“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
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, Bennett 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.”