The Last Days

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Bennett felt a twinge of guilt for not having invited his mom up to Wash ington for the weekend. She would have loved an evening like this, and loved seeing him off at Andrews Air Force Base on Sunday. She needed to get out of the house. She was still struggling with almost debilitating bouts of de pression. She refused to take any antidepressant medication or even talk much about her grief. She’d always been a quiet person, but now she was withdrawing even further.

  He felt guilty for being too busy for her right now. He felt guilty for aways being too busy for her. But there was nothing he could do until he got back. Perhaps he could get her something for Christmas from Jerusalem. She’d always wanted to go to the Holy Land, but despite all her husband’s world travels, she’d never been. Maybe later that spring he should take her with him on a private tour of the land of milk and honey. It might do her some good.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” said the president, clicking a champagne glass with a fork. “Our rides are ready and we need to depart posthaste. But

  I just want to say a quick word to all of you. It’s been an extraordinary month, an extraordinary two years, in fact. But we’ve tried to keep faith with the American people, and I think the new polls Bob laid out for us earlier today are a wonderful early present, a sign that somebody out there thinks we’re doing something right.”

  A round of applause arose from the little assembly.

  “Each of us knows how much more work lies ahead. But my hope and prayer is that a few years from tonight, two states will be living side by side. Investment capital will be pouring in. Oil and gas will be flowing out. And a new Marriott or a Hilton will be open for business in Bethlehem, so that no young couple will ever again have to worry about finding room at an inn.

  Everyone laughed and applauded and enjoyed the moment. No one more so than Bennett. It was his dream, too, and seventy-two hours ago it had actually seemed possible.

  Now what?

  The president had no idea. He and Corsetti sat alone in the Oval Office and said nothing for a few minutes. All was quiet, but for the occasional rumble of thunder and the steady sound of sleet hitting the tinted, bulletproof windows. The technicians were all gone now, as were their television lights and cameras and sound equipment. White House staffers were busy carrying out a blizzard of presidential directives issued over the course of the past hour. The press was analyzing every nuance of the president’s remarks. And the First Lady was in an armor-plated sedan, surrounded by Secret Service agents, heading to the home of the grieving widow of the late Secretary of State.

  Corsetti broke the silence. He said the speech had been a solid “double.” It was brief and to the point. It kept the game moving forward and bought them time while they figured out their next moves.

  The president had forcefully condemned the attacks and appropriately mourned the dead. He’d put all of the various Palestinian factions on notice that they must cease the violence immediately and strongly hinted that severe international repercussions could result if the civil war did not end quickly. He’d praised the Israelis for showing restraint. And he’d vowed that the United States would bring the terror masters to justice and continue working for peace no matter how long it took or how much it cost. He’d done just what he’d needed to do. At least for now.

  MacPherson took a sip of coffee and stared out the window at the re lentless storm battering the nation’s capital. “Bob?”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Was Bennett actually suggesting that I send forces in?” “Into where? The West Bank and Gaza?” “Of course.” Corsetti was puzzled. “He didn’t say that, did he?” “No, not in so many words …”

  The thought trailed off. Again the room was silent for a few moments. “What are you getting at, sir?” Corsetti finally asked, watching the presi dent’s thoughts churning.

  “I don’t know exactly,” MacPherson responded. “I’m just sitting here re-playing that NSC meeting over and over again and I just can’t…” “You can’t what?”

  “Jon was adamant that we keep the Israelis out, right?” “Right.”

  “Jack, on the other hand, was equally adamant. He and his team at CIA feel strongly that somebody has to go in and stop all the killing, that we can’t just sit by and watch Palestinians slaughter themselves on CNN.” “Right.”

  “And what was the question Jack taunted Bennett with?” Corsetti thought about that for a few seconds, but couldn’t recall precisely. Fortunately, the president proceeded to answer his own question. “Jack asked, ‘Then who’s going to go in, the U.N.?’ Right?” “OK, I remember that. And Jon was about to answer but the vice president cut him off and took his side, said the Israelis shouldn’t go in.” “Exactly.”

