The Sultan Maurobi was a militant and fanatically devout Muslim, and the citizens of Sherhaben, now rich, were equally devout. No woman could go without a veil; no money could be loaned for interest; there was not a drop of liquor in that thirsty desert land except at the foreign embassies.
Long ago Yabril had helped the Sultan establish and consolidate power by assassinating four of the Sultan's more dangerous half brothers. Because of these debts of gratitude, and because of his own hatred of the great powers, the Sultan had agreed to help Yabril in this operation.
The plane carrying Yabril and his hostages landed and rolled slowly toward the small glass-encircled terminal, pale yellow in the desert sun. Beyond the airfield was an endless stretch of sand studded with oil rigs. When the plane came to a stop, Yabril could see that the airfield was surrounded by at least a thousand of Sultan Maurobi's troops.
Now the most intricate and satisfying part of the operation, and the most dangerous, would begin. He would have to be careful until Romeo was finally in place. And he would be gambling on the Sultan's reaction to his secret and final checkmate. No, this was not Arab's work.
Because of the European time difference Francis Kennedy received the first report of the shooting of the Pope at 6:oo A.m. Easter Sunday. It was given to him by Press Secretary Matthew Gladyce, who had the White House watch for the holiday. Eugene Dazzy and Christian Klee had already been informed and were in the White House.
Francis Kennedy came down the stairs from his living quarters and entered the Oval Office to find Dazzy and Christian waiting for him. They both looked grim. Far away on the streets of Washington there were long screams of sirens. Kennedy sat down behind his desk. He looked at Eugene Dazzy, who as chief of staff would do the briefing.
'Francis, the Pope is dead. He was assassinated during the Easter service.'
Kennedy was shocked. 'Who did it? And why?'
Klee said, 'We don't know. There's even worse news.'
Kennedy tried to read the faces of the men who stood before him, feeling a deep sense of dread. 'What could be worse?'
'The plane Theresa is on has been hijacked and is now on its way to Sherhaben,' Klee said.
Francis Kennedy felt a wave of nausea hit him. Then he heard Eugene Dazzy say, 'The hijackers have everything under control, there are no incidents on the plane. As soon as it lands we'll negotiate, we'll call in all our favors, it will come out OK. I don't think they even knew Theresa was on the plane.'
Christian said, 'Arthur Wix and Otto Gray are on their way in. So are
CIA, Defense, and the Vice President. They will all be waiting for you in the Cabinet Room within the half hour.'
'OK,' Kennedy said. He forced himself to be calm. 'Is there any connection?' he said.
He saw that Christian was not surprised but that Dazzy didn't get it.
'Between the Pope and the hijacking,' Kennedy said. When neither of them answered, he said, 'Wait for me in the Cabinet Room. I want a few moments by myself.' They left.
Kennedy himself was almost invulnerable to assassins, but he had always known he could never fully protect his daughter. She was too independent, she would not permit him to restrict her life. And it had not seemed a serious danger. He could not recall that the daughter of the head of a nation had ever been attacked. It was a bad political and public relations move for any terrorist or revolutionary organization.
After her father's inauguration Theresa had gone her own way, lending her name to radical and feminist political groups, while stating her own position in life as distinct from her father's. He had never tried to persuade her to act differently, to present to the public an image false to herself It was enough that he loved her. And when she visited the White
House for a brief stay, they always had a good time together arguing politics, dissecting the uses of power.
The conservative Republican press and the disreputable tabloids had taken their shots, hoping to damage the presidency. Theresa was photographed marching with feminists, demonstrating against nuclear weapons and once even marching for a homeland for Palestinians. Which would now inspire ironic columns in the papers.
Oddly enough, the American public responded to Theresa Kennedy with affection, even when it became known she was living with an Italian radical in Rome. There were pictures of them strolling the ancient streets of stone, kissing and holding hands; pictures of the balcony of the flat they shared. The young Italian lover was handsome; Theresa was pretty in her blondness with her pale milky Irish skin and the Kennedy satiny blue eyes.
And her almost lanky Kennedy frame draped in casual Italian clothes made her so appealing that the caption beneath the photographs was drained of poison.
A news photo of her shielding her young Italian lover from Italian police clubs brought back long-buried feelings in older Americans, memories of that long-ago terrible day in Dallas.
She was a witty heroine. During the campaign she had been cornered by TV reporters and asked, 'So you agree with your father politically?' If she answered 'yes' she would appear a hypocrite or a child manipulated by a powerhungry father. If she answered 'no,' the headlines would indicate that she did not support her father in his race for the presidency. But she showed the Kennedy political genius.
'Sure, he's my dad,' she said, hugging her father. 'And I know he's a good guy. But if he does something I don't like I'll yell at him just as you reporters do.' It came off great on the tube. Her father loved her for it.
And now she was in mortal danger.
If only she had remained close to him, if only she had been more of a loving daughter and lived with him at the White House, if only she had been less radical, none of this would be happening. And why did she have to have a foreign lover, a student radical who perhaps had given the hijacker crucial information? And then he laughed at himself. He was feeling the exasperation of a parent who wanted his child to be as little trouble as possible. He loved her, and he would save her. At least this was something he could fight against, not like the terrible long and painful death of his wife.
Now Eugene Dazzy appeared and told him it was time. They were waiting for him in the Cabinet Room.
When Kennedy entered, everyone stood up. He quickly motioned for them to be seated, but they surged around him to offer their sympathy. Kennedy made his way to the head of the long oval table and sat in the chair near the fireplace.
Two pure– white-light chandeliers bleached the rich brown of the table, glistened the black of the leather chairs, six to each side of the table, and more chairs along the back of the far wall. And there were other sconces of white light that shone from the walls. Next to the two windows that opened to the Rose Garden were two flags, the striped flag of the United States and the flag of the President, a field of deep blue filled with pale stars.
Kennedy's staff took the seats nearest him, resting their information logs and memorandum sheets on the oval table. Farther down were the Cabinet members and the head of the CIA, and at the other end of the table, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, an Army general in full uniform, a gaudy color cutout in the somberly dressed group. Vice President Du Pray sat at the far side of the table, away from Kennedy, the only woman in the room. She wore a fashionable dark blue suit with a white silk blouse. Her handsome face was stem. The fragrance of the Rose Garden filled the room, seeping through the heavy curtains and drapes that covered glass-paneled doors. Below the drapes the aquamarine rug reflected green light into the room.
It was the CIA chief, Theodore Tappey, who gave the briefing. Tappey, who had once been head of the FBI, was not flamboyant or politically ambitious.
And had never exceeded the CIA charter with risky, illegal or empire-building schemes. He had a great deal of credit with Kennedy's personal staff, especially Christian Klee.
'In the few hours we had, we've come up with some hard information,' Tappey said. 'The killing of the Pope was carried out by an all-Italian cadre. The hijacking of Theresa's plane was done by a mixed team led by an Arab who goes by the name Yabril. The fact that both incidents happened on the same day and originated in the same city seems to be coincidence. Which, of course, we must always mistrust.'
Kennedy said softly, 'At this moment the killing of the Pope is not primary. Our main concern is the hijacking. Have they made any demands yet?'
Tappey said quickly and firmly, 'No. That's an odd circumstance in itself.'
