'An attack on our embassy in Cairo is now imminent.' Lufkin said. No reaction from Teddy; no frown, no surprise, no cutting of the eyes, nothing. He'd gotten such news many times before.
'Yidal?'
'Yes. His top lieutenant was seen in Cairo last week.'
'Seen by whom?'
'The Israelis. They've also followed two truckloads of explosives from Tripoli. Everything seems to be in place.'
'When?'
'Imminent.'
'How imminent?'
'Within a week, I'd guess.'
Teddy pulled an earlobe and closed his eyes. Lufkin tried not to stare, and he knew better than to ask questions. He would leave soon, and return to the Middle East. And he would wait. The attack on the embassy might proceed with no warning. Dozens would be killed and maimed. A crater in the city would smolder for days, and in Washington fingers would point and accusations would fly. The CIA would be blamed again.
None of it would faze Teddy Maynard. As Lufkin had learned, sometimes Teddy needed the terror to accomplish what he wanted.
Or maybe the embassy would be spared, the attack thwarted by Egyptian commandos working with the United States. The CIA would be praised for its excellent intelligence. That wouldn't faze Teddy either.
'And you're certain?' he asked.
'Yes, as certain as one can be in these situations.'
Lufkin, of course, had no clue that the Director was now plotting to elect a President. Lufkin had barely heard of Aaron Lake. Frankly, he didn't care who won the election. He'd been in the Middle East long enough to know it didn't really matter who set American policy there.
He'd leave in three hours, on the Concorde to Paris, where he'd . spend a day before going to Jerusalem.
'Go to Cairo.' Teddy said without opening his eyes.
'Sure. And do what?'
'Wait.'
'Wait for what?'
'Wait for the ground to shake. Stay away from the embassy'
York's initial reaction was one of horror. 'You can't run this damned ad, Teddy.' he said. 'It's R-rated. I've never seen so much blood.'
'I like that,' Teddy said, pushing a button on the remote. 'An R-rated campaign ad. It's never been done before.'
They watched it again. It began with the sound of a bomb, then footage of the Marine barracks in Beirut; smoke, rubble, chaos, Marines being pulled from debris, mangled bodies, Marines lying dead in a neat row. President Reagan addressing the press and vowing revenge. But the threat sounded hollow. Then the photo of an American soldier standing between two masked gunmen. A heavy, ominous voiceover said, 'Since 1980, hundreds of Americans have been murdered by terrorists around the world.' Another bomb scene, more bloody and dazed survivors, more smoke and chaos. 'We always vow revenge. We always threaten to find and punish those responsible.' Quick clips of President Bush on two separate occasions angrily promising retaliation-another attack, more bodies. Then footage of a terrorist standing in the door of a jetliner, dragging off the body of an American soldier. President Clinton, near tears, his voice ready to crack, saying, 'We will not rest until we find those responsible:' Next the handsome but serious face of Aaron Lake, looking sincerely at the camera, coming into our homes, saying, 'The fact is, we don't retaliate. We react with words, we swagger and threaten, but in reality we bury our dead, then forget about them. The terrorists are winning the war because we have lacked the guts to fight back. When I'm your President, we will use our new military to fight terrorism wherever we find it. No American death will go unanswered. I promise. We will not be humiliated by ragtag little armies hiding in mountains. We will destroy them.'
The ad ran for exactly sixty seconds, cost very little to make because Teddy already had the footage, and would start running during prime time in forty-eight hours.
'I don't knowTeddy.' York said. 'It's gruesome.'
'It's a gruesome world.'
Teddy liked the ad and that's all that mattered. Lake had objected to the blood, but came around quickly. His name recognition was up to 30 percent, but his ads were still disliked.
Just wait, Teddy kept telling himself. Wait until there are more bodies.
EIGHT
Trevor was sipping a carry-out double latte from Beach Java and debating whether to add a generous shot or two ofAmaretto to help soothe away the morning's cobwebs when the call came. His cramped suite had no intercom system; one was not needed. Jan could simply yell any message down the hall, and he could yell back if he wanted. For eight years he and this particular secretary had been barking at each other.
'It's some bank in the Bahamas!' she announced. He almost spilled the coffee as he lunged for the phone.
It was a Brit whose accent had been softened by the islands. A substantial wire had been received, from a bank in Iowa.
How substantial, he wanted to know, covering his mouth so Jan couldn't hear.
A hundred thousand dollars.
Trevor hung up and added the Amaretto, three shots of it, and sipped the delightful brew while smiling goofily at the wall. In his career he'd never come close to a fee of $33,000. He'd settled a car wreck once for $25,000, taken a fee of $7,500, and within two months had spent all of it.
Jan knew nothing about the offshore account and the scam that diverted money to it, so he was forced to wait an hour, make a bunch of useless phone calls, and try to look busy before announcing he had to take care of some crucial business in downtown Jacksonville, then he was needed at Trumble. She didn't care. He disappeared all the time and she had some reading to keep her occupied.
He raced to the airport, almost missed his shuttle, and drank two beers during the thirty-minute flight to Fort Lauderdale, then two more on the way to Nassau. On the ground, he fell into the back of a cab, a 1974 Cadillac painted gold, without air-conditioning and with a driver who'd also been drinking. The air was hot and wet, the traffic slow, and Trevor's shirt was sticking to his back by the time they stopped downtown near the Geneva Trust Bank Building.
Inside, Mr. Brayshears came forward eventually and led Trevor to his small office. He presented a sheet of paper which gave the bare details: a $100,000 wire originating from the First Iowa Bank in Des Moines, remitter being a faceless entity named CMT Investments. The payee was another generic entity named Boomer Realty, Ltd. Boomer was the name of Joe Roy Spicer's favorite bird dog.
Trevor signed the forms to transfer $25,000 to his own, separate account with Geneva Trust, money he kept hidden from his secretary and from the IRS. The remaining $8,000 was handed to him in a thick envelope, cash. He stuffed it deep into his khaki pants pocket, shook Brayshears' soft little hand, and raced out of the building. He was tempted to stay a couple of days, find a room on the beach, get a chair by the pool, and drink rum until they stopped bringing it to him. The temptation grew to the point that he almost bolted from the gate at the airport and raced to get another cab. But he reached deep, determined not to squander his money this time.
Two hours later he was in the Jacksonville airport, drinking strong coffee, without liquor, and making his plans. He drove to Trumble, arriving at four-thirty, and he waited for Spicer for almost half an hour.
'A pleasant surprise,' Spicer said dryly as he stepped into the attorney-conference room. Trevor had no briefcase to inspect, so the guard patted his pockets and stepped outside. His cash was hidden under the floor mat of his Beetle.
