He's scratching every hour he can buy or steal to launch his new economic reforms and replace military leaders with men he can trust.
Hala Kantil is the only thread preventing Yazid from attempting a quick grab for the Egyptian government. If Yazid's assassins stop her before her speech goes out over world news satellite channels, there is a real danger of Egypt becoming another Iran before the monday is out."
"Relax, Yazid won't get wise to the scam until it's too late," said Nichols confidentially.
"I assume she is under heavy guard?"
"By a top team of Secret Service agents. The President is personally keeping a tight grip on the operation."
Schiller's wife knocked on the door and spoke loudly from the other side. "Steaks are ready, Julius."
"In a minute," he answered.
Nichols picked up on the exchange. "That's all I have for now. I'll let you get back to your steaks."
"I'd feel better if the FBI was lending a hand," said Schiller.
"The White House security staff has considered every contingency. The President thought it best to keep all intelligence within a tight circle."
Schiller paused pensively for a moment. Then he said, "Don't screw it up, Dale."
"Not to worry. I promise, Hala Kamil will arrive at the U.N. building in New York in pristine condition and full of fire."
"She'd better."
"Does the sun set in the west?"
Schiller set down the phone. He had an uneasy feeling. He hoped to God the White House knew what it was doing.
Across the street three men sat in the back of a Ford van with "Capitol Plumbing, 24-hour emergency service" painted on the panels. The cramped interior was crowded with electronic eavesdropping equipment.
Tedium had set in five hours ago. Surveillance is perhaps the most boring job since watching rails rust. One man smoked and the other two didn't and couldn't stand the stale air. All were stiff and cold.
Former counterespionage agents, they had resigned to become independent contractors.
Most retired agents occasionally take on an outside job for the government, but these three were among the very few who respected money more than patriotic duty, and they sold what ever classified information they could ferret out to the highest bidder. '
One of them, a blond, scarecrow type, peered through binoculars out a tinted window at Schiller's house. "He's leaving the study."
The fat man hunched over a recording machine with earphones nodded in agreement. "All talk has ceased."
The , man had a great waxed handlebar mustache, operated a laser parabolic, a sensitive microphone that received voice sounds inside a room from the vibrations on a windowPane, and then magnified them through fiber optics onto a sound channel.
"Anything interesting?" asked the skinny blond.
The fat man removed the earphones and wiped his sweating forehead. "My share from this gig will pay off my fishing boat."
"I love a marketable commodity."
"This information is worth big bucks to the right party."
"Who've you got in mind?" asked the one with the mustache.
The fat man grinned like a glutted coyote. "A wealthy, highly placed raghead who wants to make points with Akhmad Yazid."
The President rose from behind his desk and gave a brief nod as CIA Director Martin Brogan was ushered into the Oval Office for the morning intelligence briefing.
The formality of a handshake between the two men had fallen by the wayside soon after their daily meetings began. The slim, urbane Brogan didn't mind in the least. He had narrow, long-fingered violinist's hands, while the tall, two-hundred-pound President had massive paws and a bone-crushing grip.
Brogan waited until the President sat down before settling in a leather chair. Almost as if it were a ritual, the President poured a cup of coffee, ladled in a teaspoon of sugar and graciously handed a large mug to Brogan.
The President brushed a hand over his head of silver hair and fixed Brogan with a limpid pair of gray eyes. "Well, what secrets does the world hold this morning?"
Brogan shrugged and passed a leather-bound file across the desk. "At 0900 Moscow time, Soviet President Georgi Antonov balled his mistress in the backseat of his limousine on the way to the Kremlin."
"I envy his method for starting the day," the President said with a broad smile.
"He also made two calls from his car phone. One to Sergei Komilov, head of the Soviet space program, the other to his son, who works in the commercial section of the embassy in Mexico City. You'll find the transcript of the conversations on pages four and five."
The President opened the file, slipped on a pair of reading glasses and scanned the transcript, amazed, as always, at the penetration of intelligence gathering.
"And how was the rest of Georgi's day?"
"He spent most of his time on domestic affairs. you wouldn't want to be in his shoes. The outlook on the Soviet economy grows worse by the day.
His reforms in the fields and factories have gone down the toilet. The old guard in the Politburo is trying to undermine him. The military isn't happy with his program's Proposals and has gone public with its Opposition. Soviet citizens are getting more vocal as the lines get longer. With a little prodding by our operatives, graffiti knocking the government are appearing throughout the cities. Overall economic growth has flattened out at two percent. There is a strong possibility Antonov may be forced from power before next summer."
"If our deficit doesn't level off I may wind up in the same boat," the President said grimly.
Brogan made no comment. He wasn't expected to.
"What's the latest intelligence from Egypt?" the President asked, moving on.
"President Hasan is also hanging by the skin of his teeth. The air force remains loyal, but the army generals are close to throwing in with Yazid. Defense Minister Abu Hamid held a secret meeting with Yazid in Port Said. Our informants say Haniid won't swing his support without assurances of a solid power position. He does not want to be dictated to by Yazid's circle of fanatical mullahs."
"Think Yazid will give in?"
Brogan shook his head. "No, he has no intention of sharing power.
Han-lid has underestimated Yazid's ruthlessness. We've already uncovered a conspiracy to place a bomb in Haniid's private plane."
"Have you alerted Harried?"
"I'll need your authority."
"You have it," said the President. "Hamid is cagey. He may think we're pulling a ploy to keep him out of Yazid's camp."
"We can supply the names of Yazid's assassin team. Hamid can take it from there if he insists on proof."
The President leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Can we tie Yazid to the crash of the U.N. plane carrying Hala Kamfl?"
"Circumstantial evidence at best," Brogan admitted. "We won't have any concrete conclusions until the investigators wrap up and make their report. for now, the disaster is a real puzzle. Only a few facts have been uncovered. We do know the genuine pilot was murdered; his body was found in the trunk of a car parked at Heathrow airport."
"Sounds like a maria hit."
"Almost, except the killer did a masterful job of disguising himself well enough to double as the pilot. After actually taking off the plane, he killed the flight crew by injecting them with a toxic nerve agent known as sarin, turned off course and abandoned the aircraft over Iceland."
"He must have worked with a team of highly trained professionals," the President said admiringly.
"We have reason to think he acted alone," said Brogan.
"Alone?" The President's expression turned incredulous. "This guy has to be one canny son of a bitch."
"The finesse and intricacy are trademarks of an Arab whose name is Suleiman Aziz Ammar."
"A terrorist?"
"Not in the crude sense. Animar is one of the cleverest assassins in the game. I wish he was on our side."
"Never let the liberals in Congress hear you say that," the President said wryly.