That was when he heard that woman’s voice again, with a sharper edge to it this time, “Look, his system’s had a rough time, and we don’t want to tire him out, now do we?”
“I’m not leaving,” he heard another woman’s equally determined voice say.
“They told me to let you stay, but I am his nurse, and you need to keep it short,” the voice stated firmly. “Somehow, I didn’t think you’d understand, honey.”
“Somehow, you didn’t understand either, honey! I am not leaving!”
The first voice paused. Even half-awake, Barnett could feel the angry tension in the room. “All right. If you go sit in the corner and be quiet like these two nice gentlemen here, I’ll let you stay for a while longer. But I’ll be checking back in a few minutes, and you don’t want to disappoint me, honey… And remember, NO smoking!”
Barnett heard steps going away, a door open and close, and the second voice mutter, “Bitch… I’m going out for a smoke, but I’ll be back,” she said to someone else.
He knew it was Louise’s voice, but he learned long ago when to leave things well enough alone with her. Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings and his brain continued nudging his body to do something. His eyes fluttered open again and he blinked to chase away the white haze. Focusing, he realized it was not a white haze; it was an all-white acoustical tile ceiling he was looking at.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Agent Barnett, you had me worried.”
He turned his head a few inches toward this new voice, but even a slight movement made his head explode with pain. His eyes slammed shut again, but not before he recognized the Egyptian Ambassador sitting calmly in an armchair a few feet from his bed. Fawzi’s hands lay folded in his lap. He wore his usual perfectly tailored blue pinstripe suit and burgundy silk tie, as if he were at a diplomatic reception. Behind him in the corner stood Gamal, hands clasped in front of him, expressionless. Preposterous, Barnett thought. He must still be dreaming. But slowly the pieces came together and he realized that he was lying in a hospital bed and they must have him drugged up big time. He thought about it, and then opened his eyes again and slowly looked around. A hospital room? What kind of hospital has rooms this big, with soft pastel colors, expensive leather furniture, a big flat screen TV, and thick, wall-to-wall carpet, he wondered. Turning his eyes, he saw a tall, wooden end table next to him, upon which stood a huge, colorful floral bouquet.
“Where am I…? What is this?” Barnett asked in a rasping voice.
“This?” Ambassador Fawzi answered as he too looked around. “You are in Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland, in the Presidential Suite, no less — well, at least one small part of it, or so I am told — compliments of a certain gentleman in the Oval Office. Not bad, eh?”
“The Presidential Suite?” Barnett mumbled as he reached up with one shaking hand and felt bandages around his head. He could also feel tight wrappings on his chest and looked down to see that one leg was in a big cast held up in traction by a series of wires and pulleys.
The Ambassador could see it had not all sunk in yet. “Lie back and take it easy, Edward,” he said. “It will all come back soon enough, probably a lot sooner than you would like. You took a few bullets, fortunately only in one leg, Allah be praised for that; but the rest of you took a severe pounding when the camper and the helicopter exploded. I’m afraid it was touch and go with you for a while.”
“I feel like I got run over by a truck.”
“No doubt. The doctors do not think there’s any permanent damage, but you also have a bad concussion, several broken ribs, and far too many bumps, bruises, and burns. The leg will take some extensive rehabilitation, but you should be up and about in a few weeks and back to normal before you know it. Fortunately, you fell flat in a ditch and were unconscious, so most of the flying debris and shrapnel passed over you, except for one of the large roof panels that fell on top of you, but it could have been far worse. They think the panel may have protected you from the worst of it.”
“Roof panel?” Barnett asked as horrible images of explosion and fire began to flash through his head. He remembered the helicopter and seeing the trees and parking lots from high above. And then he saw the bridge, Gloucester Point, the camper, the guns, Daniels, Kamal, gunfire, and the explosion. “I remember Arazi was standing in front of the camper’s rear doorway. We were shooting at each other as I ran toward him, shooting, until something took my legs out from under me and knocked me down. Then I saw Al-Bari standing there. I threw that hand grenade and took a few shots at him with my revolver, but that’s about all I remember. What… What happened?”
