Destroy. The word echoed again in her mind, and for a moment, the memories of horror returned. “Go on,” she said softly.
“The men of The Brethren—and, as you probably know, they are all men—hate the Iranians. They aren’t afraid to sound the alarms or wake up our sleepwalking diplomats. They want to tell the world just how crazy the mullahs are. Think about it. The mullahs are waiting for the Twelfth Imam to show up. A boy who’s been in hiding for the last twelve hundred years! Supposedly, he’s to usher in a period of peace and harmony just before Jesus shows up to announce the End of Days. And we’re going to let these idiots have a nuclear bomb?”
“And you think The Brethren are going to stop them?”
“No. But The Brethren can help defeat that coward in the White House who thinks we can deal rationally with the irrational. And Mark Stanfield has the guts to confront the mullahs and give them an ultimatum and mean it. None of that bullshit—pardon my French—that Oxley spins about a nuclear Iran being ‘unacceptable.’”
“You simplify, Rolf. Dangerously,” she said, now feeling the danger that was an aura around him and his words. “In this world ‘there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and…’”
“‘The other,’” Eriksen said, completing Rachel’s thought with a broad smile, “‘is getting it.’ Oscar Wilde. Good for you, Rachel,” Eriksen said, making little attempt to conceal his condecension. “Wilde was an interesting, rather bizzare fellow who was quite insightful. He also said that a pessimist is one ‘who when he has the choice of two evils, chooses both.’ I rather like that.”
“Interesting,” Rachel said flatly. She decided that no useful purpose was served in exploring Eriksen’s philosophical musings. “I’m afraid I must get back to work.” She stood, signaling that she was ready to leave.
Rolf walked to the door, and opened it for her.
“Please remember one thing, Rolf. Israel cannot afford any surprises.”
“Goodbye, Rachel,” he said, smiling. “I am forewarned.”
As soon as he closed the door, Eriksen returned to the table, looked for a moment at the blank computer monitor, and then took a phone out of the desk drawer. He pressed a button that suspended the Emsec shield and spoke the six numbers that appeared on a narrow screen. He waited until two tiny screens showed green, assuring him that the phone had accepted him and was ready to scramble.
“It is time, Amos, to begin the operation,” he said.
“Understood, Isaiah. All is moving into place,” General Parker said and ended the call. Neither he nor Isaiah liked long conversations.
16
PAT FLANAGAN popped the trunk on his Honda hybrid and took out two suitcases. He carried them to a spot designated by a REGAL LUGGAGE sign outside Boston’s Black Falcon Cruise Terminal. Young men and women wearing Regal nylon jackets were walking along the rows of suitcases, checking their clipboards to match cabin numbers to numbers on the bright green luggage tags. Behind the tag-checkers came other Regal employees who loaded the suitcases onto carts.
Flanagan got back into the car and, gesturing toward the luggage, turned to his wife, Kathy, and said, “Not like Logan.” Ever since Pat and Kathy decided to take the Regal cruise, Pat had made a theme out of comparing sea travel with the ordeal of vacation flights that they had begun by threading through the maze of security lines at Boston’s Logan International Airport.
“Travel and travail. That’s where the word ‘travel’ comes from: travail,” he said, and not for the first time.
Kathy nodded as he started up the car and drove a short distance to a waterfront garage. He parked the car in a long-term space, got out, and moved quickly around to open the passenger door for Kathy, a rare act of chivalry that signaled his resolve to make this trip a second honeymoon.
A shuttle bus took them back to the terminal. They entered the cavernous main room and followed Regal signs to a line of passengers, all of them with name cards pinned to their chests. Many of the passengers looked like the Flanagans: gray-haired white men and gray-haired white women in their late fifties and mid-sixties. Nearly all of the women had sizeable bags slung over their shoulders.
The men wore new-looking white sneakers, gray or tan slacks, and tan or gray sports jackets over white or blue shirts open at the neck. The women wore daintier sneakers, slacks in pastel colors, and contrasting or matching jackets over white or ivory blouses. Nearly all the men and some of the women wore green-visored caps bearing the crown-encircled Regal logo.
