“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.
“Look, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Who are you working with?”
“I don’t know. I don’t what you’re talking about.”
“Who’s the woman in London?”
“What?”
“Who’d you call to charter you a plane?”
Bennett was completely awake now, but disoriented and confused.
“How do you know that?”
The question was a mistake. The agent recoiled. He now stood behind Bennett holding the bright red yo-yo over Bennett’s head, slowly dangling it in front of his face like a dead man in a noose. He gritted his teeth and practically spat his next sentence.
“Bennett, I don’t like you. You’re hiding something. I can smell it. I can feel it. And if you don’t start telling me the truth…”
He now pulled all the string out of the yo-yo, held it taut at both ends, and slowly began pressing it against Bennett’s neck.
“I’m either gonna have to squeeze it out of you…or give you the yellow needle.”
Bennett’s breathing quickened. Clarity was coming back to him, but so was fear.
“I want a lawyer. You can’t…this is wrong.”
“It’s your choice, Bennett.”
“How hard is it to verify what I’m saying?”
“Life or death?”
“I got Secret Service clearance during the campaign. Look it up. Call the White House. They’ll tell you who I am.”
No one said a word. No one made a call. No one even twitched. For the first time, Bennett realized he was in a soundproof room. He couldn’t hear anything outside these four walls—if he screamed, or died, no one would know.
“Call the White House. Call Corsetti’s office. They’ll tell you who I am.”
No reply from the scar-faced agent. But the yo-yo string grew tighter around Bennett’s neck.
“Mohammed Jibril.”
The name just hung in the air for at least a minute.
“Who’s that?” asked Bennett.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Bennett was now gagging.
“Mohammed Jibril is a terrorist, Mr. Bennett. He lives in Moscow these days, working with various Islamic terrorist cells.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“You just met with his brother.”
“What? What are you talking about? I did not.”
Bennett felt sick to his stomach. He’d run extensive background checks on Ibrahim Sa’id, the head of the PPG, and his top staff. But there’d been no evidence of links to terrorist groups. None.
Until now, Bennett had refused to talk to this guy about the details of his oil deal. It was none of their business, and he was under strict orders by the President of the United States to brief him—and him alone—before talking to anyone else on the planet about the substance of this deal. Bennett struggled to breathe. The urge to tell these men everything he knew was overpowering. Was it the “truth serum,” or just pure survival instinct?
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d given the president his word. He’d given Iverson his word. Who were these guys? What if they were linked to the men who’d just tried to kill the president? But how could they be? They’d just scooped him out of the Israeli airport. But did that really matter? Couldn’t they be double agents? Couldn’t they be paid off by the enemy? What enemy? Whose side were these guys on? Then again, what if he were now holding back crucial information? What if somehow he’d made a mistake? What if somehow his oil deal had gotten mixed up with the very people who’d just tried to assassinate the president? What if he was actually financing such evil?
Bennett winced in fear and pain. He didn’t know what to do. And his interrogator could tell. The man began to tighten the yo-yo string. Sweat poured down Bennett’s face.
“Galishnikov.”
“What about him?”
Bennett tried to swallow, but he couldn’t.
“Do you know who he is?”
Bennett was about to throw up.
“He’s—he’s a friend.”
The man tightened the string.
“Four years ago, Dmitri Galishnikov helped mastermind a terrorist explosion that destroyed one of the largest refineries in the former Soviet Union. Cost the Russian government half a billion dollars. Not that they needed the money, mind you. They’re such a rich, wealthy country. But they did get a little ticked off by the fact that two hundred and twelve Russian citizens died in the explosion.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t…I…please…call the White House…”
The agent suddenly exploded. He unwound the yo-yo string from Bennett’s throat, grabbed him by the shirt and his hair, and threw him against the wall. Cuffed and unable to protect himself, Bennett hit the wall headfirst, then slumped to the floor and curled up into a fetal position, bracing himself for the blows he knew were coming.
The man was shaking with rage and seemed about to lose it completely. He grabbed the wooden chair and smashed it against the wall, shattering it in pieces and sending splinters flying everywhere. Bennett knew it was a show, knew it was designed to frighten him. But knowing did nothing to lessen the impact. Bennett was terrified. He wasn’t used to not being in charge. He wasn’t used to being ordered around. And now he feared for his life.
