Kyle felt a moment of déjà vu, because he was already booked on a flight tomorrow. He would take the Excalibur plane instead, just as he had canceled a commercial flight to get to Washington in a hurry. There was no question this time; he needed to see them. He could sleep on the plane. He could sleep when he was dead.
Swanson hung up, went to the bathroom, then stood by the bedroom window to look out at darkened Washington and entertain murderous thoughts. Why would anyone go after Pat and Delara, and in such a public place? Obviously, it was no random mugging attempt, although Jeff had said the police had not yet gotten any answers from the goons that did it. He lifted up on his toes and stretched, then dropped down to do some push-ups and sit-ups before climbing back into bed, knowing he would be unable to really sleep. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, relaxed, and slowly lowered into the hazy zone somewhere just north of oblivion, quiet but with his senses alert to everything, the still place he always went to before going into a big fight.
Again he was the only passenger on the aircraft, but this one had a pretty hostess who welcomed him aboard and did everything but tuck him in as the Lear settled into its long flight home. She dimmed the lights, set the volume low on a CD of soft jazz, and gave him a pillow and a blanket after converting the seat to a bed. Kyle was flying five hours forward in time on this jump.
He did not know how long he had been asleep when he heard a paddle stroke in water, then a forlorn voice tinged with humor. “So it begins.”
“Maybe,” Swanson said. “Maybe not.”
“Oh, yes. You will soon cause me to be very busy. There are many things you do not yet know.”
It was a familiar haunting, a playing out of defined roles. Kyle was being visited once again by a character he knew as the Boatman, a tall and ghastly creature who piloted a little boat to ferry souls from earth to eternity, souls that Kyle Swanson had killed. Over the years, the nocturnal visits had become less and less surprising as Kyle had learned to let his subconscious roam and be open to all hints and suggestions.
“Why are you here? I am not near any battle. Therefore, no fresh bodies for your little boat.”
A ghoulish giggle rose to challenge. “There will be many of those, and we will have our usual deaclass="underline" You will kill them, and I will haul them away. Or maybe I will take you this time. Or someone close to you.”
“I’m not going to kill anybody.” In Swanson’s dream, he could detect the flicker of a holocaust burning on a distant horizon and smell the ashes of cremated beings. It caused him to grind his teeth. “This time, you are wrong.”
The Boatman grinned, and there was a glimpse of his toothy skull. “Not wrong. I am just early. Even by your standards, this time many people have to die.”
“Not by my hand.”
“Oh, yes. You are wrong. Very wrong.” The long paddle dug hard into the water at the stern, and the boat slid away on unseen water.
“Go to hell,” Swanson said.
“Yes,” replied the Boatman. “I always do.”
Swanson felt his body loosen, the muscles fully relaxed, and his mind went into an even lower gear. He had lied to the Boatman, of course; not that it mattered, because those meetings were always just a reverie to remind him who he was and to let his subconscious mind assess the facts. He was certainly planning to kill whoever had attacked Pat, and that reckoning would come even if he had to overturn God’s green earth to do it.
He puzzled for a moment about how the Boatman could have come for a visit while Kyle was flying at twenty thousand feet. Soon he was snoring, and the flight attendant snipped off the light and adjusted the blanket.
Curtains of black smoke spiraled and swirled above the Egyptian capital as civil order broke down following the destruction of the visiting Iranian team. The people were blaming the elected government and the generals for the airport massacre, and the major cities had endured a night of looting and murder, beatings, rape, and robbery. Mobs were in the streets, those supporting the fragile government clashing with equally fervent antigovernment factions, although they were all mostly members of the Muslim Brotherhood. The powerful army generals dithered, not knowing what had really happened and wanting to test the political winds before cracking down on one side or the other. From his office window on this bright new morning, Colonel Naqdi watched the smoke and crowds with deep pleasure and almost smelled fear and opportunity.
“We are not quite there yet,” said Colonel Naqdi.
His chief of staff, Major Shakuri, thought carefully before speaking. “The government seems at the edge of collapse, sir. I’ve never seen such open mayhem. The Egyptians may soon be at war with themselves.”
“They are just confused, Major, because they sense that events far beyond their control are at work. The elected men cling to power through a coalition of different parties, and the Brotherhood is not satisfied with its current political status — they want it all. The generals who have the real power seem lost. Everybody is yelling at everybody else.”
“Confusion that we manufactured,” said the major.
“It was not difficult to do, was it?” the colonel asked. “Two Brotherhood martyrs with military experience were in the armored car, one to shoot and one to drive. The bomb was just a few artillery rounds wired together. It was an army vehicle, the driver knew the proper codes, so no one questioned its last-minute addition to what was supposed to be a totally routine escort duty. This was a wise investment in every way, and you see the result of careful planning.”
It was still another implied threat against Major Shakuri. He had vomited again in private that morning before reporting to his colonel that the London attack on Lady Patricia Cornwell had been unsuccessful.
“Another failure?” the colonel had sneered.
“Sorry, sir. The lawyer I used as an intermediary to hire the attack team has been silenced. Should I try to pursue the woman again?”
The colonel had given him a cold stare, as a man would regard a beetle, a creature of no consequence. “No. The old man will have her covered with bodyguards by now. Neither will be reachable for a long time.” Naqdi moved on to other things, but the major knew there was another black mark against his name.
Now the colonel returned to his desk and used the remote control to turn up the volume on the large television screen hanging on the wall of his office. Al Jazeera news was reporting on demonstrations in the streets throughout Iran, too, protests demanding revenge for the deaths of the beloved soccer stars. Speeches were being made in parliamentary bodies around the world, including at the United Nations. To anyone who followed the news on television, the entire Middle East seemed to be on fire again, although it was all being orchestrated for the purpose of whipping up anger and enthusiasm in both countries for what lay ahead.
He looked up suddenly at his chief of staff and asked, “Is the ship on schedule?”
Mansoor Shakuri was glad he had checked the sailing plan before the briefing. Something positive that he could report. “Yes, sir. She will be on station at the proper coordinates at the correct time.” In his heart, he thought: More martyrs. The colonel dealt in high body counts.