communications and watching their locations. She hadn’t done this when Nuri started out the Jasmine mission alone, but now the stakes were considerably higher. And she knew more of the people involved.
Maybe the missions should always be directly monitored by someone, she thought, even if that was a deviation from the original plan and philosophy. She’d have to discuss it with Reid.
But if they were, she wouldn’t be the one doing it. And then she’d feel left out.
The communications system buzzed with an incoming call from Boston. The wall screen opened a window at the lower right-hand corner, mapping where the call was coming from. Had the area been under real-time visual surveillance, an image would have been supplied.
“Go ahead,” she said, allowing the transmission to connect. Technical data on the encryption method and communication rates were added to the screen.
“Mrs. Stockard?”
“Hello, Boston. I see you’re at the border. I’m still waiting for the embassy. They need to get permission from the Ethiopian government. They don’t think there’ll be a problem, but they have to make contact with the right officials. The situation remains the same — they’ve closed all the crossings.”
“Do you have an ETA on that permission, ma’am?”
“I wouldn’t expect it before morning. It may not come until the afternoon. They are working on it.”
“Yeah…” Boston’s voice trailed off.
“Is there a problem, Chief?”
“As I told you before, we left the base camp in kind of a hurry. I’m not sure that the people we left behind are, uh — well, they may be a little pissed at us, if you know what I mean.”
“You can present yourselves at the border and go into Ethiopian custody if things get crazy,” said Breanna.
“That’s not my first preference.”
“It’s not mine, either. We should have an answer in the morning,” she told him. “I don’t think there’s going to be any problem in the end. It’s just the paperwork on their side. And getting to the right person.”
“All right,” said Boston.
The resignation in his voice was so obvious that Breanna told him not to worry again; she’d get him out under any circumstance.
“I’m not worried. I know you will,” said Boston.
“I’ll talk to you at nine A.M. your time,” Breanna told him. “Can you hold out until then?”
“That won’t be a problem,” he said.
As soon as Boston hung up, Breanna called back over to State to check on the request. But instead of the undersecretary who had been acting as a liaison, she got a bubbly assistant — the first bad sign.
The second bad sign came a moment later, when the assistant told her that all border crossing into Ethiopia had been closed “for the near future.”
Her voice made it sound like she had just scored tickets for the Super Bowl.
“I know that already,” said Breanna. “The ambassador is supposed to be explaining that we have a special situation.”
“Oh. Please hold.”
Breanna tried not to explode. The assistant was part of the night staff, and clearly not the best informed.
“We’re still working on it,” said the assistant, coming back on the line.
“And how long is that going to take?”
“Well, it’s nighttime over there now. Very late. You realize they’re several hours ahead of us. Six, actually.”
“Thank you,” said Breanna, confident the sarcasm in her voice would go right over the woman’s head.
It did.
“I think we have to make other arrangements,” she told Reid a short time later. “If we can’t count on help from the Ethiopian government.”
“They’ll help us, I’m sure.”
“But in how long? Two weeks? I don’t want to leave my people in an Ethiopian jail for two weeks. They’ll put them in a detention center until this gets straightened. And God knows what will happen there.”
“If we have the ambassador send someone to the border with passports,” said Reid, “we can get them over on diplomatic cover.”
“I already suggested that. They claimed the border shutdown applies to everyone, even diplomats.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I’ve been pointing that out for hours now, Jonathon. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“I will,” said Reid. “But maybe the easiest thing would be to have them sneak across the border.”
“And leave McGowan’s body behind?”
“If they must.”
Breanna wasn’t willing to do that. “I’ll work something out,” she told him. “Even if I have to get them myself.”
“Now listen—”
The screen flashed, indicating she had another call, this one from the Air Force Airlift Command.
“Let me call you back,” she told Reid. “I’m getting a call from the people who are supposed to meet them in Ethiopia. I’m guessing there’s a problem there, too.”
Her intuition was correct. The major on the line was calling to tell her that the plane originally scheduled to fly to Ethiopia had suffered a mechanical breakdown in Germany. The next flight from Europe wouldn’t be available until the following afternoon.
“We do have a possible solution,” added the major, “but it would take some string pulling.”
“No one likes pulling strings more than I do,” lied Breanna.
“There’s an MC-17 Stretch due in at Andrews Air Force Base in about two hours. It’s en route to Turkey, but could be diverted if the right person were to make the request, if you catch my drift.”
“Your drift is just perfect,” said Breanna. “Who would the right person make the request to?”
The aircraft happened to be en route from, of all places, Dreamland, where it had picked up a pair of MV-22-G Osprey gunships. The Ospreys were to be delivered to a Ranger unit temporarily based at Incirlik. A detour to Ethiopia would put the delivery off schedule by about half a day; the Whiplash people could catch another flight home from there.
The general who was expecting the Ospreys took Breanna’s call. He’d served with her father, and it took only a few seconds of explanation before he agreed that the Ospreys could arrive a day late. But Breanna met a more serious roadblock when she called the wing commander responsible for the aircraft. The pilot had gotten sick on the flight east and was due to be relieved as soon as he landed.
“It’s not a big deal, really, but I can’t get a full crew until tomorrow,” said the colonel.
“You don’t have anyone tonight?”
“You know how tight these staffing cuts have us. We’re low priority on head count. This is a reserve unit and—”
“I know where you can find a pilot,” she interrupted. “And she works cheap, too.”
47
As soon as they heard the siren, the men who had attacked Flash rallied from their injuries. Despite six broken bones between them, they managed to get into their vehicle and flee before the first police car arrived.
Two people had seen the youths and offered a good description of the vehicle. One of the policemen dutifully wrote down the details, though he knew nothing would come of it. The car described was well-known to him and the other officers who had responded; it belonged to a member of the Iranian parliament, though it was customarily driven by his youngest son. The son and his companions were the subject of several reports, mostly from tourists,
