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hard part would be getting away–if things got that far. He had to tell his team that they would get away, and that there was a plan. But really it didn’t matter, and in their hearts all of them knew it.
They were all willing to become sacrifices in the unannounced jihad, else they would never have joined Hezbol-lah in the first place. They were also willing to see their victims as sacrifices. But that was just a convenient label. Religion was really nothing more than a facade for what they did and who they were. A true scholar of their religion would have blanched at their purpose, but Islam had many adherents, and among them were many who chose to read the scriptures in unconventional ways, and they too, had their following. What Allah might have thought of their actions was not something they considered very deeply, and the Movie Star didn’t trouble himself to think about it at all. For him, it was business, a political statement, a professional challenge, one more task to occupy his days. Perhaps, too, it was a step toward a larger goal, the achievement of which would mean a life of comfort, and perhaps even some personal power and stability–but in his heart he didn’t really believe that, either. At first, yes, he’d thought that Israel might be overthrown, the Jews expunged from the face of the earth, but those careless beliefs of his youth had long since faded. For him, it was all mere process now, and this was one more task. The substance of the task didn’t really matter all that much, did it? he asked himself, watching the team’s grimly enthusiastic faces, as the men hit the targets. Oh, it seemed to matter to them. But he knew better.
THE DAY BEGAN at five-thirty A.M. for Inspector Patrick O’Day. A clock-radio roused him from his bed, then off to the bathroom for the usual start-up functions, a look in the mirror, and off to the kitchen to get the coffee going. It was the quiet of the day. Most people (the sensible ones) weren’t up yet. No traffic on the streets. Even the birds still slumbering on their perches. Outside to get the papers, he could feel the silence and wonder why the world wasn’t al-
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ways this way. Through the trees to the east was the glow of a coming dawn, though the stronger of the stars still burned overhead. Not a single light showing in the rest of the houses in the development. Damn. Was he the only one who had to work such punishing hours?
Back inside, he took ten minutes to scan the morning Post and Sun. He kept track of the news, especially crime cases. As a roving inspector working directly out of the office of the Director, he never knew from one day to the next when he might be sent off on a case, which often meant calling in a sitter, to the point that he sometimes thought about getting a full-time nanny. He could afford it– the insurance settlement for his wife’s death in the plane crash had actually given him a measure of financial independence, though its circumstances seemed altogether blasphemous, but they had offered it and he, on advice of counsel, had taken it. But a nanny? No. It would be a woman, and Megan would think of her as Mommy, and, no, he couldn’t have that. Instead, he did the hours and denied himself so that he could be both parents, and no grizzly bear had ever been more protective of a cub. Maybe Megan didn’t know the difference. Maybe kids thrived under the care of a mother and bonded firmly to her but could as easily bond to a father. When asked about her mommy by other kids, she explained that Mommy had gone to heaven early–and this is my daddy! Whatever the psychological circumstances, the closeness of the two which seemed so natural to Megan–she’d scarcely had the chance to know anything else–was something that occasionally brought tears to her father’s eyes. The love of a child is ever unconditional, all the more so when there is but one object for it. Inspector O’Day was sometimes grateful for the fact that he hadn’t worked a kidnapping in years. Were he to do so today … he took a sip of coffee and admitted to himself that he might just find himself searching for an excuse not to bring the subject in. There were always ways. He’d worked on six of those cases as a young agent–kidnapping for money was a very rare crime today; the word had gotten out that it was a losing game, that the full power of the FBI descended on such
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cases like the wrath of God–and only now did he understand how hateful such crimes were. You had to be a parent, you had to know the feel of tiny arms around your neck to understand the magnitude of such a violation– but then your blood turned to ice, and you didn’t so much turn off your emotions as block them out for as long as you had to before letting them free again. He remembered his first squad supervisor, Dominic DiNapoli–”the toughest wop this side of the Gambino family” was the office joke–crying like a baby himself as he carried the living victim of such a crime to see her parents. Only now did he understand how it was just one more sign of Dom’s toughness. Yeah. And that subject would never get out of Atlanta Federal Penitentiary.
Then it was time to get Megan up. She was curled up in her full-body sleeper, the blue one with Casper the Friendly Ghost on it. She was outgrowing it, he saw. Her little toes were pushing at the plastic feet. They did grow so fast. He tickled her nose, and her eyes opened.
“Daddy!” She sat up, then stood to give him a kiss, and Pat wondered how kids woke up with a smile. No adult ever did. And the day began in earnest with another trip to the bathroom. He noted with pleasure that her training pants were dry. Megan was catching on to sleeping through the night–it had been a struggle for a while– though it seemed a very strange thing to be proud about, he thought. He started to shave, a daily event that utterly fascinated his daughter. Done, he bent down so that she could feel his face and pronounce it, “Okay!”
Dinner this morning was oatmeal with sliced banana and a glass of apple juice, and watching the Disney Channel on the kitchen TV while Daddy returned to his paper. Megan took her bowl and glass to the dishwasher all by herself, a very serious task which she was learning to master. The hard part was getting the bowl into the holder properly. Megan was still working on that. It was harder than doing her own shoes, which had Velcro closures. Mrs. Daggett had told him that Megan was an unusually bright child, one more thing to beam with pride about, followed by the sadness, always, of remembering his wife. Pat
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told himself that he could see Deborah’s face in hers, but the honest part of the agent occasionally wondered how much of that was a wish and how much fact. At least she seemed to have her mother’s brains. Maybe the bright expression was what he saw?
The ride in the truck was routine. The sun was up now, and the traffic still light. Megan was in her safety seat, as usual looking at the other cars with wonderment.
The arrival was routine also. There was the agent working in the 7-Eleven, of course, plus the advance team at Giant Steps. Well, nobody would ever kidnap his little girl. At the working level, rivalry between the Bureau and the Service largely disappeared, except for the occasional inside joke or two. He was glad they were there, and they didn’t mind having this armed man come in. He walked Megan in, and she immediately ran off to hug Mrs. Daggett and put her blanky in her cubby in the back, and her day of learning and play began.
“Hey, Pat,” the agent at the door greeted him.
” ‘Morning, Norm.” Both men enjoyed an early-morning yawn.
“Your schedule’s as screwed up as mine,” Special Agent Jeffers replied. He was one of the agents who rotated on and off the SANDBOX detail, this morning working as part of the advance team.
“How’s the wife?”
“Six more weeks, and then we have to think about shopping for a place like this. Is she as good as she seems?”
“Mrs. Daggett? Ask the President,” O’Day joked. “They’ve sent all their kids here.”
“I guess it can’t be too bad,” the Secret Service man agreed. “What’s the story on the Realty case?”
“Somebody at State is lying. That’s what the OPR guys think.” He shrugged. “Not sure which. The polygraph data was worthless. Your guys picking up on anything?”