"That was echoed by President Mubarak. He's in Cairo until this evening. He's supposed to fly to Geneva tonight for a U.N. conference. King Abdullah called from Jordan. He's in Amman, also supposed to go to Geneva, but said he's going to cancel his trip and monitor the situation. Like Doron, he's worried the fighting could spill over. Both he and Mubarak condemned the attacks and offered intelligence and medical assistance. But both of them also insisted in very strong terms that we keep the Israelis from going in. They said an Israeli invasion of the territories would cause irreparable harm to the peace process."
"What peace process?" asked the president.
"I know."
"Fine, anything else?"
"Just condolences from the rest of Europe, Asia, Latin America. Russian president Vadim wants to talk as soon as you've got a spare second."
"Set that up for my return. That, and a call to Doron."
"You got it. Oh, I also just got a call from Achmed Chalabi in Baghdad. He said the new interim government is going to hold its first official news conference tonight. They'll probably do it from one of Saddam's palaces. Anyway, as you and I talked about at Camp David on Saturday, the interim government is ready to declare itself open for business, announce its members, its mandate, and its structure, and ask for a continued coalition presence to help stabilize the security situation, get the oil flowing and begin to establish civilian control. They're also going to denounce these attacks in Gaza and call for an immediate Palestinian cease-fire."
"Really? That's a change."
"Hold on, Kirkpatrick is e-mailing me something — she says Bud Norris at Secret Service is worried about possible attacks inside the U.S., particularly Washington, in the next few days."
"Anything solid?"
"No, sir, just lots of chatter. But he's concerned about a possible larger operational concept at play here."
"What does he recommend?"
"Threat Level Orange."
"What does Lee think?" asked the president, referring to Secretary Lee Alexander James of the Department of Homeland Security.
"The e-mail says Secretary James is in full agreement, sir."
"Then do it," MacPherson said. "And put all U.S. forces at Threat Con dition Delta. The last thing we can afford is to get blindsided again."
He was known simply as Nadir, a.k.a. the Viper.
Mohammed Jibril had heard a great deal about the gaunt little man, all of five feet six inches tall. But the two had never met. Nor would they. It wouldn't be proper, much less safe. Jibril knew that Nadir was one of the most effective black ops specialists in all of Saddam's fedayeen forces, and one of the most fearsome killers on the face of the planet. He knew Nadir was thirty-nine, born just outside of Baghdad, the son of Palestinian refugees.
He also knew that Nadir had been personally trained by Daoud Juma as an expert in the use of C4 plastic explosives. That much he knew for sure.
What he did not know — what Jibril wanted to know but couldn't seem to find out — was how the Viper had escaped detection, much less arrest, for so long. Practically speaking, of course, it didn't really matter. But it would be nice to know his secrets.
If he was only a fraction as good as Jibril's sources said he was, the Viper would be well worth the $150,000 in U.S. currency just wired to his father's Swiss bank account. He'd better be.
Nadir stared out the window of the Air France Boeing 777. Inbound to Mexico City from Berlin, after a transfer in Paris, he'd already been traveling for more than thirteen hours. It was dark and early and he was exhausted. But at 35,000 feet over the Caribbean, he found himself restless and unable to sleep. Soon he'd be on the ground, he'd secure a rental car, and stay for night. He'd figure out how best to cross into the U.S. and reach his strike point on time. Theoretically, it couldn't be simpler, and in a few days it would all be over.
Air Force One landed amidst airtight security.
Three F-15s circled overhead. Humvees blocked each base entrance. Sol diers patrolled the perimeter. Bomb-sniffing dogs worked their way through the hangars and administrative buildings as Secret Service sharpshooters, SWAT teams, and surveillance teams kept a watchful eye over the tarmac and the woods nearby. News crews were asked not to broadcast the arrival live, though they were allowed to videotape the landing.
Surrounded by a phalanx of Secret Service agents, "Gambit" — the Secret Service code name for James MacPherson — soon boarded Marine One. Still recovering from the terrorist attack that had nearly taken his life less than a month before, the president was confined to a wheelchair. He'd quickly grown tired of it, but remained too fragile to do without it. Special Agent Jackie Sanchez directed her team to lift Gambit and his wheelchair and slide him into place through the side door of the gleaming green-and-white mil tary helicopter and make sure he was secure. With the president was Press Secretary Chuck Murray, Defense Secretary Burt Trainor, and "Football," the military aide carrying the nuclear launch codes.
The short hop from Andrews to the South Lawn of the White House would only take a few minutes, but it would be bumpy. The weather was rapidly worsening, and having just read the latest forecast from the National Weather Service, Sanchez was anxious. An ice storm was descending from the Northeast. In New York and New Jersey, temperatures were plunging into the teens and could drop to single digits overnight. Ice and snow were making airports and roads treacherous. Across the mid-Atlantic, temperatures were hovering just around the freezing mark, but were expected to drop precipitously overnight. For now, a nasty freezing rain was battering much of the coast, beginning in Delaware and extending as far south as Richmond. Road crews were already spreading salt and sands on the roads to keep them open, and Virginia Power was bracing for falling limbs, downed lines, and possible blackouts.
It was time to get Gambit out of harm's way.
"Prairie Ranch, this is Snapshot."
Bennett revved the engine again.
"Go ahead, Snapshot," Kirkpatrick responded.
Bennett watched McCoy reach down on the floor by her feet to pick up her Uzi and check its clip. It was full. She clicked off the safety and set the submachine gun on her lap. Then she reached under the seat and pulled out a spare Uzi, double-checked the clip, and handed it to Bennett.
"Prairie Ranch, we've got a dark brown VW bus approaching at twelve o'clock," McCoy radioed to the Situation Room. "Can you see that from your angle?"
"Roger that, Snapshot," said Kirkpatrick. "It's the Batmobile. "
Bennett looked at McCoy but said nothing. The Bat Cave? The Batmobile? Maybe it all seemed clever to Kirkpatrick and her world, but Bennett was in no mood for kiddy code names and James Bond wannabees. For her part, McCoy couldn't care less what Bennett thought at the moment. She'd done her job. She'd kept him safe this far. And she was glad for backup, whatever it was called.
She turned away from Bennett and looked back ai Galishnikov and Sa'id.
"Saddle up, gentlemen. Our ride is here."
A few minutes later, the driver knocked on Bennett's window with the butt of a loaded pistol. He was young, twenty-five-ish, clean-shaven, muscular, and wearing jeans, dirty white sneakers and a Bir Zeit University sweatshirt. He was soaked to the bone in the torrential downpour that still refused to let up. His dark face and eyes were suddenly illuminated by several intense flashes of lightning, and more thunder boomed overhead. He and McCoy talked in Arabic. The only thing Bennett caught for sure was the driver's name — Tariq — and a palpable sense of urgency.