by Gregg Loomis
Randy came around the car and opened the rear passenger door. “Going somewhere Mrs. Reilly?”
Even in her bulky coat, his stare made Gurt a little uncomfortable. “No, thank you. Just over to the park. The child is restless.”
She started to add that her name was Fuchs, not Reilly, decided the rebuke was not worth the effort and guided Manfred onto the driveway.
Randy turned to take a long look at the Iris Garden. “I don’t feel comfortable with that, ma’am. Even with the foliage off the trees and bushes, too many places somebody could hide.”
Not without leaving tracks in the sheet of ice a blind man could spot, Gurt thought. But she said, “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, but we will be quite all right.”
Taking Manfred by the hand, although there was no sign of traffic, she stepped into the street. Grumps, lesson unlearned, dashed ahead, again unable to put on the brakes. This time he hit the far curb.
Randy shut the SUV’s door with a little more force than Gurt thought necessary. “Then I’ll have to go with you ma’am.”
The thought of the man’s stares made Gurt inexplicably uncomfortable. She’d been… what would Lang say? Ogled, that was it, ogled. She’d been ogled by men all her adult life and most of her adolescence.
Her tone had a little more snap in it than she might have wished. “I said, we will be quite all right, thank you. I would prefer to be alone with my child.”
Randy shrugged. “Orders are orders, ma’am. I’m to stay with you while you’re outside.”
She saw no one else was in sight on this rare day when fireplaces would be more than decorative and at least half her neighbors would be home. On the unlikely chance anyone showed up to walk the Iris Garden, he would be as obvious as a wart on the nose. But she understood the necessity of obedience to orders as only those of Teutonic origin can. She herself had complied with enough of them in her time with the Agency.
She sighed, admitting defeat. “Very well, but try to keep a distance.”
Randy gave her a wary smile. “I don’t mean to give offense, ma’am.”
“It is not you who is offensive,” Gurt lied smoothly, all too conscious of the gun in her own pocket. “It is I dislike to have my child exposed to men, er, carrying firearms. There is too much violence on television and in the papers already.”
“I understand. The kid won’t see my gun, ma’am.”
“Gun?” Manfred piped up. “The man has a gun?” he turned to Randy. “Can I see?”
Gurt sighed deeply, taking Manfred by the arm. “Come, Manfred. Grumps wants to play.”
“Aw, Mom…”
“I said, come! ”
Today Grumps was more interested in the various smells of the Iris Garden than he was in fetching the tennis ball. Perhaps the small park’s resident squirrels had left a different scent or the neighborhood dogs had deposited more “pee mail” than normal, each requiring a prompt reply.
Whatever the reason, the first toss of the Day-Glo chartreuse ball only got a glance from the sniffing dog. At the second attempt, Grumps stopped his exploration long enough to watch the ball roll down one of the two slopes that formed the valley that was the park. The dog favored Manfred with a look that clearly asked, “Just what, pray tell, do you expect me to do with that?”
The little boy’s enthusiasm undiminished, he followed the dog, followed by Gurt, followed by Randy.
Gurt was breathing hard, the air cold enough to slice her lungs like a surgeon’s scalpel. Cresting a small rise, she saw other human figures, those of her next-door neighbors Paige Charles and her son Wynn Three, Manfred’s friend.
“I am surprised you are out in this cold,” Gurt said when she was within earshot, motioning Randy to keep his distance.
Paige shook her head, a movement hardly perceptible under the fur-lined hood of her heavy parka. “It was either brave the weather or a restless child. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be cooped up with a kid as active as Wynn Three.”
Gurt watched Manfred and Wynn Three, now playing with a compliant Grumps. “Believe me, I do not have to imagine. I-”
A sharp crack shattered the morning’s cathedral-like silence. Gurt’s hand went to her coat pocket as she frantically motioned Manfred to come to her.
Paige must have seen the consternation on her face. “What? That was just another limb breaking off from the tree because of the weight of the ice.”
Gurt barely heard her. She had a protective arm around Manfred, her eyes searching what she thought was the direction of the sound, but she was certain only of two things: Randy was no longer in sight and she surely knew the difference between a shattering oak limb and a gunshot.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
The previous afternoon
The secretary of defense stood, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out of the Oval Office’s French doors into a rose garden desolated by winter. He checked his watch. The president was twenty minutes late for the meeting. That wasn’t even close to the record. The young chief executive had no qualms about keeping staff waiting an hour or so if the opportunity arose for an impromptu press conference, something he invariably mishandled. The man was a golden-tongued orator as long as he could stick to prepared notes and the teleprompter. Off the cuff, he tended to sound self-contradictory or confused. Fortunately, a sympathetic press usually edited out his most nonsensical responses, leaving only Fox News and conservative bloggers to broadcast the miscues.
Still, the man liked press exposure. Many said someone should tell him he no longer had to campaign and should get down to the business at hand.
The business at hand. The SecDef glanced around the room. An odd crew: a fiftyish female lieutenant colonel who had something to do with intelligence; the U.S. delegate to the Organization of American States; and the new head of the CIA, a former college radical, community organizer and a man who, as far as the SecDef knew, had had no experience in running anything the size of a taco stand, let alone one of the world’s largest intel agencies.
