Derringer checked his Rolodex — he still trusted electrons just so far — and punched in the number.
“This is Sandra Carmichael.”
“Sandy, Mike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Ah, I’m still on Sixty-six, approaching the Twenty-nine exit. Call it one-five mikes. Less if this idiot ahead of me moves over.”
Derringer visualized the geography. Carmichael’s Nissan would exit onto the Lee Highway, take Danville Street south across Wilson Boulevard to Clarendon, and proceed east toward Courthouse Road. “Very well. Come straight to my office. Frank and I are working the latest intel.”
“You heard from Dave?”
“That is affirm.”
“Gotcha, sir.” The line went dead.
Leopole walked directly into the office without bothering to knock. “What’ve we got, Admiral?”
“Just a preliminary report from Dave Dare. He says the ship left yesterday afternoon or evening, probably westbound. That’s all we have for now.”
“Then Jeff Malten’s team is…”
“Way out of position in Israel. Yes, I know. I understand that Pope’s people are set to fly out today.”
“Yessir.” The foreign ops director stood for a moment, rubbing his chin and wishing he could dispense with his tie. “Admiral, we could try repositioning Malten but I think maybe we…”
“Concur.” Derringer allowed himself to laugh. “Frank, if we keep this up much longer, we’re going to be telepathic. It took me about eight years before I could do that with Karen.”
Leopole laughed politely, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “Looks like a long day, sir. But if I read you, we still don’t know for certain that Dare’s report is complete enough to act on. I mean, yes, the ship could’ve left, but until we know that it’s definitely headed west, we could end up chasing our own tail.”
“Concur again. But get on the horn and see if you can talk to Malten. Or Cohen might be a better prospect. Just call it a warning order: prepare to fly to Morocco, but also be ready to execute the Suez option.”
“Well, Terry Keegan’s back in Cairo with a leased cargo plane and crew. That’s one of the better contingencies we arranged. He should be able to get to Haifa on pretty short notice.”
“Yes, we should let him know as well.” Derringer looked at the ship’s clock on his wall. “Call it 0800 here — about 1500 there. I’ll try that call myself. Report back here when you’re done and we’ll huddle with Sandy.”
Minutes later, Carmichael entered the office. She dropped her purse in a chair and waited while Derringer got off the phone. “Sandy, good morning. Sit down and I’ll fill you in.”
“Thanks, Admiral. I take it that we’re talking to Jeff Malten this morning?”
“Frank’s doing that. I just talked to Terry Keegan in Cairo. He says he could be gear-up for Haifa with less than an hour’s notice, though the air traffic regs are more bureaucratic in the Hindu-Muslim part of the world. He’s going to talk to our embassy and see if they can get him a short-notice waiver.”
Carmichael’s blond hair bobbed as she nodded. Then she said, “Admiral, the thing that worries me is intelligence. Not that I doubt Dave Dare, but I just don’t think we can launch two teams without more confirmation.”
“I agree. In fact, Frank and I already discussed that. Sandy, I know it’s below your usual responsibility, but could you coordinate all our intel sources until we know something positive? Dave’s working group will have its hands full.”
She stood, straightened her skirt, and said, “I’m on it.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, I meant to ask: anything from Omar about some Iranian contacts?”
“Just that he’s working it. Actually, I wouldn’t expect too much, Sandy. At least not anytime soon. After all, he’s been out of the country over thirty-five years. He said he still has some relatives there, but I don’t think they’re connected. If he turns up something, it’ll be among the expatriate community.”
“Okay. I’ll get to work, Admiral.”
Watching the retired Army O-5 walk out, Derringer admired the view.
68
The acrid oxyacetylene scent lingered in the ship’s relative wind, but Hurtubise ignored the odor and the sparks. Striding from port to starboard, he supervised installation of machine gun mounts on the
Abu Yusuk Zikri appeared from forward of the superstructure. Hurtubise already recognized the captain’s ambivalence to the modifications, but it mattered little. The Libyan skipper appreciated prompt payment far more than any concerns about quasi-legal alterations to his ship.
“You are nearly finished?” Zikri asked, the hope obvious in his voice.
Pinsard’s welder finished fusing the vertical pipe to the rail, completing the crude weapon mount. Then he snuffed out his torch, turned off the regulator. He raised his visor and nodded to Hurtubise. Then he pulled off his gloves and prepared to move the portable equipment.
“Back here, yes. Now we’ll add two more mounts ahead of the pilothouse.”
“Oh,” Zikri replied, noncommittal as ever. “Is that necessary?”
Hurtubise gave a sly grin. “I hope not.”
“Ahem. Yes, I see your point.” He returned the smile, minus the enthusiasm. “Ah,
“Of course.” He walked farther aft, away from Pinsard’s men.
Though clear of the others, Zikri still spoke in a low voice. “I have received a confidential message from our… benefactors. I thought you should see it immediately.”
Hurtubise accepted the message form and read it twice. Then he raised his eyes to Zikri’s. “Who else has seen this?”
“Only the radio operator and me.”
“Is the operator trustworthy?”
Zikri nodded animatedly. “He already knows that.”
“What about the others?”
“Which others?”
“You have other radio operators, don’t you? Your cousin, he does not remain on duty twenty-four hours.”
“Oh. Well, anything but routine traffic always comes to me or the first officer, day or night. But my second operator is reliable. His mother’s mother’s family is still in Palestine. They hate the Jews.”
Hurtubise thought for a moment, sorting priorities. “I want to talk to each of your operators, with you present. I want them to know that Pinsard or I are to be told of any such messages, no matter what time of day or night.” He lanced the captain with a predator’s stare. “No exceptions.”
“As you wish,
Hurtubise dismissed the captain with a curt nod. Then he rejoined Pinsard’s men.
“Rene.”
The mercenary looked up from his work. He had just hefted a pintle-mounted MAG-58 onto one of the welded stanchions. It swiveled reasonably well. With a word to one of the armorers, he joined his former comrade.