“You want yellow, Mr. Bennett? You want red?”
There was nothing for Bennett to say.
“No. God, no.”
Bennett felt the needle go in.
“You’ve got two minutes, Bennett. Are you a terrorist?”
“No.”
“Do you fund terrorists?”
“No.”
“Is Sa’id a terrorist?”
“No—I don’t know.”
“Is Galishnikov a terrorist?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you help conspire against the President of the United States? Did you?”
“No, no, no…”
“Tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what you know.”
“God, please, no.”
The man grabbed him again and pulled him to his knees.
“Forget you, Bennett.”
He grabbed Bennett by the hair and lifted his face towards his own. When Bennett’s eyes focused, the man showed him the red needle, dropped it to the ground and crushed it with his foot. Bennett sucked in as much oxygen as he could. He felt the man grab his sweaty hair and jerk his face upward. He stared into the eyes above him for a split second and he saw no mercy. This wasn’t a pardon. It was an execution.
The man pulled out a Beretta 9mm and pressed it hard against Bennett’s forehead. Then he drew it back and walked behind him and drove the gun into the back of Bennett’s head while pushing his body and face to the floor. Just inches away, Bennett could see a dark brown liquid oozing from the crushed red syringe. His body was now shaking uncontrollably.
“You sick little monster,” the man screamed in his ear. “You think I’m going to let you get away with this? Do you? I’m going to count to three. And you’re going to tell me why you’re paying terrorists to kill the president—or I’m going to splatter your worthless freaking brains all over this room. I’m going to freaking annihilate you and no one will ever even know you’re dead. You hear me? Do you hear me?”
“It’s not true—you’re wrong—please—I don’t know anything—please.”
“ONE.”
“No—I don’t know anything—please—I beg you—please.”
“TWO.”
“Oh, God, help me. Please help me.”
“THREE.”
“Oh, God. I don’t want to die. PLEASE.”
The deafening explosion from the Beretta rocked th
e room, echoing up and down the tall, dark tower.
Then all was silent.
The Israelis stood aghast, not believing what they’d just seen. All three now quickly exited the room. A moment later, the man with the jagged scar holstered his weapon, picked up his yo-yo, and followed them out, locking the door behind him. Bennett’s body now lay on the filthy white tile floor—crumpled and still.
SIX
It was the last time the four men would be in the West.
And they knew it. And they didn’t care. Extraordinary events had been set into motion, and now it was time for them to get their final instructions and play their part.
The Wall Street Journal Europe had a front-page profile of the new Treasury Secretary, Stuart Iverson. High-ranking but unnamed administration officials said the president now had someone he, the nation, and the world could trust to lead the global economy to new heights. Iverson seemed to fit the bill, and even Democrats on the Senate Finance Committee were singing his praises.
The four could only smile at their good fortune. They certainly couldn’t talk about it. Not here, at least. Not sitting in separate pews at St. Stephan’s Cathedral—Stephansdom—in Vienna. One never knew who was lurking in the shadows, or hiding in plain sight.
Built originally as a Romanesque basilica in the twelfth century, and then rebuilt in the fourteenth century as a cathedral in the classic Gothic style, St. Stephan’s was an icon in the heart of Vienna, covered with the black, filthy soot of some six hundred years of wars and fires and industrial development. Vienna, of course, was not only the capital and largest city of Austria but itself an icon in the heart of Europe, a city long known as the gateway to the eastern powers and Moscow. Here Germans and Russians and the Allies once battled for control. Here the external walls of the cathedral were pockmarked with the bullet holes of Nazi soldiers, whose jackboots once clip-clopped along the cobblestones, instilling fear in the hearts of all who could see or hear them.
Today, the icon within an icon was a great draw for tourists, and no one on this gentle, snowy morning could suspect such monsters in their midst.
Never glancing at one another, the four casually watched the visitors come in, one by one, minute by minute. Mostly old women. Very few men. Almost no children, except for an occasional screaming infant who invariably echoed throughout the cavernous sanctuary and high up into the great tower and steeple. Eventually, a woman in a black dress and matching black hat with a white ribbon pinned to her lapel came in, knelt down, and began to pray. Slowly, one by one, each of the four men gathered his belongings and casually made his way out of the cathedral. It was time.
The Last Jihad Page 10