“God willing, the man failed,” the ambassador said quietly. “Mercifully, he never got a single shot off with the mortar, but it was a close thing, seconds, that close. But his plan failed and he is dead, thanks entirely to you and Agent Daniels… and to Kamal.”
“But how?”
“Do you remember the explosion?”
Barnett frowned as the images continued to flash before him of Al-Bari in the doorway, and then a huge roar and a gust of wind and blowing dirt and sticks as something flew over him, followed by a fireball and earthquake before he passed out.
“I am afraid there is not much more that I can tell you. You are the only one to make it out alive, Edward,” the Ambassador consoled him. “It is believed that Agent Daniels died in the initial burst of gunfire from Arazi before you killed him.”
“What about Kamal?” Barnett asked, looking first at Fawzi, and then at Gamal, whose expression never changed.
The Ambassador straightened himself in the chair before he said, “Kamal Bashari crashed the helicopter into the camper. Daniels was down and you were down. There are recordings from the radio traffic when Kamal called in his warning. Apparently, his microphone was left open. No one will ever know for sure, but we believe he had been gravely hit in the earlier exchange of gunfire. Sitting in the cockpit mortally wounded, he could see Al-Bari was about to fire the mortar. The only weapon at Kamal’s disposal that could stop the madman was the helicopter itself. So he did his duty. He took off, flew it into the camper, and destroyed it. With great national pride, I tell you it was one of the bravest acts I have ever seen a man make.”
Barnett looked over at him and nodded, then let his head drop back onto the pillow.
“The same must be said of you and Agent Daniels, my friend, and of Mustapha Khalidi as well. It is true of all four of you. Each of you did what you had to do to stop Ibrahim Al-Bari, Edward. We all paid a horrendous price, but in the end it was necessary.”
Barnett looked over at the bedside table and saw a small card next to a large vase of flowers. He reached out with an unsteady hand and pushed it closer with his finger. The card bore the seal of the President of the United States and there was a neat, hand-written note below it, which said, “With deepest gratitude to a very brave friend, Mike Wagner.”
“I think you will want to keep that, Edward,” the Ambassador said. “If you ever get in another high-stakes government power game, and I have no doubt that you will, you will find it is the Ace of Trumps.”
“Like a ‘Get Out Of Jail Card’?” Barnett snorted.
“Yes, but remember, you can only play it once,” the Ambassador answered with a knowing smile. “You also need to know that the parties involved have decided that it is best to drop a lid on this Al-Bari affair. The truth would help no one now. Your FBI and Secret Service do not want it widely known that a terrorist could get that close to the President and so many other national and international leaders. The Arab governments, including mine in Cairo, prefer it be kept quiet, because a blatant attempt on your President’s life would turn what little is left of American public opinion even more sharply against us. The Israelis feel much the same due to the inexplicable role that General Gershon, Colonel Ullman, and their Defense Minister played in Moustapha Khalidi’s death and in allowing Ibrahim Al-Bari to continue forward, unimpeded. You see, no one likes or wants
a fanatic or a ‘true believer,’ Edward. We do not, and I know the Israelis do not either — not now and certainly not here. The big ears of your National Security Agency had little trouble finding and deciphering their supposedly secure text messages, so the truth is there for all to see.”
“More trump cards?”
Fawzi smiled. “I am told that those officials have been quietly retired, in disgrace. Even the Iranians and Hamas prefer the matter be forgotten. They know their involvement would trigger a massive American response, and they are not prepared for that, despite all their bluster.” The Ambassador looked down and picked at the seams of his trousers. “So, it has all been dismissed as a most unfortunate military aircraft accident.” Looking up at Barnett again, he added, “What did happen, and the part you played in it, however, will not be forgotten by those of us who do know the truth.”
The door opened and a nurse leaned into the room. She scowled at the Ambassador and pointed to her watch.
