Uniformed policemen of the Palestinian Authority — commonly referred to as the PA — manned checkpoints at every major intersection. But it hardly made Bennett feel more secure. The PA was arguably the most dysfunctional pseudogovernment on earth. It remained Yasser Arafat's private fiefdom. The security forces operated at his pleasure. If Arafat said you were safe — and meant it — you probably were. If not, you'd be advised to stay as far away as possible. So "supplementing" the Palestinian police presence were heavily armed American DSS agents, strategically positioned along the way. Not since President Clinton's visit to Gaza in December 1998 had security been this tight. Anti-American sentiment was running high. But so, too, were hopes that a Palestinian state might not be so far off.
They gathered in the White House Situation Room.
National Security Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick and White House Chief of Staff Bob Corsetti drank coffee and watched the live coverage. From a Fox camera positioned on the roof of a hotel near the PLC headquarters, they could see the motorcade coming down Salah El Din Street, packed with crowds spilling into the road despite the metal barricades and hundreds of
Palestinian security forces set to work a double shift. A moment later, they could see the motorcade turn onto Omar El Mukhtar Street, past the Great Mosque on the right and the Welaya Mosque on the left.
Just past Jumal Abdel-Nasser Street, the motorcade finally turned into the gates of the PLC's executive compound, past a dozen Palestinian flags snapping in the winter winds. A CNN shot from the roof of the Rashad Shawa Cultural Centre across the street showed the vehicles pulling into a huge courtyard. Two new five-story glass-and-steel administrative buildings stood to the left and right. Each was connected to an impressive three-story legislative headquarters upon which towered a thirty-foot gold dome. The entourage pulled into the compound's semicircular driveway, and parked behind huge, waist-high concrete barriers designed to minimize — if not fully prevent — the prospect of Israeli tanks driving straight into a cabinet meeting and obliterating the Palestinian Authority. DSS agents jumped out of the last Suburban. They took up positions around the secretary's limousine and ran a sector check.
"Globe Trotter is secure," lead DSS agent Doug Lewis told his team.
"Blueprint, secure."
"Fog Horn, secure."
"Perimeter One, secure."
"Perimeter Two, secure."
"Rooftop team leader, we're secure." 6
"Snapshot, secure."
"Roger that, we're good to go."
Agent Lewis stepped out of the lead limousine.
He opened the door for Secretary Paine, code-named Sunburn for his nearly albino complexion. The secretary was immediately greeted by a blind ing flurry of flashbulbs and questions. The secretary simply smiled and waved. Bennett got out of his car and watched Paine button his Brooks Brothers coat, straighten his red silk power tie, and begin walking across the courtyard to center stage, trailed by Lewis and two more DSS agents. It was quite a walk — almost forty yards to the front steps of the legislative building, past three marble fountains and a huge bronze replica of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.
Following strict protocol, Bennett, McCoy, and the others would hang back and wait for the statesmen to shake hands and go inside before joining them. Over the hood of the limousine, Bennett could see Arafat emerging from the front door in a wheelchair — flanked by Prime Minister Abu Mazen with his distinctive silver hair, silver mustache, and wide-rimmed glasses.
Arafat's wheelchair was being pushed by his ubiquitous security chief, Khalid al-Rashid. What struck Bennett first was how small Arafat looked— just five foot four — and how old he looked, even from a distance. His thinning gray hair was combed back over his head, but largely covered by his trademark black-and-white checkered kaffiyah. He'd lost weight. His pale, gaunt face wore a day's worth of stubble—why bother shaving for the Amer icans? — and his lower lip and his hands shook slightly from the onset of Parkinson's disease.
Forbes magazine said Arafat was worth a cool $1.3 billion. It seemed hard to believe. For the first time, Bennett was actually glad to be there. He found himself fascinated by this feisty, frail, strange little man in olive army fatigues, a man who for five decades had captured headlines the world over.
Mohammed Yasser Abdul-Ra'ouf Qudwa Al-Husseini.
A.k.a. Yasser Arafat.
A.k.a. Abu Amar.
Born August 24, 1929, in Egypt, or — he claimed — in Jerusalem.
Founder of Fatah in 1956.
Head of the PLO since 1969.
A 1994 Nobel Peace Prize winner who somehow had never actually made peace.
With Abu Mazen at his side, al-Rashid gently lowered Arafat's wheelchair.
He maneuvered down the front steps and reached inside his coat pocket to make sure it was still there, hidden by his stocky build and thick Italian leather coat.
It was an odd moment — indiscernible to anyone but a professional — but even from a distance it caught the eye of Erin McCoy and Donny Mancuso, Bennett's lead DSS agent. Why would a security chief of al-Rashid's stature be pushing his principal's wheelchair? Why not let a bodyguard do that job while al-Rashid stayed a few steps back, surveying the scene? And why take his hand, even for a moment, off Arafat's wheelchair as he lowered it down a few steps?
Al-Rashid quickly withdrew the hand from his pocket, and again placed it back on the handle of the wheelchair. A chill rippled down McCoy's spine. Instantly suspicious, she glanced over to Mancuso, wondering if he'd seen the same thing. But then, what exactly had she seen really? And what was she supposed to do about it? Was the Secretary of State and their team really in danger of being shot at by Yasser Arafat's personal security chief? Here? In front of the international media? The whole notion was ludicrous. She was becoming a little paranoid on her first trip to Gaza, McCoy thought — too much his tory, too many briefings. She tried to drive it all from her mind and stay focused. But she couldn't. It wasn't a rational thought she was processing. It was instinct, and hers were rarely wrong.
It was gray and wet and cold.
Yet beads of sweat were forming on al-Rashid's forehead and upper lip. Do I wait for the secretary to cross the courtyard? Do I wait until after Arafat greets him? Or would that just provoke a devastating U.S. attack against Pal estine? Look what the Americans have just done to Iraq. Is now the right time? Is this the legacy I want to bring upon my family, my people? And yet…
Arafat began coughing violently in the damp air. Al-Rashid stopped pushing the wheelchair and again reached into his coat pocket. McCoy and Man-cuso tensed as the secretary finished crossing the huge courtyard, though for some reason each hesitated to say anything to the lead DSS agents up ahead. It was a false alarm. Out of al-Rashid's pocket came a white cotton hand kerchief, which he handed to his leader. A moment later, the secretary reached the portico, draped with Palestinian and American flags. He stood in front of Arafat and Mazen, smiled and reached down to shake the old man's trembling hand. A hundred cameras snapped a thousand pictures. McCoy began to breathe a sigh of relief — but suddenly al-Rashid plunged his hand back into his coat pocket, and pulled out a long red wire with an ignition switch.
McCoy and Mancuso reacted immediately— "Get down, get down!" — tackling Bennett, Galishnikov, and Sa'id and trying to cover them with their own bodies. The secretary and his two DSS agents just stopped and stared, frozen for a fraction of a second in utter disbelief. Like the herd of international journalists watching in horror, they were unable to move, unable to react as al-Rashid screamed out, "Allahu Akbar" — "God is Great" and pulled the trig ger.