“Then, Jonathan, please repeat after me,” said the pastor. “With this ring… ”
“With this ring… ”
“… I thee wed.”
“… I thee wed.”
Bennett slipped a simple gold band beside the diamond engagement ring he’d given her on the tenth-floor outdoor restaurant of the Ararat Park Hyatt Hotel, overlooking Red Square and the Kremlin, almost six months before.
“Now, Erin, please repeat after me. With this ring… ”
“With this ring… ”
“… I thee wed.”
“… I thee wed.”
With that she slipped a thick, 14-carat-gold wedding ring on Jon’s left ring finger, squeezed his hands gently, and stared into his watering eyes.
“Very well,” said the pastor, with an air of finality. “Then by the authority vested in me by the Commonwealth of Virginia — and far more importantly, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit — I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The room erupted with applause.
“Jonathan, you may kiss your bride.”
It had been a long time coming, and he took his time. He kissed Erin for what seemed an eternity. Someone’s pager began to go off, then another, and a third.
In that fraction of a second Bennett knew instinctively that another nightmare was beginning to unfold.
4
Bob Corsetti was the first to bolt.
The White House chief of staff and his Secret Service detail quickly slipped out of the last pew, jumped in a waiting sedan, and sped off, presumably back to the Situation Room.
Ken Costello was right behind him. No longer undersecretary of state for political affairs, Costello, an old friend, now had Bennett’s old job — and his old office — serving as senior advisor to the president and coordinating all U.S. emergency assistance and humanitarian aid to the countries affected by the devastation.
When Indira Rajiv left too, Bennett knew this one was bad. Rajiv was Erin’s closet friend at the CIA. Erin had recruited her, trained her, and recommended her numerous promotions. Now, as director of the NAMESTAN desk, Rajiv was responsible for tracking all terrorist groups operating in and out of North Africa, the Middle East, and the “stans” of Central Asia. The only reason she’d be leaving Erin’s wedding so abruptly would be if terrorists had struck again.
As the receiving line began, Dr. Mordechai pulled Jon and Erin aside.
“There’s been an attack near the White House,” he explained.
Erin gasped. “Where?”
“The Willard,” said Mordechai. “It seems to have been a truck bomb or a suicide bomber. There are conflicting reports. But casualties are mounting, and my sources say the Secret Service is concerned about additional attacks. The police are sealing off the city. The airports are shut down.”
“What about the president?” asked Bennett.
“He’s safe,” Mordechai assured them. “But it was a close call. He was at the JW Marriott at the time, giving a speech. But they’ve got him back at the White House now. The VP is safe as well. They’ve airlifted him to Camp David. Lee James is going to hold a press conference soon. That’s all I’ve got for now.”
Bennett asked him to make an announcement to let everyone know what was happening. In the meantime, he pulled Erin into the coatroom for a moment to gather their thoughts. All that remained was a private, secluded, candlelit meal with family members and close friends before they would finally have some time for themselves. But he could see the tension in Erin’s eyes.
“You okay?” Bennett asked when they were alone.
“We need to do something,” she replied. “I need to do something.”
“I know,” said Bennett as he took her hands in his and looked her in the eye. His new bride wasn’t wired to sit back and watch events happen. She’d been trained to take action, and Bennett was certain every instinct in her body told her to race back to Langley and see if there was anything she could do to help. And he had no doubt they’d take her back in a heartbeat, even if it was her wedding day. “But it’s not up to us anymore. We did our jobs. Now we need to let everyone else do theirs.”
He could see the struggle in her soul as she tried to figure out their next move.
“We should at least call off the dinner,” she said at last. “It’s not a time to celebrate.”
“Well, no,” he said gently, “but we can’t just send people home. Half of them are from out of town, some from out of the country. D.C. is shut down. They won’t be able to get back to their hotels for a while.”
“So what are you saying?” asked Erin, her eyes searching his for guidance.
“I’m saying we go forward. We have the dinner. We make it low-key, but we let people just be together, until it becomes clear what’s going to happen next.”
Twenty minutes later they pulled into The Inn at Little Washington, where Erin wiped the tears from her eyes, fixed her mascara, and tried to pull herself together. They had been listening to special coverage of the unfolding crisis during the drive over from the church. The more they learned, the more clear it became to them both that a new threat had just been unleashed. But for now they had guests waiting for them, and neither of them wanted to look gloomy on a day like today.
The newlyweds entered to an ovation they did not expect.
It was heartfelt and emotional, and Erin suddenly realized how much this small group of friends and family wanted to be together — and especially with them — at this moment of crisis.
Greeting them first with an enormous bear hug was Dmitri Galishnikov, founder and CEO of the Medexco oil empire and now number three on the Forbes list of the world’s richest people. His beautiful wife, Katya, showered them with kisses. At their side was the widow of Ibrahim Sa’id, the assassinated prime minister of the Palestinian Authority, along with her sons, embracing the newlyweds with a warmth and a tenderness that came from deep in their hearts.
“You both have done so much for us all,” Dmitri said in his thick, raspy Russian accent. “And we love you for it.”
Erin felt herself choke up as she thanked them for coming so far to be with them. They had been through so much joy and sorrow together, and it felt good to have them there. She turned and winked at Jon, proud of his instincts and grateful to be his wife.
Nadia Mehrvash came up and gave Erin a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Erin couldn’t believe it was really her. She had asked Mordechai to track Nadia down and invite her to come. She and Jon had even offered to pay her way. But she had never heard if Nadia was really going to make it. And yet here she was, all the way from Iran, and Erin held her close.
Nadia was still in mourning, of course, for her husband, Hamid, who had died helping Jon sneak into Russia to rescue Erin. She was in mourning too for the baby she had miscarried in an Iranian prison camp just before the firestorm had set her free. But she was a woman of remarkable faith and resilience, and Erin was so happy to see her.
“I’m so sorry,” Erin whispered, “for all you’ve been through.”
“It is an honor to suffer for His name,” Nadia whispered back. “I’m just sorry Hamid didn’t get the chance to meet you.”
“We will see him soon enough,” Erin replied, and the two hugged again.
Just after dinner, Eli Mordechai cleared his throat.
The graying, bespectacled, eighty-four-year-old former Mossad chief — who vaguely resembled Anthony Hopkins but sounded more like Sean Connery playing Marko Ramius in The Hunt for Red October—had news, and it was not good.