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“Who are they?” Jack asked.
Foley read off the names. Ryan had heard two of them before. “Mid- and top-level advisers to Daryaei. They’re in Baghdad, and somebody decided to get the word out. Okay, we know senior generals are flying out. Now we have five mullahs talking about rebuilding an important mosque on national TV. Tomorrow they’ll be talking louder,” the DCI-designate promised.
“Anything from people on the ground?”
“Negative,” Ed admitted. “I was talking to station chief Riyadh about sneaking up there for a sit-down, but by the time he gets there, there won’t be anyone to sit down with.”
“THAT’S A LITTLE big,” an officer said aboard the duty AWACS. He read off the alpha-numeric display. “Colonel,” the lieutenant called over the command line, “I have what appears to be a 737 charter inbound Mehrabad to Baghdad, course two-two-zero, speed four-five-zero knots, twenty thousand feet. PALM BOWL reports encrypted voice traffic to Baghdad from that track.”
Farther aft, the senior officer commanding the aircraft checked his display. The elltee in front was right. The colonel lit up his radio to report to KKMC.
THE REST OF them arrived together. They should have waited longer, Badrayn thought. Better to show up with the aircraft already here, the quicker to–but, no.
It was amusing to see them this way, these powerful men. A week earlier they’d strutted everywhere, sure of their place and their power, their khaki shirts decorated with various ribbons denoting some heroic service or other. That was unfair. Some had led men into battle, once or twice. Maybe one or two of them had actually killed an enemy. Iranian enemies. The same people to whom they would now entrust their safety, because they feared their own countrymen more. So now they stood about in little worried knots, unable to trust even their own bodyguards. Especially them. They had guns and
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were close, and they would not have been in this fix had bodyguards been trustworthy.
Despite the danger to his own life, Badrayn could not help but be amused by it. He’d spent his entire adult life dedicated to bringing about a moment such as this. How long had he dreamed of seeing senior Israeli officials standing about an airport like this–leaving their own people to an uncertain fate, defeated by his… that irony was not amusing, was it? Over thirty years, and all he’d accomplished was the destruction of an Arab country? Israel still stood. America still protected her, and all he was doing was adjusting the chairs of power around the Persian Gulf.
He was running away no less than they were, Badrayn admitted. Having failed in the mission of his life, he had done this one mercenary job, and then what? At least these generals had money and comfort before them. He had nothing ahead, and only failure behind. With that thought, Ali Badrayn swore, and sat back in his seat, just in time to see a dark shape race across the near runway in its rollout. A bodyguard at the door gestured at the people in the room. Two minutes later, the 737 came back into view. Additional fuel was not needed. The truck-borne stairway headed off, stopping only when the aircraft did. The stairs were in place before the door opened, and the generals, and their families, and one bodyguard each, and for most of them a mistress, hurried out the door into the cold drizzle that had just begun. Badrayn walked out last. Even then he had to wait. The Iraqis had all arrived at the bottom of the stairs in a tight little knot of jostling humanity, forgetting their importance and their dignity as they elbowed their way onto the steps. At the top was a uniformed crew member, smiling a mechanical greeting to people he had every reason to hate. Ali waited until the stairs were clear before heading up, arriving at the small platform and turning to look back. There hadn’t really been all that much reason to rush. There were as yet no green trucks approaching with their confused soldiers. Another hour, it turned out, would have been fine. In due course they’d come here and find nothing but an empty
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lounge. He shook his head and entered the aircraft. The crewman closed the door behind him.
Forward, the flight crew radioed the tower for clearance to taxi, and that came automatically. The tower controllers had made their calls and passed along their information, but without instructions, they just did their jobs. As they watched, the aircraft made its way to the end of the runway, increased power, and lifted off into the darkness about to descend on their country.
19
RECIPES
IT’S BEEN A WHILE, MR. Clark.”
“Yes, Mr. Holtzman, it has,” John agreed. They were in the same booth as before, all the way in the back, close to the jukebox. Esteban’s was still a nice family place off Wisconsin Avenue, and still well patronized by nearby Georgetown University. But Clark remembered that he’d never told the reporter what his name was.
“Where’s your friend?”
“Busy tonight,” Clark replied. Actually Ding had left work early and driven down to Yorktown, and was taking Patsy out to dinner, but the reporter didn’t need to know that. It was clear from his face that he already knew too much. “So, what can I do for you?” the field officer asked.
“We had a little deal, you’ll recall.”
Clark nodded. “I haven’t forgotten. That was for five years. Time isn’t up yet.” The reply wasn’t much of a surprise.
“Times change.” Holtzman lifted the menu and scanned it. He liked Mexican food, though of late the food didn’t seem to like him very much.
“A deal’s a deal.” Clark didn’t look at his menu. He stared straight across the table. His stare was something people often had trouble dealing with.
“The word’s out. Katryn is engaged to be married to some fox-chaser out in Winchester.”
“I didn’t know,” Clark admitted. Nor did he especially care.
“Didn’t think you would. You’re not an SPO anymore. Like it back in the field?”
“If you want me to talk about that, you know I can’t–”
“More’s the pity. I’ve been checking up on you for a couple of years now,” the reporter told his guest. “You
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have one hell of a service reputation, and the word is that your partner is a comer. You were the guy in Japan,” Holtzman said with a smile. “You rescued Koga.”
A scornful look concealed John’s real feelings of alarm. “What the hell would give you that idea?”
“I talked with Koga when he was over. Two-man rescue team, he said. Big guy, little guy. Koga described your eyes–blue, hard, intense, he said, but he also said that you were a reasonable man in your speech. How smart do I have to be to figure that one out?” Holtzman smiled. “Last time we talked, you said I would have made a good spook.” The waiter showed up with two beers. “Ever have this before? Pride of Maryland, a new local micro on the Eastern Shore.” Then the waiter went away. Clark leaned across the table.
“Look, I respect your ability, and the last time we talked, you played ball, kept your word, and I respect that, too, but I would like you to remember that when I go out in the field, my life rides on–”
“I won’t reveal your identity. I don’t do that. Three reasons, it’s wrong, it’s against the law, and I don’t want to piss off somebody like you.” The reporter sipped his beer. “Someday I’d sure as hell like to do a book about you. If half the stories are true–”
“Fine, get Val Kilmer to play me in the movies.”
“Too pretty.” Holtzman shook his head with a grin. “Nick Cage has a better stare. Anyway, what this meet is about. . .” He paused. “It was Ryan who got her father out, but I’m not clear on how. You went on the beach and got Katryn and her mother out, took them out by boat to a submarine. I don’t know which one, but I know it was one of our nuclear subs. But that’s not the story.”
“What is?”
“Ryan, like you, the Quiet Hero.” Robert Holtzman enjoyed seeing the surprise in Clark’s eyes. “I like the guy. I want to help him.”
“Why?” John asked, wondering if he could believe his host.
“My wife, Libby, got the goods on Kealty. Published it too soon, and we can’t go back to it now. He’s scum, even worse than most of the people down there. Not every-
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bodyln the business feels that way, but Libby’s talked to a couple of his victims. Once upon a time a guy could get away with that, especially if his politics were ‘progressive.’ Not anymore. Not supposed to, anyway,” he corrected himself. “I’m not so sure Ryan’s the right guy, either, okay? But he’s honest. He’ll try to do the right thing, for the right reasons. As Roger Durling liked to say, he’s a good man in a storm. I have to sell my editors on that idea.”