A few of the passengers, scattered through the line, did not quite fit the stereotypes. Their attire was similar to the stereotypes’ attire, though some had been born in other countries. They were not white; their complexion color ranged from dark brown to light. Pat Flanagan, eying them surreptitiously (as he often did in Boston restaurants and subway cars), identified some as blacks, some as Latinos, and two couples as Muslims—that category based on the headscarves that the women preferred over Regal caps.
The line moved smoothly toward a pair of metal detectors near a double door that opened to the wharf where the Regal was berthed. After passing, two by two, through the detectors and door, passengers walked toward a gangway bearing the inevitable Regal logo. Aft of that gangway was a wider one that was used for loading baggage and other cargo.
“No shoes off here and pat downs here,” Pat said as the Flanagans went through the door. “And nobody’s nosing through your bag.”
Pat was about halfway up the passenger gangway when he noticed two Boston police officers on the other gangway, one preceding and the other following two men wearing what seemed to be identical blue blazers and khaki slacks. The four of them were descending against the flow of suitcases and boxes that crewmen were carrying aboard.
One of the men, the taller of the two, stopped and shouted at a crewman going up the gangway carrying luggage as of it was a sack of potatoes. The shorter man tugged at his companion and the officer behind him gave him a push. He angrily resumed his descent.
At the bottom of the gangway, the police officers and the two men paused. One of the officers pointed toward a door bearing a sign, NO ENTRANCE, and the four passed through a door into the terminal.
“What’s that all about?” Pat asked when he reached the top of the gangway and was greeted by a ship’s officer in a white uniform.
“Sir?”
Pat pointed toward the other gangway. “There was some kind of commotion.”
The officer looked to where Pat was pointing. “Loading, sir.”
“I can see that they’re loading. But there were two men. And—”
“I’m sorry, sir. But the line—”
“You’re holding up the line, Pat,” Kathy said. “Let’s go find our cabin.”
*
THE Flanagan cabin was on the starboard side of the upper deck, where the six highest-priced cabins were. Above was the bridge deck and below was the main deck, which was ringed with smaller cabins, each with a window. Below the main deck was the lowest deck, low enough to need portholes locked against the sea. Here was the realm of the smallest, cheapest cabins.
The Regal did not divide passengers into classes. Unlike mammoth cruise ships whose passengers numbered in the thousands, the Regal was a small democracy. There was only one lounge and only one large dining room for the one hundred and forty-six passengers. People chose their tables at each meal and sat at tables for four or six. There was only one assigned table: the Captain’s Table, to which certain passengers would be invited each evening.
On the first night out, the six invited passengers included Pat and Kathy Flanagan, whose luxury cabin earned them the invitation.
Captain Simon Hyldebrand felt far more comfortable on the bridge than he did at the slightly raised table in the center of the dining room. The Flanagans, first to arrive, chose chairs on either side of the captain who, by long experience, knew that the first to appear on the first night would be passengers who would demand the most attention
throughout the cruise.
From the forms filled out by his passengers and filed with the purser, the captain had learned that Patrick Michael Flanagan was a fifty-nine-year-old dentist who lived and practiced in the affluent Boston suburb of Newton and was allergic to shellfish; that Kathleen was fifty-seven years old and taught history at a Catholic high school in Boston; that they both took cholesterol-lowering drugs; and that their next-of-kin to be notified in case of emergency was their niece, Kelly, a Boston police officer.
Hyldebrand liked the Regal. She was small, handled as easily as a yawl, and had a reasonable number of passengers. To become captain of the Regal he had cheerfully deserted a floating resort that carried more than three thousand people. They danced in a ballroom, had a choice of eight restaurants, and strolled closed, air-conditioned decks, hardly realizing that they were at sea.
