When Sean married Janet, the executive assistant to the Secretary of the Navy, MacPherson was the best man. When little Erin was born, he and Julie were at the hospital with flowers. When Sean was killed, it was MacPherson who'd given the eulogy. When Janet died of ovarian cancer in '91, he'd done so again. Now, as he put his head down and clenched his fists, he prayed to God he wouldn't have to do so for Erin, their only child.
And Bennett? He was the son the MacPhersons never had. He was a little too old for the MacPherson twins — they were half his age — and that was too bad. But it felt like he'd been part of their family forever.
Bennett was an only child, and his parents were always traveling. He rarely spent holidays with them and almost seemed without a family. So the MacPhersons took him under their wing, inviting him to birthday parties and cookouts and Christmas and political conventions. The girls loved him. Julie loved him. And why wouldn't they? Bennett always seemed to have time for them. Or to make time. He brought them gifts, helped the girls with their homework. He teased them about their latest boyfriends, and always enjoyed playing basketball or volleyball. His favorite, of course, was Monopoly night, with pizza and popcorn and root beer floats. Every fourth Friday, for years, it had been a family tradition, until the MacPhersons moved into the White House and everything changed.
Bennett's first real job after Harvard was as MacPherson's personal assistant. Along the way, he developed great sources and great instincts. His Rolodex was a who's who of the wealthiest people on earth, and their personal secretaries, assistants, drivers, and caddies. He ran his network of corporate spooks with the zeal of the KGB. And he'd made MacPherson a very wealthy man.
It was Bennett who'd insisted in 1998 that the tech-averse MacPherson take a major position in America Online at $7 a share. AOL had just shot past 15 million subscribers and was gobbling up CompuServe and ICQ, pioneers of instant messaging. Bennett's sources told him this was just the beginning.
At first, MacPherson resisted. He worried AOL was just a fad. CEO Steve Case was a new kid on the block. You 've got mail? What kind of slogan was that? But Bennett practically begged him to take the company seriously. Then the stock shot past $10 a share. Suddenly MacPherson was ready to get in the game and play big. The Joshua Fund scooped up 50 million shares at an average of $ 11.47 a share.
Bennett was terrified. It was one thing to work your sources, trust your gut and make a recommendation. It was another thing for your boss to place a half-billion-dollar bet on your advice. What if he was wrong? What if the stock sunk like a rock and his job with it? Bennett became a man obsessed. He made it his mission in life to know every detail he possibly could about AOL, Steve Case, and anyone and everyone connected in any way, shape, or form with the company.
In the spring of 2000, AOL's stock hit a high of $72 a share, giving the Joshua Fund a pretax profit of over 3 billion dollars. MacPherson wanted to bolt. Bennett said no. They were just getting started. Then the tech crash began. AOL stock plunged to $47 a share in just a few months. MacPherson was furious. He prepared to dump all of the Joshua Fund's AOL holdings, but Bennett urged him to hang on for a little while longer. They were still $36 above their purchase price. AOL was still acquiring good companies at bargain prices. They'd just nabbed Map Quest. They were launching new divisions in Argentina and Mexico. ICQ had just hit 85 million members.
Bennett was onto something hot. His sources were telling him Steve Case was plotting to take over media giant Time Warner. The news hadn't yet broken publicly. But it would soon and the stock would skyrocket. MacPherson wasn't so sure. Time Warner was a strong company, but the whole market was overpriced. The Fed was trying to burst the bubble, and the Joshua Fund couldn't afford a massive loss. True, Bennett argued, but why not let the AOL-Time Warner merger news begin to leak and then see what happened? If the stock began to drop, they could dump it all. If it rose, they couid hold on a bit longer, tlien cash out and take the whole company to the Bahamas, all expenses paid.
MacPherson had to smile. He liked this kid's moxie. Fine, he said, let it ride for a little while longer, but under no circumstances could they let the pice drop under $40 a share. Deal? Deal, Bennett agreed. And the merger news leaked.
By Christmas of 2000, AOL stock hit $74 a share. When it slipped to $72, Bennett and his team began selling off. When it was all over, the Joshua Fund had sold 50 million shares at an average of $70 each, scoring a pretax profit of just under 3 billion dollars. A pretty nifty chunk of change, MacPherson had to admit. And he had Jon Bennett to thank for it. And he did.
MacPherson promoted Bennett to senior VP. He named Bennett chief investment strategist. He put him in charge of a staff of more than a hundred, And he asked him to begin helping him on an entirely new project— MacPherson's bid to enter elective politics. Sure, he was a Republican and Bennett wasn't. But so what? Bennett was a Kennedy Democrat — Jack, not Ted — and MacPherson could live with that. It was a match made in heaven.
Quietly, under the radar, Bennett recruited a few friends to form Dem ocrats for MacPherson — first for MacPherson's gubernatorial campaigns, then again for the run for the White House. From the Iowa caucuses through the convention and right up to the inauguration, Bennett was there for MacPherson every step of the way. He did so enthusiastically, without pay, without expecting anything in return. He'd never asked to join the admin istration. He'd never wanted a fancy-sounding Washington title. Bennett didn't care about politics. He wanted to make money — lots of it. And why shouldn't he? He was good at it.
The president had no doubt that Bennett would have been on the Forbes 4OO list in the next five years. But events had conspired against him. Sud denly — inexplicably — everything was different. History was taking a turn for the worse. Jon Bennett's destiny was being recast. MacPherson had asked him to give up everything to serve "at the pleasure of the president," to figure out a way to nail down a deal between the Israelis and Palestinians, a deal that now seemed impossible to achieve. And the kid said yes. As a personal favor for his onetime boss and mentor, Bennett had walked away from staggering wealth, and his dreams. And now MacPherson second-guessed himself. Had he really given Bennett the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance to be part of history — or had he just handed him a death sentence?
SIX
'We don't stop for anything or anyone — is that clear?"
Bennett's voice was icy cold.
"I don't care what happens. We keep moving until we're out of the hot rone. No exceptions. We stop, we die — you got it?"
Banacci gunned the engine. He didn't like taking orders from this guy. But he couldn't argue with the logic. Bennett was right, and every DSS agent listening knew it.
Jagged streaks of lightning flashed across the sky and it began to rain, slowly at first, then harder and harder. The storm was picking up steam. They needed to move quickly. Bennett flipped on his headlights and cranked up the windshield wipers to the fastest speed. Then he turned to McCoy and nodded.
"You ready?" he asked, as gunfire exploded all around them.
"Let's do it," she said confidently.
The lead black Chevy Suburban — Halfback, riddled with three or four dozen bullet holes and driven by DSS agent Kyi Lake — peeled out in front of Snapshot, blue-and-red lights flashing, sirens blazing. Bennett jammed the limo into drive and peeled out with him. Special Agent in Charge Max Banacci's Suburban brought up the rear as a colleague unlocked a black leather legal briefcase filled with classified contingency plans and maps marked with multiple escape routes and extraction points.