“It appears we must leave now, my friend,” the Ambassador said as he stood and put on his coat. “If you need anything, anything at all, you need but ask; not that your own government is likely to leave you wanting. I suspect you now have a new and very large Uncle in the White House, as we call it, one who will insure that you are well provided for. With his new peace agreements in place, his second term is assured, guaranteeing you complete protection. You may now feel free to tweak the noses of Cabinet Secretaries and Directors anytime you feel like it, because they cannot touch you.”
When he reached the door, the Ambassador turned back and said, “Take care, Agent Barnett. I know this may not feel like a victory to you, but it was, and you did everything you could possibly do.”
As the door slowly closed behind the Ambassador and his bodyguard, Barnett turned his head toward the wall. Fariq Fawzi’s words, “You did all you could,” kept running around in Barnett’s head. Too bad he did not believe it, he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep.
He was jarred awake again by the sound of two women arguing in hushed, angry voices. Despite his bruises, bandaged head, bandaged ribs, and a leg in traction, if he did not move, he could almost pretend he was comfortable, until their voices lashed at him like a fistful of razor blades.
“Of course I'm his sister! Why the hell else would I be here?”
“I told you, he needs his rest!”
“Do you see a big line of people waiting outside to see him?”
“No, but them government people ain’t gonna be happy with you or with me if they find you in here again, honey! Neither will his doctors. You can’t live here, so go home and get some rest. Besides, you look like you haven’t had any sleep in days, and you ain’t doin’ yourself or that pretty face of yours no favors.”
“All right, I’ll be quiet and sit there in the corner like a little mouse, honest.”
“A little mouse?” the nurse chortled. “I know who you are. I’ve seen see you plenty on television, and you ain’t no mouse.”
Barnett heard the door close and he opened one eye. “Louise, you never could watch me sleep, could you?”
“Eddie, oh, my God!” she cried as she rushed to the bed and tried to hug him. He winced and groaned as the pain from his ribs shot through the top of his head.
“Oh, Jeez, I’m sorry,” she said. “Really. Where’s it hurt?”
“Everywhere, Louise. How long have I been here?”
“How am I supposed to know? Apparently, even very significant others do not count for much around here. For two days, they wouldn’t even tell me where you were.”
“Maybe I told them not to tell you.”
“That is so un-funny!” she glared at him. “But I know you were unconscious the whole time, so you couldn’t have told anybody anything.”
“Didn’t stop you though, did it?”
“Me? Of course not. I beat it out of Charlie.”
“Ah, the weak link — and the obvious choice.”
“You do know what he did to me by the way?”
“Louise, how could I…”
“At Yorktown, just before the explosions started, the Secret Service grabbed Wagner as he was starting to talk, picked him up, and rushed him off the podium. The rest of them in the reviewing stand acted like the recess bell had just gone off and were running everywhere. This was my big chance! I elbowed myself in front of the camera with my microphone ready, waiting for the Network to come live to me. The Network! I had just taken the cue from that jerk Peter. I was live on the network! Me! I started talking, and just then that fat old Polack Charlie swooped in, threw me over his shoulder, and whisked me off camera at a dead run.”
“Charlie… whisked you?... At a dead run?” he grimaced as he tried not to laugh.
“Yes! And it’s not funny! Can you believe it? That big old goof carried me back behind our TV van, tossed me on the ground, and jumped on top of me.”
“He always had the hots for you, Louise.”
“That was not what he was doing! Besides, he was panting and sweating so badly I thought he was going to die, right there, on top of me.”
“You’d have a real tough time explaining that one to Norma Jean.”
“Very funny!” she said as she looked around. “But this room, Bethesda, all the security, the flowers — and don’t even try to lie to me about them or the cards. I read them, all of them. What the hell’s going on, Eddie?”
“I can’t remember anything, Louise. The doctors said…”
“Oh, no! You were in that ‘thing’ across the river, weren’t you? That’s how you got hurt, isn’t it.”
