“The President is taking a lot of heat, isn’t he?”
“Damn right he’s taking a lot of heat. Not only that, I think he’s digging himself into a hole. On this one, I question his judgment. If Langley and Rogers aren’t able to pull this off, he’s opened himself up to a great deal of second-guessing.”
“Sounds like one of those damned-if you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situations,” Miller observed.
Packer finished his coffee, and was still in the process of standing up when the phone rang. Miller answered, grimaced, and handed the phone to Packer.
“It’s Joy, Chief.”
By the time Packer had the receiver up to his ear, Joy was already well into what she intended to say.
“Sara said she had just talked to you and you were planning to stay at the office tonight… and I remember Tobias told me the only time you stayed at the office was when there was a crisis. Is this about Tobias?”
“You probably know as much about what’s going on as I do,” Packer stalled.
“What are you getting over the wire services?”
“Dammit, Clancy, you know what we’re getting.
We’re getting reports out of Amman, Jordan, that Tobias killed his guard and somehow managed to escape.”
“Then you know everything we know. Joy.
We’re still trying to verify that report. Tell me where you are and I’ll give you a call if I learn anything.”
“Are you stonewalling me, Clancy? Why did Donald Freeman schedule a news conference for the morning?”
Clancy Packer hated the fact that he couldn’t level with Joy. He couldn’t tell her what he had learned in the two meetings earlier that evening, nor could he tell her that an attempt was being made to rescue her former husband.
“Joy, I didn’t know Freeman had scheduled a news conference.”
There was a prolonged silence on Joy’s end of the line. Finally she said, “Give me your word-you’ll call me if you hear anything.”
By the time Packer came up with the necessary assurances and hung up, Miller’s other phone was ringing. He answered it, handed it to Packer, and said, “It’s Spitz.”
Chapter Twelve
According to the watch Bogner had taken from the guard in his cell, he had already managed to elude NIMF’s security guards for the better part of an additional three and a half hours. Three times during that period the Iraqi mechanic had driven the GAZ from one section of the Ammash compound to another, and each time the guards waved them through when they saw one of their own driving the maintenance truck.
During the course of those three and a half hours Bogner had learned a great deal of what he felt he needed to know about the layout of the complex. In addition, he had learned that his driver had a name. The little man with the big eyes and expressive face was called Matba.
Matba, in an ongoing spirit of cooperation that
Bogner attributed mostly to the fact that he kept the Mk 2 visible, talked a great deal, unwittingly pointed out strategic features of the NIMF complex, and even displayed a sense of humor from time to time. When Bogner inquired about Fahid, Matba had scowled, hunched his shoulders forward, and uttered mish kwayyis, finally leading Bogner to the English word Matba was searching for, “bad.” Though he spoke very little English and time was lost while Bogner tried to decipher what the man was saying, Matba had, to some extent, made the long night’s meandering vigil through the Ammash complex somewhat tolerable.
During the course of the night, the temperature had remained somewhat steady. Bogner estimated it to be somewhere in the forties, but as the wind picked up, it felt colder. The blowing sand often reduced the visibility, and the combination of darkness and poor exterior lighting on most of the structures made it difficult for Bogner to make out pertinent details.
It wasn’t until Matba drove them out of the military complex and through the gates into the Nasrat facility that Bogner was finally able to understand how Ammash and Nasrat were linked.
When that happened, Bogner understood the connection between the NIMF operation and the pharmaceutical company.
The main building in the Nasrat Pharmaceutical complex was a sprawling two-story structure that, according to what Matba knew about the installation, was where most of the people in the compound worked. It was the three stories below, Matba revealed, that housed the production area where biological and chemical weapons were manufactured.
At one point Matba drove them around to the shipping docks and Bogner could see where the rails cars were loaded and unloaded. Mentally he traced his way back across the main road between the two facilities to the switching yards, where Matba had pointed out the aging steam locomotive moving boxcars to the Ammash warehouse and supply depot.
While they watched, one of the two steam engines worked its way into the complex, coupled up with three boxcars from inside the Nasrat complex, and hauled them back to the switching yards, where a decidedly more modern diesel engine with several cars already attached was waiting.
What Bogner was seeing was now beginning to mesh with what he had learned in Miller and Langley’s briefing sessions.
Bogner broke the silence with a question, “Do you know a man by the name of Rashid?”
“Rashid?” Matba repeated.
“Aiwa.”
“Do you know where we can find him?”
Matba was eager to show Bogner he understood.
He nodded, smiled, and reiterated the word “aiwa” several times.
“Show me where I can find him,” Bogner said.
Like a compliant child, Matba jammed the GAZ into reverse, pulled away from the parking place where they had been observing the Nasrat shipping docks, and headed back across the road again into the NIMF military complex.
Back inside the military complex, it took Matba the better part of ten minutes to maneuver his way through a complex of featureless buildings and drive to the housing area where Rashid and most of the personnel involved with Nasrat were housed. The housing consisted of nondescript, long, low gray-stone structures, delineated only by their small front-yard gardens and private entrances.
Matba slowed, wheeled the GAZ into a parking space, and pointed.
“Ghurfa sifr arab’a.”
“Number 04?” Bogner asked.
The little man nodded.
“Rashid, ‘al tuul.” Bogner studied the front of the building for several moments.
“Here’s the way we work it. If for any reason we get stopped, we tell them we’re here to repair something in the housing quarters.
You’ll tell them that Dr. Rashid called maintenance.
Got it?”
It was obvious from Matba’s reaction that he had managed to grasp most of what Bogner had said. He even glanced down to make certain Bogner still had the Mk 2. He pointed at the automatic and rolled his eyes.
“Got it,” he repeated.
“Let’s do it,” Bogner said, reaching for the door.
Just as he did, he saw an NIMF security vehicle round the corner and begin panning the beam of its searchlight along the facades of the row of quarters. Bogner reached for the toggle switch, shut off the engine, ducked, and pulled Matba down on the seat beside him. The security vehicle passed and moved on up the street.
Bogner opened the door of the GAZ and prodded Matba out, and the two men walked up the brick walk and Bogner tried the door. When he saw it was locked, Matba quickly took out his pocket knife, manipulated the lock, and opened the door. Even in the less-than-adequate light from the street lamps on the corner, Bogner could see Matba smiling. Whatever his motivation, the little man was doing everything he could to keep from getting shot.
“Ila henak Metba said, pointing down a narrow hall leading to the back of the quarters.