  “So what’s your point?” “What was Jon’s answer?” “I don’t know.” “I don’t know either.”

  “But you suspect he wasn’t going to back a U.N. peacekeeping force?” Corsetti pressed.

  “How could he? He knows my concerns about the U.N. An international force would take forever to authorize, much less deploy.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have an answer one way or the other. Maybe Jack was about to stump him.”

  “Not likely. Jon’s a strategist, and a pretty good one, too. He’s wired to think five or six moves ahead. I trained him myself.”

  “God help us all.” Corsetti laughed.

  “Nevertheless”—the president smiled—“he might actually be right.”

  Corsetti considered that, then shifted gears.

  “You’re not really thinking about sending in troops, are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sir, Jon’s a sharp guy with great Wall Street instincts. There’s nobody in the White House or on the NSC that disputes that. But let’s not kid ourselves. Jon is not a diplomat. He’s not a trained negotiator. He’s got no military or CIA training. And with all due respect, I don’t think we—you— should be turning to him on military matters. I mean, sir …”

  “I’m not turning to him on military matters, I’m…”

  “Of course you are. Invading the West Bank and Gaza? Sending in U.S. troops when we’re already occupying Iraq? No one is advising you to do this, sir. No one. Not on your NSC team. Not at Defense. No one at State. No one at the CIA. Hell, Bennett himself hasn’t actually even come out and said it—not in so many words.”

  “So what’s your point?” demanded the president.

  “My point, sir, is that I’m concerned that your desire to nail down a peace deal is clouding your judgment. The peace process is over. It died a grisly death yesterday, in Gaza. Period. End of sentence. Our job now is to contain the damage, not create more. I mean, how exactly does going to war in the West Bank and Gaza help us put points on the board here at home, in the Arab world, within NATO, within the E.U.? How does it help us build international support for a new regime in Iraq? For crying out loud, Mr. President, wouldn’t you say we’ve got enough problems without changing the definition of ‘occupied territories’ from Israeli-occupied to U.S.-occupied?”

  “No, no, no, Bob—you’re missing the point.”

  “Am I? Because—”

  “Bob, think about it. Are we serious about winning the war on terrorism or aren’t we? Do we really let this mafia war in Palestine run its course? You want to wake up one morning and find yourself facing a Palestinian Michael Corleone—someone smarter, tougher, more ruthless than the Godfather, more dangerous than Arafat himself?”

  Corsetti said nothing.

  “Bob, I’m not saying we should go in. I’m saying we shouldn’t rule it out. Get the guys at the Pentagon and CIA war-gaming something—fast—and let’s think it through. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Corsetti took a sip of coffee. It was cold.

  “Mr. President, it’s your call, obviously. I’m just saying that you pay me togive you political advice. And, sir, I’m telling you that what you’re considering—even the act of considering it—is politically very, very risky.”
r />   “And the alternative is what, exactly? A couple of U.N. resolutions? Send ing Jimmy Carter over there? What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Not yet.”

  “Neither do I,” MacPherson admitted. “I just want to know what my options are. So get me some options—fast.”

  Corsetti reluctantly nodded, excused himself, and stepped out of the Oval Office.

  It was then that the president began to realize just how alone he really

  was.

  The press conference began promptly at 9:00 P.M., Iraqi time.

  It was, after all, designed primarily for domestic Iraqi consumption. But given its import, it was also carried live by most major television networks around the world, including in the United States where it broke into the afternoon soaps at 1:00 P.M. Eastern Standard Time.

  “Good evening,” said a well-coiffed older American gentleman in a navy pinstriped suit, crisp white cotton shirt, and a red power tie.

  A blinding of flashbulbs and 35-mm auto advancers quickly confirmed to everyone watching that the ornate hall they were seeing on their screens was in fact packed wall to wall with scores of international journalists.

