To the Death

same. Better yet, there was now an address, Bab Touma Street in Damascus, a street that ends at the Bab Touma Gate, the eastern approach into the city through the ancient Roman wall.

The last line of the communique from Guantanamo stated that in answer to the question What number Bab Touma? Salman had replied, within a hundred meters of the Gate. And that was enough. That was actually plenty. The CIA would take it from there. The important thing was that General Rashood was right now living the last few weeks of his life. There would be no mistakes. The reign of the world’s most lethal terrorist was drawing to a close.

Jimmy Ramshawe called Admiral Morgan on an encrypted line. He told him Admiral Morris was on his way. Arnold did not hesitate. “I’ll be right over,” he said. “Gimme forty-five.”

“No speeding, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to send someone to get you out of the slammer.”

“On this little mission, young Jimmy, anyone stops my car, the whole goddamned police department will be looking for new jobs tomorrow morning.”

The likelihood of any Washington cop pulling over the admiral’s White House limousine (for life) driven by a White House driver (until he was late) was remote. In all the many years Arnold Morgan had served his nation, only one cruiser had ever dared to take such an action.

The popular story goes that the driver, overtaken by Admiral Morgan’s car, which was making about 105 mph around the Beltway, switched on his lights and siren and came screaming up behind him, muttering, “I don’t care who’s in that car, I’m pulling the crazy sonofabitch over and he’s going to pay the biggest fine. I might even have him jailed for three months.”

When the two cars came to a halt, the policeman took one look at the figure glowering in the back, and the blood drained from his face. He just said swiftly but sheepishly, “Oh. er. good afternoon, sir. I just wondered if you needed an escort.”

The admiral just growled, “Sure, if you can keep up. NOW HIT IT, CHARLIE!” And the big limo hurled gravel as it squealed off the hard shoulder, leaving the cop in a cloud of dust, cursing his bad luck.

Forty-four minutes after Jimmy’s phone call, Admiral Morgan, who had once been the director of the NSA, came thundering into the Ops-2B Building, under escort by two young guards who were both on the verge of nervous breakdowns, so urgent did the Big Man’s mission appear to be.

Which office, sir?

“The goddamned director’s office, of course. Where d’you think I want to go, the mail room?”

One of the guards went white. The other tried to turn away, but he caught the sly wink the admiral gave him. At the hallowed door of the director of the National Security Agency, one of them stepped forward to tap on the door. But the admiral just grabbed the handle and opened it, strode across the room, and sat down hard in the director’s big executive chair, which had once been his.

He always sat there when he visited Admiral Morris. It seemed, in its way, correct for the most respected man who had ever worked in U.S. military intelligence to be sitting right there. Admiral Morris considered it an honor. In lighter moments, even the President of the United States often asked Admiral Morgan if it would be okay for him to sit behind his desk in the Oval Office. It had been a standing joke between them ever since Arnold Morgan had swept him to power two years previously.

The door opened again, and this time Lt. Commander Ramshawe came through. “Admiral Morris has landed, sir,” he said. “He’ll be here in five.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

“Arnie, there are twenty-eight thousand people currently employed at this agency. Every last one of ’em knows you’re here.”

“Would that include the guys who bring the coffee?”

“Yessir, it’s on its way, nuclear hot with buckshot the way you like it.”

“Outstanding,” replied the admiral. “Now tell me about the little Arab who caved in under interrogation.”

“Well, it seems the Guantanamo guys got their lead from Reza Aghani, the one who got shot at Logan and went to Bethesda. He knew only a little, and took his orders from Ramon Salman, the Commonwealth Avenue guy who we picked up in New York. That confirmed Hamas.

“And then they went right to work on Salman, broke him down without laying a finger on him, and he confessed he worked for our old friend General Rashood, aka Major Ray Kerman. Once he’d gone that far, he apparently told the guys the precise whereabouts of the general, some side street in Damascus, and I guess that’s what we’re here to discuss.”

“Was that who he called in Damascus, the night before the Logan bomb?”

“Damn right it was. And he admitted it.”

The door opened again, and Admiral Morris walked in followed by the waiter. Admiral Morgan stood up and clasped his hand. “Good to see you, George,” he said, and for a few fleeting moments the ex-nuclear submarine commander from Chevy Chase stood and smiled at the former carrier battle group commander. They were two old warriors, friends for thirty years, patriots, and both still capable of cold fury at any threat to the United States.

“Arnie,” said Admiral Morris, “am I right in thinking we’ve got this Rashood character cornered in Damascus?”

“Well, not quite. But at least we know where he lives, which is a darned sight more than we have ever known before.”

“We don’t want him alive, do we?”

“Hell, no. This is one murdering sonofabitch. He’s blown up power stations, refineries, volcanoes, and god knows how many people. He’s smart, trained, and damned dangerous. Rashood is one of those people you kill, no questions asked. Nothing announced. Nothing admitted. Just get it done.”

“As I recall, Arnie, you’re kind of good at that sort of stuff.”

“Guess you could say I’ve had my moments. But not for a couple of weeks.” For the second time in a half hour, Admiral Morgan offered a conspiratorial wink, this time at Jimmy Ramshawe, who grinned and shook his head.

It was almost midnight now. Admiral Morris poured the coffee, firing a couple of buckshot sweeteners into his old friend’s cup. Jimmy delivered it to the big desk, and Arnold Morgan said crisply, “Okay, boys, whaddya think, do we shoot him, poison him, blow him up, or bomb the whole street?”

“Why not the whole city?” said Admiral Morris benignly. “Might as well start World War III while we’re at it.”

Arnold Morgan chuckled. “George, I’m more or less serious. It will probably not be that long before the Hamas leaders discover that someone has spilled the beans. Maybe a matter of three or four weeks. At which point, they’re going to move their General Rashood to a very different, much safer place. Maybe even to a different country, but certainly to a different city. Then we’ve lost him again. So we better get moving if we want to take him out.”

“I presume you rule out a full-frontal assault?”

“Christ, yes. We can’t do that, not with the new Middle East peace talks coming up.”

“Then you’re thinking straightforward assassin? CIA or even special forces?”

“Quite honestly, George, I’m not mad about either. First, we don’t really know how much protection Rashood has, how many bodyguards or even military security. And second, it’ll take us a while to find out. And even if we could get a team in place, or even a single sniper, we have no guarantee our man could get away; and if he were caught, there’d be hell to pay.”

“How about a bomb?” said Jimmy.

“Well, that’s a possibility. But we got so much trouble in the Middle East, it would probably turn out to be a bigger risk than the president would be prepared to take. Can you imagine the uproar if we either got caught, or somehow got the blame?”

“I could imagine it very easily,” interjected George Morris. “The liberal press would crucify us, behaving like gangsters, bullies, murderers, and Christ knows what else — reverting to the standards of our enemies and all that.”

“Don’t remind me, George,” replied Admiral Morgan. “But these things have to be considered. And in the end, we might have to get someone else to do it for us.”