Patrick Robinson: To The Death

At approximately 0809, Jimmy had a clearer idea of the significance of the message. Charlie Hall was plainly code for Terminal C at Logan, right? D-hour was 0800, and a couple of right fucking nutters had just tried to blow up the freakin’ airport. Holy shit!

That apartment on Commonwealth Avenue plainly held the key to this latest terrorist assault on an American city. At least it used to. But despite the presence of a dozen forensic guys combing through the place for clues, it was now just another dead end. Ramon Salman had vanished and taken his secrets with him. Maybe the police would pick him up somewhere. Maybe not. America’s a very big place in which to get lost, and the Arab had probably taken off around 0300, six hours before the airport closures. J. Ramshawe knew the murderous little bastard could be anywhere.

He also knew that even the massive resources of Crypto City, the insiders’ name for the National Security Agency, would not be effective against a foe who had disappeared off the charts. So far as Jimmy could tell, the only chance was to get after the wounded Reza Aghani and persuade him to talk.

Meanwhile, so far as Jimmy was concerned, the rest of the message was nothing short of a bloody PITA-that’s Australian for pain-in-the-ass. And Jimmy, born in the USA of Aussie parents, retained at all times the rich Aussie accent and the quaint, colorful inflections of the outback west of Sydney, where his family traced their roots. His office was where Clancy of the Overflow met James Bond. G’day, Admiral-no worries.

Meanwhile, the second part of the transmission to Syria was giving him a whole stack of worries. Reza was accounted for, and Ari was dead. But the “headquarters in Houston” was a complete blank, and that was where Reza was supposedly headed. The Texas police were concentrating a search for Ramon Salman in the Houston area, but there was no Flight 62 on any airline going anywhere near the southern Texas area.

The number 62 of course could have meant anything, and the code-breakers in Crypto City had come up with over seven thousand computerized possibilities, which included just about every takeoff in North America that week, including the Space Shuttle.

The wording did suggest that Flight 62 was the one the terrorists were supposed to be on, and that probably had meant their leaving the country ASAP. And yet, in Jimmy’s mind, he saw that last short sentence, Flight 62 affirmative, as something separate. Like a possible second hit.

He had been ruminating for a half hour on this and had twice tried to speak to his mentor, the Big Man, Admiral Morgan himself. But Mrs. Morgan thought Arnold was in Norfolk with Jimmy’s boss, Admiral Morris, on board a carrier, but he would be at the White House later for lunch with the president if Jimmy’s business was vital.

“Might not be vital now at 11:30,” he said as he put down the telephone. “But it sure as hell might be at lunchtime.”

Meanwhile, back in the Oval Office, President Bedford had just been briefed that Reza Aghani was conscious, the bullet had been removed from his arm, and he was drinking tea, resolutely refusing to utter one word to any of the six police officers currently guarding his room both inside and out.

“How long before they charge him?” asked the president.

“Maybe twenty-four hours,” replied Alan Brett. “But the CIA thinks this cat is a really dangerous little character, almost certainly an Iranian Shi’ite, based in either Gaza or Syria, probably Hamas. They’re scared some civilian court will free him and he’ll hit back at us somehow.”

“Can we make a case that he’s military?”

“Well, he was carrying a bomb with him.”

“Can that make him military?”

“I’ll ask the Pentagon.”

“Okay, Alan. I’ll see you after lunch. I’m expecting Arnold Morgan in the next few minutes. He’ll probably want Aghani shot at dawn, no questions asked.”

The professor chuckled. “Not a bad plan, that,” he said archly, as he let himself out.

Two minutes later, the president’s clock ticked over to noon and the door opened. The president did not look up, because he found the scenario more amusing that way.

“Eight bells, sir,” rasped a familiar voice. “Permission to come aboard?”

President Bedford looked up, smiling, face-to-face once more with the immaculately dressed Admiral Morgan, clean-shaven, dark gray suit, white shirt, Annapolis tie, black shoes polished to a degree appropriate to a Tiffany display case.

“Goddamned towelheads hit us again,” Morgan growled. “How does it look?”

“Lousy,” replied Paul Bedford, who was long accustomed to the admiral’s propensity to dispense entirely with formalities like “Good morning,” or “Great to see you,” or “How you been?,” or “How’s Maggie?”

This applied particularly when there were matters on the desk that involved even the slightest problem of a Middle Eastern nature.

Straight to the gun deck was Admiral Morgan’s policy, and the president gave it total respect. “I guess the only good part, Arnie, is we have one of the two terrorists under arrest, in Mass General Hospital.”

“Is he under civilian or military guard?” The admiral’s tone was sharp.

“Civilian right now-six Boston cops.”

“Better change that immediately.”

“Huh?”

“Get those civilians outta there right now. Call in a Navy guard and move the little sonofabitch to the Navy Hospital in Bethesda. Let’s get some control right here.”

“But he might not be well enough to travel.”

“He’s well enough,” replied Arnold Morgan. “And anyway, who gives a rat’s ass? He just tried to blow up a thousand people, didn’t he? The hell with him. Let’s get him under military arrest.”

“I’m not absolutely clear why that’s so important at this time, Arnie. The guy’s plainly not going anywhere.”

“You want me to tell you why?”

“Of course.”

“Because sometime in the next twenty-four hours, a couple of highly paid lawyers are going to show up, probably paid for by bin Laden’s Saudi relatives, and announce that this poor little guy made the mistake of getting into the wrong limousine, found himself in the middle of a gunfight, got shot, burned, and shockingly ill-treated, and not only must be released, but also is entitled to massive compensation from the trigger-happy Boston Police Department.”

The president was thoughtful. But then he said, “Arnie, I am advised that there were two highly respectable Boston businessmen who will swear on oath that this was the man who abandoned the briefcase bomb, in the line in Terminal C.”

“And within a very few hours there’ll be about fifteen Arabs ready to swear to Allah that this Reza Aghani has never even owned a briefcase, never had one single conviction in his entire life, has no connection whatsoever with any terrorist organization, is a practicing Roman Catholic, and the Boston businessmen must surely be mistaken.

“And how could it possibly be Reza’s fault if some crazed Boston cop took it upon himself to blow up the parking garage at Logan, while his buddy gunned down a passing limousine driver?”

“Arnie, in front of a jury, no one could possibly get away with that…”

“O.J. did.”

Paul Bedford was silent for a moment. “What do you want me to do, Arnie?”

“Have the Pentagon announce that this atrocity was the work of some Arab outfit that constantly refers to the Islamic Jihad. That’s holy war, and since war traditionally gets fought by armies, we have deemed that this man is an illegal combatant, arrested by an eyewitness. He has thus been taken into military custody, and will face military interrogation and military incarceration until the matter is resolved.”