  “My name is Troy Moreaux. As all of you are aware, the president has sent me here to oversee the Office of Reconstruction and Humanitarian Assistance and to assist the Iraqi people in establishing an interim govern ment, and that is what I intend to do.”

  More flashbulbs. More auto advancers.

  “Four weeks ago, the United States and our allies faced a catastrophic threat—indeed, an existential threat—from the regime of Saddam Hussein. Therefore, acting in self-defense, we used the force necessary to defeat those threats and end Saddam Hussein’s murderous regime. It wasn’t easy. But it was worth it. And now the United States and our friends and allies throughout the free world stand ready to help the Iraqi people exit the long, cold night of your suffering into the warm sunshine of peace and prosperity. We will be here as long as it takes, but not one minute more. The United States is here to liberate, not dominate.”

  The hall erupted with applause.

  “Tonight, then, I announce the formation of an Iraqi interim government.”

  Another burst of applause went up from the gathered Iraqi dignitaries standing behind Ambassador Moreaux, as well as from several dozen other Iraqi officials filling the hall.

  “Allow me, then, to introduce the six senior members of the new interim government, which will be known as the Coalition Provisional Authority, or CPA. There are two dozen members total, and my staff is handing out to each of you a press release with the complete list of names and bios. But let me just quickly mention these gentlemen, beginning with Ayad Allawi of the Iraqi National Accord.”

  This brought a smattering of applause.

  “Jalal Talabani of the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan.”

  Another smattering of applause.

  “Masoud Barzani of the Kurdistan Democratic party.”

  Still more light applause.

  “Abdel-Aziz al-Hakim of the Supreme Council for Islamic Revolution in Iraq.”

  Now the applause was intensifying.

  “And, of course, Achmed Chalabi of the Iraqi National Congress, and Mustafa Al-Hassani of the Iraqi National Alliance.”

  At the mention of Chalabi and Al-Hassani’s names, the crowd erupted in sustained shouts and fervent clapping. The two were clearly the most respected and powerful of the various factional leaders in the room, and arguably throughout all of Iraq, Chalabi because of his role in building and unifying the Iraqi opposition in exile, and Al-Hassani because of his role in inspiring the Iraqi people as a dissident who somehow had survived nearly eleven years in one of Saddam Hussein’s most notorious prisons.

  Now, with Chalabi back on liberated Iraqi soil and working so closely with the coalition forces to prepare for a civilian government, and Al-Hassani out of prison and addressing the people daily on the radio station formerly controlled by the Ministry of Information (read: “Propaganda”), the world was looking to these two men for a credible plan to rebuild Iraq’s shattered infrastructure and psyche.

  When the applause began to quiet down, Ambassador Moreaux turned the podium over to Al-Hassani, the graying, bearded, seventy-one-year-old intellectual grandfather of the Iraqi freedom forces. The photo op quickly shifted gears.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, it is an honor to be with you all today, and especially to be here in one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces—a far cry from

  where I have been over the past long, dark decade. Each one of us knows firsthand the bitter bloody legacy of Saddam Hussein and his reign of terror, And each of us knows that however much we personally have suffered, we are among the lucky ones. We are the ones who survived. Just this week, coalition forces uncovered the bodies of fifteen thousand Iraqi men, women, and children in a mass grave south of Baghdad. This is just the latest evidence of the war crimes against humanity perpetrated by the Saddam regime. The blood of our brothers and sisters and children cries out from the sands and the streets and prisons. It cries out for justice. It cries out for a fresh page, a new chapter in the long, proud, enduring history of the Iraqi people.” The hall again erupted with cheers. For the next ten minutes, the retiring, soft-spoken Al-Hassani outlined the new interim government’s mandate and structure. Then he took questions.

  “This question is for Mr. Chalabi,” began an Al-Jazeera reporter. “Sir, will you now denounce the United States before the entire international com munity for committing war crimes in Iraq?”

