The Last Days

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Absolutely. Thank you, Mr. President. Yesterday, you asked me to talk to Galishnikov and Sa’id and get them pressing their sources to find out what was going on. I got the answer just before we started this videoconference.” MacPherson looked over at Kirkpatrick and Mitchell. Did they know where Bennett was going with this? The blank looks on their faces made it clear they didn’t.

  “Less than an hour ago,” Bennett continued, “Sa’id was on a conference call with the seventeen highest ranking members of the Palestinian Legislative Council who are still alive after the attacks. There are a total of fifty-three PLC members still alive. Thirty-five were killed in the initial attacks, or in assassinations over the past twenty-four hours. The seventeen that Sa’id talked to are the inner circle—all top-ranking, experienced, and, as it turns out, fairly moderate PLC legislators. Ironically, it appears that most of the hardline, anti-Israel, anti-peace members of the PLC were in the courtyard Monday morning. They were trying to signal Arafat and particularly Abu Mazen not to do something they’d regret. Most of them ended up dying in the blast.”

  “Where are these seventeen?” asked the president.

  “They’re holed up in the communications center under the PLC building. It’s a bunker of some kind. They’ve basically barricaded themselves in— they’re terrified for their lives and they’re furious at the Islamic radicals who they say have set all this into motion to sabotage the peace process. But

  they’ve been in touch with all the other surviving members, scattered thiroughout the West Bank and Gaza.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Sir, I don’t think you’re going to believe me. I have to admit, I didn’t believe Sa’id, at first.”

  “You’ve got a minute and forty-five seconds,” said the president. “Try

  me.”

  TWENTY EIGHT

  All eyes were now on Bennett.

  “Mr. President,” he began, “the PLC asked Ibrahim Sa’id to get a message to you. They’ve got four points. Sa’id asked me to pass along this message and get an answer back to him and the PLC within the next half hour.”

  The president was in no mood for ultimatums, if that’s what this was. But he was listening, for another minute and forty-five seconds, anyway.

  “Proceed,” said MacPherson.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. OK, first point, the PLC says they have evidence that the initial attacks—the suicide bombing and the initial gunfire and RPG attacks—were ordered by someone in Iran, though they’re not sure exactly who.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “The PLC sent a team to raid the home of the suicide bomber—”

  “Khalid al-Rashid?” asked Kirkpatrick.

  “Right, Rashid—they raided his home and offices about an hour after the attacks. They grabbed his computer, phones, Palm Pilot, whatever they could, and they’ve begun to piece together the trail. It’s early, and they’ve got a lot more work to do. But they say the trail without a doubt leads back to Tehran. I can’t confirm it. Neither can Sa’id. We’re just passing on what they’re saying. But according to Sa’id, the PLC is absolutely livid.”

  “Yeah, right,” snapped Mitchell. “The PLC’s never been too ‘livid’ about Iranian operations in the territories. They weren’t ‘livid’ when Arafat bought fifty million bucks’ worth of weapons from Tehran and tried to smuggle them into Gaza a few years back on that ship, the Karine A. Why should we suddenly believe they’re so hot and bothered now?”

  Bennett was expecting that one.

  “The difference, Mr. Director, is that the Iranians never tried to assassinate Yasser Arafat before.”

  “Maybe they should have,” said Mitchell.

  “All I know is that Sa’id says these PLC guys couldn’t stand Arafat. They hated his corruption. They were furious that he was lining his pockets with billions of dollars in foreign aid money from us and the E.U. They despised his constant double-dealings over the years with Iran and the Islamic radicals. These aren’t Arafat fans. But they deeply resent Tehran ordering his assas sination. They’re terrified that with Tehran freed up from the worry of a hostile Saddam Hussein to their west, they’re now stepping up their war against Israel and using the Palestinians as pawns. And they’re devastated by the death of Abu Mazen. They were hoping Arafat would eventually give him full authority and Mazen could start steering a more moderate path. Anyway, that’s the first thing they want you to know. It looks like an outside job, and all roads seem to lead to Iran.”

