"Oh?"
"Oh, yeah, and oh, shit. I'll let Loomis and Selig walk you through it."
"Can I take this to Andrea Price without getting shot?" the Director asked.
"I think so."
58 THE LIGHT OF DAY
IT WASN'T SOMETHING TO celebrate, but for the second day in a row, new Ebola cases had dropped. Of the new cases identified, moreover, about a third were people who tested positive for the antibodies but were asymptomatic. CDC and USAMRIID rechecked the data twice before reporting it to the White House, also cautioning that it was too preliminary to be released to the public. The travel ban, it seemed, and the spinoff effects it was having on interpersonal contacts, was working—but the President couldn't say it was working, because then it would stop working.
The Giant Steps case was also ongoing, mainly a task of the FBI laboratory division. There, electronic microscopes were being used for something other than the identification of Ebola strands, and were narrowing in on pollen and other tiny particles. This was complicated by the fact that the Giant Steps attack had been made in the spring, when the air was full of pollens.
Mordecai Azir, it was now firmly established, was a quintessential unperson who had sprung into existence seemingly for a single purpose and, fulfilling it, had disappeared. But he had left behind photographs, and there were ways of dealing with that, Ryan learned. He wondered if there might be some good news to end the day. There wouldn't be.
"Hi, Dan." He was back in his office. The Situation Room was just one more reminder that his next major order was to send people into combat.
"Mr. President," the FBI Director said, entering with Inspector O'Day and Andrea Price.
"Why do you look so happy?"
And then they told him.
IT WAS A BRAVE man who awoke the Ayatollah Mahmoud Haji Daryaei before dawn, and since those around him feared his wrath, it took two hours for them to summon the courage to do so. Not that it would help matters. At four in the morning in Tehran, the phone by the side of his bed rang. Ten minutes after that, he was in the sitting room of his private apartment, his dark, sunken eyes waiting to punish those responsible.
"We have a report that American ships have entered the Gulf," the intelligence chief told him.
"When and where?" the Ayatollah asked quietly.
"It was after midnight at the narrows. One of our missile-patrol boats spotted what it reported to be an American destroyer. It was ordered in to attack by the local naval commander, but we've heard nothing more from the boat."
"That is all?" You awakened me for this?
"There was some radio traffic in the area, ships talking back and forth. They talked about several explosions. We have reason to believe that our missile boat was attacked and destroyed by someone, probably an aircraft—but an aircraft from where?"
"We want your permission to commence air operations to sweep the Gulf after dawn. We have never done this without your word," the air force chief pointed out.
"Permission is given," Daryaei told them. Well, he was awake now, the cleric told himself. "What else?"
"The Army of God is making its approach march to the border area. The operation is proceeding as scheduled." Surely this news would please him, the intelligence chief thought.
Mahmoud Haji nodded. He'd hoped for a decent night's sleep, in anticipation of being up long hours for the next few days, but it was his nature that, once awakened, he could not return to sleep. He looked at his desk clock— he didn't wear a watch—and decided that the day would have to begin.
"Will we surprise them?"
"Somewhat, certainly," Intelligence responded. "The army is under strict orders to maintain radio silence. The American listening posts are very sensitive, but they cannot hear nothing. When they reach Al Busayyah, we must expect detection, but then we will be ready to jump off, and it will be at night."
Daryaei shook his head. "Wait, what did our patrol boat tell us?"
"He reported an American destroyer or frigate, possibly with other ships, but that was all. We will have aircraft up to look in two hours."
"Their transport ships?"
"We don't know," Intelligence admitted. He'd hoped that they were past that.
"Find out!"
The two men took their leave with that order. Daryaei rang his servant for tea. He had another thought just then. All would be settled, or at least solved, when the Raman boy fulfilled his mission. The report was that he was in place, and had received his order. Why, then, hadn't he fulfilled it! the Ayatollah asked himself, with a building anger. He looked at the clock again. It was too early to make a call.
KEMPER HAD GIVEN his crew something akin to a stand-down. The automation of the Aegis ships made that possible, and so, starting two hours after the incident with the gunboat—missile boat, he corrected himself—crewmen were allowed to rotate off their battle stations, to relieve themselves, to get something to eat, and in many cases to pump a little iron. That had lasted an hour, with each officer and man having had fifteen minutes. They were all back now. It was two hours to nautical twilight. They were just under a hundred miles from Qatar, now heading west-northwest, after having dodged behind every island and oil platform that might confuse an enemy radar post. COMEDY had been through the tough part. The Gulf was far wider here. There was sea room to maneuver in and to make full use of his powerful sensors. The radar picture in Anzio's CIC showed a flight of four F-16s twenty miles north of his formation, their IFF codes clear on the display—his people had to be careful about that. It would have been better if there could be an AWACS aloft, but, he had just learned an hour before, all of those were deployed up north. Today, there would be a fight. It would not be the sort of thing Aegis had been designed for, or quite what he'd been trained for, but that was the Navy for you.
The decoy group he ordered south. Their job was done for now. With the sun up, there would be no disguising what COMEDY was and where they were going, he thought.
"HOW SURE OF this are you?" POTUS asked. "Christ, I've been alone with the guy a hundred times!"
"We know," Price assured him. "We know. Sir, it's hard to believe. I've known Jeff on and off—"
"He's the basketball guy. He told me who was going to win the NCAA finals. He was right. His point spread was right on."
"Yes, sir." Andrea had to agree with that, too. "Unfortunately, these items are a little hard to explain."
"Are you going to arrest him?"
"We can't." Murray took that one. "It's one of those situations where you know, or think you know, but can't prove anything. Pat here had an idea, though."
"Then let's hear it," Ryan ordered. His headache was back. No, that wasn't right. The intervening, brief period without a headache had ended. Bad enough that he'd been told of the vague possibility that the Secret Service was compromised, but now they thought they had proof—no, worse, he corrected himself, not good enough for proof, just more fucking suspicion! — that one of the people trusted to be around him and his family was a potential assassin. Would this never end? But he listened anyway.
"Actually, it's pretty simple," O'Day concluded.
"No!" Price said immediately. "What if—"
"We can control that. There won't be any real danger," the inspector assured everyone.
"Hold it," SWORDSMAN said. "You say you can smoke the guy out?"
"Yes, sir."
"And I actually get to do something instead of just sitting here like a goddamned king?"
"Yes, sir," Pat repeated.
"Where do I sign up?" Ryan asked rhetorically. "Let's do it."
"Mr. President—"
"Andrea, you'll be here, right?"