But then, neither had the president.
The last chief spook had resigned in protest of the criminal prosecution of a number of CIA agents who, following the previous administration’s guidelines, had inflicted what the new bunch considered torture on some very brutal individuals, extracting information that had prevented at least one and possibly more terrorist attacks on the U.S. both here and abroad.
Such was politics. The new CIA chief, along with his boss, believed sincerely, the SecDef feared, that total candor and self-abasement were the tools of successful relationships with other nations, a policy uniformly embraced in word if not in deed by America’s enemies. The country’s traditional allies had all but ceased to share information for fear the same would appear on the front pages of the New York Times or Washington Post.
It was enough to make the SecDef wish he had not been chosen as the sole holdover from the previous administration.
The absence today of any of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was significant as was the fact that this meeting was taking place here rather than the much larger adjacent conference room, equipped with the latest real-time technology. The president’s dislike of large meetings was well-known and offered as an excuse to exclude most of the intelligence community and military, both of which he equally and openly distrusted.
His thoughts scattered as the president entered wearing his customary golf shirt and slacks, the first person the SecDef had ever seen enter this historic room in less-than-respectful business or military attire. He was followed by Jack Roberts, chief of staff, a man the SecDef thought of as the “presidential dog robber.” Whatever the White House needed, be it leaking a rumor devastating to a member of the opposition, strong-arming a recalcitrant member of his own party or making it convenient for a congressional fence-sitter to come down on the White House’s side of a vote, Roberts was the go-to guy.
The president motioned for everyone to take a seat as he sl
id behind the desk and nodded to the director of the CIA. “You wanted to see me, Jerry?”
The director nodded, turning to the woman in the army uniform of a lieutenant colonel. “Let me introduce you to Colonel Faith Romer and Jack Hanson. Colonel Romer is the military liaison with the CIA regarding the Caribbean Basin. Jack is the U.S. representative to the Organization of American States.”
The president viewed Faith with obvious distaste. “Colonel, as I understand it, the Chinese military are in the process of setting up shop in Haiti. And so far this information is known only to us, the Chinese and that man… the president of Haiti.”
“DuPaar,” the chief spook supplied.
“DuPaar, yes. To no one else?”
The CIA chief nodded. “As far as we know.”
The president gave him a quizzical look. “Meaning?”
The head of the CIA shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “We had to employ some nonstandard assets to ascertain exactly what the Chinese were doing.”
The president’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “Tell me in nonjargon.”
“The people who sniffed the whole thing out… They were no longer with the Agency.”
The president drummed long fingers on the desktop, a sign he was making a choice. He was known to demand quick decisions. He had insisted Congress pass a budget larger than all previous budgets combined in a period of time shorter than it had taken him to choose a puppy for his children.
He pushed back from the desk, turning to his chief of staff. “OK, Jack, what do you think?”
The SecDef had almost gotten used to the president’s habit of seeking advice from those least qualified to give it. As far as he knew, Robert’s sole qualification to comment on foreign policy was a semester spent in Spain in college.
Roberts rubbed his chin a moment as though in thought, a process the SecDef had not considered possible. “As I see it, a Chinese presence in Haiti presents a possible crisis, one we need to keep secret until we have it solved. A confrontation with the Chinese isn’t something we need, with the off-year elections coming up.”
The president turned to the SecDef. “Your thoughts?”
“Mr. President, the military stands ready to have unmanned aircraft destroy any and all Chinese installations should diplomacy fail.”
“Bomb a small, poor Caribbean country back into the Stone Age?” the chief of staff sneered. “First, Haiti is still in the Stone Age, and second, how do you think that makes us look to the rest of the world?”
Fear of foreign opinion had been a major weakness in American foreign policy since World War II, the SecDef thought. But he said, “Diplomacy isn’t my job.”
Roberts shrugged. “Simple enough. The president meets with the Chinese, either has them withdraw or issues a joint statement of their peaceful intentions and our belief in that.”
The SecDef spoke up. “Maybe you missed the part about the Chinese military.”
Roberts was also the administration’s spinmaster, much loved by the media. It had been he who had convinced the public-at least its more gullible segments-that increases in corporate taxes would not be passed along to the consumer. “Besides, meeting with the Chinese makes you look presidential. You can count on the uptick in the polls. But not if word leaks out beforehand. If the public knew the Chinese have slipped troops into Haiti…”
The president nodded. “So be it. I want a joint meeting with the presidents of Haiti and China for their assurances the Chinese mission is peaceful and to declare that America will not interfere. For the moment, we’ll keep a lid on the fact the Chinese presence is military in nature. No sense in getting all those conspiracy-loving neocons stirred up. And…”
Why did the SecDef think of Neville Chamberlain, Munich and “Peace in our time”?
“After the meeting, I’ll want to address the nation concerning the peaceful intentions of the Chinese…”
Roberts was studying his BlackBerry. “That isn’t going to be easy, Mr. President.”
The president paused in midphrase. “Oh? Why not?”
