The Copper Scroll

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Look around you. Have you not noticed that even with oil at over two hundred dollars a barrel, our treasuries are all but empty? Have you not seen that OPEC essentially lies in ruins? And while we bicker over trivialities, our real enemy is rapidly becoming a global superpower. If we do not join forces and get our oil and gas industries back on line, we will be ceding the entire playing field to the true and ultimate enemy of our people. Wake up, brothers. Medexco now controls the flow of oil to the world and has suddenly become the wealthiest company on earth. President Al-Hassani is not the enemy. Iraq is not the enemy. The Jews are our real enemy.”

  The man from Isfahan sat down. The Syrian, an elderly man in his late seventies, asked Al-Hassani if he could make a few more points.

  “By all means,” said the Iraqi president, privately wondering if Khalid Tariq, his chief political advisor, had coached this man in advance.

  “You are most kind, Your Excellency,” said the Syrian. “My brothers, please, consider what the Europeans have done. They fought two world wars. They massacred tens of millions of their neighbors. Fifty years ago, no one in their right mind could ever have imagined the emergence of the European Union. Had someone predicted the rise of a common market, a common currency, a central government in Brussels, a unified foreign policy, or any of the rest of it, he would have been committed to an insane asylum.”

  He pulled a single euro coin from his pocket and tossed it into the center of the enormous conference table. “But there it is. The euro is crushing the dollar, the yen, and every other currency in the world. Don’t you see it? It’s a symbol that nothing is impossible if men of goodwill come together and unite under one banner, for one cause. Open your eyes, my brothers. Europe is rising. She is triumphing. Why? Because she has unified. She is competing with the Americans and she’s winning—not divided, but together. We are witnessing the rebirth of the Roman Empire, and if we are not careful, we will be eaten alive.”

  The Syrian paused and looked around the room. “Which leaves us where?” he asked. “Divided, confused, bickering, feuding, and thus consigned to the ash heap of history? Is that what you want for your children and your children’s children? Are you really so blind, so young, and so foolish as to miss the fact that what President Al-Hassani has just laid out for us is not only a brilliant vision of what our future could be, it is in fact our only hope?”

  * * *

  “Ken, it’s Marsha Kirkpatrick. Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “No problem,” Ken Costello lied. He was just back from a marathon few days at the White House and now coming down with a fever. “What’s up?”

  “I know you and Tracy are close to Eli Mordechai,” Kirkpatrick said.

  “Sure,” said Costello. “We just saw him Saturday at Jon and Erin’s wedding. Why?”

  “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  * * *

  A different Iranian CEO rose to speak.

  He was thirty-three and had been educated in the U.S. “I must say I agree with my brother from Damascus. Together, we could be a very powerful force, and it is not as though we have a lot of options on our own. The fact is, we need to raise reconstruction capital from somewhere, and President Al-Hassani is right. We can either join forces with him, or we can beg on our knees from our competitors—the Americans and the Europeans. I say we work together. We could create a new OPEC, a force the rest of the world would have to fear and respect. But, that said, Mr. President, we must have certain guarantees.”

  Every eye turned to Al-Hassani.

  “Guarantees?” the elderly Iraqi leader asked, a glint in his eyes.

  “Yes,” said the young Iranian. “For one thing, everyone in this room must have real governing authority in our regions—the power to legislate, the power to tax, and so forth, like American governors and legislatures have over their states.”

  “Of course,” said Al-Hassani. “It goes without question. I am proposing a republic, not a dictatorship.”

  “Good,” said the Iranian. “And we would all need to share equally in the oil and gas profits, which will eventually be enormous.”

  “I don’t see how this new republic could work any other way,” Al-Hassani agreed.

  “We would also need to create a national governing body,” the Iranian continued, “a legislature with equal say in the decisions that are made over the currency, the tax laws, budgetary decisions, and so forth, like the American Senate.”

  “God help us,” said Al-Hassani, to a round of laughter. “We will have to come up with something better than that.”

  “Fair enough,” the Iranian conceded. “But that’s not all. We will have to get the Egyptians and Jordanians involved, and the Moroccans, too. We could do all this without them, but it would be far better with them.”

  “I have already dispatched my foreign minister to Cairo and Amman. And I will speak with the Moroccan king by phone in the morning.”

  “We will need a way to keep the Europeans and Americans from feeling threatened by any of this,” warned the Syrian.

  Al-Hassani nodded. “The E.U. foreign minister is coming to Babylon this week,” he noted. “Salvador Lucente and I worked very closely together during the reconstruction of Iraq. We have a good working relationship. I expect some very productive talks.”

  “Excellent,” said the Iranian. “But there is one more thing.”

  “That’s quite a shopping list already,” Al-Hassani quipped.

  His guests laughed.

  The Iranian smiled and continued. “I am looking for a promise.”

  “What kind of promise?” asked Al-Hassani.

  “I want your personal assurance that you will do everything in your power to stop the Jews from becoming a superpower.”

  “Isn’t that, in part, what this whole discussion is about?” asked the Iraqi leader.

