Dana Stabenow - Prepared For Rage

He left the pilothouse, and the captain returned to the wheel.

He didn't know what the group of men in the forward cabin were up to, but the price of their passage doubled the total amount all the other migrants on board had paid. He was in the transportation business, his job was to get his paying passengers where they were going, nothing more, and nothing less. His curiosity extended to the color of their money, and stopped after they had counted it into his hand.

He took another long, satisfying draft of his cigar, and placidly blew another cloud of smoke.

MIAMI

"Patrick?"

"Hugh, thanks for calling. What if I told you that Isa was Pakistani?"

"How would you know?"

"Somebody ID'd his accent." Patrick wanted to cut to the chase. "Never mind that. What does that knowledge do for us?"

Hugh was silent for a moment. "I'm not sure," he said slowly.

"Can you backtrack, run the profile through your database and see if any matches pop up out of Pakistan?"

"Can't hurt," Hugh said. "But it's a long shot, Patrick. We've already been through the database a hundred times looking for Isa before he was Isa."

"Ever go looking for him in Pakistan?"

"When he got to be big news, we looked for him everywhere. Especially when he surfaced in al Qaeda, with Zarqawi. Back then, though, you'll remember that al Qaeda leadership was all Saudi and Egyptian."

"So?" Patrick was impatient. "Nowadays it's increasingly Libyan, or at least North African. He hated Zarqawi, that is well known, but bin Laden's never been shy about rewarding initiative, wherever it comes from."

"And bin Laden's looking for Isa, too."

"Yeah, I remember. Hugh, Isa's a Pakistani. I'm sure of it. I've already talked to the ops guys in Islamabad. Get the word out to your people. This guy just spent six months in Miami, living like a monk-well, mostly-in somebody's spare room. Then he left for Mexico City, where we lost his trail. He's up to something, and he's not a small player like-oh, like the Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat, or the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group. He's the real deal. He'll be the guy to dream up another 9/11.1 want to get to him before he does."

"So do I, Patrick," Hugh said, although he sounded much more placid in talking about Isa than he did when he'd found out about Sara and Isa in the elevator in Istanbul. It helped when someone you thought might quite like to kill your wife removed himself to another hemisphere. "I just don't think going back to Pakistan gets the job done."

"Humor me. It's my dime."

"It's the American taxpayer's dime. How long do you think Kallendorf is going to let you get away with this?"

"As long as I continue to produce results."

Patrick hung up and stared at the television, still set to NTV, which was running an old interview of Sally Ride and her husband and fellow astronaut Steve Hawley by Jane Pauley. Jane wanted to know if they planned on having children, and Sally told Jane it was none of her business. A charm school dropout, Sally Ride. He thought of his own close encounters of the media kind and wished she worked for him.

The phone rang. It was Bob. "Yaqub says he thinks Isa is in America."

"Not news. Anything else?"

"Well… He told Mary that he thinks Isa is a virgin."

"Really."

"Really. He waited until I was out of the room to tell her, and he whispered it like he didn't want Isa to hear."

"Why? Isa taken a vow of celibacy to the cause?"

"He doesn't know why, but he says Isa-who he knew as Dandin Gandhi, by the way-never went anywhere near women while he knew him."

Patrick thought of Zahirah's body, skirt rearranged carefully over her recently deflowered body. "So he thinks Isa hated women?"

"You'd expect that from an avowed Islamist, wouldn't you? No, Yaqub says in fact the opposite. He was very critical of Yaqub's womanizing, thought it was demeaning to both Yaqub and the women. He used to quote at him from the Koran, something about if you be kind toward women and fear to wrong them, Allah smiles on you."

"Really," Patrick said again. "Interesting."

As soon as he hung up the phone rang again. It was the agent in Mexico City. They'd finally caught a break. Isa had been spotted boarding a flight for Haiti. Not without difficulty, Patrick managed to restrain himself until he hung up and then he leapt to his feet, pumped his fist once, and shouted, "Awright!"

He got immediately back on the phone to call his office. "Melanie? I need a seat on the next plane to Port-au-Prince."

There was a brief, startled silence. Miami was one thing. Haiti, especially given the current political climate there, was quite another. He was a bureau chief, not a field agent. "Are you quite sure about this, Mr. Chisum?" Melanie said.

"I'm sure, Melanie," Patrick said firmly. "And don't you think it's time you started calling me Patrick?"

OFF CAPE CANAVERAL, ON BOARD USCG CUTTER MUNRO

"We'll be hanging offshore about two miles out," Cal told the Munros. "But it'll feel like you've got a front-row seat. The best place to watch will be from the bridge. I'll put us port side to, and I'll have some chairs brought up for you if you'd like."

"Oh please," Doreen said, "you don't have to go to all that trouble."

"It's no trouble, Doreen."

Nick cocked an eyebrow. "You'll be providing seating for all your guests, Cal?"

Cal grinned. "The admirals and the press can stand."

They were in Cal 's stateroom, with the table set for dinner for six. There was a knock at the door and the two aforesaid admirals entered. One was of medium height with a barrel chest, the left half of which was covered clavicle to sternum with service ribbons. He had stern gray eyes and a thick, bristly flattop to match. "Admiral Matson," Cal said.

The second admiral was so tall he had to duck coming through the door, with a haircut so short he looked like he was wearing a silver skullcap. Admiral Barkley had an intelligent eye, a charming smile, and an easy manner, and he was a veteran of multiple patrols in the Caribbean, EPAC, and the Bering Sea, so he knew his way around operations and had an instant frame of reference with the skipper of a 378. He at once endeared himself to Nick by casting aspersions on aviators of every stripe. There followed a spirited debate on the relative merits of sea and air, which was accompanied by a lot of laughter and ended in an amicable draw.

In the meantime, Doreen tried to draw out Admiral Matson, who was determined not to be drawn, and other than asking Cal -twice-if the CNN reporter had made it on board, addressed himself exclusively to his prime rib. It was excellent, Cal was relieved to note, as the admiral was a noted trencherman. In Admiral Matson's defense, it had to be said that he spent all his time wrangling money out of Congress for the Coast Guard. If he regarded Munro working launch security with a Munro a member of the shuttle's crew solely as a heaven-sent opportunity to remind Congress of the Coast Guard's worthiness come appropriations time, there was some validity in that viewpoint. After a few minutes, Doreen, with an air of having done her best, handed Matson off to Taffy, who was seated at the foot of the table with his best attentive and respectful expression fastened firmly on his face.

The phone rang. "Excuse me," Cal said, and took the receiver from Seaman Roberts, who was doing her best not to hurry dinner along even though she wanted to take a nap when she got off duty so she'd be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the launch. Cal hoped fervently that no fires or other emergencies broke out at T minus ten, because most of his already skeleton crew would be on deck at that time, cameras at the ready, to watch the shuttle hurl itself skyward. "Captain," he said into the phone.