the UIR embassy in Paris. There, the ambassador placed a call to someone else. That person made a call to London. In all cases, the words exchanged were innocuous. The message was not.
PAST CUMBERLAND, HAGERSTOWN, Frederick, Raman turned south on 1-270 for the last hour's worth into Washington. He was tired, but his hands tingled. He'd see a dawn this morning. Perhaps his last. If so, he hoped it would be a pretty one.
THE NOISE MADE the agents jump. Both checked their watches. First of all, the number calling in came up on an LED display. It was overseas, code 44, which made it from the U.K.
'Yes?' It was the voice of the subject, Mohammed Alahad.
'Sorry to disturb you so early. I call about the three-meter Isfahan, the red one. Has it arrived yet? My customer is very anxious.' The voice was accented, but not in quite the right way.
'Not yet,' the groggy voice replied. 'I have asked my supplier about it.'
'Very well, but as I said, my customer is quite anxious.'
'I will see what I can do. Good-bye.' And the line went dead. Don Selig lifted his cellular phone, dialed headquarters, and gave them the U.K. number for a quick check.
'Lights just came on,' Agent Scott said. 'Looks like it woke our boy up. Heads up,' she said into her portable radio. 'Subject is up and moving.'
'Got the lights, Sylvia,' another agent assured her.
Five minutes later, he emerged from the front door of the garden-style apartment building. Tracking him was not the least bit easy, but the agents had taken the trouble to locate the four closest public phones and had people close to all of them. It turned out that he picked one at a combination gas station/convenience store. The computer monitor would tell them what number he called, but through a long-lens camera he was observed to drop in a quarter. The agent on the camera saw him hit 3-6-3 in rapid succession. It was clear a few seconds later, when another tapped phone rang, and was answered by a digital answering machine.
'Mr. Sloan, this is Mr. Alahad. Your rug is in. I don't understand why you do not call me, sir.' Click.
'Bingo!' another agent called over the radio net. 'That's it. He called Raman's number. Mr. Sloan, we have your rug.'
Yet another voice came on. 'This is O'Day. Take him down right now!'
It wasn't really all that hard. Alahad went into the store to buy a quart of milk, and from there he walked directly back home. He had to use a key to enter his apartment house, and was surprised to find a man and a woman inside.
'FBI,' the man said.
'You're under arrest, Mr. Alahad,' the woman said, producing handcuffs. No guns were in evidence, but he didn't resist—they rarely did—and if he had, there were two more agents just outside now.
'But why?' he asked.
'Conspiracy to murder the President of the United States,' Sylvia Scott said, pushing him against the wall.
'That's not so!'
'Mr. Alahad, you made a mistake. Joseph Sloan died last year. How do you sell a rug to a dead man?' she asked. The man jerked back as though from an electric shock, the agents saw. The clever ones always did when they found out that they had not been so clever at all. They never expected to be caught. The next trick was in exploiting the moment. That would start in a few minutes, when they told him what the penalty was for violating 18 USC§ 1751.
THE INSIDE OF USNS Bob Hope looked like the parking garage from hell, with vehicles jammed in so closely that a rat would have had a difficult time passing between them. To board a tank, an arriving crew had to walk on the decks of the vehicles, crouching lest they smash their skulls into the overhead, and they found themselves wondering about the sanity of those who'd periodically had to check the vehicles, turning over the engines and working the guns back and forth so that rubber and plastic seals wouldn't dry out.-
Assigning crews to tracks and trucks had been an administrative task of no small proportions, but the ship was loaded in such a way as to allow the most important items off first. The Guardsmen arrived as units, with computerized printouts giving them the number and location of their assigned vehicles, and ship crewmen pointing them to the quickest way out. Less than an hour after the ship tied up, the first M1A2 main-battle tank rolled off the ramp onto the quay to board the same tank transporter used shortly before by a tank of the 11th Cav, and with the same drivers. Unloading would take more than a day, and most of another would be needed to get WOLFPACK Brigade organized.
THE DAWN PROVED to be a pretty one, Aref Raman saw with satisfaction as he pulled into West Executive Drive. It would be a clear day for his mission. The uniformed guard at the gate waved hello as the security barrier went down. Another car came in behind him, and that one went through as well. It parked two spaces from his spot, and Raman recognized the driver as that FBI guy, O'Day, who'd been so lucky at the day-care center. There was no sense in hating the man. He'd been defending his own child, after all.
'How are you doing?' the FBI inspector asked cordially.
'Just got in from Pittsburgh,' Raman replied, hefting his suitcase out of the trunk.
'What the hell were you doing up there?'
'Advance work—but that speech won't be happening, I guess. What are you in for?' Raman was grateful for the distraction. It allowed him to get his mind into the game, as it were.
'The Director and I have something to brief the Boss about. Gotta shower first, though.'
'Shower?'
'Disinfec—oh, you haven't been here. A White House staff member is sick with this virus thing. Everybody has to shower and disinfect on the way in now. Come on,' O'Day said, carrying a briefcase. Both men went through the West Entrance. Both buzzed the metal detectors, but since both were sworn federal officers, nothing was made of the fact that both were carrying side arms. The inspector pointed to the left.
'This is a treat, showing you something in the place,' he joked to Raman.
'Been in a lot lately?' The Secret Service agent saw that two offices had been converted into something. One marked MEN and the other WOMEN. Andrea Price came out of one just then, her hair wet, and, he noted as she passed him, smelling of chemicals.
'Hey, Jeff, how was the drive? Pat, how's the hero?' she inquired.
'Hey, no big deal, Price. Just two rag-heads,' O'Day said with a grin. He opened the MEN door and went in, and set his briefcase down.
It had clearly been a rush job, Raman saw. Some minor functionary had had the office, but all the furniture was gone and the floor covered with plastic. A hanging rack was there for clothing. O'Day stripped down and headed into the canvas-enclosed shower.
'These damn chemicals at least wake you up,' the FBI inspector reported as the water started. He emerged two minutes later and started toweling off vigorously. 'Your turn, Raman.'
'Great,' the Service agent griped, removing his clothing and showing some of the lingering body modesty of his parent society. O'Day didn't look at him and didn't look away. Didn't do anything except dry off, until Raman was behind the canvas. The agent's service pistol, a SigSauer, had been set atop the clothing rack. O'Day opened his briefcase first. Then he pulled Raman's automatic, ejected the magazine, and quietly worked the action to remove the chambered round.
'How are the roads?' O'Day called.
'Clear, made great time—damn, this water stinks!'
'Ain't that the truth!' Raman kept two spare magazines for his pistol. O'Day saw. He put all three in the lid- pocket before unwrapping the four he'd prepared. One he slid into the butt of the Sig. He worked the action one more time to load a round, then replaced it with a new, full magazine, and two more for the agent's belt holder. Finished, he hefted the gun. Weight and balance were exactly the same as before. Everything went back in place as O'Day returned to dressing. He needn't have rushed. Raman evidently needed a shower. Maybe he was purifying himself, the inspector thought coldly.
'Here.' O'Day tossed over a towel as he put his shirt on.
'Glad I brought a change.' Raman pulled new underwear and socks from his two-suiter.
'I guess it's a rule you have to be all spiffy when you work in with the President, eh?' The FBI agent bent down to tie his shoes. He looked up. 'Morning, Director.'