The Regal was a ship, a real ship, and the passengers usually liked it that way, whether on long cruises or short ones like this one, a leisurely seven days down the Atlantic coast. Hyldebrand had just completed a Halifax-to-Boston cruise. Now he began another, with stops at New York, Washington, Charleston, Savannah, and St. Augustine. At each stop, most of his passengers would be whisked away at dockside by buses for all-day tours. Hyldebrand dropped them off each day, picked them up each night, fed them dinner, and put them safely to bed as he sailed Regal to the next destination.
“Well, good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan,” Hyldebrand said. He glanced at their pinned-on name tags and added, “or Pat and Kathy, if I may. Regal is an informal place.” His words had the clipped, nasal rhythm of a Dane who had been taught to speak English by teachers determined that their pupils would not sound like Germans speaking English.
“I look at your uniform,” Kathy Flanagan said, “and I know I just can’t call you Simon.”
“It’s Simon for me,” Pat Flanagan said, sticking out his right hand and grasping Hyldebrand’s in a tight grip.
“Both of you enjoying your first day at sea?”
“So far so good,” Flanagan said. “No complaints … but a question.”
“I hope I can answer,” Hyldebrand said.
“It’s about the two men leaving the ship under Boston police escort. I say ‘leaving.’ It looked to me like they were being arrested.”
Hyldebrand frowned, poured a California sauvignon blanc into their three glasses, and said, “Yes. They were disembarked. I’m afraid that I cannot discuss it because it involves legal matters.” He looked up expectantly, hoping to see his other guests approaching.
“I noticed that they looked … well … foreign-looking.”
“Actually,” Hyldebrand replied, “they were Iraqis, but—”
“Iraqis? ” Flanagan interrupted. “Iraqi passengers?” The Elkton was bombed …
“We do not discriminate against anyone who makes reservations to sail on this ship,” Hyldebrand sniffed.
Hyldebrand concealed his anger toward Regal’s lawyers who had told him little, and then insisted that he not speak of it with passengers. “The Elkton,” he said smoothly, “was a warship in a war zone. I assure you, Mr. Flanagan, the Regal is on peaceful passage.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kathy said quickly. “I’m sure Pat is assured.”
“Not completely,” Pat said, looking across Hyldebrand at Kathy. “I wonder about security. The way the suitcases were handled. Nobody checked them. Did they have any stowed baggage? And—”
“I thought you liked not having to take your shoes off,” Kathy shot back, also speaking across the captain.
“Ah,” Hyldebrand said, smiling and rising. “Here come our other guests.”
*
AFTER dinner, and after an hour at the bar in the lounge, Pat and Kathy returned to their cabin. He took his smartphone out of the top drawer of his bureau and began fussing with it.
“Supposedly they have wireless on this damn ship,” he said.
“Give it to me,” Kathy ordered, taking the smartphone from his hand. She punched a couple of buttons and placed it back in his hand.
GOOGLE.COM appeared on the tiny screen. Pat sat on the edge of his bed, typed “S-a-u-d-i-s and nine-eleven” and hit ENTER.
He scrutinized the information for a moment, tapped the phone, and held it up for Kathy to see.
“There it is. In Wikipedia. Look. Fourteen of those bastards were from Saudi Arabia. How do we know who those guys who were kicked off really were? And what about those Boston cops? What the hell was that about? We’ll have to ask Kelly when we get back.”
“You’re nuts, Pat. Plain nuts. You see terrorists under the bed. And don’t bother Kelly with your cops-’n’-robbers stuff.”
Still squinting at the screen, he said, “I’m thinking of calling Homeland Security or something.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Pat. Put a sock on it. We’re supposed to be having fun. And you’re just going into your CSI mode.”
“Well, maybe when we get back I’ll call.” He closed the phone and returned it to the drawer. “Okay. From now on, I promise. We’ll just have fun.”
*
EARLY the next morning, Pat Flanagan slipped out of bed, told a drowsy Kathy that he was going to the exercise room, changed out of his pajamas into a blue-and-white sweatsuit, and took his smartphone out of the drawer. As soon as he reached the deck, he hunched behind a stairway, and turned on the smartphone.
