Starr looked over at Styles and grinned. "I'm comfy."
A chuckle could be heard from the backseat.
Bernard Backersley was sitting in the Roosevelt Room, straining to maintain his poker face, with the other major directors waiting on President Herbert Lamar. When he entered, all stood, received a nod, and sat when motioned to do so. The president looked visibly tired.
"Short and sweet, gentlemen! Where do we stand? Info on President Williams first."
Everyone looked around, and NSA Director Elliott Ragar stood. "We've ID'd the body pulled from Curtis Bay, at least I think that's what it's called. We're running every available search on him to see who he's connected with. We have some leads, but nothing that can be confirmed yet. Hopefully, within the next couple of hours. We've had satellite video and photos downloaded on all boat traffic within a forty-mile radius, double the distance we figure those scooters could have achieved. There are half a dozen that are now under constant surveillance."
"Exactly what does that mean?"
"Should someone step out onto the deck and into view of our cameras, we can get a clear enough picture to easily run them through facial recognition. Every face on those yachts is being run. If anybody on any of those vessels is in the system, we'll find them."
President Lamar nodded his approval. "Where are we on this bioagent?"
Matt Sanderson of the FBI stood. "First, I'd like to thank Elliott for all his help on this. We've tracked it to Seattle. A team is converging on the suspected site as we speak. I expect to hear from them in a half hour or less."
CIA Director Bernard Backersley struggled to remain calm. He knew what Sanderson's team was going to find. He was also fully aware of what the FBI would not find — any trace of the CIA's little visit. He almost jumped in his chair when President Lamar addressed him.
"Backersley, have you been able to establish anything on an overseas connection?"
"To which issue do you refer, sir?"
"To any of the issues at hand," the president snapped.
"We are following several paths, sir, but like Matt, nothing that can be confirmed at this time. I will notify you the minute any confirmation occurs."
"See that you do," the president replied icily. "Anyone else?"
No one spoke.
"This is unacceptable. I want answers, confirmed answers. Now go do your damned jobs." He stormed out of the room.
John Clayton, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, muttered, "Took us over ten years to find Bin Laden. You'd think he'd know this isn't particularly easy."
32
Asobe Sydar stood on the bridge of his yacht, hands on his hips. Looking over the bow, the west shore of the Chesapeake Bay was visible. The water was shimmering in the bright afternoon sunlight. The trees beyond created a dense green backdrop. A few homes and magnificent estates were visible perched among the sea of green leaves.
Nazir al-Hadid, standing a few feet away, looked very uncomfortable.
Sydar turned to his captain and ordered, "Find us an appropriate anchorage for two days."
Al-Hadid, in near panic, asked, "Are you sure about that? I mean, is this wise? The Americans will be watching every boat."
"Exactly, Nazir. The Americans will not believe that any vessel involved would come back. It will demonstrate that we have nothing to hide."
Al-Hadid was not convinced. "What if they board your vessel again?"
"Then they will find everything in perfect order. There is nothing that can possibly tie us to anything questionable. We have the same number of people on board, and your photo is now affixed to all the legal paperwork. We are just people on holiday."
"I pray you are correct, Asobe."
Christman was hopping his way back to Portland to retrieve the jet. He had no direct knowledge but knew that somewhere he was driving someone nuts with his constant changing of the rental helicopter's transponder numbers. Go ahead, boys, try to track me. He was hoping to be back in Las Vegas by ten at night. He would check in with the group when he was on the trip back to check for instructions.
It was approaching five in the evening when J. C. finally made it back to the waiting jet. He arrived transmitting the original transponder numbers. Something tells me I'd better be damned careful. As soon as he landed, he dashed into the nearest hangar. There were two workmen at the far end servicing a prop plane, an older Bonanza V-Tail, an airplane considered far ahead of its time. They paid him no attention. He spotted a maintenance uniform indicating Graham's Flight Service and slipped it over his own clothes. He also grabbed a shabby-looking baseball cap with a large Seattle Seahawks embroidered patch in front. He pulled it down in front, but not so much as to be conspicuous. He made a roundabout approach to the hangar housing his group's jet aircraft. As he'd feared, he could make out a black Ford Crown Victoria parked off to the side. There they are. He held up out of sight to think. He was certain that if whoever in the car associated him with the jet, he'd undoubtedly be detained. He had to plan an escape. After several minutes, a grin came over his face. "When in Rome," he said aloud.
He retrieved his cell phone and with directory assistance called airport security.
"There is a dark Ford Crown Vic parked next to the tan-colored hangar just down from Graham's. I've seen someone get out twice, take some kind of package from the trunk, and walk away with it. He comes back in ten or fifteen minutes without the package. Just seems very strange, so I thought I'd better call it in."
"Yes, sir, absolutely. We'll check it out immediately, and thank you. What's your name?"
"Langley," he replied, chuckling to himself. "Rob Langley."
Within sixty seconds, five vehicles came screaming up and surrounded the Crown Vic. The airport security personnel poured out with guns drawn and ordered the occupants out of the car. In the confusion, Christman made his way unnoticed inside the hangar and boarded the jet. In five minutes, he'd filed a flight plan to Houston, Texas, while the ground crew was wheeling his plane out onto the tarmac. Looking over, he saw two men screaming at the airport security officers. He saw three take down the men and cuff them and then throw them into the backseat of separate vehicles. As he watched the security teams drive away with haste, he fired up the powerful jet engines. In his best Arnold imitation, he said aloud, "I won't be back." The last thing he did was ditch his cell phone after taking it apart and wiping everything for prints.
CIA Team Leader Marty Larrow was sitting in his motel room on the phone with Bernard Backersley.
"Honest, Director, if I hadn't seen him with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. Randall is really beat up."
"How bad? How long will he be out of action?"
"I have no idea on time. His injuries that I know of are a badly broken knee, shattered nose and orbital bone, and a broken jaw that apparently was caused by some kind of uppercut or something because he bit his own tongue in half. Surgeons were able to reattach it, but it's going to take rehab before he can speak decently. He also has a badly bruised sternum, partially collapsed lung, and two cracked ribs. He's a fucking mess. It looks like he got run over by a train."
"Have you been able to talk to him at all?"
"Sir, the man can't talk. He bit off his own tongue. They are keeping him heavily sedated, which is probably as much for their own safety as his. Apparently, he was a rather difficult patient when he woke up. He cracked his ribs when he fell trying to leave. That's when they knocked him out."