Gogolov didn't hesitate. They were never going to get perfect intelligence. This was a circumstantial case, at best. But it was pretty good. This was it. He could feel the adrenaline surge through his body like a narcotic. It was D-Day — again.
Bennett and McCoy waited together in the dining room.
It was now just before 8:00 a.m. in Gibraltar. Doron and Sa'id would be down for breakfast in a few minutes. A long day of haggling over security fences was ahead. To be or not to be, that was the question. McCoy was dreading it. Bennett, on the other hand, seemed in unusually good spirits, chatting up a storm about how the Turks built a fence along the Green Line in Cyprus in 1974 after the last major war with the Greeks. It seemed to have worked.
"Maybe we should be reconsidering our position," said Bennett, with a bit too much enthusiasm for so early in the morning. "The Israelis have a fence around the Gaza Strip already. Do you realize not a single suicide bomber has ever come into Israel from Gaza since there's a fence? They've all come from the West Bank. Maybe there's something to that."
McCoy just looked at him.
"What's with you?" she asked between yawns.
"What do you mean? Nothing — why?"
"I don't know. You just seem different. Chipperer."
" 'Chipperer'?" Bennett teased. "You're just making up words now?"
"Hey, give me a break. I'm exhausted. All those faxes and memos. Good grief. I didn't get to bed till four."
"Ouch."
"What about you?"
"Slept like a baby."
"Woke up every few hours and cried, huh?"
Bennett laughed, then got up and went over to the buffet table.
"No, I actually I feel pretty good — hey, how about some coffee?"
McCoy looked at him quizzically.
"You sure you're all right?" she asked again.
Jon Bennett had never offered to make her coffee.
The weather was brutal as the Citation lifted off from Cairo.
But they'd hit clear skies soon enough. The team headed south for a while, then banked westward and climbed to thirty thousand feet. The pilot and copilot still weren't exactly sure how their flight plan had been cleared to cross Libyan airspace, but they weren't asking any questions. Their mission was to cross the Sahara, hit the Atlantic, then loop around and come back through the Strait of Gibraltar. Barring anything unforeseen, they would easily reach their target by 5:00 p.m. — just on time.
One by one, the speedboats left Ceuta.
Not together, of course, nor in the same direction. They left casually— every hour or so, in order to keep anyone from getting suspicious. Not many boats were heading out into such choppy waters. The winds were picking up and the sky in the east looked particularly nasty. But the Al-Nakbah teams weren't completely alone, to their relief. Ferries to and from Algeciras and Tangier continued to run, and there were always a smattering of fishing trawlers willing to head out in any weather.
Each driver maintained strict radio silence. They were right under the shadow of the NSA's Echelon system, after all. But none of them would need a radio today. Everyone knew what the signal was. When it happened, it'd be impossible to miss.
The morning's negotiations didn't make much progress.
But Bennett wasn't discouraged. At least they were talking.
The group took an hour-long break at eleven to allow both sides to touch base with their advisors back home, then gathered again for a working lunch. It would be a short workday, he told them. They'd be done by three that afternoon and have ninety minutes or so to themselves before they boarded the motorcade to the summit. Dinner was set for five. The storm wasn t expected to hit until eightish. But they should be back by then.
"Everything all set?" Bennett whispered to McCoy as they sat down for lunch.
"Yeah, just talked to Tariq," she said. "The advance team has been there all morning. Everything looks good."
"Great. The Brits up to speed?"
"They know a few American VIPs are going up there tonight. They don't know who. But yes, they're being very helpful."
"Does the Gibraltar governor even know we're here?"
"I doubt it, not unless Downing Street told him. We certainly haven't."
"Fair enough — what's for dinner?"
"I don't know. It's a surprise."
A G5 took off from Charles de Gaulle.
It cleared the outskirts of the sprawling city, then banked southeast toward the French Alps. Once at their cruising altitude they'd hit the gas and raced for Malaga, Spain. They knew they were heading into rough weather, but they were ready for more than a little rain. Their tanks were topped off with fuel and their fuselage was packed with explosives.
A Learjet lifted off from Malta.
The team was excited. They'd been training for months and they'd finally been green lighted for a mission. The pilots, on the other hand, were anxious. They were flying under instrument flight rules and under tremendous pres-sure to get into position on time. There was no way they were going to be able to approach Gibraltar directly.
A massive storm was dead ahead and could hit the Rock by nightfall, W'inter storms weren't unusual, but the violence and intensity of the storm hey saw building on their radar unnerved them. Eight minutes off the island, hey refiled their flight plan. They'd try to go south and hug the coast of North Africa. If they were lucky, they could outflank the storm, bank right, and approach via Algeciras. They just hoped Jibril knew what he was doing. They were all willing to die. They just wanted to take someone with them.
Hlours passed.
It was now 11:32 a.m. in D.C. — 4:32 p.m. in Gibraltar. The holidays were over. The temperatures were beginning to climb back toward freezing, and people in Washington were cautiously going back to work and school, the nation was still at Threat Level Red and security was tight. Checkpoints were still up on all roads and bridges leading into the capital. Avenger antiaircraft missile batteries still surrounded the Pentagon. Police helicopters still patrolled the skies while F-l6s roared overhead.
All morning long, the phones in the Executive Office of the president had been ringing off the hook, and now a busy day was about to get busier. Muriel Clarke, the president's executive assistant, checked her caller ID. It was Homeland Security Director Lee James's AA on line five.
"Hey, Margie, good morning — missed you last night."
"No, Muriel, it's Lee. Where's the president?"
"Oh, sorry 'bout that — uh, he's in the Oval with the economic team."
"I need to talk to him."
"You're coming over in a little while, aren't you?"
"No, you don't understand — I need to talk to him now."
The day had gone too fast for Bennett.
It hadn't gone fast enough for McCoy. She was looking forward to dinner with Doron and Sa'id, and glad Mordechai and Galishnikov had been invited along. But she was tired. The past few weeks were taking their toll and she was glad they'd be back by eight — eight-thirty at the latest. Safe inside a mountain. Protected from the storms. Nothing else to do but lock her door and take a nice, long, hot bath.
The phone beside her bed rang. It was Bennett. It was time.
The president took the call.
"Lee, what have you got?"
"Italian passport — name's Mario Iabello. Says he works for Microsoft as a software salesman out of Rome. Problem is, Microsoft has never heard of the guy. And the passport turns out to be a fake."