“Not bad. They’ve launched fourteen aircraft at us, and they’re getting two or three back, that’s all,” Robby said. “That’ll give them something to think about for the next time.”
“What about YorktownT the President asked.
“We have to wait and see.”
THEIR HOTEL WAS only half a mile from the Russian embassy, and like good parsimonious journalists, they decided to walk, and left a few minutes before eight. Clark and Chavez had gone a scarce hundred yards when they saw that something was wrong. People were moving listlessly for so early on the start of a working day. Had the war with the Saudis been announced? John took a turn onto another market street, and there he found people listening to portable radios in their stalls instead of moving their wares onto the shelves.
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“Excuse me,” John said in Russian-accented Farsi. “Is something the matter?”
“We are at war with America,” a fruit vendor said.
“Oh, when did this happen?”
“The radio says they have attacked our airplanes,” the fruit seller said next. “Who are you?” he asked.
John pulled out his passport. “We are Russian journalists. Can I ask what you think of this?”
“Haven’t we fought enough?” the man asked.
“TOLD YOU. THEY’RE blaming us,” Arnie said, reading over the intercept report off Tehran radio. “What will that do to the politics in the region?”
“The sides are pretty much drawn up,” Ed Foley said. “You’re either on one side or the other. The UIR is the other. Simpler than the last time.”
The President checked his watch. It was just past midnight. “When do I go on the air?”
“Noon.”
RAMAN HAD TO stop at the Maryland-Pennsylvania line. A good twenty or so trucks were waiting for clearance from the Maryland State Police, with the National Guard in close attendance, and they lined up two by two, completely blocking the road at this point. Ten angry minutes later, he showed his ID. The cop waved him through without a word. Raman turned his light back on and sped off. He turned on the radio, caught an all-news AM station, but missed the top-of-the-hour news summary and had to suffer through all the rest, largely the same thing he’d been hearing all week, until twelve-thirty, when the network news service announced a reported air battle in the Persian Gulf. Neither the White House nor the Pentagon had commented on the alleged incident. Iran claimed to have sunk two American ships and shot down four fighters.
Patriot and zealot that he was, Raman couldn’t believe it. The problem with America, and the reason for his mission of sacrifice, was that this poorly organized, idolatrous, and misguided nation was lethally competent in the
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use offeree. Even President Ryan, he had seen, discounted as he was by politicians, had a quiet strength to him. He didn’t shout, didn’t bluster, didn’t act like most “great” men. He wondered how many people appreciated just how dangerous SWORDSMAN was, for that very reason. Well, that was why he had to kill him, and if that had to come at the cost of his own life, so be it.
TF61.1 TURNED SOUTH behind the Qatar Peninsula without further incident. Yorktown’s forward superstructure was badly damaged, the electrical fire having done as much damage as the missile fragments, but with her stern turned to the enemy, that didn’t matter. Kemper maneuvered his escorting ships yet again, placing all four behind the tank carriers, but another attack was not forthcoming. The result of the first had stung the enemy too badly. Eight F-15s, four each of the Saudi Air Force and the 366th, orbited overhead. A mixture of Saudi and other escort ships turned up. Mainly mine-hunters, they pinged the bottom in front of COMEDY, looking for danger and finding none. Six huge container ships had been moved off the Dhahran quay to make room for Bob Hope and her sisters, and now three tugs each appeared to move them alongside. The four Aegis ships maintained station even sitting still, dropping their anchors fore and aft, mooring five hundred yards off their charges to maintain air defense coverage through the unloading process. The decoy force, having suffered not a single scratch, pulled into Bahrain to await developments.
From the wheelhouse of USS Anzio, Captain Gregory Kemper watched as the first brown buses pulled up to the tank-carriers. Through his binoculars, he could see men in “chocolate-chip” fatigues trot to the edge, and watched the stern ramps come down to meet them.
“WE HAVE NO comment at this time,” van Damm told the latest reporter to call in. “The President will be making a statement later today. That’s all I can say right now.” “But–”
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“That’s all we have to say right now.” The chief of staff killed the line.
PRICE HAD ASSEMBLED all of the Detail agents in the West Wing, and gone through the game plan for what was coming. The same would be repeated for the people in the White House proper, and the reaction there would be pretty much the same, she was certain: shock, disbelief, and anger bordering on rage.
“Let’s all get that out of our systems, shall we? We know what we’re going to be doing about it. This is a criminal case, and we’ll treat it like a criminal case. Nobody loses control. Nobody gives anything away. Questions?” There were none.
DARYAEI CHECKED HIS clock again. Yes, finally, it was time. He placed a telephone call over a secure line to the UIR embassy in Paris. There, the ambassador placed a call to someone else. That person made a call to London. In all cases, the words exchanged were innocuous. The message was not.
PAST CUMBERLAND, HAGERSTOWN, Frederick, Raman turned south on 1-270 for the last hour’s worth into Washington. He was tired, but his hands tingled. He’d see a dawn this morning. Perhaps his last. If so, he hoped it would be a pretty one.
THE NOISE MADE the agents jump. Both checked their watches. First of all, the number calling in came up on an LED display. It was overseas, code 44, which made it from the U.K.
“Yes?” It was the voice of the subject, Mohammed Ala-had.
“Sorry to disturb you so early. I call about the three-meter Isfahan, the red one. Has it arrived yet? My cus-
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tomer is very anxious.” The voice was accented, but not in quite the right way.
“Not yet,” the groggy voice replied. “I have asked my supplier about it.”
“Very well, but as I said, my customer is quite anxious.”
“I will see what I can do. Good-bye.” And the line went dead.
Don Selig lifted his cellular phone, dialed headquarters, and gave them the U.K. number for a quick check.
“Lights just came on,” Agent Scott said. “Looks like it woke our boy up. Heads up,” she said into her portable radio. “Subject is up and moving.”
“Got the lights, Sylvia,” another agent assured her.
Five minutes later, he emerged from the front door of the garden-style apartment building. Tracking him was not the least bit easy, but the agents had taken the trouble to locate the four closest public phones and had people close to all of them. It turned out that he picked one at a combination gas station/convenience store. The computer monitor would tell them what number he called, but through a long-lens camera he was observed to drop in a quarter. The agent on the camera saw him hit 3-6-3 in rapid succession. It was clear a few seconds later, when another tapped phone rang, and was answered by a digital answering machine.
“Mr. Sloan, this is Mr. Alahad. Your rug is in. I don’t understand why you do not call me, sir.” Click.
“Bingo!” another agent called over the radio net. “That’s it. He called Raman’s number. Mr. Sloan, we have your rug.”
Yet another voice came on. “This is O’Day. Take him down right now!”
It wasn’t really all that hard. Alahad went into the store to buy a quart of milk, and from there he walked directly back home. He had to use a key to enter his apartment house, and was surprised to find a man and a woman inside.
“FBI,” the man said.
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Alahad,” the woman said, producing handcuffs. No guns were in evidence, but he
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didn’t resist–they rarely did–and if he had, there were two more agents just outside now.
“But why?” he asked.
“Conspiracy to murder the President of the United States,” Sylvia Scott said, pushing him against the wall.
“That’s not so!”
“Mr. Alahad, you made a mistake. Joseph Sloan died last year. How do you sell a rug to a dead man?” she asked. The man jerked back as though from an electric shock, the agents saw. The clever ones always did when they found out that they had not been so clever at all. They never expected to be caught. The next trick was in exploiting the moment. That would start in a few minutes, when they told him what the penalty was for violating 18 USC§1751.