"Whose hands?" Galishnikov asked.
"Whoever set this in motion. I don't know who it was. But it sure as hell wasn't Dahlan or Rajoub or one of the other Arafat minions."
"Why? How do you know?"
Now it was Bennett asking.
"I know because I know. Because they're dogs, not men. When Arafat told them to sit, they sat. Lie down, they lied down. Roll over, they rolled over. They're incapable of original thought. They were terrified of Arafat. They couldn't function without him. He gave them their power, their money. He gave them their orders. There's no way one of them turned on him. Besides, he was an old, sick man. Sure, they were all plotting how to succeed him when he died, but I'd bet my life that none of them would dare lay a finger on him. Absolutely not."
"Then I need to know who did, Ibrahim."
"How? How can I…"
"Get on the phones. See if anyone you know in the legislature is still alive. Call them at home. Get them on their cell phones Pump them for information. We need to know who was behind this, first of all, and we need to know what the legislature wants to do next."
"What about Doron?"
"You've got to tell your people that Doron is about to unleash."
"Jonathan…"
"I know — believe me, I know — but whatever's left of the Palestinian government has got to step up to the plate and make its case to the president and to the world."
"Did you tell the president—"
"I did — exactly the case you're making — that an Israeli invasion is a death blow to the peace process, pure and simple."
"And what did he say?"
"He's thinking about it. I don't know what he's going to do. But Ibrahim, listen to me. People are getting butchered up there. You guys aren't watching it. But every network in the world is broadcasting li\e images of a Palestinian civil war, and the political pressure for somebody — anybody — to do something is going to become unbearable. You don't want the Israelis in here. The Israelis don't want the E.U. in here. We don't want the U.N. in here."
"So where does that leave us?"
"We're screwed," Galishnikov muttered.
He was up now. He was pacing and lighting a cigarette.
"No, no, no — listen to me, Ibrahim," Bennett insisted, looking the man square in the eye. "Listen to me. You get on the phone to every member of the Palestinian Legislative Council you possibly can. Find out what they know. Take their temperature. Get their reaction. Find out what they want to do next. Find out who they want to lead the Palestinian people now that Arafat is gone."
McCoy was grateful to be alone.
She locked the door to Ziegler's quarters, locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the shower and cranked up the steam. She thanked God for pro tecting her, for keeping her and Bennett and Galishnikov and Sa'id alive, She asked Him to have mercy on the agents that might still be out there, and to comfort the families of those who'd fallen in the line of duty. She tried to push away all the faces of all her friends who'd died over the last few hours. But she couldn't. The emotions overpowered her, and she began to cry, quietly at first, and then in sobs she couldn't control.
Bennett left Galishnikov and Sa'id and headed back down the hall.
He needed a shower and something to eat. But first he needed to call his mom.
Now sixty-seven and alone, Ruth Bennett was still an early riser, usually up by six, rarely later than six-thirty. She had her routine and it didn't include radio or television or reading the New York Times. Not anymore, at least. After her husband's death, she'd said no, finally, to the steady assault of information that for so long defined her life.
He could still hear his mother's shaky voice over a scratchy satellite phone connection to his hospital room in Germany, breaking the news to him that he'd missed his own father's funeral. It wasn't really his fault, of course. But the hesitancy in her voice made it clear to him that forgiveness was coming slowly.
When they'd finally reconnected, she described to him the quiet, private ceremony, held in Queens, not far from where Solomon Jonathan Bennett was born on December 6, 1941. The hearse had moved quietly down simple tree-lined streets where Sol once played stickball. They had driven by the row houses to which he once had delivered The New York Times, the great "Gray Lady" to which he would go on to devote his life, from New York to Moscow to Washington, until a frustrated, bitter retirement exiled him to a condo village outside of Orlando. They arrived at a small cemetery where she and the casket were greeted by a small group of crusty old men, former colleagues from the Times, and by an angel she had never met.
Erin McCoy had arrived from Washington unannounced. She brought with her an American flag as a gift from the White House, and a handwritten note of condolence from the president of the United States. It was a warm and thoughtful gesture, Mrs. Bennett told her son, unexpected and in such contrast with the rest of the day.
She described the flat, emotionless words of the hastily chosen minister they had never met before, from a church they had never attended before, about a "better place" they had never believed in before. She described how she and Erin had shared a quiet, lingering lunch together and a pot of tea after the service. And, with the permission of the president, Erin had begun to explain where Jon was, what he was doing, and why. It was a story his mother found hard to digest. Though she occasionally asked for more details, she was not the reporter her late husband had been. But in Erin's soft smile she said she'd found a small measure of hope that everything would be OK after all.
They spent a long afternoon together. Then Erin hid driven her back into Manhattan, got her settled for a few days in a room at the Waldorf. The room was compliments of the president, until she was finished with the estate lawyers and paperwork and was ready to go back to Florida. Mrs. Bennett had a key to her son's place in Greenwich Village and Jon had insisted she stay there. But she said she didn't want to be a bother, didn't want to be in the way. In the way? argued Bennett. Mom, I'm in the hospital on the other side of the world. Whose way are you going to be in? But Ruth Bennett was in no mood to argue. She simply didn't want to be an imposition.
McCoy handled it all graciously, Bennett recalled She gave his mom a private cell phone number to call if she needed anything. A car and driver. A shoulder to cry on. Erin would be in town for a few days on business, and she'd make herself available for whatever Mrs. Bennett needed. That night, a bellhop arrived at the widow's hotel room door with a dozen white roses, and a note that read simply, "Don't worry, Mrs. Bennett. Jon will be home soon. I'm praying for you, and for him. God bless you, Erin." It was another thoughtful touch, and it had won her a friend for life.
Bennett turned the corner and arrived back at Ziegler's room. He entered the security code, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. A moment later, he slumped down into one of the couches and stared at the phone. The shower suddenly shut off and McCoy called out from the bathroom.
"Jon, that you?"
"Yeah, I'm about to call my mom—presidents orders."
"Say hi to her for me, OK?"
"All right," he said, his voice heavy with fatigue.
Bennett began dialing, then glanced at his watch.
The president would be speaking in less than ten minutes. Bennett felt nauseous. The back of his neck was perspiring. He needed sleep. He needed a drink.
The phone began ringing. He dreaded this call. The poor woman had been through so much already. He didn't want to worry her further. The phone kept ringing. He wondered if McCoy would be willing to talk with her for a few minutes, as soon as she was done with her shower. His mother had obviously fallen in love with Erin McCoy. Maybe he should, too.