Yessey. And they were building an oil pipeline to transport the oil into European Russia, funded by mostly American oil concerns. Locals called it the “American invasion.”
Save some extra scrutiny at Dallas customs, which Shasif had been told to expect, given his name and face, the plane change had gone smoothly. As instructed, he’d booked a roundtrip flight and was carrying luggage commensurate with a week’s stay in the United States. Similarly, he had arranged a rental car, booked himself into a hotel, and was well armed with brochures to local attractions, as well as e-mails from friends in the area. Shasif assumed they were real people; either way, it was highly unlikely that the authorities would check.
All the red-flag issues had been covered. Still, the inspection had been nerve-racking, but in the end, it was uneventful. He was waved through the checkpoint and beyond to the gate.
Seven hours after leaving Toronto, he touched down at Los Angeles International Airport at 10:45 in the morning, a little more than two hours’ difference on his watch, having essentially traveled backward in time as he crossed the country.
After clearing customs once again, this time under the even unfriendlier eyes of LAX’s TSA agents, Shasif made his way to the Alamo counter and waited patiently in line for fifteen minutes. Ten minutes after that he was in his Dodge Intrepid and heading east on Century Boulevard. The car came equipped with one of those navigation computers, so he pulled over at a gas station, punched the address into the computer, then pulled back out and started following the arrows on the computer’s screen.
By the time he pulled onto the 405 heading north it was nearing the lunch hour, so the traffic was getting heavier. By the time he reached Highway 10, the Santa Monica Freeway, cars were moving at a sporadic thirty miles an hour. How people lived in such a place, Shasif couldn’t imagine. Certainly it was beautiful, but all the noise and commotion… How could anyone hope to hear the quiet voice of God? It was no wonder America was in such a state of moral confusion.
The Santa Monica Freeway was moving at a steadier clip, so he reached his turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway within ten minutes. Another seven miles brought him to his destination, Topanga Beach. He pulled into the parking lot, which was three-quarters full, found a spot nearest the beach trail, and pulled in.
He climbed out. The wind was brisk off the ocean, and in the distance he could hear the cawing of seabirds. Over the dunes he could see surfers, five or six of them, carving their way through the surf. Shasif walked through the parking lot and over a small rise covered with scrub brush and onto the service road. Fifty feet down the dirt tract a lone figure stood, staring out over the ocean. The man was of Arab descent. Shasif checked his watch. On time. He walked over to the man.
“Excuse me,” Shasif said, “I’m looking for the Reel Inn. I think I may have missed it.”
The man turned. His eyes were shielded by a pair of sunglasses. “You did,” he replied. “By about three hundred feet. If you are looking for chowder, though, I would try Gladstone’s. The prices are higher, but the food’s better.”
“Thank you.”
That done, Shasif didn’t know what else to say. Just hand him the package and leave? The man made the decision for him, holding out his hand. Shasif drew the CD-ROM case from his jacket pocket and gave it to the man, noticing as he did the scars on his contact’s hands.
“You’re staying for a while?” the man asked.
“Yes. Three days.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Doubletree. City of Commerce.”
“Stay by your phone. We may have something for you. You’ve done well. If you’re interested, we may ask you to play a larger role.”
“Of course. Anything I can do.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
And then the man was gone, walking back down the road.
29
JACK RYAN SR.’S private phone rang, and he lifted it, hoping for a distraction from writing. “Jack Ryan.”
“Mr. President?”
“Well, yeah, I used to be,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair. “Who’s this?”
“Sir, this is Marion Diggs. They made me FORCECOM. I’m at Fort McPherson, Georgia-Atlanta, actually.”
“Four stars now?” Ryan remembered that Diggs had made something of a name for himself a few years back in Saudi Arabia. Pretty good battlefield commander as Buford-Six.
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“How’s life in Atlanta?”
“Not too bad. The command has its moments. Sir-” His voice became a little uneasy. “Sir, I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I’d prefer to do it in person, sir, not over the phone.”
“Okay. Can you come here?”
“Yes, sir, I have a twin-engine aircraft at my disposal. I can be to BWI airport in, oh, two and a half hours or so. Then I can drive down to your home.”
“Fair enough. Give me an ETA and I’ll have the Secret Service pick you up. Is that agreeable?”
“Yes, sir, that would be fine. I can leave here in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, that puts you at BWI around, oh, one-thirty or so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make it so, General. You’ll be met at the airport.”
“Thank you, sir. See you in a few hours.”
Ryan hung up and buzzed Andrea Price-O’Day.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Got company coming, General Marion Diggs. He’s FORCECOM from Atlanta. Flying into BWI. Can you arrange to have him picked up and driven here?”
“Certainly, sir. When’s he getting in?”
“About one-thirty, at the general aviation terminal.”
“We’ll have somebody right there.”
The General’s twin-prop U-21 arrived and did the usual rollout, right up to a Ford Crown Victoria. The general was easy to spot in his green shirt with four silver stars on the epaulets. Andrea had driven up herself, and the two didn’t talk much on the ride south to Peregrine Cliff.
For his part, Ryan had set up lunch himself, including a pound and a half of corned beef from Attman’s on Lombard Street in Baltimore. The drive down and the general’s arrival had been handled fairly stealthily. Less than forty minutes after deplaning, Diggs was at the door. Ryan got it himself.
Ryan had met Diggs only once or twice before. A man of equal height, and black as a hunk of anthracite coal, everything about him said “soldier,” including, Jack saw, a little bit of unease.
“Hey, General, welcome,” Ryan said, taking the man’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I’m-well, I’m a little uneasy about this, but I have a problem I think you ought to know about.”
“Okay, come on in and build a sandwich. Coke okay?”
