"Follow me," she'd insisted, and led them around to the center of the North Lawn.
For a few minutes, neither of them said a word. They simply stood there, looking up at the White House that somehow seemed to glow in the cold night air. Every window was adorned by a Christmas wreath and white can dles and a huge pine wreath hung over the door. And from somewhere deep inside the White House, Bennett could hear singing.
In time, the movement would grow. So, too, would Akiva Ben David's resolve. People were reading his e-mails.
They were being stirred by the case he was making, however obliquely. They were responding with passion and determination. They were offering their time, talent, and treasure to help force the hand of history. Was this not a sign that he should stop cogitating, stop agitating, and start activating a team that would help him accomplish their movement's unstated but clearly understood mission?
Eight months earlier, during their family's private Passover meal, Ben David concluded the seder with these words, "Next year, in the Temple."
Why? He hadn't meant to say it. It had simply come from his heart, and suddenly he and his wife, Dalia, were electrified.
Something cosmic had just happened. Something supernatural.
They put the kids to bed, quickly finished the dishes, then retreated to his study to begin plotting their strategy. Money was something of which they suddenly had more than enough. They still couldn't believe it. But they were grateful and took it as a confirmation that they were on the right track. What they needed were allies, or, perhaps more precisely, coconspirators. That wasn't going to be easy.
They certainly couldn't send out an e-mail asking for volunteers to risk a holy war with the Muslims for the sake of recapturing the initiative of Jewish history. Nor was it something for which they could simply put a full-page ad in the New York Times or Jerusalem Post: "Help Wanted — Carpe Diem— Come Rebuild the Temple." Identifying help would be tough. There were no two ways about it. Establishing contact with volunteers would be difficult, too. Where would they meet? Where would they train? How could they keep a low enough profile not to be noticed by Israeli intelligence or by the Palestinians?
Even now, eight months later, Ben David and his Dalia could remember how they felt. With their hearts racing, they sifted through thousands of e-mails they'd received, looking for people willing and able to help them. Secrecy, they'd decided right there and then, would have to be their highest priority. What they were considering could get them imprisoned for life, if not shot and killed. But they felt compelled to move forward, as if unseen forces were pushing them over the edge. They had no doubt they could find kindred spirits. Nor did they have any doubt they could accomplish the dream taking shape in their hearts. And now, here they were. Somehow, it had all gone so much faster than they'd ever expected. They were ready. The zero hour was almost here. Let history begin.
NINETEEN
Outside it was growing dark and windy.
Inside the Oval Office it was crackling with Christmas spirit and flowing with a few alcoholic spirits as well. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace. A statuesque, nine-foot and beautifully decorated blue spruce twinkled with lights and White House Christmas ornaments from each of the past fifty years or so. The sounds of old carols and hymns wafted gently through the West Wing. But there was no more time to listen. It was time to depart for their traditional trek to the National Cathedral for a candlelight and com munion Christmas Eve service, and the president didn't want to be late.
Bennett felt a twinge of guilt for not having invited his mom up to Wash ington for the weekend. She would have loved an evening like this, and loved seeing him off at Andrews Air Force Base on Sunday. She needed to get out of the house. She was still struggling with almost debilitating bouts of de pression. She refused to take any antidepressant medication or even talk much about her grief. She'd always been a quiet person, but now she was withdrawing even further.
He felt guilty for being too busy for her right now. He felt guilty for aways being too busy for her. But there was nothing he could do until he got back. Perhaps he could get her something for Christmas from Jerusalem. She'd always wanted to go to the Holy Land, but despite all her husband's world travels, she'd never been. Maybe later that spring he should take her with him on a private tour of the land of milk and honey. It might do her some good.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please," said the president, clicking a champagne glass with a fork. "Our rides are ready and we need to depart posthaste. But I just want to say a quick word to all of you. It's been an extraordinary month, an extraordinary two years, in fact. But we've tried to keep faith with the American people, and I think the new polls Bob laid out for us earlier today are a wonderful early present, a sign that somebody out there thinks we're doing something right."
A round of applause arose from the little assembly.
"Each of us knows how much more work lies ahead. But my hope and prayer is that a few years from tonight, two states will be living side by side. Investment capital will be pouring in. Oil and gas will be flowing out. And a new Marriott or a Hilton will be open for business in Bethlehem, so that no young couple will ever again have to worry about finding room at an inn.
Everyone laughed and applauded and enjoyed the moment. No one more so than Bennett. It was his dream, too, and seventy-two hours ago it had actually seemed possible.
Now what?
The president had no idea. He and Corsetti sat alone in the Oval Office and said nothing for a few minutes. All was quiet, but for the occasional rumble of thunder and the steady sound of sleet hitting the tinted, bulletproof windows. The technicians were all gone now, as were their television lights and cameras and sound equipment. White House staffers were busy carrying out a blizzard of presidential directives issued over the course of the past hour. The press was analyzing every nuance of the president's remarks. And the First Lady was in an armor-plated sedan, surrounded by Secret Service agents, heading to the home of the grieving widow of the late Secretary of State.
Corsetti broke the silence. He said the speech had been a solid "double." It was brief and to the point. It kept the game moving forward and bought them time while they figured out their next moves.
The president had forcefully condemned the attacks and appropriately mourned the dead. He'd put all of the various Palestinian factions on notice that they must cease the violence immediately and strongly hinted that severe international repercussions could result if the civil war did not end quickly. He'd praised the Israelis for showing restraint. And he'd vowed that the United States would bring the terror masters to justice and continue working for peace no matter how long it took or how much it cost. He'd done just what he'd needed to do. At least for now.
MacPherson took a sip of coffee and stared out the window at the re lentless storm battering the nation's capital.
"Bob?"
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Was Bennett actually suggesting that I send forces in?"
"Into where? The West Bank and Gaza?"
"Of course." Corsetti was puzzled.
"He didn't say that, did he?"
"No, not in so many words…"
The thought trailed off. Again the room was silent for a few moments. "What are you getting at, sir?" Corsetti finally asked, watching the president's thoughts churning.
"I don't know exactly," MacPherson responded. "I'm just sitting here re-playing that NSC meeting over and over again and I just can't…"