our defensive alert for the moment, but we will stand down our offensive forces to a lower alert level which is still higher than peacetime standards. If you match our move, I propose a phased mutual stand-down over the next five hours.'”
Jack's head went down on the keyboard, actually placing some characters on the screen.
“Could I have a glass of water? My throat's a little dry.”
“Mr. President?” Fremont said.
“Yes, General.”
“Sir, however this happened, I think it's a good idea.”
Part of Bob Fowler wanted to hurl his coffee cup into the wall, but he stopped himself. It didn't matter, did it? It did, but not that way.
“What do you recommend?”
“Sir, just to make sure, we wait until we see evidence of a stand-down. When we do, we can back off ourselves. For starters — right now — we can rescind SNAPCOUNT without any real degradation of our readiness.”
“General Borstein?”
“Sir, I concur in that,” said the voice from NORAD.
“General Fremont: Approved.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. We'll get right on it.” General Peter Fremont, United States Air Force, Commander-in-Chief Strategic Air Command turned to his Deputy Chief of Staff (Operations). “Keep the alert going, posture the birds, but keep them on the ground. Let's get those missiles uncocked.”
“Contact… bearing three-five-two… range seven thousand six hundred meters.” They'd been waiting several minutes for that.
“Set it up. No wires, activation point four thousand meters out.” Dubinin looked up. He didn't know why the aircraft overhead hadn't already executed another attack.
“Set!” the weapons officer called a moment later.
“Fire!” Dubinin ordered.
“Captain, message coming in on the ELF,” the communications officer said over the squawk box.
“That's the message that announces the end of the world,” the captain sighed. “Well, we fired our shots, didn't we?” It would have been nice to think that their action would save lives, but he knew better. It would enable the Soviet forces to kill more Americans, which wasn't quite the same thing. Everything about nuclear weapons was evil, wasn't it?
“Go deep?”
Dubinin shook his head. “No, they seem to have more trouble with the surface turbulence than I expected. We may actually be safer here. Come right to zero-nine-zero. Suspend pinging. Increase speed to ten knots.”
Another squawk: “We have the message — five-letter group: 'Cease all hostilities!'”
“Antenna depth, quickly!”
The Mexican police proved to be extremely cooperative, and the literate Spanish of Clark and Chavez hadn't hurt very much. Four plainclothes detectives from the Federal Police waited with the CIA officers in the lounge while four more uniformed officers with light automatic weapons took unobtrusive positions nearby.
“We don't have enough people to do this properly,” the senior Federal worried.
“Better to do it off the airplane,” Clark said.
“Muy bien, Senor. You think they may be armed?”
“Actually, no, I don't. Guns can be dangerous when you're traveling.”
“Has this something to do with— Denver?”
Clark turned and nodded. “We think so.”
“It will be interesting to see what such men look like.” The detective meant the eyes, of course. He'd seen the photographs.
The DC-10 pulled up to the gate and cut power to its three engines. The jetway moved a few feet to mate with the forward door.
“They travel first class,” John said unnecessarily.
“Si. The airline says there are fifteen first-class passengers, and they've been told to hold the rest. You will see, Senor Clark, we know our business.”
“I have no doubt of that. Forgive me if I gave that impression, Teniente.”
“You are CIA, no?”
“I am not permitted to say.”
“Then of course you are. What will you do with them?”
“We will speak,” Clark said simply.
The gate attendant opened the door to the jetway. Two Federal Police officers took their places left and right of the door, their jackets open. Clark prayed there would be no gunplay. The people started walking out, and the usual greetings were called from the waiting area.
“Bingo,” Clark said quietly. The police lieutenant straightened his tie to signal the men at the door. They made it easy, the last two first-class passengers to come out. Qati looked sick and pale, Clark noticed. Maybe it had been a bad flight. He stepped over the rope barrier. Chavez did the same, smiling and calling to a passenger who looked at them in open puzzlement.
“Ernesto!” John said, running up to him.
“I'm afraid I'm the wrong—”
Clark went right past the man from Miami.
Ghosn was slow to react, dulled by the flight from America, relaxed by the thought that they had escaped. By the time he started to move, he was tackled from behind. Another policeman placed a gun against the back of his head, and he was handcuffed before they hauled him to his feet.
“Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch,” Chavez said. “You're the guy with the books! We've met before, sweetheart.”
“Qati,” John said to the other one. They'd already been patted down. Neither was armed. “I've wanted to meet you for years.”
Clark took out their tickets. The police would collect their luggage. The police moved them out very quickly. The business and tourist passengers would not know that anything untoward had happened until they were told by family members in a few minutes.
“Very smooth, Lieutenant,” John said to the senior officer.
“As I said, we know our business.”
“Could you have your people phone the embassy and tell them that we got 'em both alive.”
“Of course.”
The eight men waited in a small room while the bags were collected. There could be evidence in them, and there wasn't that much of a hurry. The Mexican police lieutenant examined their faces closely, but saw nothing more or less human than what he'd seen in the faces of a hundred murderers. It was vaguely disappointing, even though he was a good-enough cop to know better. The luggage was searched, but aside from some prescription drugs — they were checked and determined not to be narcotics — there was nothing unusual. The police borrowed a courtesy van for the drive to the Gulfstream.
“I hope you have enjoyed your stay in Mexico,” the lieutenant said in parting.
“What the hell is going on?” the pilot asked. Though in civilian clothes, she was an Air Force major.
“Let me explain it like this,” Clark said. “You Air Scouts are going to drive the airplane to Andrews. Mr. Chavez and I are going to interview these two gentlemen in back. You will not look, not hear, not think about anything that's going on in back.”
“What—”
“That was a thought, Major. I do not want you to have any thoughts about this. Do I have to explain myself