  MacPherson and his team considered this for a moment. It wasn’t like the Palestinian Legislative Council to point fingers at the Islamic Republic of Iran. It had the air of plausibility.

  “All right, give me the other three, quickly.”

  “OK, second, the PLC says they want the oil-for-peace deal to go forward as quickly as possible.”

  “They do?”

  “I know. That’s what I thought. They’ve been cool to the whole idea from the beginning, at least until now. But Sa’id talked to all fifty-three surviving members over the phone—forty-eight want the oil and gas project to move forward. Only one voted against pursuing some kind of deal, and four want more information before they decide. They all know they’re sitting on a gold mine. They’re worried the radicals are going to destroy everything. It seems like they’re coming to the conclusion they’d better make a deal fast or lose everything.”

  “Unbelievable,” sniffed Mitchell. “Who are these people? Abba Eban was right. The Palestinians never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity. How do they think there can be an oil-for-peace deal now? The whole coun-:try is going up in flames.”

  “Mr. President, if I may continue …”

  Mitchell shook his head in disgust and impatience. But MacPherson al lowed Bennett to continue. No one but Mitchell was watching the clock anymore.

  “Thank you, sir. Point three—the PLC has unanimously voted to appoint Ibrahim Sa’id as acting prime minister of Palestine.”

  A buzz went through the Situation Room.

  “It will be an eighteen-month provisional appointment,” Bennett continued, “subject to recall by a supermajority vote of the PLC. The key is that after eighteen months, there will be democratic parliamentary elections, followed by a legislative vote for prime minister, all monitored by international observers, supervised by the U.S. and United Nations.”

  It was a jarring development, but there was more.

  “And what’s Ibrahim say about all this?” asked the president. “Is he even remotely interested? I thought he hated politics and politicians.”

  “Well, that actually brings me to point number four, sir. Sa’id was stunned at first, and resistant, as we might imagine. You’re right, sir. He’s always told me he hates politics and politicians, present company excepted. But after the initial shock of the PLC’s offer, he told them and me that he’ll accept on one condition.”

  “Which is? …”

  “He wants you to send Special Forces into the Gaza and the West Bank to stop the fighting, round up the terrorists, and restore order.”

  “What?” asked MacPherson. “Are you kidding?”

  “Sa’id is absolutely insistent that the Israelis not move in. If the Israelis invade, he says all deals are off. No oil deal. He won’t serve as prime minister. Nothing. He wants us—not the Israelis—to come in immediately.”

  “And do what exactly?” Kirkpatrick pressed.

  “He says the mission should have three objectives. First, to take out the various rogue militia commanders and their forces, all of whom they say are operating in direct defiance of PLC orders to cease and desist. Second, to hunt down and arrest or destroy any outside forces operating on the ground in the West Bank or Gaza. Sa’id says he absolutely does not want a Palestinian state to be dogged from day one by Islamic insurgents, especially not ones funded and trained directly by the mullahs in Tehran. He’s completely inflexible on this point.”

  “And the third objective?”
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  “The third objective would be to establish order, calm things down, and then help the PLC recruit, train, and deploy an entirely new security force, one untainted and completely unaffiliated with the corruption of the current factions. He’d also want physical protection for himself and his family, like what we’ve given Hamid Kharzai in Afghanistan and the new interim government in Iraq.”

  “And if we do all that?” asked the president.

  “Sa’id will call the PLC back, say yes, and he’ll be the new prime minister

  of Palestine. We could have the deal done in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “What then?”

  “As soon the deal is set, the PLC officials in the communications center will set up a satellite connection with Al Jazeera and Abu Dhabi Television, They’ll go on the air to explain the current situation, denounce the rogue militias, reassert their legitimate authority over Palestine, announce the ap pointment of Sa’id, and request American assistance. Then, they’d like us to provide Sa’id with a satellite hookup, as well. They want him to make a short speech accepting the position and explaining what’s at stake.”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Kirkpatrick interrupted. “Sa’id won’t last five minutes in the territories. All kinds of people will be gunning for him, and neither the PLC nor a U.S. security force could guarantee him security, not during several weeks of intense fighting, at least.”

