Rachel Ullman had just closed the Telex room door and was turning to walk down the hall when her cell phone rang. She looked at the number and saw it was Barnett. Despite what Gershon said, she felt she could not duck him any longer. “Where have you been?” she quickly went on the offensive. “You should have called and given me an update. Did you find anything in New Jersey?”
“No. It was a complete waste of time.”
“So was Boston. The IRA knows nothing.”
“Damn, that’s really surprising. I would have put money on Boston.”
“Me too, but why didn’t you call me?”
“I did, and I left a couple of messages. You mean you didn’t get them?”
“Airports? Airplanes? Who knows? I’ve been having a lot of dropped calls lately.”
“Anyway,” he asked. “Is Mouse with you?”
“Uh, no… He headed out to Los Angeles earlier tonight.”
“Los Angeles? Well, if Boston was a waste of time, I hate to think of what L.A.’s going to be like.”
“It was something the IRA guy said about the Islamists having new support circles out on the West Coast.”
“How would he know?”
“Well, the Egyptian decided it was worth checking out.” Rachel answered as she looked at her wristwatch. “Damn, it is late. I must get to the airport myself.”
“Okay, call me when you get in. I still have a lot of questions.”
“Fine! Questions are fine, but I must go. I will phone you tomorrow,” Ullman snapped, then immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. Look, I have been a little short on sleep the past few days. I talked to my people back home, and they are beginning to think this is all a false alarm anyway. There are reports that Al-Bari was spotted in Beirut this week. Who knows, but I am hardly going to question them.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“Well, that is the way these things go sometimes.”
Barnett was puzzled by both her tone and her words. “If you say so.”
“I do, and I have a plane to catch. Ciao,” she said as she hung up.
Yeah, ciao to you too, Barnett thought as he stared at his cell phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thursday, October 18, 6:15 pm
President Michael Wagner stood before the mirror in the State bedroom on the second floor of the beautiful, two-story brick Lightfoot House in the Historic Area of Colonial Williamsburg, fighting with the last uncooperative pearl stud on his dress shirt. “Damn these things, Sid,” he said, turning in desperation to Senator Jensen. “Give me a hand here, will you?”
“You have a butler, you know. I’m sure he’d be better at this than I would.”
“He’s a Presidential Aide, Sid. I’m way too Democratic to have a butler.”
“Whatever. He’s being paid for it — and I’m sure he’s being paid a lot — so if you don’t use him, he becomes a waste of taxpayers’ money. Relax. It’s early, and you know the Israelis will keep haggling over the details with Lang right into tomorrow, right up to your speech, despite your deadline.”
“They’ve had five Cabinet Meetings since I left.”
“If he knew anything, he’d be on the phone. You know that.”
“Maybe, but dress shirts and long waits are two things I can’t stomach about this job,” Wagner said as he raised his chin while Jensen worked the last stud into place. “I’d never have taken this job if I knew how much of those I’d be forced to put up with.”
“There! I finally got the little bugger,” Jensen crowed. “Now sit down and finish your drink, Mr. President. And you’re right, you know. I always thought it was the big decisions of state — the life and death stuff, peace or war, jobs, the environment, those kinds of things that got to presidents and aged them so prematurely. But it is none of those, is it? It is the waiting. I can see that, being around you.” Jensen paused as he took a sip of his own Scotch. “I guess it’s like being a fireman between fires. Down deep in your bones, you know something bad is going to happen. You know it. So you keep staring at the alarm, waiting for the damn thing to go off so it will confirm your worst suspicions. And when it does go off, it’s already too late.”
“I suppose you’re right, but at least the firemen know what to do when it does. The thing that is most maddening around here is that we have a million experts. Every one of them thinks he knows how to fight a fire, and the one thing they all lack is common sense.” They sat quietly and drank for a few minutes, watching the phone despite their own rhetoric. Finally, Wagner looked over at him and said, “You were right about presidents aging prematurely, though, Art. If you look at photos taken in the Oval Office, you’ll see that none of my predecessors ever kept old pictures of themselves around — like ones taken before they ran, or even ones taken at their inaugurations. As I looked in the mirror last month, I realized why.”
“Maybe you should have the water checked. Maybe the White House well has tapped into… Oh, I don’t know, maybe a reverse Fountain of Youth.” Jensen’s laugh petered out into an embarrassed silence.
Wagner looked back, straight-faced. “Remember how old Obama looked when he left office? The gray hair? Lord, he must have aged at least thirty years in just eight. ‘Slick Willie’ Clinton? And Carter? Now, I must admit that Reagan still looked good. So did the two Bushes. Maybe it’s just the Democrats, but they say every president dies in office. Sometimes they just have to wait a few years to bury us, that’s all.” He took another big swallow of the drink. “Damn! What’s happening?”
Wagner stood and walked around the room. He paused at the front window to savor the view. It was nearly sunset and the sight across the Williamsburg village green was one of the prettiest he had ever seen. The long, fading rays of the sun exploded through the red and yellow leaves of the oak and poplar trees outside, creating a spectacular autumn scene. Turning back toward Art Jensen, he said, “I love this time of year here in Williamsburg. I always think nothing can top it until I come down here in April when all the dogwoods and azaleas are in bloom.”
