But it was McCoy’s command of Middle Eastern politics, her almost encyclopedic understanding of the key regional players, and her near-flawless Arabic that had helped turn Bennett’s and MacPherson’s Oil-for-Peace vision into a reality far beyond what either of them had ever hoped for, dreamed of, or imagined.
The Israelis and Palestinians, it turned out, were sitting on petroleum reserves rivaled only by the Saudis and Iraqis. Almost overnight, Medexco, a once unheard-of company, had become a force rivaling all of the world’s major petroleum companies. What’s more, every Israeli and Palestinian citizen now owned shares of the publicly traded behemoth, giving each of them a tangible, lucrative stake in the peace and prosperity quickly spreading across the region.
Bennett stared back at the floodlights illuminating the Kremlin walls and felt a chill run through his body. It was hard to picture what his life would have looked like had he not met Erin McCoy.
Indeed, it was hard to believe he would have lived this long.
The tap startled him.
“Remember me?” Erin smiled.
Bennett forgot to say yes. He put his arms around her and kissed her. He sensed her surprise, but only for a moment, and she kissed him back.
When they finally came up for air, Bennett began fishing something out of his briefcase. “I’ve got something for you. Happy Birthday.”
The surprise on her face had been worth the wait.
“It’s not till next week,” McCoy protested.
“So shoot me.” He smiled.
She smiled back as he handed her a small, cylindrical package, exquisitely wrapped, though not — obviously — by him.
The winds were picking up now. The temperature began to drop as the storm drew nearer.
“Should we go back in?” she asked, suddenly shivering in the same black formal gown she’d worn earlier to an embassy reception. Bennett took his tuxedo jacket off the chair and put it around her. She was right, of course. They were exhausted, jet-lagged. They needed a good night’s rest. But not quite yet.
“In a moment,” he said, “after you open it.”
McCoy began to unwrap the package. It was about the size of a small thermos. Bennett watched her slender fingers carefully removing the gift paper, conscious again of how nervous he felt.
Suddenly McCoy held the matryoshka doll in her hands. It was hand carved and hand painted, and McCoy’s eyes seemed to dance. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “How did you do it? Did you get this today? I didn’t…”
Bennett put a finger to her lips, and she grew quiet.
“Open it,” he whispered.
She played along, holding the base firmly while twisting the top section to the right. She’d only held one of the famed Russian “nesting” dolls — a doll within a doll within a doll — once before, at Jon’s mother’s house in Orlando, and she’d loved it. But every time they had come to Moscow for the peace talks, they had been too busy to buy one.
Bennett watched her open each of the dolls, carefully setting the larger pieces down on the table beside them. As she got closer to the center, he could feel his heart racing, and by the time she got down to the last section, he was down on one knee.
McCoy’s breath caught as her eyes drank in the sight of the stunning two-carat diamond ring, sparkling amid the brilliant flashes of lightning all around them. It was resting on a small piece of blue velvet, nestled in the smallest doll, and for a moment she seemed too stunned to reach out and touch it.
“Erin Christina McCoy,” Bennett began, his eyes blurring with tears. He couldn’t believe how fast his heart was beating. “I know I don’t deserve you. I know you could do better than me, but every day I thank God that you came along and rescued me, and I shudder to think where I’d be today if you hadn’t.”
Her bottom lip was quivering. Her hands were trembling.
“God knows I’m slow,” he continued. “I should have done this a long time ago. But I need you, Erin, and I never thought I needed anyone. I love you. And now I’m asking you — will you marry me?”
Another bolt of lightning crackled nearby. Thunder boomed overhead. The storm was upon them, and as McCoy began to nod her head and cry, it started to rain. Soon it was coming down in sheets. Bennett hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do. Then he rose off his knee, held her in his arms, and asked, “Is that a yes?”
McCoy began to laugh and lifted her head to look into his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Bennett exhaled and broke out in a smile.
He slipped the ring on her finger. They held each other tightly. And then Bennett took her hands and prayed, thanking God for loving him enough to bring this beautiful, amazing woman into his life, and asking for the grace to love her like she deserved.
The two began to kiss. They were laughing and dancing and the rain kept coming. Bennett took out a spare, clean handkerchief and tried in vain to wipe away her tears. Never before had he felt happiness like this.
And then, simultaneously, their pagers went off.
3
“Mr. Bennett?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the White House operator. Please hold for the president.”
Bennett pressed the satellite phone to his ear, trying to hear over the whoosh-whoosh of windshield wipers on high speed.
At the wheel of their bulletproof Lincoln Town Car was an agent from the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service. It was well past midnight local time as they zigzagged through side streets, trying to bypass the main thoroughfares of Moscow.
Here, away from the casinos and the nightclubs, all was quiet. Not a soul could be seen in any direction. Fierce winds howled through empty canyons of darkened office buildings and department stores. Driving sheets of rain pelted their small convoy. McCoy cranked up the rear air conditioning in an attempt to keep the windows from fogging up completely, but to no avail.
Almost twenty minutes had passed since Marsha Kirkpatrick had briefed them on the Aeroflot crisis and said the president would be calling. Bennett and McCoy were both numb, the joy of their engagement suddenly washed away. All they could think about now was how close their government and their friends had just come to being annihilated.
It made no sense. There’d been no warnings, no increase in terrorist “chatter.” And Bennett had no doubt he was about to be asked questions for which he had no answers.
Ahead of them was a sedan with two heavily armed DSS agents. Behind them was a black Chevy Suburban with four more agents.
Several years earlier, Bennett and McCoy had been attacked in Jerusalem by members of the terrorist group known as Al-Nakbah. Since then, this was what his life had become — no longer his own, thought Bennett. Other people shopped for his food. Security personnel tested his mail for anthrax and explosives. He couldn’t go out to the drugstore — much less on a date with McCoy — without agents tagging along, packing Uzis.
His old Wall Street friends envied the glamour of his new life. The West Wing office. Flights on Air Force One. Weekends at Camp David. Never-ending front-page and network news coverage. The guarantee of making tens of millions a year the minute he left Washington and returned to Manhattan. But they had no idea.