American guards stood at all the entrances, and at various places in the buildings along the street. But the corridor outside the President's suite of rooms was the exclusive domain of the Presidential Protective Detail. Connor and D'Agustino made their own final check before retiring for the evening. A full squad of ten agents were in view, and another ten were behind various closed doors. Three of the visible agents had FAG-bags, black satchels across their chests. Officially called fast-action-gun bags, each contained an Uzi sub-machinegun, which could be extracted and fired in about a second and a half. Anyone who got this far would find a warm reception.
“I see H AWK and H ARPY are discussing affairs of state,” Daga observed quietly.
“Helen, I didn't think you were so much of a prude,” Pete Connor replied with a sly grin.
“None of my business, but in the old days people outside the door had to be eunuchs or something.”
“Keep talking like that and Santa will drop coal in your stocking.”
“I'd settle for that new automatic the FBI adopted,” Daga said with a chuckle. “They're like teenagers. It's unseemly.”
“Daga…”
“I know, he's The Boss, and he's a big boy, and we have to look the other way. Relax, Pete, you think I'm going to blab to a reporter?” She opened the door to the fire stairs and saw three agents, two of whom had their FAG-bags at the ready.
“And I was about to offer you a drink, too…” Connor said deadpan. It was a joke. He and Daga were nondrinkers while on duty, and they were nearly always on duty. It wasn't that he had never thought about getting into her pants. He was divorced, as was she, but it would never have worked, and that was that. She knew it, too, and grinned at him.
“I could use one — the stuff they have here is what I was raised on. What a crummy job this is!” A final look down the corridor. “Everybody's in place, Pete. I think we can call it a night.”
“You really like the ten-millimeter?”
“Fired one last week up at Greenbelt. Got a possible with my first string. It doesn't get much better than that, lover.”
Connor stopped dead in his tracks and laughed. “Christ, Daga!”
“People might notice?” D'Agustino batted her eyes at him. “See what I mean, Pete?”
“God, who ever heard of a Guinea puritan?”
Helen D'Agustino elbowed the senior agent in the ribs and made her way to the elevator. Pete was right. She was turning into a damned prude, and she'd never ever been like that. A passionate woman whose single attempt at marriage had collapsed because one household wasn't large enough for two assertive egos — at least not two Italian ones — she knew she was allowing her prejudices to color her judgment. That was not a healthy thing, even over something both trivial and divorced from her job. What H AWK did on his own time was his business, but the look in his eyes… He was infatuated with the bitch. Daga wondered if any president had allowed that to happen. Probably, she admitted. They were only men, after all, and all men sometimes thought from the testicles instead of the brain. That the President should become a lackey of such a shallow woman as this — that was what offended her. But that, she admitted to herself, was both odd and inconsistent. After all, women didn't come much more liberated than she was. So why, she asked herself, was it bothering her? It had been too long a day for that. She needed sleep, and knew that she'd only get five or six hours before she was on duty again. Damn these overseas trips…
“So what is it?” Qati asked, just after dawn. He'd been away the previous day, meeting some other guerilla leaders, and also for a trip to the doctor, Ghosn knew, though he could not ask about that.
“Not sure,” the engineer replied. “I'd guess a jamming pod, something like that.”
“That's useful,” the commander said at once. Despite the rapprochement, or whatever the key phrase was, between East and West, business was still business. The Russians still had a military, and that military still had weapons. Countermeasures against those weapons were items of interest. Israeli equipment was particularly prized, since the Americans copied it. Even old equipment showed how the Israeli engineers thought through problems, and could provide useful clues to newer systems.
“Yes, we should be able to sell it to our Russian friends.”
“How did the American work out?” Qati asked next.
“Quite well. I do like him, Ismael. I understand him better now.” The engineer explained why. Qati nodded.
“What should we do with him, then?”
Ghosn shrugged. “Weapons training, perhaps? Let's see if he fits in with the men.”
“Very well. I'll send him out this morning to see how well he knows combat skills. And you, how soon will you pick the thing apart?”
“I planned to do it today.”
“Excellent. Do not let me stop you.”
“How are you feeling, Commander?”
Qati frowned. He felt terrible, but he was telling himself that part of that was the possibility of some sort of treaty with the Israelis. Could it be real? Could it be possible? History said no, but there had been so many changes… Some sort of agreement between the Zionists and the Saudis… well, after the Iraq business, what could he expect? The Americans had played their role, and now they were presenting some kind of bill. Disappointing, but hardly unexpected, and whatever the Americans were up to would divert attention away from the latest Israeli atrocity. That people calling themselves Arabs had been so womanly as to meekly accept fire and death… Qati shook his head. You didn't fight that way. So, the Americans would do something or other to neutralize the political impact of the Israeli massacre, and the Saudis were playing along like the lapdogs they were. Whatever was in the offing, it could hardly affect the Palestinian struggle. He should soon be feeling better, Qati told himself.
“It is of no account. Let me know when you've determined exactly what it is.”
Ghosn took his dismissal and left. He was worried about his commander. The man was ill — he knew that much from his brother-in-law, but exactly how sick he didn't know. In any case, he had work to do.
The workshop was a disreputable-looking structure of plain wood walls and a roof of corrugated steel. Had it looked more sturdy, some Israeli F-16 pilot might have destroyed it years before.
The bomb — he still thought of it by that name — lay on the dirt floor. An A-frame like that used for auto or truck service stood over it, with a chain for moving the bomb if necessary, but yesterday two men had set it up in accordance with his instructions. Ghosn turned on the lights — he liked a brightly-lit work-area — and contemplated the… bomb.
Why do I keep calling it that? he asked himself. Ghosn shook his head. The obvious place to begin was the access door. It would not be easy. Impact with the ground had telescoped the bombcase, doubtless damaging the internal hinges… but he had all the time he wanted.
Ghosn selected a screwdriver from his tool box and went to work.
President Fowler slept late. He was still fatigued from the flight, and… he almost laughed at himself in the mirror. Good Lord, three times in less than twenty-four hours… wasn't it? He tried to do the arithmetic in his head, but the effort defeated him before his morning coffee. In any case, three times in relatively short succession. He hadn't done that in quite a long time! But he'd also gotten his rest. His body was composed and relaxed after the morning shower, and the razor plowed through the cream on his face, revealing a man with younger, leaner features that matched the twinkle in his eyes. Three minutes later, he selected a striped tie to go with the white shirt and gray suit. Not somber, but serious was the prescription for the day. He'd let the churchmen dazzle the cameras with their red silk. His speech would be all the more impressive if delivered by a well turned-out businessman/politician, which was his political image, despite the fact that he'd never in his life run a private business of any sort. A serious man, Bob Fowler — with a common touch to be sure, but a serious man whom one could trust to do The Right Thing.
Well, I will sure as hell prove that today, the President of the United States told himself in yet another mirror as he checked his tie. His head turned at the knock on the door. “Come in.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said Special Agent Connor.
“How are you today, Pete?” Fowler asked, turning back to the mirror… the knot wasn't quite right, and he started afresh.
“Fine, thank you, sir. It's a mighty nice day outside.”
“You people never get enough rest. Never get to see the sights, either. That's my fault, isn't it?” There,
