  “Looking for you, no doubt, Eli,” said Galishnikov.

  “Where’s Black and McCoy?” Bennett shouted.

  “I don’t see them. I can’t see them.”

  “Jon, take this stuff,” ordered Dr. Mordechai, handing Bennett weapons and several boxes of ammunition.