The whole thing was so ridiculous, so anticlimatic, thought Bennett. Yet it was also surreal. For days, the world had followed the hunt for the suicide bombers and the hunt for his mother hour by hour, hanging on every detail. But had they really overreacted? The police? The media? Had he? No, Bennett thought. No, they'd been reacting to the moment.
The country was at Threat Level Red, for crying out loud — its highest alert status — and the threats were real. They still were. The whole world had seen the suicide bombing in Gaza live on TV. They were all watching wall-to-wall coverage of the civil war in the Holy Land. Everyone was following the hunt for suicide bombers headed to America. The gun battles on the borders. The plane forced down over Rochester. A body floating in the East River.
With all that, how could the FBI, let alone the media, not react? How could they ignore the serious possibility that the mother of a senior aide to the president was kidnapped by terrorists? In the context of what they were all going through, everyone assumed the worst. It wasn't an overreaction. This was life in the age of terror.
Still, what was the world coming to? Was it now a crime to disconnect for a few days from voice mail and cell phones and pagers and Blackberries— or, God forbid, not use them at all? Was it a crime to use cash, not a credit card that told every cop exactly where you were, exactly what you were buying? Was taking a week to get away and hide to rest and read and think and turn off the news and not read the paper such cause for suspicion? Was going missing from the world for a few days now a federal offense?
It felt that way. In part because evil was seeping into the windows, under the doors, through the vents. People sensed it, and they were scared. The country was on edge. Go missing for a few days and the world could change forever.
Nadir Sarukhi Hashemi pulled off 1-95 North and headed for D.C.
As he came up Route 395, he hit a backup of cars trying to cross the Fourteenth Street Bridge into the city. Every car was being stopped and searched by the police at the checkpoint a few hundred yards before the bridge, and every officer was armed with a submachine gun and a variety of instruments capable of detecting metal, radiation, biological and chemical toxins, and a full range of explosives.
As Nadir pulled up to the orange cones, he was asked for his driver's license and registration. He gave the officers all his rental papers and his fake Italian passport.
"Mario Iabello, that you?" the officer asked, staring at the photo and Nadir's face.
"Afraid it is," Nadir said with a slight Sicilian accent. "Of course, they say if you look as bad as your passport photo, you're too ill to travel."
The officer wasn't amused, especially not standing outside on a bone-chilling January afternoon. He gave the passport to another officer, who called the number into the FBI and DHS to check against their watch lists. At the same time, he asked "Mr. Iabello" if his fellow agents could check through the contents of his car. "Mr. Iabello" readily agreed. He had nothing to hide. All they would find was luggage and a trunkful of software. After a few more questions, and a thorough search, the lead officer wished "Mr. Iabello" a pleasant stay in the nation's capital, and waved him through.
Easing the gas pedal down, he moved forward across the bridge, silently thanking Allah. He couldn't believe it. Again, he was in.
It was nearly four o'clock Monday afternoon when Bennett woke again.
He'd sleep all day if he could, and almost had. His physical and emotional systems were verging on overload again. But there was a peace process to attend to. The New York Times story speculating on covert peace talks had everyone rattled. The precise location of the "Mount of Olives" might still be a secret, but the code name wasn't. Nor was their mission.
The White House was getting a barrage of questions, as were the Israeli and Palestinian governments. This was complicated by new battles in the West Bank and Gaza, the bloodiest to date. Twenty-six Palestinian gunmen were killed overnight. Nine more on the DIA's most wanted list were taken into U.S. custody. But five American Rangers were dead and sixteen were wounded. The White House was going to have to issue a statement soon. Bennett's team had to get as much done as they could before their cover was completely blown.
Bennett took a shower, got dressed, and popped his head out the door to ask one of the guys on his security detail where McCoy, Doron, and Sa'id were. They weren't answering their phones. Even Galishnikov wasn't answering his phone.
"They're all in the dining room, sir. Been there most of the day." "Doing what?" Bennett asked with a yawn.
"Yelling about a security fence, I guess. I don't know for sure, Mr. Bennett. I've been here standing post since eight this morning."
Bennett and his four-man detail headed down to the dining room where he couldn't have been greeted more warmly by the two prime ministers and McCoy. Mordechai and Galishnikov were sitting in on the session as well. Yes, they'd been duking it out all day over the security fence, but they'd shifted to talking about the prospects of a Medexco deal. Now they were ready for a break and grateful Bennett's mom was safe and sound.
"This calls for a celebration," Galishnikov boomed, glad to be back with everyone after being asked to stay in the background a few days until the Doron — Sa'id relationship warmed up. "Let's all go out for some dinner."
"Always thinking with your stomach, Dmitri," quipped Sa'id. "That's what I like about you."
"That's a great idea," Dr. Mordechai added. "And I know just the place— the Top of the World restaurant, they just opened it last fall on the Summit of the Rock. Great food. Incredible view. You can take the cable cars up there. And I'm paying."
"Well, well, now we're talking," said Bennett, surprised by how relieved he felt to be doing anything but haggling over the peace plan tonight. "When do we leave?"
As the men chatted for a few minutes, McCoy stepped to the door to consult with Tariq, overseeing all security operations. McCoy and Tariq, in turn, huddled with the Israeli Shin Bet team there to protect Doron. It only took a few moments. The unanimous answer was no. Not tonight. It would be impossible for them to secure the route, and the restaurant and the food for the two prime ministers in just a couple of hours. After all, among other things, they'd need to clear the place of all employees so no one would recognize Doron or Sa'id. Perhaps they could arrange things for the next night. But tonight was off.
McCoy relayed the news to the group. Doron and Sa'id said Tuesday night would be fine. They could yell at each other all day, then cap off the night with a lovely dinner on top of the world. Mordechai asked if it would be a problem for him to take Bennett, McCoy, and Galishnikov up there tonight, just to check things out. Tariq thought about it for a moment, consulted with the others, and agreed it would be fine. He'd just need to send a protective detail with them.
"So, Dr. Mordechai, that mean you're paying both nights?" asked Bennett.
The old man laughed.
"In your dreams, Jonathan. You were almost a billionaire. Why don't you pay tonight?"
"Nyet, nyet, nyet," Galishnikov cut in. "I will be a billionaire soon. The least I can do is buy dinner for a few ugly old friends, and for the lovely and beautiful Miss Erin."
They all laughed again. It was settled. Tariq said he'd have the cars ready in fifteen minutes. That was good enough for Bennett. He was ready for a night on the town. All he needed to do before dinner was stop off at a few gift shops along the way to pick up something for his mom.