“Just sign for its safe receipt, please,” he said, and put in front of her a clipboard with a receipt form. As she studied it, the cracksman came down the marble steps and slipped out of the door.
“But this says Harzmann Galerie,” she pointed out.
“That’s right. Ballgasse, number fourteen.”
“But we’re number eight. This is the Winkler Bank. The gallery is farther up.”
The puzzled delivery man made his apologies and left. The commissionaire came back down the marble steps. She explained what had happened. He snorted, resumed his seat across the lobby from the reception desk, and returned to the morning paper.
When the Blackhawk helicopter brought Mike Martin into the Riyadh military air base at midday, there was a small and expectant committee to meet him. Steve Laing was there, with Chip Barber. The man he had not expected to see was his commanding officer, Colonel Bruce Craig.
While Martin had been in Baghdad, the deployment of the SAS in the western deserts of Iraq had grown to involve two full squadrons out of Hereford’s four. One had remained at Hereford as the standby squadron, the other was in smaller units on training missions around the world.
“You got it, Mike?” asked Laing.
“Yes. Jericho’s last message. Couldn’t get it out by radio.”
He explained briefly why and handed over the single grubby sheet of paper with Jericho’s report.
“Man, we were worried when we couldn’t get you these past forty-eight hours,” said Barber. “You’ve done a great job, Major.”
“Just one thing, gentlemen,” said Colonel Craig. “If you have finished with him, can I have my officer back?”
Laing was studying the paper, deciphering the Arabic as best he could.
He looked up.
“Why yes, I suppose so. With our sincere thanks.”
“Wait a minute,” said Barber. “What are you going to do with him now, Colonel?”
“Oh, a bunk in our base across the airfield, some food—”
“Got a better idea,” said Barber. “Major, how does a Kansas steak and fries, an hour in a marble bathtub, and a big soft bed grab you?”
“By the balls,” laughed Martin.
“Right. Colonel, your man gets a suite at the Hyatt down the road for twenty-four hours, courtesy of my people. Agreed?”
“Okay. See you this time tomorrow, Mike,” said Craig.
On the short drive to the hotel opposite CENTAF headquarters, Martin gave Laing and Barber a translation of the Jericho message. Laing made verbatim notes.
“That’s it,” said Barber. “The air boys will go in there and blow it away.”
It required Chip Barber to check the soiled Iraqi peasant into the best suite in the Hyatt, and when he was settled, Barber left to cross the road to the Black Hole.
Martin had his hour in the deep, steaming bath and used the complimentary gear to shave and shampoo, and when he came out, the steak and fries were on a tray in the sitting room.
He was halfway through the meal when sleep overtook him. He just managed to make the wide soft bed next door, then he was asleep.
While he slept, a number of things happened. Freshly pressed shorts, trousers, socks, shoes, and shirt were delivered to his sitting room.
In Vienna, Gidi Barzilai sent the operational details of the Jericho numbered account to Tel Aviv, where an identical replica was prepared with the appropriate wording.
Karim met Edith Hardenberg when she left the bank after work, took her for a coffee, and explained that he had to return to Jordan for a week to visit his mother, who was sick. She accepted his reason, held his hand, and told him to hurry back to her as soon as he could.
Orders went out from the Black Hole to the air base at Taif where a TR-1 spy plane was preparing to take off for a mission to the far north of
Iraq, to take further pictures of a major weapons complex at As-Sharqat.
The mission was given a new task with fresh map coordinates, specifically to visit and photograph an area of a range of hills in the northern sector of the Jebal al Hamreen. When the squadron commander protested the sudden change, he was told the orders were classified as “Jeremiah directs.” The protest ended.
The TR-1 took off just after two, and by four, its images were appearing on the screens inside the designated conference room down the corridor from the Black Hole.
There was cloud and rain over the Jebal that day, but with its infrared and thermal imaging radar, the ASARS-2 device that defies cloud, rain, hail, sleet, snow, and darkness, the spy plane got its pictures anyway.
They were studied as they arrived by Colonel Beatty of the USAF and Squadron Leader Peck of the RAF, the two top photoreconnaissance analysts in the Black Hole.
The planning conference began at six. There were only eight men present. In the chair was General Horner’s deputy, the equally decisive but more jovial General Buster Glosson. The two intelligence officers, Steve Laing and Chip Barber, were there because it was they who had brought the target and knew the background to its revelation. The two analysts, Beatty and Peck, were required to explain their interpretation of the pictures of the area. And there were three staff officers, two American and one British, who would note what had to be done and ensure that it was.
Colonel Beatty opened with what was to become the leitmotif of the conference.
“We have a problem here,” he said.
“Then explain it,” said the general.
“Sir, the information provided gives us a grid reference. Twelve figures, six of longitude and six of latitude. But it is not a SATNAV
reference, pinning the area down to a few square yards. We are talking about one square kilometer. To be on the safe side, we enlarged the area to one square mile.”
“So?”
“And there it is.”
Colonel Beatty gestured to the wall. Almost the entire space was covered by a blown-up photograph, high- definition, computer-enhanced, and covering six feet by six. Everyone stared at it.
“I don’t see anything,” said the general. “Just mountains.”
“That, sir, is the problem. It isn’t there.”
The attention switched to the spooks. It was, after all, their intelligence.
“What,” said the general slowly, “is supposed to be there?”
“A gun,” said Laing.
“A gun?”
“The so-called Babylon gun.”
“I thought you guys had intercepted all of them at the manufacturing stage.”
“So did we. Apparently one got through.”
“We’ve been through this before. It’s supposed to be a rocket, or a secret fight-bomber base. No gun can fire a payload that big.”
“This one can, sir. I’ve checked with London. A barrel over one hundred and eighty meters long, a bore of one meter. A payload of over half a ton. A range of up to a thousand kilometers, according to the propellant used.”
“And the range from here to the Triangle?”
“Four hundred and seventy miles, or 750 kilometers. General, can your fighters intercept a shell?”
“No.”
“Patriot missiles?”
“Possibly, if they’re in the right place at the right time and can spot it in time. Probably not.”
“The point is,” interjected Colonel Beatty, “gun or missile, it’s not there.”
