Gogolov could see the blood streaming down Jibril’s face. He could hear the bullets smashing into the sides of his armor-plated car and ricocheting off the pavement. He could hear women screaming and the shock in his agents’ voices as they shouted into radios, demanding reinforcements they obviously feared might not get there in time.
41
Bennett thanked Mordechai and signed off AOL.
What should he do next? There had to be more out there, something beyond Mordechai’s brief and six pages of endnotes referencing books on prophecy and ancient linguistics he’d never heard of.
He clicked over to Google and typed in “gog and magog.” He was stunned by the results — thousands upon thousands of entries.
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. There was no way he could wade through any of that even if he wanted to. He didn’t have the foggiest notion where to begin, nor the time to do a doctoral thesis. At best he had four or five hours before he would walk into the Oval Office and seal his fate one way or the other.
Maybe more research wasn’t the answer.
He needed to run, to clear his head. He threw on a T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes and took off down Pennsylvania Avenue, his DSS detail in tow. The cool, predawn air felt good, as did the pavement beneath his feet. He was used to running four or five miles a day, but it had been weeks since he’d been out. He was grateful that the injuries he had sustained during the coup were largely healed. He was still a bit sore, but he knew how fortunate he had been.
When he reached the White House, he took a right down 17th Street, rounded the Washington Monument, and headed up the Mall toward the Capitol, almost aglow from floodlamps encircling the grounds. A few minutes later, he glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before five, time to turn back. He needed to get home, take a shower, and get into the office. But when he looked up, he found himself at the 2nd Street entrance of the Library of Congress, and a crazy idea popped into his head.
A bleary-eyed guard met him at the door and spoke to him through the glass. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re closed.”
“You don’t understand,” said Bennett. “I just need to—”
“I understand better than you think, young man,” the guard shot back. “You think you’re the only one? You think you’re so special, just ’cause your momma and papa keep paying through the nose to get you a good education. Now look, I don’t know what paper you have due today, and I don’t care what your professor’s name is. The answer’s the same: we’re closed. C–L-O-S-E-D. You do know how to spell, don’t you?”
Bennett was not amused.
He flashed the man his White House badge and demanded to be let in. It took a few minutes of yelling, a conversation with the DSS security team, and a call to his supervisor, but the guard finally relented and unlocked the door.
Bennett sprinted up the steps from ground level to the Main Reading Room on the first floor, under the great rotunda made famous in the Robert Redford — Dustin Hoffman film All the President’s Men. No one was at the service desk, of course, so Bennett found a computer terminal, pulled up the online catalog, and hit “Basic Search.” From there he entered “gog and magog,” chose “Keyword,” and hit “Begin Search.”
9,976 entries.
This wasn’t getting any easier. Or maybe it was. Perhaps Ezekiel’s prophecy wasn’t as obscure as he thought. Maybe clues were hidden throughout the literature of the ages. Bennett scrolled through the first few hundred entries, jotting down titles and authors that caught his eye:
• Gog and Magog: A Novel by Martin Buber
• Dead Souls by the great Russian novelist Nikolai Vasilevich Gogol
• Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan by Pulitzer Prize winner Edmund Morris
• United States: Essays 1952–1992 by National Book Award winner Gore Vidal
• In My Father’s Court by Isaac Bashevis Singer, winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize in Literature
• Souls on Fire, All Rivers Run to the Sea, and Elie Wieseclass="underline" Conversations, by Elie Wiesel, survivor of Auschwitz and winner of the 1985 Congressional Gold Medal and the 1986 Nobel Peace Prize
Bennett checked his watch again. He had only scratched the surface, but he was out of time. He summoned the guard.
“I need copies of these immediately.”
The man just stared at him.
“Yeah, right. Young man, it’s 4:30 in the morning.”
“And?”
“And in case you hadn’t noticed, hotshot, we’re closed! C–L-O…”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. Now look, I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
“Well, you ain’t getting no books — not right now — I don’t care who you think you are.”
Bennett was about to unload, but thought better of it. Instead, he flipped open his cell phone, pushed speaker so the guard could listen in, and hit a speed-dial button.
A moment later, the voice of a young woman came on the line. “White House Operations.”
“Yeah, hi, this is Jon Bennett.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bennett. Please enter your access code now, sir.”
Bennett punched the seven-digit code into his phone and hit the pound sign.
“Yes, Mr. Bennett, how can I help you this morning?”
“I need the home number for the chief librarian at the Library of Congress.”
The hapless guard’s eyes went wide.
“Yes, here it is, Mr. Bennett. Would you like me to connect you, sir?”
“That’d be great.”
“Absolutely. And is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, one moment.”
Bennett could hear the DSS agents trying valiantly to suppress laughter. He could imagine what they were thinking: This poor security guard had obviously never run into Jon Bennett before.
“Yeah, hello?” came a very groggy voice at the other end of the line.
“Good morning, sir. I’m calling from the White House. I need a little favor.”
And then Bennett’s pager went off. It was from Ken Costello at the State Department — and it was urgent.
McCoy finally awoke.
She was back in her cell, chained to the bed, handcuffs cutting into her wrists. Through the closed door she could hear the occasional rustle of the guard’s newspaper as he turned pages. The only other sound in this wing of the military hospital came from someone screaming for mercy.
Was it Jon? Had Jibril been telling the truth? Was he really here? Did he know that he was suffering because she wouldn’t talk?
She closed her eyes again, blinded by the bulbs hanging over her head. Her mind strained through the fatigue. But one thing was clear. She either had to give in, die, or get herself free.
Ten minutes later Bennett reached the White House.
Costello briefed him as they headed upstairs.
“The CIA confirms somebody just tried to assassinate Gogolov.”
“Tried?”
“He survived. No one’s quite sure how badly he was injured. Jibril was bloodied up, but he’s likely to pull through. No one has ID’d the perps yet, but Radio Moscow says at least a dozen attackers were killed.”
“Any suspects?”
“Three rebels were captured,” Costello continued as they reached Bennett’s West Wing office. “A half dozen — maybe more — are on the run. Zyuganov has declared martial law. Troops are back on the streets. They’ve closed the borders and shut down the Internet, and long-distance phone service in and out of the country has been suspended.”