“Maybe when all of this is over, we can get you appointed as a professor at William and Mary. Think HEW can swing that?”
“It may take a couple of grants, but that’s not a bad idea,” Wagner mused. As he looked back out the window, he shook his head and swore again, “Damn! Come on, Andrews. We’ve done nothing but wait for two days now. And the Israelis haven’t given a hint which way the tree is going to fall.”
Jensen shrugged. “At least they haven’t turned us down yet.”
“I hope to God they don’t. My heart really isn’t in that second speech.” Returning to his chair, Wagner paused to look wistfully around the room. He looked down and rubbed the arms of the chair with the palms of his hands. “Real eighteenth century — like the town, it helps to put things in perspective and remind us where we came from.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Wagner said expectantly. As the door opened and he saw it was Secretary of Defense Korshak, not an aide with a message, he muttered, “Oh, damn!… Sorry, Anna, that really wasn’t meant for you. I was… oh, never mind. Glad you could make it, though.”
“What a great welcome. I take it you still haven’t heard anything.”
“Very perceptive,” replied Senator Jensen.
“Anyway, the briefings are set for the morning with the rest of the administration, the Congressional leadership, key members of the diplomatic corps, and the press, either here or by phone depending on where they are.”
“Great, Anna, I appreciate it,” Wagner said sincerely. “From the looks of the town, I suspect almost everyone we want is here. What’s the weather report for tomorrow, anyway?”
“Perfect. Crystal-clear skies, high about seventy degrees,” Korshak replied. “They expect over a hundred thousand people at Yorktown for the ceremonies, by the way.”
“Well, one way or the other, they’ll get a hell of a show,” Jensen said.
“Imagine all the Federal expense reports that will be papering the District next week.”
“When I see Governor Lane of Virginia tomorrow, I’m going to remind him about all this Yankee foreign aid we’ve brought down to help his depressed economy.”
As they all laughed, Jensen asked, “When do you get with the heads of state?”
“If we hear anything, I’ll corner some of them at dinner tonight. The rest I’ll catch tomorrow. Fifteen minutes is all I should need.” Looking at his watch again, he said, “Well, it’s almost show time. Let’s head on to the Lodge. I want to work the crowd and do some last-minute politicking.”
They followed him out the bedroom door and down the steep open staircase to the first floor. “Jimmie,” Wagner called out to his aide, “let’s go.”
“Yes, Sir. Your car is waiting out front.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s only a couple of hundred yards. We can walk.”
“Mr. President, the Secret Service gets some serious heartburn whenever I let you do that,” his aide pleaded.
“A compromise,” Wagner said, raising his hands. “We’ll go out the back. No assassin would expect the President to come strolling out from between the garbage cans, right?”
“As you wish, Sir,” his aide sighed, “I’ll be right with you.”
“No, you stay here by the phone. When Lang Andrews’s call comes in, I want someone besides the maid here to answer it.”
They walked out into the ornate colonial garden beautifully arranged inside the white picket fence with boxwood hedges and autumn flowers. The sun had already sunk below the Lodge to their right. The strong, pungent aroma of the boxwoods was even more powerful in the still evening air.
“Anna,” Wagner asked with a smile, “do you think LaGrange would be mad if I decided to put my presidential library here instead?”
“Since all it will have is your collection of Playboy and Sports Illustrated from 1968, I doubt they’ll stay mad very long.”
They walked on across South England Street and turned up the crescent driveway of the Lodge. Hearing footsteps quickly running up from behind, the half-dozen Secret Service agents alertly spun around with their hands in their coat pockets.
“Mr. President,” Jimmie panted as he caught up. “I’ve got it, Sir! The Secretary just called and I wrote it all down. Here,” he said as he handed an impatient Wagner the small slip of paper.
The sunset was no less beautiful seen from a small boat in the middle of the York River seventeen miles to the northeast. Most of the wide orange ball was just settling behind the dense line of trees along the far shore. It cast the Yorktown side in deep shadows, while the Gloucester Point side remained bathed in a soft yellow light. Along its shore could clearly be seen the deep green pines, crimson maples, bright gold poplars, and russet oaks. They stood out in relief high above the narrow ribbon of white sand along the water. It was a spectacular view, but even more spectacular to two men accustomed to arid rolling hills, cedars, orange trees, and olive groves.
They had found a rundown boat marina downriver from Gloucester Point near the small town of Achilles. It was on a tributary of the York, mostly frequented by the locals and catering to fishermen, oystermen, and crabbers. When they told the owner they were looking to rent one of his small fishing boats and some rods for a week and offered to pay cash, up front, he greeted them like long-lost cousins. For an extra twenty dollars, he did not mind at all if they parked their camper right there for the night and slept in it.
“No problem at all, boys,” he said. “This way ya’ll can get a head start on the fish, and I’ve got someone to look after the place at night. Nope, it’ll work out just fine for both of us. And some cash money those bastards at the IRS don’t know about won’t hurt neither.”
After they pushed the small boat away from the pier and navigated into the York River, Hafez Arazi asked, “What kind of fish did you say we were supposed to be looking for?”
