“Except our friend Admiral Tianbao says they will be loaded with PLA light tanks, trucks, and troops headed for Jizan and Jubail in Islamyah.” Red arrows shot across the map of the Indian Ocean to the Red Sea and Persian Gulf ports.
“Where they will marry up with more troops flown in on China Air. And it gets better.” Wallace was almost bouncing on the soles of his shoes.
“The two simultaneous friendship port calls the PLAN are scheduled to do later this month and next — the Zhou Man carrier battle group to Karachi and the Zheng He carrier battle group to Durban and Cape Town. The real ports of call, says our Tianbao, will be Dammam and Jeddah.” Blue arrows appeared on the map and moved rapidly to the Gulf and Red Sea ports of Islamyah.
“Admiral Tianbao doesn’t know why all of this is being done, but he does know that the two battle groups are sailing with aircraft and missiles on board, full combat load.
“Accompanied by two nuclear subs.”
The Mercedes taxi had dropped him off at the Ritz the night before. When he made it to the rooftop bar, no one was still there, except for the bartender, who was closing up. “Mr. Rusty?” he asked. “Ms. Delmarco said if you return to give you note.”
It was scribbled on a New York Journal note pad: “If you get this, you’re safe. Good. You forgot the book I gave you. Drop down and pick it up. I’ll be up till about two, filing a rewrite with New York. Come by and tell me what happened. #1922. KD.”
Rusty was surprised to find that the note gave him a thrill, the sort of thrill he hadn’t felt in quite a while. Had things with Sarah really gotten that bad? Had it been that long since it had been fun, since they had been fun, that long since he had felt the kind of anticipation he was feeling now?
“I know you’re closing, he said to the bartender, needing a second, “but any chance I can get a Balvenie?”
He downed the single malt in a hurry, too rushed to do justice to the fine Scotch whiskey. Still, he was glad for the drink, for the warmth he felt.
“Can I borrow the phone?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
He felt like an idiot.
Kate answered the phone.
Rusty self-consciously cleared his throat. “It’s Rusty. Rusty MacIntyre.”
“Yes,” Kate said. In his slightly fevered state, Rusty could have sworn that Kate was smiling. “Successful evening?”
“Well,” Rusty replied, “it was interesting.”
“Why don’t you come up and tell me about it?” Kate offered. “Or come up and don’t tell me about it.”
Rusty paused, if only for a moment. “Why don’t I?”
He had been exhausted, jet-lagged, weak — or so he told himself. Sitting on the balcony of her room, having breakfast with Delmarco, he felt a little guilt, but mainly confusion.
“Kate, sometimes I just think there’s so much going on in my job, in my life, that I can’t structure it, I can’t see what’s important. I make mistakes,” Rusty stammered.
“Is that what last night was? A mistake?” Delmarco asked, letting her sunglasses slip down her nose.
“No. Maybe. Who knows? Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that. I meant everything else is a mistake. There are people in Washington who are out to get me, and what the hell have I done to deserve that? My job, that’s what I have done, that’s what I am doing. I could still be back on the Beltway making three times as much money for half the work,” Rusty said, running his fingers through his unkempt auburn hair.
“Then why don’t you go back?” Kate asked as she stared out over the harbor.
“ ’Cuz I’m trying to help make things better after the screwups, after 9/11, after Iraqi WMD, after the Islamyah coup. We have to get better intelligence analysis or we will keep making painful, costly mistakes. I just thought I could help get us on the right track. Sound arrogant?”
Delmarco shook her head no.
“Why don’t you go back?” Rusty repeated her question back at Kate. “To the States. Why be out here in Dubai still reporting when you should be running reporters from New York?”
Kate laughed. “You sound like my brother: ‘What’s a girl like you doing all alone in some Arab flytrap when you should be an executive?’ Well, first of all, Dubai is a marvelous place to live. Second, I have a lot of friends here and up and down the Gulf. But mainly because this is where the story is. America and the Arab world is the story of this part of the century, Rusty, in case you hadn’t noticed. And you can’t understand what’s really going on by reading wire copy in Manhattan. I am a reporter. I don’t want to be a manager. Besides, how many women international news editors have you seen lately? In some places, journalism is still a boys’ club with a heavy plate-glass ceiling. But you have to understand, my dear, I am professionally and personally very satisfied. Who wants the nightmares of drug-addicted kids and drunken, disappointed middle-aged husbands? Is that arrogant, or selfish?”
Rusty thought a moment. “No, I’d say it’s free will, a choice, an informed choice. Just make sure you’re not fooling yourself into believing a justification you developed to use on others. And frankly, it doesn’t sound as though you are. Not arrogant, not selfish.”
Kate raised a glass in toast. “To two not-arrogant smart-asses.”
Rusty toasted, then added, “But I still think it’s arrogant to think that one guy can derail a locomotive that’s barreling down the tracks the way I feel it is now. I feel a war coming, Kate, and it’s not going to be a good one for the red, white, and blue. Meanwhile, I’m here. Sarah is God knows where…”
“Rusty, we’re all human, not saints.” Kate leaned across the breakfast table and placed her hand on his.
“I have to stop worrying about me right now, Kate, and figure out what’s going on. Despite last night, I’m not here on a vacation. My boss and a few others expect me to fill in the blanks for them by coming out here and snooping around before something happens. But I get the feeling all sorts of things are about to happen, and I can’t quite make all the pieces fit, let alone stop them.”
Kate Delmarco reached down into her large straw bag and withdrew a yellow legal pad. It was covered with notes and circles, arrows connecting thoughts. “This is what I do: free-flow the factoids. Then, as they say, connect the dots.”
“So have you connected them all into a neat picture yet?”
“Not yet, but what Ahmed told you helped. Things are still up in the air in Riyadh. No faction has yet solidified control.”
“Yeah, maybe, but things could force their hand.” Rusty stood up and leaned on the railing, looking out at the water. “I’m due to fly up to Dubai today. I have to meet someone there tonight.”
“What a coincidence. I’m flying back there, too. My office there misses me. Are we on the same flight, Gulf Air at two?” Kate looked for the ticket in the straw bag.
“No. The Navy is flying me up on a little prop job, and you are not flying with me on it. No need to give them ammunition.” Standing behind her, he kissed her hair lightly, smelling the citrus shampoo. “I’ll call your office tomorrow.”
Coming out of the hotel, he bypassed the taxi rank and walked across the street to the Corniche. He walked along the tiled pathway for two blocks, then sat down on a concrete bench with a high curved back. He withdrew the BlackBerry from his jacket, turned on the PGP encryption, and typed quickly using only his thumbs on the little keyboard: