"Ready when you are, Point Man."
Ziegler had sensed something was in the air between these two the mo ment they'd arrived. He'd seen how McCoy looked at Bennett. He'd just caught Bennett's reaction when McCoy came into the room. It didn't take Dr. Phil to know something was going on here. They didn't get many visitors at Gaza Station. Certainly not White House VIPs like Jon Bennett. And certainly not Uzi-toting, Arabic-speaking CIA supermodels like Erin McCoy. Ziegler couldn't help but find himself curious, or wonder if Bennett was really McCoy's type.
Like everyone on his team — like everyone else in Washington and gov ernments in two or three dozen other capitals around this region and the world — he'd read the New York Times profile on Bennett. He'd read the quotes by Bennett's colleagues and former college roommates. He knew Ben-nett's MO — big money, big temper, and absolutely no experience in the Byzantine political world of the Middle East. Was McCoy really drawn to this guy? Was she really interested in someone almost ten years older than her? Maybe. But maybe not. Ziegler knew better than to assume anything. Who knew? Maybe he had a shot.
Suddenly, Ziegler's face turned ashen. The man seemed transfixed on the bank of video monitors in front of him, but Bennett couldn't see a thing. His view was obstructed, and he was about to be patched through to Wash ington.
"What's going on?" Bennett yelled.
"Oh my God," Ziegler said, his eyes darting from one screen to the next.
"What is it?" Bennett pressed.
But for a moment, Ziegler just stood there, shaking his head, unable to speak. He punched a few buttons. The TV monitors in the conference room where Bennett and McCoy were flickered to life. The images were unbeliev able. A bloodbath was under way, but neither Bennett nor McCoy under stood exactly what they were seeing. Phones started ringing. Ziegler's team was moving quickly now, scrambling to get on top of the situation. E-mails started coming in from field operatives scattered throughout the West Bank and Gaza. Adrenaline was flowing and the tension in the room was palpable.
"JZ, what the hell is going on?" Bennett demanded. "I'm on with the president in less than three minutes. I've got to—"
"We've got a little situation here. We've got a huge gun battle erupting in Khan Yunis. But it's not just Khan Yunis. It's Gaza City. Hebron. Jericho. Nablus. We've got huge battles starting in most of the major Palestinian population centers."
"With who, Israelis?"
"No, that's just it — it looks like the top Palestinian security chiefs are mobilizing their forces and squaring off against each other."
"What are you talking about?" Bennett asked, trying to process what Zie gler was saying.
"I'm talking about the worst-case scenario, Jon. I'm talking about a full-blown Palestinian civil war."
FOURTEEN
Something evil was moving through the streets of Gaza.
Bennett stared at the monitors in front of him. Through pouring rain and thick clouds of smoke, he could see a raging firefight under way. He could see cars overturned and consumed by flames.
Tracer bullets crisscrossed through dark alleyways, and though it was only approaching noon, it was as though an oppressive darkness had fallen over the rain-soaked city. It was impossible to assess accurately the extent of the carnage, at least by watching it from the vantage point of a Predator drone. But men, women, and children were dying. Their blood was running through the gutters.
All hell was breaking loose. That much was clear. Bennett felt severe pains shoot through his stomach and abdomen. McCoy saw him wince and hold his side.
"Gaza Station, this is Prairie Ranch. "
It was Marsha Kirkpatrick in the Situation Room. The videoconference was live.
"You are now connected to a National Security Council meeting already in progress. Please authenticate."
Ziegler and Tariq scrambled to secure the connection and patch Bennett through.
"Jon, it's the president, can you hear me?"
Bennett straightened up and tried to ignore the intense pain he was now in. He fumbled with his IFB earpiece, but after a moment or two — with McCoy's help — he was finally connected.
"Yes, Mr. President, I can — finally — and I can see you guys as well on the monitors here. Sorry for the delay."
"Are you and Erin OK?"
"We're good, sir — lucky, I guess."
"Luck had nothing to do with it, Jon. Someone's looking out for you, and it's not just our friends at Langley. What about Dmitri and Ibrahim?"
"They're OK, sir — shook up, like all of us. But physically, yes, they'll be fine."
"/ understand there's been some confusion over how much access they can have?"
"Well, yes, that's true, sir."
"Let me spell it out for you, Jon, so there's no confusion. I know you've got the best of intentions. Dmitri and Ibrahim are good men — friends of peace, and of this administration. But they're not American citizens. They're not cleared. And we can't just let them go roaming around in there You and Erin are sitting in a twenty-five-million-dollar foxhole and we can't afford to let anybody know what it is or where. You got that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now make sure those boys are well taken care of, and put them to work. Get Dmitri on the phone with Dr. Mordechai and all his pals at the Mossad. Get Ibrahim on the horn with his buddies inside the Palestinian Au thority. Tell them to press their sources. Find out what they know. Find out who's behind all of this. Anything they can find out, the better. Tell them it's a personal request from me, and I won't forget their help. "
"I'll do that, sir."
"Good. And how's your mom holding up? She knows you're OK?"
"No, I haven't called her yet, sir. It seemed too early, but—"
"No, no, no. As soon as we finish up here, you give her a call. You're all she's got now. You hear me?" Yes, sir.
MacPherson never ceased to be his surrogate father, Bennett realized, nor would he, especially now. He'd taken the young "whippersnapper" under his wing when he was only twenty-two. He'd taught him how to become a world-class strategist. He'd praised his successes, gently warned him about his weaknesses, and was always offering Bennett friendly advice on everything from finding good restaurants in New York to finding good ski slopes in the Rockies. And given that MacPherson had achieved every goal he'd ever set for himself — and then some — his advice was something Bennett took seriously.
"Now look, I just got off the phone with Prime Minister Down, "the president continued. "Here's the situation. State says all their DSS agents are dead. With this storm, we have no way to get you out of there right now. Down's offering to send in ground forces to extract you. We'd have to get you all out of Gaza Station, of course. We can't let the IDF know where you are right now. But if all things go well, you could be home by tomorrow. We've all been talking about it, and most of the NSC thinks we should accept Down's offer. "
Bennett sensed MacPherson wasn't quite finished with his thought, but perhaps it was just a second or two delay in the satellite transmission.
"What do you think, Jon?" the president asked.
Bennett hesitated. He knew how much the president was investing in this Medexco deal, and it was hard for Bennett to imagine he didn't see or understand the implications of what he was asking. The last thing Bennett wanted was to be voted down by the NSC on the first question put to him. There were a lot of other issues ahead for them to deal with. But his heart was racing. It felt like every molecule in his body was shaking. His gut told him not to get the IDF involved. But was he really about to tell the president to turn down Doron's offer?