“Good morning,” Hawke said, taking the laser pointer. “Slide, please. A surveillance photo of the mountainous Fatin region of the southern Emirate. Slide, please. Massive fortified structure. Built over the last three decades in a virtually inaccessible mountain pass. Elevation, 18,000 feet. Something regionally known as the Blue Palace.”
“Extraordinary!” Hayden said, “Looks like the evil version of Shangri-la!”
“Yes,” Hawke replied. “Now, the most interesting part of this morning’s slide show, gentlemen. Both the Bambah Hotel on Suva Island and the Blue Palace atop this mountain belong to the same man. Slide. Snay bin Wazir. The name on the lips of the dying woman involved in the abduction of Ambassador Kelly at Grosvenor House last week.”
A great deal of murmuring around the table ensued and Conch asked for quiet.
“Question regarding this chap bin Wazir, Lord Hawke,” Sir Howard Cox, a very senior Whitehall ministerial type with longish hair and gold-rimmed spectacles said, tipping back his chair and lacing his fingers over his expansive waistcoat. “His name was given to whom? First I’ve bloody well heard of it. I’m supposed to be in the loop, you know.”
“Indeed you are, sir.”
“Hell, Alex, I am the loop,” Cox said. There were chuckles around the table.
“Name was given to me, sir,” Hawke said. “The woman actually died in my arms a few moments after the abduction at the film gala.”
“Good Lord, Hawke,” Sir Howard said, “My reports said she died instantly. You chaps certainly managed to keep the lid on this bit, I daresay. What else did she give you?”
Alex nodded, accepting the equally implicit compliment or criticism, in stride. Over the years, he’d been forced to become an adept at avoiding the byzantine politics of Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, No. 10 Downing, and New Scotland Yard. Politics, if carefully avoided, could be relegated to a necessary nuisance.
“Yes, Sir Howard, the dead woman implicated this bin Wazir in her murder,” Hawke said. “Her dying words, in fact. We’ve yet to determine any motive. She also indicated that bin Wazir was the man responsible for the worldwide spate of attacks on American State Department officers and their families. She suggested it was only the beginning of action on a much greater scale.”
A portly, turnip-faced British Army officer wearing a spiffy Sam Brown belt spoke up. “This bin Wazir. Same fellow who owned Beauchamps here in London back in the nineties, if I’m not mistaken, m’lord.”
“Yes, General,” Hawke said, “the same man. Bin Wazir was under DSS surveillance at that time, suspected of slaying a junior State Department employee. Jack Patterson can speak to that. Jack?”
Patterson said, “Snay bin Wazir was responsible for the grisly murders of at least five young women here in London in 1997 and 1998. As well as terrorist attacks on the Lebanese Marine barracks that killed 166 of our boys, the two embassy bombings in Africa in 1998. On New Year’s Day, 1999, Mr. bin Wazir and his wife, Yasmin, disappeared without a trace.”
“You kept looking, I daresay?” Sir Howard asked.
“He’s been at the top of the DSS Most Wanted List for five long years. We’ve come close, that’s all I can say,” said Patterson.
“Until now,” Conch interrupted. “We’ve hit the jackpot. Langley has current cell traffic intercepts indicating that Mr. bin Wazir is at this very moment on the small Indonesian island of Suva. He got sloppy. Just once, but that was enough. Instead of his old analog phone, he used a hot phone, one Langley had coded in. Transcript I saw this morning indicates he’s preparing to leave Indonesia and return to his base of operations in the Emirate—excuse me—Mr. President, Prime Minister, welcome, please join us. Chief Patterson and Commander Hawke have just completed their presentations.”
The two new arrivals took their seats, and it was clear from their expressions that they’d been engaged in very serious discussions. Gone from President Jack McAtee’s face, Hawke noticed, was the genial bonhomie he’d seen earlier in the Terracotta Room. The prime minister cleared his throat and let his gaze range round the table.
“First of all, I want to go on record straightaway,” Prime Minister Anthony Tempest began, “and say the president and I have just had a most candid conversation regarding this horrific threat to the U.S. mainland. Tens of thousands of American lives are evidently at risk, maybe far more. I’ve just sent a signal to the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Alan Seabrooke, regarding the disposition of Royal Navy forces on station in the South China Sea and the HMS Ark Royal group in the Persian Gulf. I told Sir Alan that while I do not underestimate the challenges and difficulties we face in this new crisis, I have every confidence in our resolution and determination to see this through. I have given my great good friend, the president here, every assurance we in Britain will fully support whatever actions he intends to take.”
McAtee nodded and said, gravely, “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. The abduction of our ambassador to the Court of St. James is just the latest in a recent series of unprovoked and unspeakable attacks on our State Department. We believe these attacks are intended to destabilize American diplomatic officers around the world. To induce a state of paralysis and fear which would cripple America’s ability to prevent, or respond to, a devastating assault on our homeland.”
There was a discreet cough at the far end of the table and all eyes turned towards a ramrod-straight officer with a perfectly manicured mustache.
“Mr. President, if I may, Major General Giles Lycett here, Base Commander, RAF Leuchars in Scotland. My Tornado F-3 fighter aircraft patrolling the no-fly zone have just been grounded. Why? And, might I ask just what America’s immediate intentions are?”
“Yes, General, you may ask. Within the next seventy-two hours, American bomber wings based here in England as well as Tomahawk cruise missiles launched from both British and American fleets patrolling in the South China Sea and Persian Gulf are going to level both the command and control center in the Fatin Mountains and the terrorist base on Suva Island.”
“A preemptive strike?”
“A preemptive strike. Anything else?”
“Any truth to the rumor that some kind of 9/11 type attack is planned against numerous major American cities, Mr. President? Using civilian or private aircraft as weapons?”
“No comment.”
“Mr. President,” a senior staffer said, “Rumors floating about Whitehall suggest that a rogue stealth boomer is now prowling the North Atlantic and that the HMS Turbulent has been deployed to find this sub.”
“No comment.”
“Have you raised the threat level in New York and Washington?”
“No comment.”
“A hundred of these bloody Pigskin bombs have gone missing. And no one has even the foggiest notion where they are?”
“No comment.”
“Mr. President,” Hawke said, coming to his rescue, “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to move on. British and American intelligence sources are convinced Ambassador Kelly is being held hostage at bin Wazir’s Fatin Mountain location. Would you agree?”
“Yes. The seventh floor at Langley is almost one hundred per cent on that, Alex. That’s hard intelligence. We have thermal imaging and other, boots-on-the-ground, HUMINT confirmation.”
“Ah, Mr. President,” Hayden said, “Any idea why they’d want to kidnap Ambassador Kelly rather than assassinate him?”
“No comment.”
“May I ask then, sir, what immediate plans are being made to effect the ambassador’s rescue?” Hayden persisted.
“Mr. bin Wazir has demanded three things in return for the safe return of Ambassador Kelly. The immediate departure of all coalition forces from Arab soil. The cessation of U.S. and British control of all Gulf State pipelines. And the release of all terrorist POWs now held prisoner in U.S. detention centers at Guantanamo and elsewhere. We flatly reject all three. Naturally.”
“And, in answer to my earlier question, the plans for the ambassador’s rescue?”
“No comment.”
“But, with all due respect, Mr. President,” Hawke said, “I assume there are plans well under way for a
