'I don't know why I bothered at home,' Murray grumped. 'Got the paperwork, Pat?'
'Yes, sir. This is something to show him.'
'Damned right it is.' And Murray doffed his jacket and tie. 'White House locker room,' he noted. 'Morning, Raman.'
Both agents completed dressing, made sure their personal weapons were tucked in the right place, then stepped outside.
'Murray and I are going right in,' Pat told the other in the corridor. They didn't have to wait long for Murray, and then Price showed up again, just as the FBI Director reemerged. O'Day rubbed his nose to tell her all was done. She nodded back.
'Jeff, want to take these gentlemen into the office? I have to head to the command post. The Boss is waiting.'
'Sure, Andrea. This way,' Raman said, leading O'Day. Behind them, Price waited and did not head toward the command post.
In the next level up, Raman saw TV equipment being prepared for installation in the Oval Office. Arnie van Damm buzzed out the corridor entrance, trailed by Cal-lie Weston. President Ryan was at his desk in the usual shirtsleeves, going through a folder. CIA Director Ed Foley was in there, too.
'Enjoy the shower, Dan?' the DCI asked.
'Oh, yeah, I'm losing the rest of my hair, Ed.'
'Hi, Jeff,' the President said, looking up.
'Good morning, Mr. President,' Raman said, taking his usual place against the wall.
'Okay, Dan, what do you guys have for me?' Ryan asked.
'We've broken an Iranian espionage ring. We think it's associated with the attempt on your daughter.' While Murray talked, O'Day opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder,
'The Brits turned the connection,' Foley started to say. 'And the contact here is a guy named Alahad—would you believe the bastard has a business about a mile from here?'
'We have him under surveillance right now,' Murray put in. 'We're running his phone records.'
They were all looking down at the papers on the President's desk and didn't see Raman's face freeze in place. His mind started racing, as though a drug had been injected into his bloodstream. If they were doing that right now… There might still be a chance, a slim one, but if not, here was the President, the directors of FBI and CIA, and he could deliver them all to Allah, and if that weren't sacrifice enough… Raman unbuttoned his jacket with his left hand. He eased off the spot on the wall he was leaning against and closed his eyes for a quick prayer. Then, in a rapid, smooth movement, his right hand went to his automatic.
Raman was surprised to see the President's eyes move and stare right at him. Well, that wasn't so bad, was it? Ryan should know that his death was coming, and the only shame was he'd never quite understand why.
Ryan flinched as the pistol came out. The reaction was automatic, despite the briefing on what to expect, and the sign from O'Day that it was okay. He dodged anyway, wondering if he could really trust anyone, and saw that Jeff Raman's hands tracked him and pulled back on the trigger like an automaton, no emotion in his eyes at all—
The sound made everyone jump, albeit for different reasons. Pop. That was all. Raman's mouth dropped open in disbelief. The weapon was loaded. He could feel the added weight of the live rounds in it, and—
'Put it down,' O'Day said calmly, his Smith out and aimed now. An instant later, Murray had his service weapon out.
'We have Alahad in custody already,' the Director explained. Raman had another weapon, a telescoping billy club called an Asp, but the President was fifteen feet away and…
'I can put one right through your kneecap if you want,' O'Day said coldly.
'You fuckin' traitor!' Andrea said, entering the room with her pistol out, too. 'You fuckin' assassin! On the floor now!'
'Easy, Price. He's not going anywhere,' Pat told her.
But it was Ryan who nearly lost control: 'My little girl, my baby, you helped plan to murder her?'
He started around the desk, but Foley stopped him. 'No, not this time, Ed!'
'Stop!' the DCI told him. 'We have him, Jack. We've got him.'
'One way or another, you get on the floor,' Pat said, ignoring the others and aiming at Raman's knee. 'Drop the weapon and get down.'
He was trembling now, fear, rage, all manner of emotions assaulted him, everything but the one he'd expected. He racked the Sig's action and pulled the trigger again. It wasn't even aimed, it was just an act of denial. 'I couldn't use blanks. They don't weigh the same,' O'Day explained. 'They're real rounds. I just tapped the bullets out and dumped the powder. The primer makes a cute little pop, doesn't it?' It was as though he'd forgotten to breathe for a minute or so. Raman's body collapsed in on itself.
He dropped the pistol to the rug with the Seal of the President on it and fell to his knees. Price came over and pushed him the rest of the way. Murray, for the first time in years, snapped the cuffs on. 'You want to hear about your rights?' the FBI Director asked.
59 RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
DIGGS HAD NOT REceived proper mission orders yet and what was even more disturbing, his Operation BUFORD did not really have much of a plan yet, either. The Army trained its commanders to act swiftly and decisively, but as with doctors in hospitals, emergency situations were not as welcome as planned procedures. The general was in continuous contact with the commanders of his two Cavalry regiments, the senior Air Force commander, the one-star who'd brought the 366th over, the Saudis, the Kuwaitis, and various intelligence assets, just trying to get a feel for what the enemy was actually doing, and from that to determine what the enemy might be planning—from which he would try to formulate some sort of plan of his own aside from mere ad-hoc reaction.
The orders and rules of engagement arrived on his fax machine around 11:00 Washington time, 16:00 Zulu time, and 19:00 Lima, or local time. Here was the explanation he'd lacked. He relayed it at once to his principal subordinates, and assembled his staff to brief them. The troops, he told the assembled officers, would learn from their Commander-in-Chief. Their officers would have to be with their people when that word came down.
Things were busy enough. According to the satellites, the Army of God—as the intelligence people had determined the name to be—was within one hundred miles of the Kuwaiti border, approaching from the west in good order, and following the roads as expected. That made the Saudi deployment look pretty good, since three of their five brigades were covering the approaches to the oil fields.
They still weren't ready. The 366th Wing was in the Kingdom, but it wasn't enough to have the airplanes on the right airfields. A thousand minor details had to be sorted out, and that job wasn't even half done yet. The F-16s from Israel were pretty well spun up, all forty-eight of their single-engine fighters running, and even some kills recorded in the initial skirmishes, but the rest needed another day. Similarly, the 10th Cav was fully ready, but the 11th was not; it was still assembling and moving to its initial deployment area. His third brigade had just started drawing equipment. An army wasn't a collection of weapons. It was a team composed of people with an idea of what they were supposed to be doing. But picking the time and place for war was usually the job of an aggressor, which was a role his country hadn't practiced very much.
He looked at the three-page fax again. It seemed quite literally explosive in his hands. His planning staff read their copies and were eerily quiet until the 1 Ith's S-3, the regimental operations officer, said it for all of them:
'We're gonna get some.'
THREE RUSSIANS HAD recently arrived. Clark and Chavez had to remind themselves that this wasn't some sort of alcohol-induced dream. The two CIA officers were being supported by Russians under mission orders from Langley by way of Moscow. Actually, they had two missions. The Russians had drawn the hard one, and had brought the necessary equipment in the diplomatic pouch for the two Americans to have a try at the easier one. A dispatch had also come from Washington, via Moscow, that all of them read.
'Too fast, John,' Ding breathed. Then his mission face came on. 'But what the hell.'
