Bennett agreed to take Ziegler's case under consideration. But he needed to change for a videoconference with the president. Everything else would have to wait.
The president moved into the Situation Room and took the call.
Israeli prime minister David Doron was on a secure line from Jerusalem. He knew the president was busy. He just wanted to reinforce what he'd said to the vice president: express his condolences and offer his full cooperation for whatever steps the president might be contemplating next.
The situation on the ground was worsening. Various security forces loyal to Arafat and Abu Mazen were on the move, beginning to engage pockets of Islamic militants in fierce gun battles. The president explained he was about to meet with his National Security Council. He also explained the diplomatic pressure that was building from various Arab and European countries to keep the Israelis out of the crisis. He asked Doron to hold off on any military options at least until the NSC concluded its meeting. The two agreed to talk again in a few hours.
Next came a call from Russian president Grigoriy Vadim.
An NSC staffer provided simultaneous translation from Russian to English and then back again. Vadim was also calling to offer his condolences for the tragic turn of events in Gaza. He, too, pledged his government's help in any practical way possible. But then he, too, went a step further. As a member of the "Quartet" — the self-appointed guardians of the Arab-Israeli peace pro cess made up of the United Nations, the European Union, the United States, and Russia — Vadim urged the president not to let the peace process be derailed by this act of savagery. Too much was at stake, especially after the U.S. actions in Iraq, which they both knew all too well had caused no small degree of strain between Moscow and Washington. MacPherson was noncommittal, but promised to keep in touch with the Kremlin throughout the crisis.
Tariq now led Bennett and McCoy down a hallway.
He unlocked Ziegler's private quarters, and showed them inside. There were no guest bedrooms in Gaza Station. There was no visitor's suite. So for now, Tariq explained, this is where Ziegler wanted them.
The "boss" had the nicest digs of anyone in the bunker, and he wanted them to be as comfortable as possible. For living in a safe house under Gaza eleven months of the year, it really wasn't bad — two leather couches, a glass coffee table, a top-of-the-line entertainment system (with TV, VCR, DVD with Dolby surround sound), bunk beds, an office chair and a desk built into the wall, a brand-new laptop, and three separate phone systems sitting side by side.
Through the walk-in closet, there was a bathroom and shower. Tariq gathered fresh towels and washcloths for each of them, and dug out some new toothbrushes, still in their boxes. For Bennett, he grabbed a white T-shirt, a thick gray fleece from the Naval Academy — Ziegler, it turned out, was an Annapolis grad — a pair of jeans, and some white athletic socks, and tossed them on the lower bunk. For McCoy, he promised to return with something similar but smaller, though he wasn't sure exactly what he'd be able to scare up. When they were ready, he'd bring them some hot soup and fresh pita, just out of the oven. He knew they only had a few minutes before the NSC meeting began. He knew they needed to get ready. So as quickly as he'd gotten them there, Tariq left the room and closed the door behind him.
Bennett and McCoy were suddenly alone.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lamp over the desk. From the moment he'd arrived in Washington, it seemed like there'd been back-to-back, wall-to-wall meetings and briefings and strategy sessions, except for Christmas Eve. They'd been at the White House, Langley, and the State Department, working from six or seven in the morning until ten or eleven at night. There'd been piles of memos to write, and piles more to read.
But there were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but didn't know how. She intrigued him, and confused him, but he admired her. He wasn't sure if he'd ever really noticed it before, or acknowledged it, but he did now. She had something he wanted. She knew something he didn't. It gave her a quiet strength, a sense of purpose and confidence he found incredibly attractive. He'd thought about her a lot over the last month, but now they were finally together with no one else around and he didn't know what to say. The silence was awkward.
McCoy looked over at the dry clothes waiting for Bennett on the bunk bed.
"Why don't you go ahead," she finally said, brushing away wet bangs from her eyes. "You can change in the bathroom first. I can wait."
The two were standing just inches apart, soaked to the bone.
"No, no, I'm fine," Bennett insisted. "You go first."
He stared into her eyes. She looked cold and sad. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to kiss her.
"You gonna be OK?" he asked.
"Hey, you don't have to worry about me, Jon Bennett. I'll be fine."
He knew. He just couldn't help it.
THIRTEEN
The meeting in the Situation Room had now begun.
Everyone was present and accounted for. MacPherson sat at the head of the polished mahogany table. The seal of the president mounted on the white wall behind him, illuminated by a small lamp recessed into the ceiling. To the president's right sat Vice President Bill Oaks. White House Chief of Staff Bob Corsetti was next to him, followed by CIA Director Jack Mitchell. National Security Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick sat directly across from the president.
To her right was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, four-star General Ed Mutschler, with Defense Secretary Burt Trainor next to him. Then came Attorney General Neil Wittimore. The seat traditionally belong ing to Secretary of State Tucker Paine was filled by Deputy Secretary of State Dick Cavanaugh, fresh in from the emergency NATO summit in Madrid.
Along the wood-paneled walls sat a senior aide for each principal, several NSC Middle East experts, Ken Costello, the Undersecretary of State for Political Affairs and the department's senior crisis manager, and Marty Ben jamin, director of the State Department's Policy Planning Staff.
"Let's get started," the president began. "First of all, I've just asked Assis tant Secretary Dave Rogers to head over to Great Falls to Secretary Paine's house. As soon as there's a moment, I'll go over there myself. Bob, let's make sure all government flags are at half mast, and that notifications start going out to families of the DSS agents."
"Yes, sir," Corsetti agreed, taking notes on a yellow legal pad. "Perhaps right now," the president continued, "we could take a few minutes to pray for Claudia and the kids and the agents and their families — and, of course, for Jon and Erin and their team. Bill, would you mind leading us in prayer?"
"It would be an honor, Mr. President," the vice president said, and everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
Yuri Gogolov was not just a chess player.
He was a Russian grand master. He seemed to see around corners and through walls. And he did not play to win. He played to conquer and humiliate, and thus far he had never lost.
Born July 2, 1949, the only son of a highly decorated Soviet colonel— the grandson of Politburo members who traced their heritage back to the czars — Gogolov grew up in a gilded Moscow flat. He talked of a glorious future in the Red Army, but he secretly dreamed of a double life as the man who would destroy Bobby Fischer.
When Fischer won the U.S. Junior Championship in 1956 at the age of thirteen, he captured international headlines and the imagination of Gogolov, then a seven-year-old chess novice. Gogolov became obsessed by the world's youngest and most dangerous player. In time, he would become obsessed with the fact that the world's greatest player was not only an American but an anti-Semite from Brooklyn.