number would be handy for making a plane reservation. But Dabir didn’t see it and decided it wasn’t worth trying to sneak it from his pocket.
His search had disturbed the mouse for the hotel computer, waking the unit from sleep mode. The program for handling reservations flashed on the screen; as Dabir looked at it, he wondered if he might be able to get a credit card number from that. Backing through the records could be done easily with the mouse, and within seconds Dabir had not one but three different credit card accounts with their owners’ information, including the supposedly secret printed IDs on the cards.
There was a bagel shop across the street from the hotel, but the idea of having breakfast with Jews nauseated him. Dabir walked two blocks until he found a silver-walled diner. On the way in he picked up a copy of the local paper, having learned from experience that even the nosiest American tended to leave a reader in peace.
He was halfway through his tea and toast when he found the story about the murder of an unknown man in a city suburb. Barely six paragraphs long, the story said that the man seemed to have been killed by three gunmen, who were then caught in a shootout with police who responded to a 911 call.
Unsure how much if any of the story was true, Dabir turned the page.
CHAPTER 99
“This is all your fault,” Bing told Rubens. Her ears were tinged red and seemed to stick straight out from the sides of her head. “You bypassed all of the controls, all of the processes—”
“I bypassed nothing,” said Rubens. He tried to continue toward the conference room, but Bing put out her hand, blocking his way.
“You used a personal relationship with the president — you used George Hadash’s death to get around me.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” said Rubens sharply.
“If you had taken him when I suggested, he’d be alive and we’d know where the target was. You put your ego above what was best for the country.”
Second-guessing was standard Washington procedure, and Rubens had fully expected it. The accusation that he had used Hadash’s death, however, angered him greatly. Rubens pressed his teeth together to keep from saying anything. His silence did the trick — the red tinge on Bing’s ears spread to the rest of her face, and she swirled around and headed down the hallway.
“I see you’re warming up to Ms. Bing,” said Defense Secretary Blanders behind him.
Rubens managed a wan smile before continuing to the briefing room. The head of the NSA, Admiral Devlin Brown, had arrived earlier and was sitting on the far side of the room. Bing was stooped down behind him, whispering something in his ear; she saw Rubens come in and rose abruptly, moving over toward her spot at the head of the four-sided table.
Rubens pretended he hadn’t seen her and took his seat next to Brown. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the nearby carafe, even though he’d already had two that morning.
“Anything new?” Brown asked.
“We’ve identified the man who was with Asad and we’re looking for him. We’re looking for patterns in airplane flights and one of our people will be on the flight that we think Asad was to take from Detroit. Outside of that, we have nothing.”
More precisely, they had quite a lot: intercepts of possible messages, money transactions, telephone conversations, a vast file of rumors and innuendo compiled by the different agencies now involved in trying to determine the plot’s target. What Rubens meant was, they had so much information that they had nothing.
President Marcke burst into the room, moving as briskly as Rubens had ever seen him walk. At most sessions with his aides, the president assumed the role of a listener, waiting until all sides of the issue were raised. He’d sit back in his seat, often unconsciously twisting a paperclip, not quite Buddhalike, but generally impassive and as unemotional as a judge as his advisors debated an issue. It was only in one-on-one or very small meetings that he put the true Marcke on display, thumping his desk and occasionally jabbing his companion’s chest to make a point.
But today was different. Today he spoke as soon as he came through the door, his voice sharp, as if he were a football coach at halftime with his team down by a touchdown.
“Gentlemen, ladies. One thing I want to make clear from the start,” he said, walking to his usual spot at the table but not sitting down. “Some of you believe this crisis is a byproduct of my decision to allow Asad into the country rather than having him arrested in Turkey. I believe it was the best and most logical decision at the time. Some of you may disagree. Those disagreements are with me, and you may take them up at the proper time. That time is not now. Billy, what do you have for us?”
Rubens, cheered by what he interpreted as a not-so-subtle slap at Bing, began his briefing.
CHAPTER 100
Even for a U.S. Marshal — or an ersatz one, such as Tommy Karr — carrying a pistol on an aircraft involved major bureaucratic hassle. Forms had to be filled out, identities checked, authorizations reviewed. Karr didn’t mind, however — someone had left two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the security office where they parked him. He was just debating the relative merits of powdered versus granulated sugar coverings when the head of airport security arrived to take him to the plane.
Carefully finessing the detector at the gate so he would appear to be just a regular passenger, Karr boarded with the first-class passengers, taking a seat not far from the pilot’s cabin. The passenger list had already been thoroughly vetted, but Asad’s organization had demonstrated that they were adept at operating under the radar, and Karr eyed each passenger carefully. The people boarding, carry-ons pushed against their knees to squeeze down the aisles, were mostly business types bound for the Gulf Coast area, where construction was booming more than a year after Hurricane Katrina had laid New Orleans low. Only two were of obvious Middle Eastern descent.
“How you doing, Tommy?” asked Chafetz from the Art Room as the plane backed from the gate.
“Fine.”
“Lia’s going to meet you at the airport.”
“Can’t wait.”
“The ten or fifteen minutes after takeoff is the most crucial. Statistically.”
“I guess I better not take a nap then, huh?” Karr laughed.
The man in the seat next to him had overheard him talking to himself and eyed Karr as if he were a nutcase. Karr gave him a bright “How ya doin’?” and pushed back in his seat, all smiles.
As the plane taxied, a large black man walked up into first class from the rear cabin. He walked slowly, obviously looking for someone he thought was a passenger on the plane.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said a stewardess, chasing him from behind. “You have to remain seated until the plane is in the air.”
The man ignored her. Karr watched as he went around the front of the first-class area, turning slowly and walking down the other aisle. The stewardess shook her head and repeated her admonitions without visible effect.
“Sit down, bub,” said Karr’s neighbor. “Give the lady a break.”
“Mind your business.”
“I said sit down.”
“Stuff it,” said the other man, disappearing into coach.
“Nice, real nice,” said Karr’s neighbor, turning to him. “That’s supposed to pass for clever, right? You believe that?”
