Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

Joey Palumbo knocked on the doorjamb. “Cheryl wasn’t at her desk, so I invited myself in.”

“No problem. How are you today?”

“Good,” Joey said as he flopped into the chair opposite Bill’s desk.

“Any idea how they got the Ambassador?”

“I hear there’s a security tape that shows it was an inside job.”

“Some local worker?”

“No, one of ours.”

“No shit!”

“That’s the only way to grab an ambassador without a full company of marines.”

“A double agent?”

“Fucking traitor. Must have masterminded the whole thing.”

“Et tu brute.”

“Et tu-xactly. Listen, I ran the Ensiling thing. All my sources are coming up natural causes — and these guys are good! You’ve got the Viennese Prefect of Police, Interpol, and a guy I know who’s working private security for an oil company over there. They all agree — no funny business.”

“Thanks Joey. It sounded weird when he told me, but I guess Peter’s got an overactive imagination.”

“Anything else I can do for you, buddy?”

“Yes, I have a meeting at three. Can you tell me how you would go about derailing a mag lev train?”

“Very cautiously, since I don’t have the sligthest friggin’ idea what a ‘mag lev’ is!”

Bill tossed a thin, stapled stack of papers over his desk to Joey. “Take a minute to read that. Magnetic levitation is going to be the next big thing in trains. I want you to tell me if there are any more security risks than there are with conventional trains.”

“First off, ask your dad, he’s the choo-choo engineer. And second, why don’t you put this up on the rings and see what you get back?”

“I was just about to when you walked in, so you get to have a head start.”

?§?

Jamal knew the number. “Station Chief now…”

“There is no station chief here,” the voice on the other end said. “Who is calling?”

“Listen, this is Jamal. Don’t waste my time and give me the CIA station chief this instant.” He looked up at his men smiling. “Technically there are no CIA officers in Egypt.”

The other end connected with a beep sequence that meant the call was being recorded. “Rumson. Who is this?”

“Earl, this is Jamal. The Islamic Brotherhood has captured an enemy of Islam and he will be tried and executed in accordance with Muslim law.”

“You are illegally detaining the personal representative of the President of the United States of America and that is an act of war. You must release him immediately.” The “ not the CIAStation Chief ’s” tone was stern and unwavering.

“You are wasting your breath, my time, and his few remaining minutes.”

“What do you want, Jamal?”

“A trade: the Ambassador for Sheik Alzir El Benhan.”

“Who?”

“You’re wasting time.” Jamal closed the cell phone, dropped it to the floor, and stamped it into pieces.

?§?

“Who?” President Mitchell was having a bad day already. Now his Secretary of State, Charles Pickering, was playing “Name that Terrorist” with him.

“He was the mastermind behind the influenza attack. We have him in a maximum security prison in Indiana.”

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“This is trading.”

“Are you saying there’s a difference?”

“Yes. It’s one for one. And it’s back channel, not trading out in the open.”

“The world already knows Greely has been abducted. When he suddenly pops up, Chuck, they’re gonna know!”

“We can generate some heat in Turtle Bay and make it look like the kidnappers unilaterally acceded to the will of the United Nations. Only we’ll know it’s one for one.”

“Yeah, and about that, it’s only one for one if you don’t count the dozen or so who were killed to kidnap the ambassador and you don’t count the 26,000 estimated flu deaths this ‘Sheik’ caused,” the President said sharply, then added, “And how is he a Sheik, all of the sudden?”

“Ambassador Greeley is an outstanding American who fought for this country in uniform, gave of his personal wealth to myriad charities as a civilian, and serves his country in a class one post to this day as Ambassador A.E. amp; P . Your personal representative. We have to consider this opportunity to save his life as a serious matter.”

“Serious matter? Ah hell, Chuck!”

“Sorry, wrong choice of words. Of course, you are serious. I meant that this terrorist offer is serious.”

“Look, if we do this ‘trade’ then every Ambassador Extraordinary amp; Plenipotentiary who works for you, for me, becomes the coin of the realm to every fanatic with a grudge against the U.S. or General Motors for that matter. You know that.”

“The alternative is to show the world we can’t get our ambassador back.”

“How long do we have?”

“Maybe 24 to 36 hours. Then they’ll either kill him, contact us, or, worse, send out an Al Jazeera video.”

Mitchell turned to his Chief-of-Staff, Ray Reynolds. “I want to know if I have any military options. Press the Egyptians hard on where they are holding him. Get me any international law — hell, even diplomatic protocol — that we can have Susan wave at the Security Council up in New York. And for God’s sake hold this tight.”

“I agree,” Pickering said. “We must consider this ‘close hold.’ The press would have a field day.”

“Screw the press. I don’t want his wife, Stella, to raise any false hopes of a trade until, and if, it becomes the new policy of the United States.”

With that, the men left the room. Mitchell looked out the window into the Rose Garden. He knew that any effort through the U.N. was futile; international law didn’t cover this unless the U.S. was going to accuse Egypt of being complicit. Besides, his own administration’s Middle East initiatives would preclude strong-arming a friend in the Security Council. At best, a public display of condemnation was a publicity stunt that could possibly have misdirection value if U.S. forces had to go in. Mitchell also knew committing U.S. forces, to invade a sovereign nation — an ally — was risky business. On the other hand, to let an ambassador die, only to protest it to the world afterwards, seemed like a damn bad use of a good man’s life. Yet, to save him by any means of negotiated release meant to hang an open season hunting tag on any official of the U.S. Government. For a moment, Mitchell had a terrible thought: Why couldn’t they have just killed him. He actually shook his head to erase that insane, cold-hearted notion.

His personal assistant entered quietly and said softly, “Mr. President, the Speaker of the House is here for your 10:15 meeting.” Like so many other Americans that morning, Mitchell had to relegate any further thought of the ambassador’s dilemma to a far recess of his mind so that the rest of his brain could work on the matter’s of the Nation’s business.

The Hiccocks started their Saturday twice. They awoke at 8:30, each thinking what the other was thinking, then acting upon it, so neither left the bed. At 9:10 they both collapsed into a deep sleep until 10:20, when Janice rolled over and opened her eyes.

“Bill, it’s 10:20.”

Bill spoke into the pillow. “Errrrmp.”

She patted him on his butt until he lifted his head. “Good morning, almost afternoon.”

They showered, dressed, and went to a local diner for breakfast.

“No matter what, we are just looking,” Bill said. “We are not buying anything.”

“Exactly. We’re going to see our options then sleep on it.”

“We have lots of time. We don’t have to rush into anything.”

“Exactly.”

It was a beautiful, sun-shiny, day. They drove for 45 minutes to a store out on the highway that Cheryl’s sister had recommended.