“I’ll be up there in a few minutes. I’m changing clothes.”
“I’ll tell him, sir. And CAG,” Farnsworth’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Mr. Tarkington’s pretty upset.”
“If he thinks he’s going to rag me about securing his liberty, he’d better have another think before I get there.”
“I doubt if that’s it. He doesn’t look a bit self-righteous.”
“Humph. Remind Tarkington to call his squadron to muster.”
Jake put on a clean khaki uniform and pulled on his leather flight jacket. The air inside the ship was at no more than sixty degrees tonight. It had been so warm these past few days, perhaps someone had forgotten to turn on the heat. Or Captain James had ordered it left off to save the navy sixty-four cents worth of enriched uranium. Jake toweled his head dry and combed his hair. He grabbed his combination cap, the one with the scrambled eggs on the visor, and locked the door behind him.
“What’s your problem, Tarkington?”
“I need to talk to you, sir. And I heard you were looking for me.”
“Into the office.” Farnsworth and his two assistants were already checking names on muster sheets as the squadrons called in.
Jake closed the office door and motioned Tarkington to a chair. He felt around for the note the lieutenant had written to him on the beach, but he had left it in his civilian trousers.
“They shot two men to death tonight at the Vittorio.”
“I heard,” Jake said.
“I was there.”
“Oh,” said Jake, and sank into his chair.
“Judith Farrell was the leader of the assassination team.”
Jake Grafton threw his hat on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “Start talking.”
His men stood casually. Their handguns were in the back of their trousers, in the small of their backs under their sweaters and jackets. The Uzis were in small gym bags, along with spare magazines and grenades.
Qazi examined each face. “Okay, you know your assignments. The success of our mission depends on each one of you carrying out your assignments exactly as you have been taught. Remember, they do not yet know we are aboard, and the longer we remain undetected, the easier this mission will be. You are now American sailors. Just proceed purposefully, yet unhurriedly, and the Americans will accept you as one of them.” Three of them spoke no English and the other three spoke only a little, with heavy accents. They had all been instructed that when spoken to, merely nod, smile, and go on.
Their faces were grim, determined. “Remember to smile.” A smile was an American’s passport, the visible proof that his heart was pure and his intentions honorable. Since World War II the Americans had grinned at almost everyone on earth. Now even nomads in the Gobi desert were smiling.
“Go.”
When everyone had left the compartment, Qazi closed the door and placed a padlock on it. He removed the key from the padlock and put it in his pocket. A close examination would show the door had been forced and the door-handle lock broken, but the padlock would delay them for a few minutes. He picked up his gym bag and, with two of his men behind him, walked between the airplanes until he could look up at the man in the center hangar-deck fire station, CONFLAG 2. He smiled at him and walked toward the hatch immediately below the watch station. He glanced around. One of the red paint lockers stood against the bulkhead. As soon as he finished upstairs, while his men were visiting the other two CONFLAG stations, he would plant bombs on at least four or five of these paint lockers. He took a deep breath and began to climb the ladder.
21
She asked me not to tell.”
“She knew you would.”
Tarkington’s face was a study. Lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and his face seemed … older.
“She knew you had to tell,” Jake said.
“If she knew I was going to spill it, why did she ask me not to? How come she didn’t just shoot me?”
“Women are like that,” Jake Grafton muttered. “They ask you not to do something they know you’re gonna do, and they watch your face while they ask it.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re just measuring the size of your heart.”
“I think they were Israelis. Mossad.”
“Any evidence?”
“They ragged on one guy who sounded like an American. They called him an ‘agency asshole.’ Apparently he shot the first guy when he wasn’t supposed to.” Toad looked around desperately. “They didn’t kill me,” he said, his voice rising. “The Mossad only kills terrorists.”
“Or so you’ve heard. And you’ve ratted on them when she asked you not to. Now you feel guilty as hell. Thank you, Judith Farrell.”
Jake picked up the phone and dialed Farnsworth. “Find the senior intelligence officer who’s aboard tonight and tell him to go to the intel center. I’m sending Mr. Tarkington over there now. I want them to wring out Tarkington like a sponge and draft up a Top Secret flash message. Then find out if Admiral Parker’s aboard, or the chief of staff.”
When he cradled the receiver, he said to Toad, “I want you to tell this tale to the Air Intelligence guys. Describe every one of those people. Including Judith. What they were wearing, height and weight, facial features, the works.” As Toad rose to go, Jake added, “Sooner or later, you may get curious about why I had everyone on this boat looking for you all afternoon. Judith Farrell is not a native speaker of English. She’s probably not an American.”
Toad looked dazed. “But she said she was!”
“Tarkington …,” Jake said, exasperation creeping into his voice, “you got yourself smack in the middle of somebody’s heavy operation. Farrell’s on someone’s team. You’re real fucking lucky you didn’t get zapped for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Toad didn’t react, the sap. “Look at it this way, Toad: if you hadn’t meant anything to her, she wouldn’t have bothered to tell you to keep quiet.”
The younger man just stared, his mouth open slightly.
Jake came around the desk and sat on it. Maybe he shouldn’t go into this. But Toad … Why wait for the guy to figure all this out ten years from now? “You care about her, right? And she was telling you she cares about you. She told you the only way she could. The words weren’t the message; it was the way she said it.”
Toad nodded slowly.
“Now quit feeling like a shit and go tell the intel guys everything you know.” Jake pointed toward the door. “Beat it.”
As Toad left the room he glanced back at the captain, who was absently patting his pockets as he gazed at the telephone. Then the door closed.
Private Harold Porter hadn’t worn his slicker for this watch. The rain had soaked him and the wind was making him miserable. He huddled against the side of the ship, under the lip of the flight deck curb, and kept his hands tucked under his armpits. The ship’s red flight-deck floodlights illuminated the.50-caliber machine gun and the ammo feed box. The sound-powered telephone headset he wore kept his ears warm. At least that was something.
Porter elevated his head and watched the helicopter lift off the angle. Its flashing red anticollision light swept the numbers on the side of the island. The chopper rose several feet off the deck and the tail came up, then it accelerated forward off the angled portion of the flight deck. Porter watched it go, then lowered his head back below the curb of the deck.