“The man said, ‘the croaker and bluefish were running,’ or something like that. I have no idea what that means, so throw the line out every so often and try to look like a native.”
“Then we should have brought some Doctor Pepper and a couple of toothpicks.” Arazi laughed to break the tension. “If we really do catch something, perhaps we will find out if a bluefish is really blue. This water is certainly cold enough.”
Al-Bari smiled as he kept the boat on its meandering course upriver. “If anyone comes over to us and gets curious, say it is a slow night and ask them what bait they are using.”
“That is exactly what the fishermen back home say. Still, this must not be a very popular time to fish,” Arazi said as he peered up and down the river. “We are the only boat out here.”
“There have been a few boats around, but you are right. So let us not look any more conspicuous than we already are. I don’t want to reach the bridge until it is dark.”
After they retrieved the camper from Dante’s shop in Columbia and the mortar from the storage shed in Gloucester, they drove to a secluded County park further north in Mathews, Virginia, where they could practice leveling the camper, assembling the mortar, plotting the target’s coordinates, screwing the detonator fuzes into the shells, loading, and adjusting the elevating and traversing gears. Time was short, so they drilled and drilled on firing the mortar until the motions became automatic. As they drove back to Gloucester, Arazi smiled and said, “Events are moving in step with your plan, Ibrahim. I must admit that I cannot believe it.”
“That is what concerns me. I would be less nervous if we had encountered more trouble than just that fool Murphy. No operation ever goes perfectly. I fully expected someone to get a whiff of us somewhere, so we must be very careful now. We are on the last leg, so trouble can be fatal. We must be very alert, always looking over our shoulders.”
They finally reached the bridge and Al-Bari steered the small boat well into the shadows around one of the center pilings. A protective skirt of heavy wooden posts surrounded the base of the concrete and ran above the high-water mark to protect each piling from accidental bumps by passing boats. The large, square concrete columns themselves rose fifteen feet above the water. They provided the bases for the complex web of steel girders, which continued upward into the darkness. Down on the water, the roar and vibrations of the radial tires on the cars and trucks crossing the bridge’s well-lit roadway high above seemed amplified as the sound carried down the steel girders.
There were iron rungs set in the concrete. “Tie up the boat at both ends and check your knots. We will have a long swim if it is not here when we come back down.”
It was chilly, damp, and very dark in the deep shadows down at water level. “All right, Hafez, let us go up,” Al-Bari said as he took one last look around. They slipped out of their jackets and hats and slung light haversacks across their backs. “Be careful on the wood posts, they are wet and very slippery — careful, but quick.”
Once on top of the wood pilings, it was easy to find the steel rungs sunk in the concrete. Their rubber-soled shoes bounced quietly as they scurried up the ladder to the steel legs of the superstructure. There were more rungs welded to the steel beams, so he and Arazi continued up until they reached the first row of horizontal supports high above. Al-Bari was well trained and fit, but he knew his cousin spent his days behind a desk and would feel the tightness in his thighs from the brisk pace. They were halfway up, closer to the top now. The rattle and hum of the passing cars were much louder here, and the steel around him came alive each time one went overhead. As he looked up in the darkness, he could make out the thin gray lace of steel as it arched and connected everything together, crossing back and forth between the larger vertical columns that supported the platform of the bridge.
“This spot will do nicely, Hafez,” Al-Bari decided as he carefully pulled off his pack and took out the first of the heavily wrapped packages of plastique explosive and one of the radio-controlled detonators. Examining them closely, he
pushed the detonator into the soft block of plastique and turned on its receiver. Reaching up, he pressed the package firmly into the crotch of the girders. He did the same with one on another column and then moved on to a third and fourth. Painted gray, with no exposed wires, the two packages could only be seen under the most detailed of searches. If it ever came to that, the color would not make much difference anyway, he thought.
Arazi climbed across the girders to four other columns and did the same. His parcels and the ones that Al-Bari was putting into place were set on different frequencies to guard against any jamming or interference. The receivers had been carefully checked and tested to ensure they would work when they were needed. The odds were that all would work flawlessly, but one set was all they would need to get the job done, bring down the center span, and render the big bridge impassable. If all the charges went off, the entire bridge would come down in a spectacular show as they began their escape. For certain, they would have a great view, he thought. Too bad they would be a little busy then to really enjoy it.
Looking to his right, Al-Bari gave a soft whistle. A few moments later, Arazi answered. All of the charges were now in place and they began their descent to the boat. Climbing back down the cold, damp rungs, Al-Bari began to feel the excitement grow within himself. The last of his many preliminary steps was now finished. The planning phase had concluded a week ago. Now, the preparation phase was complete. As of this moment, they were in the execution phase. This was what it was all about, he thought. Going back to his earliest days of training, this was the point he longed to reach. The execution phase meant a new set of parameters: maximum vigilance, a higher acceptable level of risk, combat readiness, and weapons locked and loaded. Previously, they were prepared to walk away and fight again another day. Now, however, they must continue forward until it became impossible. They were in a foreign country and it would be victory or death.
Aim True, My Brothers Page 21
