“What’s that?” Corsetti asked.
“We’re not entirely sure what to make of it,” the secretary explained, “but our embassy in Caracas says Radio Nacional de Venezuela has been running a series of talk shows for the last several days discussing the topic ‘Preparing for a world without MacPherson.’ Our political officers had initially written it off as election year hyperventilating. But today they reviewed the full transcripts. The talk was pretty violent, and one guEST — a former Venezuelan interior minister under Chávez — suggested that those who hated the United States should just be patient. Quote: ‘You’ll be hearing good news out of Washington and Los Angeles soon enough.’ Might be nothing. But given the rest of the chatter coming in, I thought I should pass it on.”
Marine One was now on the ground, the Secret Service detail was in place, and President MacPherson — code-named “Gambit”—was already out the door.
Corsetti grabbed his suit jacket and briefcase and stepped off the chopper. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’ve got to go,” he shouted over the roar of the rotors. “But I appreciate this, and I’ll pass it along to the president when he’s got a moment. Tell your teams the president is incredibly grateful for their service. Especially tonight. He’s got every confidence in you all. Let’s not let him down.”
Corsetti hung up the phone and clipped it back on his belt. Then he put on his security badge and stepped into a side door of the convention center. But as hard has he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Sanchez was right. Maybe he should be worried. Maybe this was the real thing.
“Age?”
“Forty-four,” he said, then corrected himself. “No, forty-five.”
“And your wife?”
Bennett had to hold his hands together to keep them from shaking. “Thirty-six.”
“Nationality?”
“American.”
“Both of you?”
“Yes.”
Bennett thought he saw the woman roll her eyes, and it made him angry. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it happen. Despite the fact that the U.S. was pouring billions upon billions of dollars into the U.N. humanitarian relief efforT — into these refugee camps in particular — and into the overall recovery and reconstruction effort, it was clear that anti-American sentiment was on the rise. It wasn’t just here in this refugee camp. It was happening throughout the region. You could see it in the new graffiti on the walls and sides of buses. You could see it on news shows and hear it in more and more comments on the radio. You could read it in the editorials, and occasionally you’d see or hear about an anti-American protest that broke out on some university campus, often in Beirut or Cairo but sometimes even in Amman and what was left of Istanbul.
It made Bennett’s blood boil, for it wasn’t just their treasures that Americans were donating to care for millions of wounded and displaced families throughout the region. Tens of thousands of Americans had come to the region to volunteer their time and talents as well. They brought expertise as doctors, nurses, pilots, truck drivers, general contractors, and so forth to help where they could. Many who had come to help were young people, in their teens and twenties. They formed a rapidly growing team of evangelical Christians and Catholics known as the “Passion for Compassion” movement.
It wasn’t only Americans coming to help, of course. Thousands of South Korean and Australian believers had come as well, as had many Chinese, Indonesians, Filipinos, Indians, and others, many of whom had come to faith in Christ since Ezekiel’s War. But thus far, the simple fact was that the vast majority of dollars and volunteers came from the U.S., and more often than not, Bennett couldn’t resist getting into an argument with whoever thought his country wasn’t doing enough.
But not tonight. This was neither the time nor the place. Besides, he knew he hadn’t the emotional bandwidth to argue with anyone, least of all a U.N. hospital administrator. All he wanted to know was, how soon could he go into the examination room? How soon could he see his wife? How soon could he touch her face and hold her hand? Nothing else mattered to Bennett. Certainly not this woman’s political beliefs and prejudices.
Yet rather than answers, all he got were more questions. The woman droned on and on. Bennett answered the best he could. Yes, he and Erin had gotten all their vaccinations before coming. No, they had no allergies they were aware of. Yes, Erin was on a prescription medication — Percocet, to manage the pain from a gunshot wound in her leg. No, Bennett wasn’t going to explain further; it was all on their volunteer applications. Yes, they’d signed the releases upon arrival. Yes, they only ate food served in the camp’s mess tents. No, they had not left the camp since they’d arrived. Well, one time, for the Fourth of July weekend. They’d visited friends at a church in Amman. No, he couldn’t remember precisely how long they’d been in Jordan. “Six, seven months,” Bennett said. “Something like that.”
“Well, which?” the administrator pressed, her voice thick with derision. “Six or seven?”
Bennett told himself to stay calm. It was all he could do not to push this overweight monstrosity out of the way, kick in the door of the examination room, and demand to know what was going on with his wife. But the last thing he needed was to get tossed out by security. So he took a deep breath, looked her square in the eye, and said, “Actually, come to think of it, we’ve been here seven months. We came in February, soon after we got married….” His voice trailed off.
He was tempted to add, “… and discovered the Temple treasures and the Ark of the Covenant and received a medal of honor from the prime minister of Israel…” But again, he let it go. This woman didn’t care. Why prolong the discussion?
“So why did you come here?” the woman asked, matter-of-factly.
Bennett looked up. That one surprised him. Was that an official question, or a personal one? he wondered. He noticed the woman was no longer staring at her clipboard. She was actually staring into his eyes. She seemed genuinely curious, even bewildered. For her, this was a job. He noticed that the ID hanging around her neck said she had worked for UNRWA — the United Nations Relief and Works Agency — since 1987.
But why was he here?
It was a good question. What had compelled him and Erin to come here of all places, and now of all times in their lives? What had compelled them to invest twenty-one of the twenty-two million dollars he’d made on Wall Street caring for those Syrian and Lebanese and Iranian refugees, many of whom had long been enemies of America and Israel and the West, certainly for as long as he could remember?
The woman deserved an honest answer. Bennett knew he should say something. But the words would not come. He wasn’t proud of it, but he simply had no desire to talk. Not here. Not now. All he wanted to do was be with Erin. That was it. That was all. And he was fast running out of patience.
Instead of replying, he asked, “Are we done here?”
The woman stared at him in disbelief, then got up quickly and left.
A wave of guilt washed over Bennett. And then, all of a sudden, it was followed by a fresh wave of fear. Something terrible was about to happen. He could sense it. He could feel it. And there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.
8