  “No,” said the Iranian. “It is not enough that we become a major economic and political force. You must prevent the Israelis from becoming an equal or greater force.”

  “And just how do you propose I do that?”

  “To begin with, you must stop the Jews from building their Temple.”

  Al-Hassani looked around the room. Everyone was nodding.

  “Personally,” said the Iranian, “I was never that religious. But the Temple is a symbol. If the Jews rebuild it on the site of the Dome of the Rock, it will be a symbol of their power and our impotence.”

  “Yes,” said the Syrian, “you must stop the Jews.”

  “The Jews must never be allowed back onto the Temple Mount,” said another.

  “Let me remind you all that we haven’t much time,” Al-Hassani warned. “The faster we unify into a single legal and political entity, the sooner we can request a seat on the U.N. Security Council. The sooner we can ask to become a member of the G8 conference of industrialized countries. The sooner we can begin coordinating international relief efforts and maximizing the resources being offered to us. But if we hesitate or demand more than we can achieve, we could lose everything.”

  At that point the Saudi prince stepped back into the fray. “I, for one, am ready to sign on to your plan right now, Your Excellency,” he declared. “But my brother from Iran is right. We must first have written guarantees on each of the points we’ve discussed here today and your personal oath that the Jews will never be allowed to build their so-called Temple in the holy city of Al Quds.”

  Al-Hassani tried not to smile. Everything was going just as he had planned, and he knew something the others did not. He had already set in motion plans to stop the Jews in their tracks. Operation Black Box was well under way.

  13

  MONDAY, JANUARY 12 – 11:53 p.m. – RONDA, SPAIN

  The Bennetts finished a late dinner and strolled back to their hotel.

  It was almost midnight when they picked up their keys from the front desk and found a message from Ken Costello waiting for them, marked “Urgent.”

  At first, Be
nnett was shocked simply by the presence of any message. Nobody was supposed to know where they were. Not the president and First Lady. Not even his mother. How could Ken have known? But then came the more important question: what could be so urgent as to interrupt them on their honeymoon?

  “Are you going to call him back?” Erin asked as they got on the elevator.

  “We had a pact, remember?”

  “I know, but what if it’s personal?” said Erin. “The only way Ken could have tracked us down is through the travel agency, and if he went to all that trouble, it must be important. What if something’s wrong with your mom?”

  Bennett winced. His mother had a long history of heart trouble. At the wedding, friends had remarked that they hadn’t seen her so relaxed and so peaceful in years, but Erin was right. Anything was possible. So as soon as they got back to their room, he placed the call while Erin stepped into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

  “White House operator. May I help you?”

  “Yeah, hi, this is Jon Bennett. I got a message that Ken—”

  “Yes, Mr. Bennett. The president is expecting your call. Please hold and I will put you right through.”

  The president? It had to be a mistake.

  “No, I—”

  But the call had already gone through.

  “Situation Room, Marsha Kirkpatrick.”

  It had been months since he had heard the national security advisor’s voice.

  “Marsha, it’s Jon Bennett. I’m just trying to return Ken Costello’s call, but—”

  “I know. I am sitting here with the president. Ken’s here too. So are Corsetti and Chuck Murray. Hold on. The president would like to speak with you first.”

  Before Bennett could react, MacPherson was on the line. His voice was unusually subdued. Something was wrong.

  “Jon, I’m so sorry to interrupt your honeymoon, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped.”

  “I’m always happy to take a call from you, Mr. President.”

  “Jon, it’s Mordechai. He’s been attacked.”

  Bennett couldn’t breathe.

  “He’s alive,” MacPherson continued, “but probably not for long. The doctors believe it’s only a matter of time. He’s unconscious and barely hanging on. He’s been shot at least a dozen times, and he’s got third-degree burns over most of his body.”

  The president further explained that Mordechai was currently in emergency surgery and had been for the last few hours, but he was not expected to make it beyond the next few hours or days.

  Bennett couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t know how to respond.

  “Jon,” MacPherson continued, “I don’t have to tell you how involved Dr. Mordechai was as a back channel between the Israelis and the Palestinians. And as you know, under the radar he’s also been instrumental in building ties between the Israelis and the Iraqis. I’ve just gotten off the phone with Prime Minister Doron, and given all the uncertainty in the region right now, we both agree we need to be very careful not to allow the peace process, fragile as it is, to become derailed once again. That said, I’ve asked Ken to head to Israel immediately. He lifts off from Andrews Air Force Base within the hour. He’ll be meeting with Prime Minister Doron and the new Palestinian leadership to take everyone’s temperature and see if we can get final status talks moving forward again. If you’d like, I can have Ken pick you and Erin up on the way and take you over there. I don’t know if you can make it in time, but . . . well, it’s up to you.”

  Jon was numb, but he thanked the president and accepted his gracious offer, then discussed the details with Ken. Just as he hung up, Erin stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Is it your mom?” Erin asked, seeing the pain in his eyes. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Jon said flatly. “It wasn’t that.”

  “Then what?”

  He took her in his arms and held her tight.

  * * *

  The next morning, they stood on the tarmac in Málaga.

