"I know I'm asking you to guess," said the president, "but what I want to know is whether there's one suspect in your mind that emerges out of the pack?"
"Any one of these guys — Dahlan, Rajoub, Barghouti, you name it — any of them could plausibly be responsible. They've all had their blowouts with Arafat. They've all had reason to hate him, and each of them is poised to benefit enormously by his death, if they can wrestle control from the others, The only thing for sure right now is that nothing's for sure."
It was getting dark and he had no choice.
Daoud Juma flipped on his headlights and pushed the Renault to its limits. Along a highway hugging the contours of the Euphrates River, he raced westward across the desert at almost eighty miles an hour. But with all of the sand and dust he was terrified of clogging up the car's systems and breaking down in these godforsaken wastelands. The last thing he could afford was to be stranded in western Iraq, while U.S. Special Forces were still on the hunt.
His last set of instructions couldn't have been more clear. He needed to be in Damascus. Syrian intelligence would be waiting for him in the Iraqi frontier town of Al Qa'im, if he could make it that far, then smuggle him across the border into the Syrian village of Abu Kamal. They would then hide him in the trunk of a car and head north, taking him to a mosque on the outskirts of the capital. He'd meet up with an Al-Nakbah control agent, receive food, cash, new clothing, new passports, and a green light to carry out his mission.
He'd been studying English for almost two years now. But he'd never actually set foot in the United States. He would soon. This was it, he told himself. The moment for which he'd been training — and for which he'd been training so many others — was almost here, and he could hardly wait.
Suddenly, up ahead — near the junction of the ancient town of Annah— Daoud saw two vehicles pulled over on the side of the road. One looked like a Range Rover. The other looked like a minivan of some kind. Daoud began to worry. He couldn't turn around now. They'd already seen him, and where was he supposed to go? He turned his high beams on to get a better look.
A number of men were milling about, and two were standing in the road pointing rifles at him. He glanced into his rearviev mirror. There was no one behind him. Should he gun it and plow through these guys? The chance of making it through alive seemed remote, at best He slowed down and pulled the Renault onto the shoulder, trying to be as careful and noncon-frontational as possible.
The men's faces were covered by kaffiyahs. At first glance, they didn't appear to be Americans or Brits, but one couldn't be sure. He considered reaching under his seat and grabbing his 9-mm, but thought better of it. He could now see four more men aiming rifles at him, He'd never survive a firefight under these conditions. He was alone, without his "followers."
One of the men rapped on his window with the barrel of a pistol. He spoke Arabic, with a Tikriti accent. Daoud rolled dowrn the window and felt the gun press against his left temple. The men were shouting at him now, cursing and waving their guns at him. When they toll him to get out of the Renault with his hands in the air, he complied without a word. When they told him to lie down in the middle of the road, spread-eagle, he did that too without a sound. Now a cold steel barrel was pressed into his right ear. A man was standing over him, his foot on Daoud's back, barking questions.
Yes, he had extra cans of fuel, Daoud answered, Yes, he had enough to get to the Syrian border. Yes, he had supplies of food and water and cell phone batteries. But when they asked him his name, Daoud refused to speak.
The man standing over him asked him again. Buti Daoud refused to say anything. He didn't know who they were. He couldn't afford to trust them. He had his mission and he wasn't about to compromise it now, so close to the goal. He heard the bolt action of several rifles. He could see men inside his car, opening up boxes and rifling through his papers. A few seconds later, one of the men shouted out his name. Was that far in his voice, or just surprise? Daoud's entire body stiffened. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to Allah. He wasn't ready to die. Not yet.
Are you the Colonel Daoud Mohammed Juma?
Daoud said nothing.
Are you the commander of Saddam's elite fedayeen forces?
Are you actually the head of Ql?
Daoud's mind began to race. He tried to understand what was happening. How could they know him? None of the papers he was carrying with him identified his name, much less his rank or mission. He didn't have a driver's license. The car was stolen so the registration couldn't give him away. His credit cards were stolen. The cash he had with him was untraceable. The 9-mm was standard issue by Iraqi intelligence, the Mukhabarat, without serial numbers. Half the men on this road had to have the same kind of weapon with them.
The desert night was cold but Daoud felt nothing. And then, a command went out in Arabic for all the men to put down their weapons. Everyone obeyed immediately. The cold steel barrel came off his ear. The steel-toed boot came off Daoud's back. Daoud was quickly helped to his feet and dusted off. Then another command, and all the men bowed down to him.
"We are Q-five," said one man, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
For a moment, Daoud had trouble accepting what was happening.
"We are Q-eleven," said another, still bowing but taking off his kaffiyah.
Daoud still couldn't believe it. These were fedayeen under his command. These were his men carrying out his orders — on their way to Syria, then to Germany and France, then on to Canada and the United States to complete the mission for which they had been hand chosen and relentlessly trained.
All of them knew who Colonel Daoud Juma was. He was nearly a legend within Saddam Hussein's special operations directorate. And now here he was, in person, standing in front of them. It had to be the divine intervention of Allah. These men wouldn't kill him. They would kill for him.
Daoud tried to shake the confusion from the edges of his mind, and began giving orders. Ten minutes later, all the vehicles were refueled. The men ate some of his food and were back on the road, heading to the Syrian border. Together.
Ziegler finished speaking.
It was a grim assessment, and Bennett thought it left them right back where they started. If the president accepted Doron's offer, the Israelis would move in by nightfall and any chance for some kind of a peace deal being struck during the MacPherson administration would be lost. Moreover, the Israeli action could in fact trigger a wider war. But if the president refused Doron's offer, and Palestinians slaughtered themselves on worldwide televi sion and the U.S. did nothing, wouldn't the result be the same? Wouldn't the U.S. be condemned around the world? Wouldn't other Arab and Islamic forces be tempted to take matters into their own hands? Wouldn't the pros pects for peace suffer the same fate as Arafat, Mazen, and Paine?
The U.S. couldn't exactly trust the U.N. to go in and restore order, and Congress would go ballistic if the president was even perceived as contem plating such a move. The U.S. itself had plenty of forces in the region, in Iraq and in the eastern Mediterranean. But they couldn't exactly use them in Palestine. They were already occupying one Arab country. Invading the West Bank and Gaza wouldn't exactly endear them to the local population, or bring them closer to their strategic objectives.
In less than two hours, the president would address the nation, and the world. But what should he say? What did the U.S. want to achieve? What could it achieve?
SIXTEEN