"True," MacPherson conceded. "Are you OK with that, Mr. Prime Minister?"
Sa'id thought for a moment, then answered.
"If you can persuade Prime Minister Doron to come to the talks to negotiate in good faith, then yes — I don't see why not. He just needs to know one thing."
"What's that?" asked MacPherson.
"I've negotiated multibillion-dollar deals with the slimiest sheikhs and charlatans in the bloody Middle East. I don't plan to take any crap from him.
THIRTY-ONE
Sierra Vista was no Palm Beach.
Built on the outskirts of Orlando by a development mogul from Philadelphia a dozen years ago, it was a retirement community for the middle class, not the rich. But it was safe and affordable for northeastern professionals ready to cash in their equity, collect their pensions and their Social Security checks, and settle down for some sun, some golf, a pool and recreation center, and two full-time activity directors.
Most events were over by nine. The pool closed at nine-thirty. By ten o'clock at night, most of the residents were sound asleep. That was certainly true tonight as two Orlando Police Department squad cars pulled through the front gates.
The officers wound their way down Sunset Courtyard and stopped in front of the last condo on the left. They knocked loudly and repeatedly on the front door. There was no answer. They dialed the phone number again. There was no answer. They walked around the house. The back door was locked, but there was some paint and chips of wood missing near the lock. Had someone tried to pry it open?
A moment later, they jimmied open the lock on the front door. Both officers entered carefully, not sure what they might be walking into. Each held a flashlight with one hand and his weapon with the other. They called out, but there was no answer. They moved room by room, starting on the main floor. Nothing. They went down to the basement. Nothing. Then the second floor, and the attic. That's when they really started getting worried. Not only was Ruth Jean Bennett nowhere to be found, there was no sign that she'd even been there for days.
A half hour later, the call came from Operations.
FBI director Scott Harris listened carefully and asked a few questions. But the more he learned, the more his sense of foreboding intensified.
On the surface, nothing in Ruth Bennett's home suggested a break-in or a struggle. It was not immediately apparent that the television or VCR or stereo system were missing. All components appeared to be in their proper places. It was possible that cash or jewelry was missing, since neither of the patrolmen had any sort of an inventory from Jon Bennett, who'd rarely been there over the past few years and could remember very few salient details. Several jewelry boxes had been found on Mrs. Bennett's dresser, and they were all full and appeared untouched. A safe was found in an upstairs closet. It was still closed and locked and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Both cars registered in the name of Solomon and Ruth Bennett were still in the driveway. But none of this seemed to ease Harris's fears.
The house contained no home security system. Electrical power to the home was still working, as were the phones. The Bennetts' LUDs — line-usage details — showed no calls in the past seventy-two hours, and just a handful of outgoing calls in the week prior. A few to some neighbors. A few to some local take-out restaurants. Two to the 716 area code just outside of Buffalo.
That number belonged to Dave and Dorothy Richards. An agent had just woken them up. Dorothy Richards, it turned out, was Ruth Bennett's sister. Yes, they had spoken twice. Once on Christmas Eve, and again for nearly two hours on Christmas Day. They were scheduled to talk again sometime New Year's weekend. Had Mrs. Richards heard of the events transpiring in the Middle East? No, she and her husband were retired and lived on an old farm about thirty miles south of Buffalo. A huge snowstorm had knocked out their power and frozen up their satellite TV system. They were operating on a generator, and not bothering to listen to the radio. They knew more lake-effect snow was expected, and more after that. It was Buffalo, after all. They were just enjoying their fireplace, lots of wool blankets, and a stack of murder mystery novels they'd given each other for Christmas.
"How did Mrs. Richards react when you told her about Jon Bennett's situation?" Harris asked the Op Center watch officer.
"She couldn't believe it, and now she's terrified for her sister, and her nephew. She said some of her sister's friends may have heard the news about Jon and taken Mrs. Bennett in for a few days so she wouldn't be alone. She gave us a few names and phone numbers. We're in the process of calling all of them right now. Wait, hold on."
Harris could hear several agents briefing the watch officer on their canvassing of the neighborhood, and their calls to Mrs. Bennett's friends. She was still nowhere to be found. Several of them had, in fact, been calling her repeatedly, upon hearing the news of the crisis in Gaza. They were worried about her, especially with everything happening so soon after the death of her husband, and the attack that nearly killed her son in Jerusalem. A few had dropped by, knocked on the door, peered inside the windows, but none knew where she was. They just assumed she was with someone else. They all had their own children and grandchildren in town for the holidays, so they'd been too busy to worry about it much. But they were all worried now. What had happened to her? And why?
Harris wasn't inclined to assume the worst, but the most obvious and benign answers weren't panning out. The president was expecting an update. Harris decided to call Homeland Security Secretary James first. Together, they'd brief the press at the top of the hour. What should they say? Should they even mention this at all? What did they really know at this point?
The FBI, of course, would put out an APB on the disappearance — complete with photos and a detailed description of Mrs. Bennett. It was impossible to think the news media wouldn't pick it up immediately. After all, in a few hours, the country would wake up to headlines telling them a wave of suicide bombers were heading for the United States, and that some might have already arrived. It wouldn't take much to add one and one together and assume the worst — that the mother of the president's "point man for peace" was missing and presumed kidnapped by radical Islamic extremists. So what was worse, going public and fueling a national panic, or holding back and being accused of not enlisting the public's help in finding this woman?
Dr. Eliezer Mordechai checked his watch.
They were right on time. The white Chevy Suburban from the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv arrived at exactly four, snaked up the narrow, winding road to his home, built into the hills overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, came to a stop in his muddy driveway, and honked the horn three times. That was the signal. He picked up his garment bag, punched his personal code into his home security system, arming it until his return. He had no idea when that might be. A few days? A few weeks? Once again, he was about to enter unknown territory, his natural habitat.
Three agents were waiting for him. One remained in the driver's seat. One stood watch, an Uzi in his grip. The third came up the steps to greet him. He, too, carried an Uzi, but more importantly an umbrella.
The winds were dying down. The lightning and thunder seemed to have disappeared. There was no question the weather was improving at the mar-gins. But this was still no weather to be flying in, and even in good weather Dr. Mordechai hated to fly.
Soon they were back on Highway One, bound for the FedEx processing center at Ben Gurion International Airport. At this hour, and with this weather, it could take up to two hours, instead of the usual one. But Dr. Mordechai wasn't worried. He had full confidence in the men around him, and the men he was going to see.