  A hush came over the crowd. It was the question on everyone’s mind, and now it had been asked of Achmed Chalabi, arguably the most pro-Western and pro-American Iraqi leader in the room, an exile long backed by American money and political support, now seeking to build a power base in a country he hadn’t lived in for decades. With a senior representative of the U.S. gov ernment in the room. With the president of the United States and every member of Congress no doubt watching on television. With the U.N. Secretary General watching the press conference in Paris with members of the French Parliament. With vast segments of the Arab and Islamic worlds watch ing in prime time.

  Chalabi cleared his throat, looked the reporter in the eye, and spoke softly. “If there is one thing I have learned in my lifetime of struggle, it is this: freedom isn’t free. Many have died in this war of liberation, and they are heroes. Heroes, I tell you—martyrs of the freedom revolution. We will forever remember their sacrifice. We will forever remember that they died so that we might live, that we might breathe and speak our minds and control our destinies. We will celebrate their lives. We will honor their deaths. We will build great monuments in Baghdad and Tikrit and tell their stories to our children and our grandchildren. But we will not blame foreigners for our suffering. It was Saddam Hussein who did this to us, and it is Saddam Hussein who we and our children and our children’s children must denounce every day of our lives.”

  The room unexpectedly erupted in sustained cheering, with Mustafa Al-Hassani leading the way. Chalabi lowered his eyes, and stepped back as Al-

  Hassani stepped up to the podium and the bank of microphones, called for quiet, and then caught everyone off guard, including his own colleagues.

  “What is past is past,” Al-Hassani said. “It is time to move forward, and tonight, as my first act in this interim government, I make a proposal.”

  Flashbulbs began popping again.

  “After we meet the needs of the suffering people of Baghdad—after we get them the medical and humanitarian assistance they need and deserve—I propose we move the capital of Iraq.”

  A collective gasp could be heard, even from the gathered dignitaries.

  “Baghdad represents the old Iraq, does it not?” the small, slightly stooped man continued. “Does not Baghdad represent Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, not our own? Now it is ruined and suffering because of evil ways and bloodthirsty leaders. Why should we rebuild Saddam’s capital as it once was? What says we
must? Why accept the narrative that Saddam Hussein wrote for us? This is a new day. This is a new chapter. And a new Iraq deserves a new capital, a capital worthy of the rich and proud and glorious history that has long been ours… .”

  You could hear a pin drop at that moment.

  “Tonight, I call upon the great Iraqi nation to build a great new capital city, with the trillions of dollars of new oil money that will soon begin to flow. Like the great economic and political capitals of our sister states all around the Gulf—capitals like Riyadh and Kuwait City and Abu Dhabi— let us believe that out of the barren desert sands can rise towers of steel and glass, practically overnight. Let us build homes and schools and factories and stock exchanges. Let us build museums and theaters and stadiums and gardens. Let us together build a great economic center that rapidly becomes the envy of the world. More precisely, let us rebuild a great political and economic power of global importance where none has existed for thousands of years… .”

  It was as though a billion viewers leaned in to hear the news for themselves.

  “My friends, it is time to rebuild the city of Babylon, the city of our dreams.”

  Midnight descended on the Iraqi desert.

  The air was cold and black. Storm clouds obscured a full moon. No lights could be seen for miles in any direction. Bitter winds howled through the wadis and canyons and Daoud Juma wondered how much longer it would take.

  They were still headed for the town of Al Qa’im and the Syrian border village of Abu Kamal, but both remained quite a ways off. A junior fedayeen officer drove the Renault while Daoud reclined in the backseat and tried unsuccessfully to get some sleep. Ahead of them was the Range Rover packed with commandos and their weapons. Bringing up the rear was the minivan with still more men and supplies.

  He checked his watch. It was just before midnight back in Baghdad, not yet four in the afternoon in New York and Washington. He tried to picture what he and his men would be doing twenty-four hours later. Would they have been able to reach Canada yet? Would they have already slipped across the border into the United States? Would the cars be ready? What about the weapons?