  “I agree. So does Sa’id. So does the PLC. When the weather clears, they’d like you to send in an extraction team to take Sa’id and the rest of my team toa secure location—outside of the region—where he’d like to open up immediate peace talks with Prime Minister Doron.”

  “Peace talks—those are his words?”

  “They are, Mr. President.”

  “And the PLC is OK with all this?”

  “The PLC just voted fifty-one to three in favor of Sa’id’s requests. They’re faxing over the paperwork to make it official even as we speak. But the offer expires in twelve—no, make that eleven minutes.”

  “Why such a fast deadline?” Mitchell demanded to know. “Who do they think they are, trying to dictate terms to us?”

  “No, no, they’re not trying to dictate any terms,” Bennett shot back. They know we’re meeting in emergency session. They know the Israelis are about to invade, and they’re saying that if that happens, all deals are off. Once the Israelis cross the Green Line, the PLC believes all chances for persuading their own people that a peace deal is possible will be out the window. If they can persuade us to persuade Doron to hold back—no small feat, given what’s going on right now—then they think they’ve got a shot, That’s all. But now we’ve got ten minutes. That’s it.”

  It was a stunning turn of events. No one was quite sure what to make of

  it.

  “I don’t like it,” Mitchell finally said. “I don’t like being backed into a corner. We don’t know who we’re dealing with. For all we know, this is a

  gambit by the Islamic radicals themselves, or by Iran, to stop the Israelis from invading.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack, that doesn’t make sense and you know it,” the vice president suddenly countered. “Jack, think about it. Assume for a minute this offer and the intelligence the PLC is offering us is all legit. If Iran is really behind the assassinations of Arafat, Abu Mazen, and the Secretary of State, then it’s Iran that wants Israel to invade. That makes sense, doesn’t it? They know full well that an Israeli invasion would doom the peace process. And in our hearts, everyone in this room knows it, too. Look, I’ve been as big a supporter of a tough, strong Israel as anyone in this town for going on four decades. No one can accuse me of trying to undermine Israel’s security, and certainly not right now. I’m saying it’s in our interest, and in Israel’s, that Doron not go on offense right now, as much as he’d like to. But somebody has to, and it is my assessment, Mr. President, that such a task has now fallen to us.”

  The room was quiet. Vice President William Oaks commanded tremendous respect inside the MacPherson administration, and inside the leadership of both political parties. Everyone knew Checkmate was a man who carefully weighed every option, every action and reaction, and weighed his words carefully, as well. If he was now squarely siding with Bennett in advocating a U.S. military response, everyone knew he was likely to persuade the president.

  “Besides,” the vice president added, “think about it. Are we ever going to get a better deal than a man like Ibrahim Sa’id as the prime minister of Palestine? Mr. President, you’ve watched this guy pretty closely over the years. Jon and Erin know him personally. They’ve dealt with him for years. He’s been totally honest, aboveboard, critical of Arafat but no pie-in-the-sky idealist. Jack, your own team totally vetted Sa’id, declared him clean of all terrorist connections, for crying out loud. Mr. President, I know things are moving pretty fast. But I’ve got to tell you, my gut says this is a good deal and we’d better take it fast.”

  “And if it’s too good to be true?” asked Mitchell.

  “It’s not,” the VP replied. “But it will be in about seven minutes.”

  Marcus Jackson desperately wanted the story.

  It would make an incredible follow up to the “Point Man for Peace” profile he’d written about Jon Bennett a few days earlier, the one that ran in Sunday’s New York Times, front page, top of the fold. Jackson already had the

  headline: “Point Man Pinned Down as Gaza Erupts in Civil War.” But a headline alone wasn’t enough. He needed the whole story, the inside story. He needed the tick-tock, the play-by-play of the most riveting story in the world at the moment. The only way to get that was to make contact with Bennett, and thus far that was going nowhere.

