The Viper snaked his way north on 1-95.
Atlanta and Savannah were finally behind him, though they'd not gone as planned. He'd expected to get his share of explosives at the first stop, a cache of weapons at the second. But at the last moment, his Al-Nakbah control agent — a sleeper from Saudi Arabia, working for a midsize life insurance firm near Atlanta — had called an audible.
Given all the extraordinary security precautions in place at the moment, getting into Washington, D.C., as an Italian businessman working for Microsoft might not be easy, but it was possible. But not with a trunk full of weapons and C4 plastic explosives. Bomb-sniffing dogs and new portable explosive detectors were being used at all the checkpoints in and around the capital, and the control agent concluded it simply wasn't worth the risk. The good news: two other Al-Nakbah sleepers were living in D.C. If he could get into the city, someone would bring him "supplies." All he needed to do was pick a "soft" target and be ready to move.
Nadir Hashemi was bleary-eyed and exhausted. He popped down another two amphetamines and washed them down with lukewarm coffee. He could do this, he told himself. He just had to stay focused.
He thought about the story he'd read on-line that morning. The British foreign secretary had denounced the wave of suicide bombers trying to penetrate the United States, but added: "When young people go to their deaths, we can all feel a degree of compassion for those youngsters. They must be so depressed and misguided to do this."
Compassion? Nadir wanted no compassion from the British, or the Americans, or any of the infidels destroying both of his homelands. Depressed and misguided? Who was this guy to speak when he didn't understand the first thing about the fedayeen or Al-Nakbah? Nadir didn't see himself as depressed or misguided. Just the opposite. He wasn't headed to Washington to commit intihar—suicide — but istishhad, martyrdom. He wasn't acting out of hopelessness and despair. He was driven by an overwhelming desire to cast terror into the hearts of the imperialist oppressors in the capital city of the new Roman Empire.
Martyrdom bombers weren't misguided, Nadir reminded himself. They were achieving the highest level of jihad. They were holy fighters earning respect on earth and rewards in heaven. And this was it. Washington was just a few hours away, and so, too, was his departure for Paradise.
This section needed serious work, thought McCoy.
G. Creation of Oil-for-Peace Economic Infrastructure and Progrowth Strategies
Immediately upon the signing of this agreement, the government of Israel and the PAA will approve all necessary licenses for the Medexco joint venture and promptly take all necessary steps to expedite the joint drilling and production of petroleum off the shores of Israel and Gaza.
The government of Israel and the PAA will take all necessary legal and legislative steps to protect private property rights and eliminate or reduce all tax, tariff, and regulatory burdens that hinder economic growth and development, with particular attention to taxes, tariffs, and regulations that impede the creation and expansion of small business.
The president of the United States will encourage the Congress to pass promptly a "U.S.-Palestine Free Trade Agreement" that is consistent with the "U.S.-Israel Free Trade Agreement" of 1985, and the "U.S.-Jordan Free Trade Agreement" of 1995.
The Coordinating Body will assist in the creation of secure and transparent Palestinian banking and monetary systems, free enterprise zones, and the building of necessary economic infrastructures.
At a later stage, in tandem with the progress of the Transition — and in coordination with Israel — Palestinian workers will be permitted to apply for new Israeli work permits to work inside of Israel
It was the heart of the oil-for-peace strategy.
The president wanted a deep-water seaport in Gaza, airports in Gaza and the West Bank, and a network of highways, bridges, and/or tunnels linking the West Bank to Gaza. Back in Washington, McCoy had argued they should spell out such ideas in the document. Bennett resisted. These were details, not fundamentals. There were tougher issues to solve and they couldn't risk letting the Transition Period negotiations bog down.
H. Negotiations for Permanent Peace
After three years — and at the conclusion of free, fair and democratic elections — the State of Israel and the elected representatives of the Palestinian people will negotiate the terms of a permanent peace.
Both parties agree up front that such negotiations will be conducted in accordance with United Nations Security Council Resolution 242.
The United States will assist in every possible way to bring both parties to a just and lasting resolution of the conflict.
It was almost 2:00 Saturday afternoon Gibraltar time—9:00 a.m. back in Washington — when Bennett and the principals finished for the day. Bennett took a sip of bottled water and sat back in his chair. McCoy finished her cup of coffee and tried to size up what had just happened. No one had stormed out in protest. Not a bad day.
Just then there was a knock at the door. Tariq entered, walked over to Bennett, handed him a note, and whispered something in his ear.
Bennett went white as a sheet.
FORTY-TWO
"Have a capability, comrades, but appear not to."
The words seeped out of his mouth and hung over the room like the thick, pungent smoke of his Cuban Cohiba.
"Make use, but appear not to. Be near, but appear far. Or far, but appear near.
Yuri Gogolov stared out over Tehran on this bright but quiet Sunday afternoon. The storms were gone. The rains had stopped. At least for a few days. He and Mohammed Jibril were doing their best to get comfortable in their new home, after the "untimely demise" of Jibril's personal driver. The plush penthouse apartment of the director of Iran's counterintelligence service wasn't Gogolov's first choice. Too high profile. Too likely to be monitored by the West, particularly by the Americans. But it would have to do for a few more days, until Jibril could make the necessary arrangements to get them back to Moscow, or perhaps St. Petersburg.
As they waited for the latest news from the several fronts they'd opened in recent days, they dueled each other over a chessboard hand-carved and painted almost a hundred years before by Jibril's great-great-grandfather, Salim Jibril. Gogolov was, of course, the undisputed grand master. But chess ran in Jibril's blood, and for now, at least, he was pressing the offensive and hoping to make this arrogant Russian squirm, even for a moment.
"When strong, avoid them," Gogolov continued. "If of high morale, depress them. Seem humble to fill them with conceit. If at ease, exhaust them. If united, separate them. Attack their weaknesses. Emerge to their surprise."
Jibril slammed his bishop down, taking one of Gogolov's knights, his eyes gleaming with delight.
"Check," said Jibril.
Gogolov stopped staring out over the city, smiled ever so faintly at Jibril, then looked down at the board. Next he casually slid his queen diagonally two spaces. In so doing, he defended his king. But that was not all.
"Checkmate," he said quietly, drawing hard on the Cohiba.
Jibril — a gaunt, wiry man with quick black eyes, and thin black hair — sat in disbelief. He'd never lost a chess match in his life. Now he'd lost three — in a row.
"Enough of your Sun Tzu and child's games," snorted a heavyset man by the window, nursing a bottle of vodka and staring blankly at a minaret across the street. "This is a time for work, not for play."
Gogolov laughed.
"Relax, Zhiri, you'll give yourself an ulcer. Everything is on track, my friend. Everything's in order."