The Last Days (18 page)

It wasn't a date. Not exactly. He hadn't described it that way when he'd asked if they could go together. Each of them was going anyway. It was a command performance, of sorts. And though Bennett wasn't much for staff parties of any kind, this one might actually be fun, all the more if the two of them were going together. And now they were. He poked around the gift shop, flipped through some newsmagazines, bought some Rolaids and popped two in his mouth. An elevator bell rang. He turned as the doors opened, and saw her coming around the corner.

Bennett had never seen Erin McCoy look as beautiful as she did that night—a simple yet elegant black dress, black shoulder wrap, and black pumps, accented by pearl earrings and a gorgeous string of pearls around her neck. A few minutes later, they were flashing their new White House badges to the uniformed Secret Service officer manning the bulletproof guard booth at the Northwest Gate and pulling into Bennett's exclusive new parking spot on West Executive Avenue.

“Follow me,” she'd insisted, and led them around to the center of the North Lawn.

For a few minutes, neither of them said a word. They simply stood there, looking up at the White House that somehow seemed to glow in the cold night air. Every window was adorned by a Christmas wreath and white candles and a huge pine wreath hung over the door. And from somewhere deep inside the White House, Bennett could hear singing.

 

In time, the movement would grow.

So, too, would Akiva Ben David's resolve. People were reading his e-mails. They were being stirred by the case he was making, however obliquely. They were responding with passion and determination. They were offering their time, talent, and treasure to help force the hand of history. Was this not a sign that he should stop cogitating, stop agitating, and start activating a team that would help him accomplish their movement's unstated but clearly understood mission?

Eight months earlier, during their family's private Passover meal, Ben David concluded the seder with these words, “Next year, in the Temple.”

Why? He hadn't meant to say it. It had simply come from his heart, and suddenly he and his wife, Dalia, were electrified.

Something cosmic had just happened. Something supernatural.

They put the kids to bed, quickly finished the dishes, then retreated to his study to begin plotting their strategy. Money was something of which they suddenly had more than enough. They still couldn't believe it. But they were grateful and took it as a confirmation that they were on the right track. What they needed were allies, or, perhaps more precisely, coconspirators. That wasn't going to be easy.

They certainly couldn't send out an e-mail asking for volunteers to risk a holy war with the Muslims for the sake of recapturing the initiative of Jewish history. Nor was it something for which they could simply put a full-page ad in the
New York Times
or
Jerusalem Post:
“Help Wanted—Carpe Diem—Come Rebuild the Temple.” Identifying help would be tough. There were no two ways about it. Establishing contact with volunteers would be difficult, too. Where would they meet? Where would they train? How could they keep a low enough profile not to be noticed by Israeli intelligence or by the Palestinians?

Even now, eight months later, Ben David and his Dalia could remember how they felt. With their hearts racing, they sifted through thousands of e-mails they'd received, looking for people willing and able to help them. Secrecy, they'd decided right there and then, would have to be their highest priority. What they were considering could get them imprisoned for life, if not shot and killed. But they felt compelled to move forward, as if unseen forces were pushing them over the edge. They had no doubt they could find kindred spirits. Nor did they have any doubt they could accomplish the dream taking shape in their hearts. And now, here they were. Somehow, it had all gone so much faster than they'd ever expected. They were ready. The zero hour was almost here.

Let history begin.

Outside it was growing dark and windy.

Inside the Oval Office it was crackling with Christmas spirit and flowing with a few alcoholic spirits as well. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace. A statuesque, nine-foot and beautifully decorated blue spruce twinkled with lights and White House Christmas ornaments from each of the past fifty years or so. The sounds of old carols and hymns wafted gently through the West Wing. But there was no more time to listen. It was time to depart for their traditional trek to the National Cathedral for a candlelight and communion Christmas Eve service, and the president didn't want to be late.

Bennett felt a twinge of guilt for not having invited his mom up to Washington 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 depression. 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 always 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 relentless 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 president's thoughts churning.

“I don't know exactly,” MacPherson responded. “I'm just sitting here replaying 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 to give 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.”

“And the alternative is what, exactly? A couple of U.N. resolutions? Sending 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 government, 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.”