  Bennett refused to cooperate. Jackson was sending him pages and e-mails on the hour for the past twenty-four hours. Yet Bennett wasn’t calling back, Jackson knew Bennett’s pager was new and top of the line. And he’d always been able to get him by e-mail, even at the military hospital in Germany twoweeks before. Bennett hadn’t really cooperated with him for the “point man” profile. He’d insisted that he was merely “a behind-the-scenes kinda guy and liked it that way.” He refused to say anything else, wouldn’t even let his picture be taken by a Times photographer. But at least he’d had the decency to return Jackson’s calls and explain, albeit briefly, why he was flat tered but unwilling to play ball. Now he was obviously stiff-arming Jackson, and Jackson was getting angry. Even repeated calls to Bennett’s mom had stuck out. No answer. No answering machine.

  Was Jon Bennett dead? Had he been killed in the initial attacks, or during a cross fire later that day? It was possible, of course, but it didn’t seem likely. The White House would confirm that, wouldn’t they? What reason would there be to hold back such information? It would come out eventually. Was Bennett severely injured? That, too, was possible. But again, White House press secretary Chuck Murray was being pretty forthcoming about U.S. ca sualty figures in the territories thus far. It didn’t make sense that he’d refuse to confirm or deny the whereabouts of Bennett and his team, unless … unless what? It didn’t make sense, and that made Jackson wonder all the more.

  There was a story here. He knew it. He could feel it. He just had to get it. A former Army Times correspondent who’d covered the Gulf War, then moved back to his hometown to work for the Denver Post, Jackson joined The New York Times less than ten days before James “Mac” MacPherson— a.k.a. Gambit—announced his campaign for the GOP nomination. From that point forward, Jackson practically lived with the MacPherson family for months on end during the primaries and the general campaign. He got to know the entire team, including Jon Bennett, with whom he got along rea sonably well, in part because both of them were closet Democrats. Now Bennett was a senior advisor to the president of the United States. Jackson was the chief White House correspondent for the country’s newspaper of record. And one way or the other, the latter was going to find the former.

  The president turned to Defense Secretary Burt Tr
ainor.

  “OK, let’s say the vice president is right. Let’s say we should take this deal and send in U.S. forces. Bottom line, Burt—can we do this?”

  “Send a strike force into the West Bank and Gaza to accomplish the PLC’s objectives—establish order and extract Sa’id, Bennett, and Bennett’s team?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We can, Mr. President, but it’ll be messy.”

  “How messy?”

  “Overnight, the Joint Chiefs did a crash update of a scenario we’d war gamed out a few years ago—before you got here, sir—when Secretary Powell was headed to Ramallah, and Hamas was threatening to blow up the peace process. Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Wolfowitz were concerned that Hamas might lash out at the Powell delegation, that an attack could unleash a civil war, and how could the U.S. respond if our people were pinned down inside the territories. It was a scenario not dissimilar to what we’ve got right now, but at that time it was solely an extraction mission—an NEO, we call them, a noncombatant evacuation operation—not orders to simultaneously hunt down terrorists and secure the peace. The Powell extraction scenario was Op Plan one-oh-nine-D. This is Op Plan one-oh-nine-E and one-oh-nine-F. We’ve code-named the first part, the rescue of Bennett and Sa’id and their team, Operation Briar Patch. The overall seizure and liberation plan and the name we would release to the media, with your approval, Mr. President, would be Operation Palestinian Freedom.”

  “Walk me through it, Burt—quickly,” urged the president.

  “Yes, sir. Basically, what we’d do is ask the Israelis to step up their operations along the Green Line, stir up a lot of radio traffic—lots of chatter in the media and elsewhere—all to appear as if the Israelis are about to invade. But this would simply be a diversion. While the rogue Palestinian forces begin redeploying their forces to stop fighting each other and prepare to stop an Israeli invasion, we’d send teams of army Rangers and Delta Force operators who are currently on the ground in the western desert of Iraq and send them eastward, over Jordan and Saudi Arabia, into the West Bank. We’ve got pretty good intel at this point on what’s happening on the ground, and the Israelis could secretly give us whatever else we need, if they’ll agree to hold back in the first place and let us go in. Delta and the Rangers would be backed up the one hundred sixtieth SOAR, the Special Operations Aviation Regiment also in the Iraqi theater at the moment, and several Air Force Special Ops Spectre Gunship Teams.”