"How the hell much longer will we be stuck here, Pete?" Ernie Brown wanted to know.
"You're askin' me?"
"A WHOLE LOT of nothing," concluded the lead agent. Aref Raman was a little neat for a single man living alone, but not grossly so. One of the FBI agents had noted with surprise that even the man's socks were neatly folded, along with everything else in the bureau drawers. Then one of the group remembered a study of NFL football players. A psychologist had determined after months of study that offensive linemen, whose job was to protect the quarterback, had neat lockers, while defensive linemen, whose job it was to pound the opposing quarterbacks into the turf, were slobs in every respect. It was good for a laugh, and an explanation. Nothing else was found. There was a photo of his parents, both dead. He subscribed to two news magazines, had the full cable options for his two televisions, had no booze in the house, and ate healthy. He had a particular affinity for kosher hot dogs, judging by the freezer. There were no hidden drawers or compartments— they would have found them—and nothing the least bit suspicious. That was both good news and bad.
The phone rang. Nobody answered it, because they weren't there, and they had beepers and cellular phones for their own communications needs.
"Hello, this is 536-3040," the recording of Raman's voice said, after the second ring. "Nobody's here to answer the phone right now, but if you leave a message, somebody will get back to you." Followed by a beep, and in this case, a click.
"Wrong number," one of the agents said.
"Pull the messages," the lead agent ordered the technical genius on the team.
Raman owned a digital recording system, and again there was a punch code programmed in by the manufacturer. The agent hit the six digits and another took notes. There were three clicks and a wrong number. Somebody calling for Mr. Sloan, whoever that was.
"Rug? Mr. Alahad?"
"Sounds like the name of a rug dealer," another one said. But when they looked around, there was no such rug in the apartment, just the usual cheap wall-to-wall carpet you found in apartments of this type.
"Wrong number."
"Run the names anyway." It was more habit than anything else. You checked everything. It was like working FCI. You just never knew.
Just then the phone rang again, and all five of the agents turned to stare at the answering machine, as though it were a real witness with a real voice.
SHIT, RAMAN THOUGHT, he'd forgotten to erase the messages from before. There was nothing new. His control officer hadn't called again. It would have been a surprise if he had. With that determined, Raman, sitting in a Pittsburgh hotel room, punched the erase-all code. One nice thing about the new digitals was that, once erased, they were gone forever. That wasn't necessarily true of the ones using tape cassettes.
THE FBI AGENTS took note of that, sharing looks.
"Hey, we all do that." There was general agreement. And everybody got wrong numbers, too. And this was a brother officer. But they'd run the numbers anyway.
SURGEON, TO THE relief of her detail, was sleeping upstairs in the residence. Roy Altman and the rest assigned to guard her had been going crazy with her on the fever ward—their term for it—at Johns Hopkins, as much from the physical danger as for the fact that she had run herself right into the ground. The kids, being kids, had spent the time like most other American children, watching TV and playing under the eyes of their agents, who now worried about seeing the onset of flu symptoms, blessedly absent from the entire campus. SWORDSMAN was in the Situation Room.
"What's the time there?"
"Ten hours ahead, sir."
"Make the call," POTUS ordered.
THE FIRST 747, in United livery, crossed into Saudi airspace a few minutes earlier than expected, due to favorable arctic winds. A more circuitous routing at this point would not have helped very much. Sudan had airports and radars, too, as did Egypt and Jordan, and it was assumed that the UIR had informants somewhere in those countries. The Saudi Air Force, augmented by the F-16Cs which had sneaked in from Israel the previous day as part of BUFFALO FORWARD, stood combat air patrol along the Saudi-UIR border. Two E-3B AW ACS were up and turning their rotodornes. The sun was rising now in that part of the world—at least one could see first light from their cruising altitude, though the surface, six miles below, was still black.
"GOOD MORNING, PRIME Minister. This is Jack Ryan," the President said.
"A pleasure to hear your voice. It is late in Washington, is it not?" she asked.
"We both work irregular hours. I imagine your day is just beginning."
"So it is," the voice answered. Ryan had a conventional receiver to his ear. The conversation was on speakerphone as well, and feeding into a digital tape recorder. The CIA had even supplied a voice-stress analyzer. "Mr. President, the troubles in your country, have they improved?"
"We have some hope, but, no, not quite yet."
"Is there any way in which we might be of assistance?"
Neither voice showed the least emotion beyond the false amity of people suspicious of each other, and trying to hide it. "Well, yes, actually, there is."
"Please, then, how may we be of help?"
"Prime Minister, we have some ships heading through the Arabian Sea at the moment," Ryan told her.
"Is that so?" Total neutrality in the voice.
"Yes, ma'am, it is, and you know it is, and I want your personal assurance that your navy, which is also at sea, will not interfere with their passage."
"But why do you ask this? Why should we interfere— for that matter, what is the purpose of your ship movement?"
"Your word on the matter will suffice, Prime Minister," Ryan told her. His right hand gripped a number 2 lead pencil.
"But, Mr. President, I fail to understand the purpose of this call."
"The purpose of this call is to seek your personal assurance that the Indian navy will not interfere with the peaceful passage of United States Navy ships through the Arabian Sea."
HE WAS SO weak, she thought, repeating himself that way. "Mr. President, I find your call unsettling. America has never spoken to us about such a matter before. You say you move warships close to my country, but not the purpose for the move. The movement of such vessels without an explanation is not the act of a friend." What if she could make him back down?
WHAT DID I TELL YOU? the note from Ben Goodley read. "Very well, Prime Minister, for the third time, will you give me your assurance that there will be no interference in this activity?"
"But why are you invading our waters?" she asked again.
"Very well." Ryan paused, and then his voice changed.
"Prime Minister, the purpose of the movement does not directly concern your country, but I assure you, those ships will sail on to their destination. Since their mission is one of importance to us, we will not, I repeat not, brook interference of any kind, and I must warn you that should any unidentified ship or aircraft approach our formation, there might be adverse consequences. No, please excuse me, there will be such consequences. To avoid that, I give you notice of the passage, and I request your personal assurance to the United States of America that there will be no attack on our ships."
"And now you threaten me? Mr. President, I understand the stress which has come to you of late, but, please, you may not treat sovereign countries in this way."
"Prime Minister, then I will speak very clearly. An overt act of war has been committed against the United States of America. Any interference with, or attack on, any part of our military will be deemed a further act of war, and whatever country commits such an act will face the most serious possible consequences."
"But who has done this to you?"
"Prime Minister, that is not your concern unless you wish it to be. I think in the interests of both your country and mine, it would be well if your navy returned to port forthwith."