total respect. “I guess the only good part, Arnie, is we have one of the two terrorists under arrest, in Mass General Hospital.”
“Is he under civilian or military guard?” The admiral’s tone was sharp.
“Civilian right now — six Boston cops.”
“Better change that immediately.”
“Huh?”
“Get those civilians outta there right now. Call in a Navy guard and move the little sonofabitch to the Navy Hospital in Bethesda. Let’s get some control right here.”
“But he might not be well enough to travel.”
“He’s well enough,” replied Arnold Morgan. “And anyway, who gives a rat’s ass? He just tried to blow up a thousand people, didn’t he? The hell with him. Let’s get him under military arrest.”
“I’m not absolutely clear why that’s so important at this time, Arnie. The guy’s plainly not going anywhere.”
“You want me to tell you why?”
“Of course.”
“Because sometime in the next twenty-four hours, a couple of highly paid lawyers are going to show up, probably paid for by bin Laden’s Saudi relatives, and announce that this poor little guy made the mistake of getting into the wrong limousine, found himself in the middle of a gunfight, got shot, burned, and shockingly ill-treated, and not only
The president was thoughtful. But then he said, “Arnie, I am advised that there were two highly respectable Boston businessmen who will swear on oath that this was the man who abandoned the briefcase bomb, in the line in Terminal C.”
“And within a very few hours there’ll be about fifteen Arabs ready to swear to Allah that this Reza Aghani has never even owned a briefcase, never had one single conviction in his entire life, has no connection whatsoever with any terrorist organization, is a practicing Roman Catholic, and the Boston businessmen must surely be mistaken.
“And how could it possibly be Reza’s fault if some crazed Boston cop took it upon himself to blow up the parking garage at Logan, while his buddy gunned down a passing limousine driver?”
“Arnie, in front of a jury, no one could possibly get away with that. ”
“O.J. did.”
Paul Bedford was silent for a moment. “What do you want me to do, Arnie?”
“Have the Pentagon announce that this atrocity was the work of some Arab outfit that constantly refers to the Islamic
“Okay. I’ll get it done.”
“And remember, Paul, if anything else happens, our only lifeline to serious information is this little prick in Mass General. Let’s get him under real tight arrest. And the media the hell out of the goddamned way. We just don’t want a whole lot of bullshit being written about people being held without trial, or even charged.”
“Guess we ought never to forget, Arnie,” said the president, “the media wants only a story. They do not think the national interest has anything to do with them.”
“Just so we never forget, right here in this sacred office, the
“Sometimes, Admiral, you can be quite surprisingly philosophical.”
“Bullshit, Mr. President,” replied Arnold, briskly. “Just don’t want to take our eye off the ball, right?”
“Nossir, Admiral. Just hold everything for a minute while I brief Alan Brett to put our new operation in place. Then we’ll find some lunch.”
The commander in chief picked up the telephone and outlined his current view about Reza Aghani—“Just have the Navy take over, Alan, and get him into Bethesda, under heavy guard — and tell State, willya?”
He replaced the telephone and said, “Okay, old buddy, where do you want to eat? Right here, or in the private dining room?”
“This is not a private-dining-room day, Paul. I got a gut feeling we better stay right here on the bridge.”
“Good call. I’ll send for the butler.”
Three minutes later, the White House butler came in and mentioned two or three dishes he was already preparing for visitors.
Arnold said, “Before I answer, can I just check if Maggie is now in residence?” He referred to the svelte and beautiful Virginian horsewoman, Maggie Lomax, who had married her childhood sweetheart, Paul Bedford, just as soon as he resigned from the Navy for a political career.
“Hell, no, she’s out somewhere in Middleburg with her mother,” replied the president.
“Okay, Henry, I’ll have a roast beef sandwich on rye, mustard and mayonnaise. And coffee, black with buckshot.” The butler smiled. He’d known the admiral for many years.
“Same,” said the president. “Hold the buckshot.”
The president, having declined the little sweetener tablets the admiral used instead of sugar, watched the butler leave and then inquired, “Can you tell me why my wife’s presence affected what you ordered for lunch?”
“Sure, she’s going out with Kathy tomorrow. Some ladies’ fashion show, and I didn’t want to risk being seen eating anything except grass, dandelions, and cottage cheese, the way I’m supposed to.”
President Bedford chuckled. “You don’t think I’d be eating roast beef and mayonnaise if Maggie was anywhere near, do you?”
With eight major international airports closed down for both takeoffs and landings, this had been an extremely hectic morning. Aircraft were being diverted inland, or to smaller airfields in central Florida or the Carolinas. Large nonstop passenger jets moving north were being diverted out to the west. Herndon could put up with almost anything except congestion over the East Coast airlanes, where a national emergency red alert was currently operative at all altitudes.
Reports, which on a normal day were critical, today faded into background cackle.
Even the significant news that a United States Navy carrier was conducting a series of air-combat exercises eighty miles off the Norfolk approaches scarcely raised a ripple in the control room, save to make damn sure that nothing strayed into the path of an F-16 fighter-bomber screaming at eight hundred knots through cloudy skies.
Everyone was at full stretch, scanning the screens, checking out flight after flight, diverting, canceling, refusing permission either to land or leave. Their overriding task was to clear the decks as the airports evacuated the passengers, just in case al Qaeda was going to Plan B.
And right now, there were only two identified men who could help. One was Reza Aghani, still lying in Mass General with a sore arm and a firmly closed mouth. The other, Ramon Salman, had vanished not only from Commonwealth Avenue, but also off the face of the known world.
“You got a what?”
“A bolter. Pilot’s ignored orders from the tower and pressed right along.”
“Where is he?”
“Right here, sir, ’bout three hundred miles south of us, heading north. He just crossed the Cape Fear River in North Carolina.”
“You got his last instructions?”