Google gave him the Homeland Security Web site. Under SUSPECTED CRIMINAL OR TERROR ACTIVITY, he saw ONLINE REPORT TO FBI TIPS. A cursor hit brought him to a Web page topped by photos of a bald eagle, the Statue of Liberty’s torch, and the Capitol. Below the heading FBI Tips and Public Leads, he read,
Please use this Web site to report suspected terrorism or criminal activity. Your information will be reviewed promptly by an FBI special agent or a professional staff member. Due to the high volume of information that we receive, we are unable to reply to every submission; however, we appreciate the information that you have provided.
The next lines gave him a moment’s hesitation:
The information I’ve provided on this form is correct to the best of my knowledge. I understand that providing false information could subject me to fine, imprisonment, or both. (Title 18, U.S. Code, Section 1001).
But he plunged on, doing his best to type with one hand while holding the smartphone with the other. His dentist hands were skillful enough to keep his typing manageable as he entered his name, address, phone number, and e-mail. Finally, came the line that said, “Please enter your information.”
Flanagan thought for a moment and wrote:
As a passenger on cruise ship Regal, I saw two suspicious, Muslim-looking men being taken off the ship by Boston PD. At least four other passengers appear to be of Muslim persuasion. And security on ship is lax.
17
“WELL, THE heat’s off, at least for a while,” General Parker said. “That son of a bitch Dake is back to writing suck-up puffs about another pacifist sellout, our dithering president.”
Parker sat in a beige armchair next to a beige couch in the living room at the front of the house. In another beige armchair on the other side of the couch, turned slightly to face Parker, was Albert Morton, founder of Lodestone, one of the countless think tanks that supplied the Pentagon with a steady stream of responses to RFPs, the requests for proposals that fueled Washington’s consulting industry.
“Anything new? The committee still holding up the report on the Elkton?” Morton asked, knowing the attack still festered like a boil inside Parker.
“There is no question in my mind that Iran is responsible and there is no question that the committee won’t say anything official until after the election. That is no secret,” Parker said. “But who cares? With Oxley’s boys running that committee we knew that it would say nothing about Iran’s involvement. But we still got some points by leaking our stuff before the convention. There was no fucking way I was going to let them squash the truth.”
“B
ut, General … I mean, Amos. Both the Secretary of Defense and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs have said publicly that Iran had not been involved.”
“Take a look at the GNN film that has been all over TV and the Internet, the one that Stanfield uses in his commercials. Thank God for that, and I mean, thank God,” Parker said. “That so-called mystery boat that nearly sunk the Elkton … green, two suicide men in it. Right?
“What about it?”
“You were in the Navy. You know as well as I do that the mainstay of the Iranian Navy are fast coastal patrol boats.”
“That was an Iranian boat?”
“Absolutely. Our intel guys know it. Oxley has to know it. Twenty-one American soldiers and sailors blown apart. And we make believe we don’t know who did it. Oxley bagged it because he doesn’t want to finger Iran and because he’s worried about losing the support of the Russians and the Chinese. Those fuckers will sell us out in a nanosecond.”
“Well, GNN’s been backing off about the origin of the boat,” Morton said. “The British company that builds the Bladerunner says whatever Iran has, it’s not a Bladerunner. Seems Iran got one through somebody in Egypt a while ago. Then the Iranians copied it and began building them by the dozen and selling them to anybody who would buy them. But, even admitting that, as the Pentagon finally did, that doesn’t put Iranians in the boat that attacked the Elkton.”
“Cover story, a cover-your-ass story,” Parker said. “GNN cracked under pressure from Oxley. Probably threatened GNN with an FCC investigation. Stanfield had to fight to get that snip of film for his commercials.”
“And the boat?” Morton asked.
“Believe me, I see documents you don’t see. That was an Iranian boat, operated by Iranians, and ordered to do what it did by those bastards in Tehran.”
“The sanctions—”
Blink of an Eye Page 11
