“My people are as well trained as anyone in the world,” the FBI Director said.
“What are their rules of engagement?” Parks demanded.
“They are trained to use deadly force in the protection of themselves or any innocent person. If any subject appears to be threatening a hostage, he’s a dead man.”
“That’s not good enough,” Parks said next.
“What do you mean?” the President asked.
“How long does it take to turn around and blow somebody’s head off? What if they’re willing to die to accomplish their mission? We expect our people to be, don’t we?”
“Arthur?” Heads turned to Judge Moore.
The DCI shrugged. “I can’t predict the dedication of Soviets. Is it possible? Yes, I suppose it is. Is it certain? I don’t know that. Nobody does.”
“I used to drive fighter planes for a living. I know what human reaction times are,” Parks said. “If a guy does decide to turn and shoot, even if your man has a gun on him, he might not be fast enough to keep Al alive.”
“What do you want me to do, tell my people just to kill everybody in sight?” Jacobs asked quietly. “We don’t do that. We can’t do that.”
Parks turned to the President next. “Sir, even if the Russians don’t get Gregory, if we lose him, they win. It might be years before we can replace him. I submit, sir, that Mr. Jacobs’ people are trained to deal with criminals, not folks like this, and not for this situation. Mr. President, I recommend that you call in the Delta Force from Fort Bragg.”
“They don’t have jurisdiction,” Jacobs noted at once.
“They have the right kind of training,” the General said.
The President was quiet for another minute. “Emil, how good are your people at following orders?”
“They will do what you say, sir. But it will have to be your order, in writing.”
“Can you get me in touch with them?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Jacobs picked up the phone and routed a call through his own office in the Hoover Building. Along the way it was scrambled.
“Agent Werner, please . . . Agent Werner, this is Director Jacobs. I have a special message for you. Stand by.” He handed the phone over. “This is Gus Werner. He’s been the team leader for five years. Gus passed on a promotion to stay with the HRT.”
“Mr. Werner, this is the President. Do you recognize my voice? Good. Please listen closely. In the event that you are able to attempt the rescue of Major Gregory, your only mission is to get him out. All other considerations are secondary to that objective. The arrest of the criminals in question is not, I repeat, not a matter of concern. Is that clear? Yes, even the possibility of a threat to the hostage is sufficient grounds for the use of deadly force. Major Gregory is an irreplaceable national asset. His survival is your only mission. I will put that in writing and hand it to the Director. Thank you. Good luck.” The President replaced the phone. “He says that they’ve considered this possibility.”
“He would.” Jacobs nodded. “Gus has a good imagination. Now the note, sir.”
The President took a small sheet of writing paper from his desk and made the order official. It wasn’t until he was finished that he realized what he’d done. This was not an intellectual exercise. He’d just handwritten a death warrant. It turned out to be a depressingly easy thing to do.
“General, are you satisfied?”
“I hope these people are as good as the Director says,” was all Parks was willing to say.
“Judge, any repercussions from the other side?”
“No, Mr. President. Our Soviet colleagues understand this sort of thing.”
“Then that’s it.” And may God have mercy on my soul.
No one had slept. Candi hadn’t gone to work, of course. With the arrival of the investigative team from Washington, Jennings and Perkins were baby-sitting her. There was the remote possibility that Gregory would escape, and in this event, it was deemed that he’d call here first. There was another reason, of course, but that wasn’t official yet.
Bea Taussig was a veritable tornado of energy. She’d spent the night straightening the house and brewing coffee for everyone. Odd as it seemed, it gave her something to do besides sitting with her friend. She did a lot of that, too, which no one thought especially odd. It was one of the things friends do.
Jennings took several hours to note that she was wearing an outfit that actually looked feminine. She had, in fact, gone to the trouble the previous day to make herself look rather nice. Most of that was wreckage now. Once or twice she’d shed tears herself when she and Candi cried together, and what had been a properly decorated face now showed streaks. Her clothes were wrinkled and the paisley scarf was in the closet, wrapped around the same hanger that held her coat. But the most interesting thing about Taussig, Jennings thought from her chair, was her mental state. There was tenseness there. The bustling activity of the long night had alleviated it to some degree, but . . . there was more to it than just being helpful, the agent thought. She didn’t say this to Perkins.
Taussig didn’t notice or care about what the agent thought. She looked out the window, expecting to see the sun rising for the second time since she’d last slept, and wondered where all her energy was coming from. Maybe the coffee, she thought to herself with an inward smile. It was always funny when you lied to yourself. She wondered at the danger that she herself might face, but put that worry aside. She trusted Ann’s professionalism. One of the first things she’d been told on starting her second career was that she would be protected, even to the death. Such promises had to be real, Ann had said, because they had a practical dimension. It was a business, Bea thought, and she felt confident that those in it knew how to handle themselves. The worst thing that could happen was that the police and FBI would rescue Al, but they were probably already gone, she told herself. Or maybe they’d kill him, despite what Ann had told her the previous night. That would be too bad. She wanted him out of the way. Not dead, just out of the way. She remembered the table talk at the project about how some German, Italian, and British people working in SDI-related projects had died mysteriously. So there was a precedent, wasn’t there? If Al got back alive . . . well, that was that, wasn’t it? She had to trust her controller to run things. Too late now. She turned her attention to her friend.
Candi was staring blankly at the far wall. There was a picture there, a laser-print of the space shuttle lifting off from Cape Canaveral. Not a proper picture, but something Al had picked up for free from one contractor or another and decided to hang on the wall. Bea’s thoughts returned to Candace. Her eyes were puffy from all the tears.
“You have to get some rest,” Bea told her. Candace didn’t even turn her head, hardly reacted at all, but Bea put her arm around her friend’s shoulder and lifted her from the couch. “Come on.”
Candi rose as though in a dream, and Bea guided her out of the living room and up the steps toward the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door.
“Why, Bea? Why did they do it?” Candi sat on the bed, and her stare was merely at a different wall.
“I don’t know,” Bea said, more honestly than she knew. She really didn’t know, but then, she really didn’t care.
The tears started again, and the gasping breaths, and the running nose as she watched her friend contemplate a world that someone else had torn apart. She felt momentary guilt that she was one of those who’d done it, but knew that she would make it whole again. A timid person despite all her flamboyance, Bea had found unexpected courage in herself by working for a foreign government, and more courage still in doing something that she had never expected them to ask. One more thing remained. She sat down next to her friend and held her close, bringing her head down on the offered shoulder. It was so hard for Bea. Her previous experiences had been passing college affairs. She’d tried to find in herself something different, but the men she’d dated had not satisfied. Her first sexual experience at the clumsy hands of a teenage football player had been so awful . . . but she wasn’t one to psychoanalyze herself. With strangers or mere acquaintances it was one thing, but now she had to face herself, to face her own image in the eyes of a friend. A friend in pain. A friend who needed. A friend, she reminded herself coldly, whom she’d betrayed. It wasn’t that she hated Gregory any the less, but she could not ignore the fact that he meant something to her friend, and in that sense he was still between them even here, alone in the bedroom. That worthless little caricature of a man who had on this very bed . . .