“Why don’t you learn to use some of that latent charm of yours, Tobias? You know damn well I look sensational. Tell me I look fabulous and I might even decide to go home with you.”
It was typical Joy Carpenter, formerly Joy Bogner, dialogue. Even worse for Bogner, it was working.
He smiled and thought about what she had said. She was right. With a little effort he could have come up with something better than “good.”
“So what made you decide to call?” she finally asked.
“Remember what that marriage counselor said?
I have a strong desire to please? When you called the other night you said you were thirsty. Thirst, plus desire to please, equals drink.”
Joy looked around the dining room.
“I had someplace in mind other than a damned public restaurant. But knowing you, I’m surprised you didn’t suggest we meet at the Navy Club.”
“I probably would have if I had thought of it,” Bogner admitted. He lifted his drink.
“Well, wherever we are, here’s to the good old days.”
“If they were that good, sailor boy, I’d drink to them, but my recollections aren’t all that great.”
“We had some good times,” Bogner countered.
“Sure, but we couldn’t spend the rest of our lives in bed. The way I remember it, we both had to get up every now and then and take care of life’s little annoyances like putting food on the table and paying the rent.”
Bogner leaned forward.
“You remember it any way you want to. I prefer to dwell on the good times.”
Joy’s face softened. The smile intensified. For the first time since she had entered the room, it was no longer the “on camera” smile. Bogner knew the real one when he saw it. He wasn’t surprised when she reached across the table and laid her hand on his.
“Sorry,” she said, “it’s a female thing. I guess I just had to get it out of my system.
What say we start this little tete-a-tete over?”
“Fine, let’s start with the real reason why you called me.”
“I was being honest. I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Joy reached in her purse and laid two airline tickets on the table.
“Can you get away for a couple of days?”
“More than likely. Where?”
“How does Paris sound? Remember? That was where we used to say we were going to honeymoon when we could afford it? A little late maybe, but what the hell? What’s twenty-some years among friends?”
“When?”
“Is that all you can says?
“When’?”
Bogner winced. He knew Joy had to have done a great deal of planning to find a few days off.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he finally said. After he said it, he knew that, by Joy’s standards, even that would sound inadequate.
Robert Miller was proud of his reputation as a bulldog when it came to sorting through reams of data. He had spent most of his time since the N1 meeting going back through the files, verifying what he did know, and determining what he needed to know. He had touched base with the agency’s contacts in Tel Aviv-Jaffa and Jerusalem, spoken directly with the Red Crescent representative in Istanbul, and was just finishing a phone conversation with Jaffe’s man in Yemen when Packer returned. Miller followed the agency chief into his office and closed the door behind him.
Packer looked at the stack of reports, gradually worked his way around his desk, and sat down.
“I can tell by the look on your face, Robert. It’s worse than Langley and Stanhouse thought, isn’t it?”
Miller nodded.
“The Red Crescent in Istanbul claims they are just beginning to get some idea of the magnitude of the situation. Pack. So far they’ve received reports from a Kurd village in northern Iraq called Shaqlawa, another a few miles from a town called Zahko, and still another in an even more thinly populated area in the mountains on the Turkish-Iraqi border. So far they have been able to verify the deaths of a little over three hundred victims, not to mention all the livestock. And they indicate there are several more isolated or remote areas where they haven’t yet been able to get close enough to verify or investigate.
They say they aren’t getting a hell of a lot of cooperation.”
“What about the U.N.?”
“So far, nothing. I was able to get a few people at some of the embassies around town to talk to me, though. But the minute I mentioned the Kurds, they got real quiet.”
Packer nodded and took out his pipe.
“What about this talk about a rift between Abbasin and Baddour?”
“Apparently it’s real. I talked to one of my contacts in Baghdad. He says, to put it mildly, Baddour is persona non grata in the palace. For the most part, Langley and Crimmins’ information about the rift is correct. My source thinks t
Baddour has political ambitions. He says he thinks that sooner or later this situation could fester into a civil war or possibly even into a coup attempt.”
Packer frowned, tamped his pipe, and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Do we have any idea where Fadel Hasan is?”
“Not off the top of my head,” Miller admitted.
“I’d have to check it out. Why?”
“Spitz would know,” Packer offered.
“He was at Langley’s meeting. If anyone could steer us though the proper channels, he could. Tell Spitz we want to pick the old boy’s brains.”
It was near six o’clock when Miller walked back into Packer’s office. He was smiling.
“A piece of cake. I called Spitz, he made two phone calls, got the witness protection people’s blessing, and gave me a name to contact. I got through on the first call. They’ll meet us at the airport tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
“Where? What airport?” Packer asked. Then he held up his hand.
“Wait, maybe it’s better if I don’t know.”
Miller grinned.
“I’ve got us booked on the redeye, Chief. We get into Las Vegas at eight in the morning.”
Packer looked tired. He started to reach for the phone and stopped.
“Wait a minute, dammit, find Bogner. Bring him up to speed… and tell him he has a date in Las Vegas tomorrow morning.”
Miller’s call came late enough that Bogner had little time to prepare. After a bumpy five-hour flight with a stopover in Saint Louis, three hours of digesting Miller’s hastily scribbled notes, and cajoling a flight attendant into rounding up something for the two of them to eat, Bogner finally managed to get a couple of hours of sleep.
At precisely nine a.m. Las Vegas time, two men, one wearing a cowboy hat and the other sporting a three-or four-day growth of beard, approached them, flashed their credentials, and insisted that Bogner and Miller prove they were who they said they were. When the two men appeared to be satisfied, Bogner and Miller were led to a car, unceremoniously deposited in the backseat, and driven away.
An hour later, the car stopped on a side road not far from Indian Springs Air Force Base, and the two men from the ISA along with their hosts transferred to a Ford minivan. By the time they arrived at their destination, even Bogner, who claimed to have been born with an innate sense of direction, knew he couldn’t retrace his tracks.
His only reference was the location of the hot midday Nevada sun — and he doubted if even that would help him.
To Bogner’s surprise, however, the whole rendezvous had come off without a major glitch.
Now, roughly one hour and forty-five minutes after landing, he was staring up a long dusty lane that lead to a plain one-story ranch house.
“We leave you here,” the man in the hat informed him.