To the Death

Meanwhile, so far as Jimmy was concerned, the rest of the message was nothing short of a bloody PITA—that’s Australian for pain-in-the-ass. And Jimmy, born in the USA of Aussie parents, retained at all times the rich Aussie accent and the quaint, colorful inflections of the outback west of Sydney, where his family traced their roots. His office was where Clancy of the Overflow met James Bond. G’day, Admiral — no worries.

Meanwhile, the second part of the transmission to Syria was giving him a whole stack of worries. Reza was accounted for, and Ari was dead. But the “headquarters in Houston” was a complete blank, and that was where Reza was supposedly headed. The Texas police were concentrating a search for Ramon Salman in the Houston area, but there was no Flight 62 on any airline going anywhere near the southern Texas area.

The number 62 of course could have meant anything, and the code-breakers in Crypto City had come up with over seven thousand computerized possibilities, which included just about every takeoff in North America that week, including the Space Shuttle.

The wording did suggest that Flight 62 was the one the terrorists were supposed to be on, and that probably had meant their leaving the country ASAP. And yet, in Jimmy’s mind, he saw that last short sentence, Flight 62 affirmative, as something separate. Like a possible second hit.

He had been ruminating for a half hour on this and had twice tried to speak to his mentor, the Big Man, Admiral Morgan himself. But Mrs. Morgan thought Arnold was in Norfolk with Jimmy’s boss, Admiral Morris, on board a carrier, but he would be at the White House later for lunch with the president if Jimmy’s business was vital.

“Might not be vital now at 11:30,” he said as he put down the telephone. “But it sure as hell might be at lunchtime.”

Meanwhile, back in the Oval Office, President Bedford had just been briefed that Reza Aghani was conscious, the bullet had been removed from his arm, and he was drinking tea, resolutely refusing to utter one word to any of the six police officers currently guarding his room both inside and out.

“How long before they charge him?” asked the president.

“Maybe twenty-four hours,” replied Alan Brett. “But the CIA thinks this cat is a really dangerous little character, almost certainly an Iranian Shi’ite, based in either Gaza or Syria, probably Hamas. They’re scared some civilian court will free him and he’ll hit back at us somehow.”

“Can we make a case that he’s military?”

“Well, he was carrying a bomb with him.”

“Can that make him military?”

“I’ll ask the Pentagon.”

“Okay, Alan. I’ll see you after lunch. I’m expecting Arnold Morgan in the next few minutes. He’ll probably want Aghani shot at dawn, no questions asked.”

The professor chuckled. “Not a bad plan, that,” he said archly, as he let himself out.

Two minutes later, the president’s clock ticked over to noon and the door opened. The president did not look up, because he found the scenario more amusing that way.

“Eight bells, sir,” rasped a familiar voice. “Permission to come aboard?”

President Bedford looked up, smiling, face-to-face once more with the immaculately dressed Admiral Morgan, clean-shaven, dark gray suit, white shirt, Annapolis tie, black shoes polished to a degree appropriate to a Tiffany display case.

“Goddamned towelheads hit us again,” Morgan growled. “How does it look?”

“Lousy,” replied Paul Bedford, who was long accustomed to the admiral’s propensity to dispense entirely with formalities like “Good morning,” or “Great to see you,” or “How you been?” or “How’s Maggie?”

This applied particularly when there were matters on the desk that involved even the slightest problem of a Middle Eastern nature.

Straight to the gun deck was Admiral Morgan’s policy, and the president gave it total respect. “I guess the only good part, Arnie, is we have one of the two terrorists under arrest, in Mass General Hospital.”

“Is he under civilian or military guard?” The admiral’s tone was sharp.

“Civilian right now — six Boston cops.”

“Better change that immediately.”

“Huh?”

“Get those civilians outta there right now. Call in a Navy guard and move the little sonofabitch to the Navy Hospital in Bethesda. Let’s get some control right here.”

“But he might not be well enough to travel.”

“He’s well enough,” replied Arnold Morgan. “And anyway, who gives a rat’s ass? He just tried to blow up a thousand people, didn’t he? The hell with him. Let’s get him under military arrest.”

“I’m not absolutely clear why that’s so important at this time, Arnie. The guy’s plainly not going anywhere.”

“You want me to tell you why?”

“Of course.”