“Next week is your ‘Friendship Initiative,’ the visit to Venezuela and President Chavez. When you return, you have a major address to the AFL/CIO convention in Detroit before you leave to talk with the president of Iran. A week later, the Russian president comes here to commend your decision to cancel the Eastern European missile-shield program…”
“OK. OK. I get the picture. Work it in somehow. ASAP. In the meantime, we must be certain to do nothing that could be considered hostile to either Haiti or China. I…” He looked at the pained expression on the CIA director’s face. “What’s bothering you, Jerry?”
“Mr. President,” the CIA director said slowly. “There’s a couple of things you need to know.”
The president’s confidence seeped away like water into dry soil. He despised surprises. “Like what?”
“Like this Chinese-Haitian thing. We had an asset keeping an eye on things, until he disappeared. Then one of our best handlers recruited a former agent, the one I told you about a few minutes ago, to find out what was going on, and he did. Unfortunately, the Chinese know about it and are trying to kill him and his wife, who went to Haiti with him.”
“I would think we can convince the Chinese to lay off by not opposing whatever they are doing in Haiti.”
“Possibly so, yes, sir, if we can convince them before they succeed. Unfortunately we, the CIA, are protecting him and his family right now.”
The presidential eyebrows arched. “You are conducting a mission in the United States?”
The director was studying the presidential seal in the blue carpet. “Well, sort of. Just providing protection for the man’s family. We did sort of promise him that.”
The presidential scowl was obvious. At his level of politics, promises were obstacles easily overcome or circumvented. “You know your agency is prohibited from conducting operations, any operations, on U.S. soil. Providing domestic protection is the FBI ’s job.”
“Yes, sir. But you see, we’re also providing protection for this, er, asset out of the country. He’s trying to find out exactly what the Haitians want in exchange for letting the Chinese pretty much do as they wish.”
The president thought that over a second. “Since we are now welcoming them, it no longer matters, does it?”
The CIA director, thankful the conversation had taken a turn in a direction other than his, nodded. “I wouldn’t think so. As a matter of fact, this asset, this former agent, could become an embarrassment if what he knows became public too soon.” He looked over at the chief of staff. “Even you would have a hard time hushing up an on-site report of exactly what the Chinese are up to.”
“He’s right,” the president agreed. “Jerry, since you are providing protection to this man and his family, there should be no problem picking them up. We can detain them under the Patriot Act until I have a chance to calm the nation’s possible uneasiness about all this.”
The SecDef started to point out the present administration had a bill before Congress to repeal that law, the series of statutes enacted in the wave of panic following 9/11 that gave the federal government more police powers than it had enjoyed since the laws Lincoln had had enacted at the outbreak of the Civil War. Some of the similarities-suspension of the writ of habeas corpus and the prohibitions against search and seizure-were frightening.
He thought better of it and instead said, “Mr. President, do I understand you are planning to arrest and detain American citizens because they gained knowledge this country asked them to obtain but which now becomes politically inexpedient?”
“Of course not!” the chief of staff snapped. “We’re simply continuing to perform promises made to these people. The only difference is we can protect them far better in a facility of our choosing.”
“And if they decline your offer?”
“Then we’ll have to act in the best interests of the country.”
Somehow, the SecDef doubted if these
unnamed “assets” would see it that way.
Cemetery of Terra Santa
Faful wondered if the four men were really Bedouins. He, like several other laborers of the excavation crew, had grown up a nomad in the Western Desert, immigrating to the city and a more settled existence when he was fourteen. These men who had appeared at the dig had removed guns from under their flowing dishdashas, robes with sleeves tied back with cord, over which they wore the vestlike aba. The head cover was the traditional kaffiyeh, bound with bright camel-hair rope. The flowing tails of the headdress were drawn across faces, leaving only the eyes showing, as though the men were in a sandstorm.
But under the dishdashas they wore saronglike skirts, something typical of nomads of the southern Arabia Peninsula, not Egyptian Bedouins, who went bare legged.
Either way, though, Bedouins would have attracted no attention on the streets of Alexandria.
More importantly, they had ordered everyone into the administration tent, the largest of several such canvas structures.
This one was where records were kept and artifacts stored until the end of each day, when they were removed for safekeeping to the basement of the National Museum of Alexandria. This tent was the only one large enough to hold the entire crew remaining aboveground, which was why they were there under the watchful eyes of two of the Bedouins. If that was what they really were.
At first, Fafal had thought these men meant to steal whatever antiquities were on hand. Bedouins were notorious for plundering unguarded archaeological sites for artifacts to sell to unscrupulous dealers in such things. But stealth, not force, was the common method. Perhaps these men were not after artifacts.
Also, the strange Bedouins communicated mostly with gestures but occasionally in a language Faful had never heard before. Perhaps they were not Bedouin at all.
Shielded from the fitful sea breeze, the interior of the tent was going from uncomfortably hot to stifling, but the men with the guns seemed not to notice. Two of them had carried a wooden box outside. Though the flap of the tent was closed, Fafal could hear their sandals crunching in the sandy soil, toward the Alabaster Tomb.