Barnett looked up at her with a blank expression. “What ‘thing’?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was; I knew it!” she said angrily, with her arms folded across her chest. “There was no ‘airplane crash,’ was there? That bastard Charlie told me you were in a car wreck over in Matthews, but you weren’t in any car wreck, either, were you? You were in Gloucester when something blew up over there, weren’t you?”
“The doctors said it could take a few weeks, maybe…”
“No you don’t, Edward Barnett! I know better, and by now you should know it isn’t a good idea to lie to me, because I can see right through you,” she said as her eyes bore in on him. “Yeah, that's what I thought. You’re lying through your teeth!”
Next to her on the end table stood the huge flower arrangement. Louise flicked at the card with her long red fingernail, and then flicked at several other cards lying next to it. “Let's see, this one's from the Egyptian Ambassador. It came first, but we already know that, because he was here sitting in that chair, like every day, don’t we? This one here came from some Secret Service guy named Marchetti, who is gushing all over you. Then there’s this one from the Director of the goddamned FBI, Eddie. The Director! And I know he absolutely hates you. And there’s one that I don’t even begin to understand, full of mea culpas from the Israeli Ambassador of all people. But for dessert, there’s this really big bunch of flowers — and I know how you hate flowers — from the goddamned President, Eddie! The President! Of the United States, and he wrote the card himself: ‘With deepest gratitude to a very brave friend,’ signed Mike Wagner. Mike Wagner! Mike? To his old pal Eddie Barnett? Why?” Finally, her lower lip quivered and she began to cry. “You aren’t gonna tell me, are you?”
Barnett looked across at her and slowly nodded, “Wagner? I gave him my Redskins tickets, Louise.”
Louise turned away, trembling and sobbing, until she finally began to laugh through the tears. “Some car wrecks you get yourself into, Eddie. Some kinda goddamn car wrecks!”
He smiled and held out his arms to her, ignoring the bandages and the sling. “Louise, you're hopeless. Come here… just be careful.” She sat on the bed and fell ever so gently into his arms, still sobbing, the two of them alone in the hospital room.
EPILOGUE
ROME
APRIL 12
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rome, Apri
l 12, 7:50 p.m.
In central Rome, if you stroll south through the lovely Piazza Navona, with its dozens of crowded open-air restaurants, you can wander on through the fashionable residential streets to the Campo de’ Fiori and the Palazzo Farnese into the old Jewish Ghetto and across the Ponte Garibaldi Bridge over the Tiber into the ancient Trastevere neighborhood beyond. Easter was only a few days away. In Italy, that signaled the beginning of another oppressively hot and sweaty tourist season. Rude foreigners of every size, shape, and nationality would soon pack the streets around the Vatican, the Via Veneto, the Trevi Fountain, the Forum, and the Coliseum, but the guidebook crowd rarely ventured this far off the city’s main squares and boulevards. Until Federico Fellini’s films made it famous and fashionable, Trastevere’s narrow, almost medieval streets and crumbling buildings were primarily known for street crime, prostitution, and a stubborn, avant-garde individuality that defied gentrification. While Rome’s Jews could obviously live wherever they chose now, Trastevere offered them anonymity and proximity to the synagogue, Jewish restaurants, stores, and their cultural center a short distance across the river.
Rachel Ullman’s small apartment was located barely one hundred yards from the Commune’s Municipal Police Station at the south end of the bridge. That might offer at least a shred of protection, but she knew better. The Italian local Polizia were a far cry from the crack national Carabinieri. As a persona non grata in Israel and cut off from her usual support network from The Office, the only protection she could now count on came from her own wits and the 9-millimeter Jericho automatic she always carried. Her apartment offered no scenic view of the Tiber, but she did not want one. She planned to change apartments every few weeks, so perhaps she could get a better view in a few years, if things finally calmed down, but she was not optimistic. For the present, she would gladly accept the invisibility and an occasional parking space for her tiny Fiat that was not too far from the front door of her apartment.
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