  Costello stepped off the plane and embraced them both, then welcomed them back on board the same State Department Gulfstream V that had practically been their home during their years of shuttle diplomacy.

  “What’s the latest, Ken?” Bennett asked as they lifted off.

  Costello hesitated.

  “Is he still alive?” asked Erin.

  “Barely,” Costello admitted. “One of the bullets nearly severed his spinal cord. His doctors say his pelvis, right arm, and shoulder were shattered when his car went off the road, and he lost most of his blood before medical teams were able to get to him. To be honest, it’s a miracle he made it through the night.”

  The G5 touched down in Israel just after 4 p.m. local time. Costello and the Bennetts were met at the airport by Mossad chief Avi Zadok, who briefed them on the way to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.

  “We don’t have many leads at the moment,” Zadok said, “but we have two working theories. The first is that the assassination attempt was an act of Muslim retribution for Dr. Mordechai’s ‘Ezekiel Option’ memo. The second is that the attack could have been carried out by ultra-Orthodox Jews because of Dr. Mordechai’s public claims about Jesus.”

  Privately, Bennett wished there were evidence of Islamic extremism. But the truth was, most of the region’s Muslim community was mourning its dead and was shell-shocked by the extraordinary losses of its holiest sites. To him, it strained credibility to believe active cells of jihadists were capable of a carefully orchestrated attack so quickly after such devastation. More likely was the Jewish angle. Israeli outrage at Mordechai’s “betrayal” was widespread among the Orthodox, heated, and very public.

  Zadok showed them copies of written death threats—letters and e-mails—that Mordechai had received in recent weeks. Even letters to the editor of major Israeli newspapers and callers on local radio shows had been warning Mordechai to watch his back.

  But then another wave of questions flooded Bennett’s thoughts. How exactly was it possible to gun down a former Mossad chief inside Israel? True, Mordechai had given up his full taxpayer-financed security detail. But that was because the Mossad and Shin Bet had told him all the threats were just talk, that he really had nothing to fear. They had assured him that they would keep an eye on him. Zadok had personally chosen Mordechai’s driver, a former special-forces commando, and insisted he carry a sidearm and be with Mordechai at all times.

  How, then, could this have happened? Was it possible someone in Doron’s inner circle wanted Mordechai dead?

  14

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 13 – 5:17 p.m. – JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  They found Mordechai under heavy sedation.

  According to his doctors, he was barely hanging on for his life. Bennett stared at his mentor through a glass window and silently pled with God to spare him.

  All of a sudden a dozen security agents began taking up positions throughout the hallway. Bennett turned and looked at Erin and then at the elevator as the door opened and the prime minister and two of his top aides stepped off.

  “It’s good to see you both,” David Doron said as he shook their hands. “I’m sorry it’s under such tragic circumstances. I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to bring the monsters that did this to justice.”

  The Bennetts thanked the prime minister, as did Costello.

  “It can’t be doing you any political good to be here right now,” Bennett acknowledged.

  “I don’t care,” said Doron. “He was my friend, no matter how much we disagreed.”

  A doctor stepped into the hall. He was startled to see the prime minister but addressed the Bennetts. “He just opened his eyes, and he asked for you. But he doesn’t have long. Did you bring a rabbi—er, a priest?”

  They had brought neither and didn’t know any pastors in Israel. “I’m afraid we just got here from the airport,” said Bennett.

  “Very well,” said the doctor. “You can have a few minutes with him. Follow me.”


  The Bennetts entered the dimly lit ICU room. They were immediately overwhelmed by the array of technology keeping their friend tethered to this world, and they were completely unprepared for the visual impact of Mordechai’s broken body. His body was wrapped in gauze and bandages, as were his hands and feet, but it was his charred and blistered face that made Bennett wince and, for a moment, look away.

  When he regained his composure, he looked back and saw casts on both of Mordechai’s arms and legs and the tangled spaghetti of tubes and wires running in and out of his body. He scanned the various instruments, glowing and beeping in the dark. Mordechai’s pulse and blood pressure were weak.

  Bennett gathered his strength and said, “Dr. Mordechai, it’s Jon and Erin.”

  Slowly, the old man opened his eyes. A nurse gave him some ice chips, and Bennett noticed that his lips were about the only part of his face not severely burned. But they were chapped and cracked and covered with dried blood.

  It took a few moments, but in a raspy, faltering voice, Mordechai said his first words. “I’m sorry.”

  Bennett noticed tears trickling down Erin’s cheeks. He fought back his own.

  Then Mordechai spoke again. “I should have liked more time with you both.”

  “Hey, hey, don’t talk like that,” said Erin. “We’ll have plenty of time together. You still need to teach us how to make that curry of yours.”

  “Erin sent an e-mail to everyone on your list serve, explaining what happened,” Bennett added. “She posted it on your weblog as well. The response has been overwhelming. Millions are praying for you to recover, Dr. Mordechai, and I have no doubt you will.”

  A faint smile began to form on the old man’s lips, and crinkles formed around his bloodshot eyes. “Jonathan, my son, you’re a good boy, but you still have much to learn. . . . I’m afraid I no longer have the privilege of being your teacher.”