He looked out over the sprawling ancient city at the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, practically glowing in the distance, and calculated his next moves. Time was running out. If he was to be paid in full, all of the targets had to be dead by sundown on the twentieth. That was just eight days away, and they were only halfway through the list.
8
It didn’t take long to fall in love with Ronda.
One of the last Moorish cities to fall to the Crusaders and one of the oldest towns in Spain, it was a hidden paradise of rolling hills, dazzling sunsets, fields, and mountains as far as the eye could see, and a two-hundred-year-old stone bridge spanning a breathtaking plunging river gorge in the center of town. No wonder this sleepy little town, tucked away so far from civilization, had captured Erin’s imagination as a little girl. No wonder it had drawn her back more than two decades later.
It was off-season and a bit chilly, but the Bennetts had spent a lazy morning strolling Ronda’s streets, visiting the ancient Arab baths, and touring the bullfighting arena known as the Plaza de Toros, which was built in 1784 and still held crowds of thousands in the crowded summer season. By afternoon, they were poking through various shops, looking for nothing in particular, and letting their imaginations run free.
“What are you thinking about, Mr. Bennett?” Erin asked as they ducked into a café and ordered cappuccinos.
“Nothing,” he laughed.
“Come on, what is it?”
“No, no, let’s talk about you,” he said. “Where would you like to go to dinner?”
“Nice try. But you have to tell me. Those are the rules, remember?”
She sweetened the deal with a kiss.
“It’s nothing, really,” he said finally. “I was just thinking about what I’d like to do if time and money were no objects.”
“And?”
Bennett wasn’t used to daydreaming about any life other than the one he’d had on Wall Street for almost a decade and a half. Moreover, this idea seemed downright ludicrous, particularly in light of recent events. But it seemed fun and somehow comforting to have a “blue sky” session with his best friend.
“It’s crazy, I know, but if Mordechai were wrong about all that’s ahead, and if we could really do whatever we wanted, I would love to pull together some investors, buy a huge tract of land in northern Virginia, and build an exact replica of the White House and Old Executive Office Building, to scale.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Erin.
“Think about it,” he said, his eyes wide with childlike delight. “What’s the number-one place visitors from all over the country and all over the world say they want to see when they come to Washington?”
“The White House.”
“Exactly. But with all the security restrictions, hardly anyone gets in anymore. And even if they do, they never get to see the West Wing, or the Oval Office, or the really fun stuff. But what if they could? What if there was a White House people could really explore? a White House where they could actually be invited to a state dinner?”
Erin was smiling, but it was clear she wasn’t completely following.
“Imagine if there was a White House where families could take real insider tours every weekday. But every Friday and Saturday night, there’d be a state dinner — black tie, formal gowns, big celebrities, the whole nine yards. You’d call an 800 number and make a reservation and be told to arrive at the Visitors’ Center at 7 p.m. sharp.”
“Visitors’ Center?” asked Erin.
“Exactly,” said Bennett. “You’d park there, two or three miles away from our White House Resort and Conference Center, and you’d be assigned a position on a covered platform, sort of like at a train station, heated in the winters and cooled in the summers. You’d have to be there no later than seven, because at precisely seven-fifteen the real adventure begins.
“A presidential motorcade suddenly comes up over a ridge. Lights flashing. Sirens wailing. There are motorcycles, police cars, a fleet of black limousines with little American flags waving on the hoods, all followed by black Suburbans and more motorcycles. The limos pull up and you’re assisted inside by ushers and security people dressed up as Secret Service agents. Then the doors close and the motorcade begins the two-to-three-mile drive through the Virginia countryside, until you come up over a hill and there it is — bigger than life, awash in big floodlights.”
Erin looked more interested now.
“And as you arrive, the big black gates open and you’re brought around to the driveway on the South Lawn. If you’re in the first set of limousines, you’re immediately escorted to a tour of the West Wing. If you’re in the middle set, you get a guided insider tour of the East Wing and the secret underground facilities like the Sit Room and the Secret Service command center — that kind of thing. If you’re in the last set, you get to tour the main floors of the White House, the Lincoln Bedroom, the private residence, the solarium — all the private stuff the public usually never gets to see.
“Then, at precisely 8:15 p.m., you’re seated for an elegant dinner of filet mignon and lobster and the finest champagne, followed by a famous speaker or comedian. On some nights we’d have charitable concerts hosted by the First Lady or by former First Ladies. On other nights we’d bring in Dana Carvey or Will Ferrell to do a night of presidential comedy. Some nights could simply be ballroom dancing. The possibilities are endless. We could even host a weekend Global Issues Summit with former presidents or secretaries of state.
“Think about it: Easter-egg rolls where no kid is turned away, White House Christmas parties — every night of December — that everyone can attend, inaugural balls, helicopter rides over Washington in our own versions of Marine One. We could even rent out the Lincoln Bedroom and it wouldn’t be illegal!”
Erin couldn’t help but laugh. For all the years she had known Jon Bennett on Wall Street and in the White House, he had always been so serious, so focused, so consumed with cutting deals and bringing peace and democracy to the Middle East. She had never seen him with the time or the desire to dream such crazy dreams. She loved him for it all the more, but she still had to rib a little, at least.
“And this is what you think about in your spare time?” she asked.
“You have no idea.”
“Dr. Mordechai?” said a stranger’s voice. “Is that really you?”
Mordechai pulled his head out of the stack of e-mails he was reading, looked up at the passport-control officer, and handed over his passport. “I’m afraid so,” he said at last. “I’m sorry; do I know you?”
“No, no, but I thought it was you,” the young woman replied. “What an honor.”
He waited for the punch line, but there was none. The officer seemed genuinely glad to meet him, and he couldn’t help but be surprised. Most Israelis now considered Mordechai, the world’s most famous messianic Jew, a heretic if not an outright traitor. The country’s chief rabbis were pressuring Prime Minister Doron to strip Mordechai of his citizenship, claiming he had converted to Christianity and thus had renounced his Jewishness. Death threats against him were mounting. He had been cursed and spat upon. He had even been physically attacked on the streets of Jerusalem as well as in the airport. So to be greeted so warmly upon returning to his country was certainly serendipitous.
The young woman stamped his passport for reentry without going through the usual list of security and customs questions, then lowered her voice. “The Lord is risen,” she said.