"Wonder what's going on?" Jackie asked.
"I dont know, but somethings in the mill."
Scott heard a Georgetown University student exclaim, "Way to go, Prez. Kick butt big time!"
"Let's jog home," Scott suggested.
"Shayhidi, I'd guess," Jackie said, as they hit their stride. "Hartwell told us to watch for developments."
When they reached their residence, there was a phone message from Mary Beth. Jackie was listening to the secretary's recording when Scott turned on the television to see an image of a charred airplane and a picture of the owner.
Jackie turned to Scott. "Quick, turn up the sound. Have to hear this."
"Got it."
They sat in silence and watched the destruction of Shayhidi's aircraft. The video, which began after the initial explosion, was clear and well focused. The picture tilted sideways and jiggled when the second and third explosions rocked the ramp area. Shayhidi, his three employees, and the two drivers were clearly visible as they ran from the wrecked limousines toward the terminal building.
"I'll be damned," Scott said under his breath. "Hartwell was right on the money. Macklin didn't fool around."
Jackie was still staring at the television images. "Going for the jugular vein, no holding back."
Scott watched the replay of the second and third explosions. "I dont think anyone, especially Shayhidi, doubts Macklin's resolve now."
"They're fools if they do."
Scott shook his head. "I cant believe they missed him by a matter of seconds. Damn close."
She smiled with great satisfaction. "He clearly didn't expect the president to target him personally within two days of the QM Two disaster."
"Which means we re going to have a difficult time tracking him." Scott turned down the sound on the television. "He's going to vanish, but someone has to manage his empire on a daily basis. The recon people need to concentrate on his corporate headquarters, his various homes, and his toys."
"Doesn't he own a large yacht?" Jackie asked. "A mega-yacht?"
"Yes. That's going to be hard to hide."
"He should've bought a submarine," Jackie quipped.
"I'll bet he wishes he had a submersible about now." Scott's eyes kept darting to the television. "We can hit you anytime, anywhere."
"Look at this," she said, fascinated by the angry, twisted face on the television. With the burned-out hulk of the BBJ in the background, a dark-haired, mustachioed journalist was speaking with a shrill English accent and gesturing wildly with both arms.
Jackie watched the dramatic gestures for a few seconds. "They don't even know what hit Shayhidi's plane, but the local media is already claiming that President Macklin is actively trying to assassinate one of their highly respected businessmen."
Scott watched as the agitated journalist worked himself into a frenzy. "You have to give them credit," he said. "They have it right, and Shayhidi knows it." He changed channels for a fresh look at the breaking news. "From top dog on his flying carpet to sewer rat on the run, all in the flash of a Tomahawk."
"No kidding," Jackie said. "An unexpected ration of Tomahawk jurisprudence. Gotta love it."
Rumpled, unshaven, and exhausted from a circuitous route home to Geneva, Saeed Shayhidi collapsed into his familiar king-sized bed for a few hours of precious rest. On his orders, every light in the residence was turned off and would remain that way.
The normal six-man home security detail had been increased to eleven. The two gates, one for the main entrance and the other for delivery service, were locked and guarded twenty-four hours a day. The home fortress was completely surrounded by electronic surveillance equipment and high-intensity motion-sensor lights. Two of the long-term security supervisors carried shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles.
Shayhidi's changes of chartered jets in Rome and Paris allowed him cover for the moment, but he knew he could not remain inconspicuous for long. He would have to go into hiding. That would require a great deal of in-depth planning, but first he needed rest. When he awoke, he would contact his second in command, Ahmed Musashi, and turn daily operations over to him. A secure system for communicating would have to be developed and implemented as soon as possible.
Shayhidi would now devote his full time and attention to completing his primary mission: driving the infidels and their military out of the Middle East. He was convinced beyond any doubt that his terrorist actions would soon have the American people crouching in fear. The naive citizens of the vaunted superpower were about to be tossed from their warm beds into the freezing blizzard of reality.
Shayhidi reasoned, based on four years of immersion in the culture of the United States, that it was only a matter of time before the undisciplined, self-pitying, immoral masses would be begging Macklin to remove the U. S. military from the Persian Gulf and the Middle East. From his experience in the hallowed halls of academia, Shayhidi was certain the elite governing class of intelligentsia in America would soon be demanding an end to the war on terrorism.
Shayhidi would triumph and the Middle Eastern dictators, constitutional monarchs, absolute monarchs, federations of monarchs, rulers, crowned heads, presidents-for-life, and other sponsors of terrorism would breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Democracy? Power exercised directly by the masses? No way, not in the Middle East. These "loyal" subjects could not be trusted to vote for their leaders and representatives. No, that would be disastrous for the Middle East. Western-style democracy would undermine thousands of years of tradition.
When they landed their jet at Spokane International Airport, Jackie and Scott were warmly welcomed at Spokane Airways. Four uniformed security guards met them at the plane and vowed to take good care of their new Gulfstream 100.
As promised, the LongRanger IV helicopter was waiting, the weapons they had requested inside. They unloaded their bags from the G-100 and stowed them in the Bell 206L-4. In less than an hour they would rendezvous with the FBI special agent in Coeur dAlene.
The helicopter was painted bright yellow with black lettering that advertised SKY TOURS, INC. on the sides and the belly. Equipped with dual controls, the LongRanger had a two-person survival pack and two international orange survival suits in the passenger cabin.
Dressed in Banana Republic-style hiking shorts, boots, and denim shirts with epaulets and four gold stripes, Jackie and Scott gave the helicopter a thorough inspection and topped off the fuel. Minutes later, they were off to Coeur dAlene Air Terminal for their noon meeting. Approaching the quaint town, they watched a de Havilland Beaver seaplane land on sparkling Coeur dAlene Lake. Jackie radioed Resort Aviation Jet Center to order a taxi.
A line tech was refueling the LongRanger when their taxi arrived. When the fueling was completed, Scott took care of the bill and they climbed into the backseat of the taxi.
"Welcome to Coeur dAlene," the driver said, turning to face his passengers. He showed them his FBI credentials. "I'm Special Agent Frank Wakefield." He extended his hand.
"It's a pleasure." Scott reached to shake Wakefield's hand. "I didn't realize you were working undercover."
Wakefield glanced in the rearview mirror. "It's the only way to stay on top of things around here. These folks dont trust anyone in a business suit."
When they arrived at the FBI's rustic headquarters, Jackie noted a man in bib overalls tending a small garden next to the run-down cabin. They followed Wakefield inside and sat down on a dusty, tattered couch.