The phone rang. It was Bob. "Yaqub says he thinks Isa is in America."
"Not news. Anything else?"
"Well… He told Mary that he thinks Isa is a virgin."
"Really."
"Really. He waited until I was out of the room to tell her, and he whispered it like he didn't want Isa to hear."
"Why? Isa taken a vow of celibacy to the cause?"
"He doesn't know why, but he says Isa-who he knew as Dandin Gandhi, by the way-never went anywhere near women while he knew him."
Patrick thought of Zahirah's body, skirt rearranged carefully over her recently deflowered body. "So he thinks Isa hated women?"
"You'd expect that from an avowed Islamist, wouldn't you? No, Yaqub says in fact the opposite. He was very critical of Yaqub's womanizing, thought it was demeaning to both Yaqub and the women. He used to quote at him from the Koran, something about if you be kind toward women and fear to wrong them, Allah smiles on you."
"Really," Patrick said again. "Interesting."
As soon as he hung up the phone rang again. It was the agent in Mexico City. They'd finally caught a break. Isa had been spotted boarding a flight for Haiti. Not without difficulty, Patrick managed to restrain himself until he hung up and then he leapt to his feet, pumped his fist once, and shouted, "Awright!"
He got immediately back on the phone to call his office. "Melanie? I need a seat on the next plane to Port-au-Prince."
There was a brief, startled silence. Miami was one thing. Haiti, especially given the current political climate there, was quite another. He was a bureau chief, not a field agent. "Are you quite sure about this, Mr. Chisum?" Melanie said.
"I'm sure, Melanie," Patrick said firmly. "And don't you think it's time you started calling me Patrick?"
OFF CAPE CANAVERAL, ON BOARD USCG CUTTER MUNRO
"We'll be hanging offshore about two miles out," Cal told the Munros. "But it'll feel like you've got a front-row seat. The best place to watch will be from the bridge. I'll put us port side to, and I'll have some chairs brought up for you if you'd like."
"Oh please," Doreen said, "you don't have to go to all that trouble."
"It's no trouble, Doreen."
Nick cocked an eyebrow. "You'll be providing seating for all your guests, Cal?"
Cal grinned. "The admirals and the press can stand."
They were in Cal 's stateroom, with the table set for dinner for six. There was a knock at the door and the two aforesaid admirals entered. One was of medium height with a barrel chest, the left half of which was covered clavicle to sternum with service ribbons. He had stern gray eyes and a thick, bristly flattop to match. "Admiral Matson," Cal said.
The second admiral was so tall he had to duck coming through the door, with a haircut so short he looked like he was wearing a silver skullcap. Admiral Barkley had an intelligent eye, a charming smile, and an easy manner, and he was a veteran of multiple patrols in the Caribbean, EPAC, and the Bering Sea, so he knew his way around operations and had an instant frame of reference with the skipper of a 378. He at once endeared himself to Nick by casting aspersions on aviators of every stripe. There followed a spirited debate on the relative merits of sea and air, which was accompanied by a lot of laughter and ended in an amicable draw.
In the meantime, Doreen tried to draw out Admiral Matson, who was determined not to be drawn, and other than asking Cal -twice-if the CNN reporter had made it on board, addressed himself exclusively to his prime rib. It was excellent, Cal was relieved to note, as the admiral was a noted trencherman. In Admiral Matson's defense, it had to be said that he spent all his time wrangling money out of Congress for the Coast Guard. If he regarded Munro working launch security with a Munro a member of the shuttle's crew solely as a heaven-sent opportunity to remind Congress of the Coast Guard's worthiness come appropriations time, there was some validity in that viewpoint. After a few minutes, Doreen, with an air of having done her best, handed Matson off to Taffy, who was seated at the foot of the table with his best attentive and respectful expression fastened firmly on his face.
The phone rang. "Excuse me," Cal said, and took the receiver from Seaman Roberts, who was doing her best not to hurry dinner along even though she wanted to take a nap when she got off duty so she'd be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the launch. Cal hoped fervently that no fires or other emergencies broke out at T minus ten, because most of his already skeleton crew would be on deck at that time, cameras at the ready, to watch the shuttle hurl itself skyward. "Captain," he said into the phone.
"Captain, this is the OOD. We've got a request to launch our helo to go pick up someone at the Cape."
"What?" Cal said. "Is there an emergency?" He sat up, napkin sliding from his lap. "Morgan, is this a SAR?"
The OOD, a sanguine and capable woman five years out of the Academy, said cheerfully, "No, Captain. Someone just wants a ride."
Cal laughed. "What did the XO promise you this time?"
"This isn't a joke, sir," Barbieri said reprovingly.
"I beg your pardon," Cal said meekly.
"Quite all right, sir."
"So what's going on?"
"Evidently there's a VIP at the Cape and he wants to come out and watch the launch from Munro''
Cal knew a sudden foreboding. "Who is this alleged VIP?"
"Senator Schuyler, sir."
THEY LAUNCHED THE HELO WITH MINIMUM FUSS, ALTHOUGH Lieutenant Noyes did make a joke about being demoted to a taxi service. They were back in forty-five minutes, entirely too soon, roaring down the length of Munro at 140 knots, fifty feet off the water, a flyby for which they had not asked nor been given permission to do.
His stateroom full of strangers, two of them his superior officers, Cal had no recourse but to greet his father in public. "Dad," he said.
Senator Schuyler swept Cal into a manly embrace, including several thumps on the back for good measure. "Your mother sends her love, as always, son."
Cal was certain as he stood there that if Vera had given any thought to her son and only offspring in the last month it was to wonder yet again if he'd finally decided to leave the disreputable life of a sailor behind for one more befitting his mother's station in life.
The honorable senator beamed impartially at the assembled company. "And who are all these good people?"
As if the senator didn't already have the 411 on every person in the room, Cal thought, and performed the introductions, if not with grace then with utility.