At the next traffic light, Ali looked over his shoulder at Qazi and said, "The United States will anchor in Naples seven days from now.
"For how long?" "The hotel reservations are for eight nights." "Any particular hotel?" "Over a dozen reservations at the Vittorio Emanuele. Some reservations elsewhere." "Noora," he said to the girl, "get us two rooms at the Vittorio.
Suites, if possible, doubles at least. And stay out of sight." She nodded.
Qazi turned to the young man beside him. "As soon as you learn which rooms will be assigned to the Americans, Yasim, wire as many as possible." Yasim was a rarity, an Arab with mechanical talent. He had been the star pupil of the national university's engineering department when Qazi had discovered him.
"Ali, you set the plan in motion. I will join you at home tomorrow." Qazi kept checking the rear window as Noora threaded through the traffic onto the Via Tiburtina eastbound. When they came to the limited-access highway that circled Rome, Ali merged with the traffic in the high-speed lane headed south as Qazi checked behind them repeatedly.
An hour later Noora dropped Qazi near Castel Sant'Angelo and sped away.
The colonel now wore a short-sleeve, open-neck pullover shirt with a little alligator on the left breast. He walked west on the Via della Conciliazione. Old medieval buildings rose four and five stories above the street on either side, while ahead of him he could see the facade of St. Peter's. Several blocks short of St.
Peter's Square, he turned right into a side street. He walked under the ancient Roman wall that arched above the street and kept going, into one of the more expensive quarters of Rome. After several blocks, he entered a quiet hotel with a tiny lobby.
"I say, old chap," he hailed the desk clerk. "Have you any messages or calls for me?
Name's MacPhee. Room 306." "No, Signor MacPhee," the clerk said after looking in the key box.
"There is nothing." Qazi would have been astounded if there had been.
No one, not even Ali, knew he was here. He had checked in this morning, before he walked the three miles to the Villa Borghese.
"Grazie!" the new Signor MacPhee murmured as the clerk handed him the key.
Dusk had fallen and the street below his window was lit with lights from the bar across the street when Qazi finally tossed the last of the photocopied pages on the bed and gazed out his window. Without conscious effort his gaze moved from figure to figure on the sidewalk below, then roved over the parked automobiles.
His eyes ached from four hours of reading. He stretched, then slouched down in a chair and stared at the manual lying on the bed. After a few moments he picked up his pistol from the writing desk where he had been reading, turned off the light and stretched out on the bed. He laid the pistol on top of the manual.
When he awoke, the room was illuminated only by the glare of streetlights coming in the window. He checked his watch. Eleven o'clock. He lay in the darkness listening.
After twenty minutes he arose, tucked the pistol into its ankle holster, and placed the manual back in the shopping bag. He locked the room door behind him and descended the maid's staircase all the way to the basement. The hallway was silent and dark. The eyes of a scurrying mouse reflected the glare from his pocket flashlight. The coal furnace was in the second room on his right. It looked exactly as it did two months ago when he selected this hotel because it had this furnace.
He opened the chimney flue and the firebox door. He placed a dozen pages inside the firebox. Soon the fire was burning nicely.
He fed the pages in a few at a time. It took half an hour. When all the pages were cold ashes, Qazi latched the furnace door, closed the flue, and climbed the stairs back to his room.
There was a telephone book in the nightstand beside the bed. Qazi looked up a number and dialed it. After two rings a man's voice said in English, "You have reached the Israeli embassy.
May I help you?" Qazi cradled the receiver.
He stared at the listing in the telephone book and repeated the number several times to himself. Then he replaced the book in the nightstand.
"But he did not have the manual when he got off the airplane this afternoon," Ali protested.
El Hakim set his jaw. "What did he do with it?" "Your Excellency, he must have read it and destroyed it." "Why?" "He obviously has no further use for it, Excellency." Ali shrugged helplessly.
I'm sure he doesn't, El Hakim thought savagely. Qazi has just made himself the indispensable man. This little episode is his life insurance. El Hakim smote the table with his fist, then rose and went to his large world globe. He twirled it with a finger and watched it spin. He hated to be thwarted by anyone, but especially by one of his lieutenants whom he did not trust. It was infuriating. He slapped the globe and it spun so fast the colors blurred. He adjusted the collar of his fatigue shirt and his pistol belt as he watched the globe spin down.
He pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger and tried to think like Qazi. Qazi was a devious man, a dangerous man. A far too dangerous man.
"Jarvis," he muttered finally under his breath.
He turned and grinned wolfishly at Ali.
"Jarvis," he repeated aloud.
"WHO WROTE this piece Of shit?" 0 0 0 0 0 The three officers On the other side of the desk sagged visibly. Jake Grafton arranged his brand new glasses on his nose and read from the accident report in front of him." "It is believed that a failure in the liquid oxygen system led to the loss of this aircraft. However, due to the loss of the airframe at sea, the precise cause of this accident will never be known." "Jake looked up. The three faces across the desk were blurred. He took off the glasses.
"I won't sign that." None of the three said anything.
"Has the Naval Safety Center got any record of any other F-14 lost this way? Have you torn down a LOX system and tried to identify possible components that might fail?
What does the Grumman rep have to say?
Maybe the connection from the Oxygen container and the aircraft's system wasn't hooked up right.
What connectors or filters or whatever could have failed and allowed ambient air to dilute a flow of pure oxygen?
You guys have got to answer these questions." "Dolan and Bronsky are dead. I want to know what killed them." "A defective oxygen system killed them, CAG." Jake picked up the report and waved it at the officer who spoke. "This report doesn't say that.
This report hasn't got enough facts in it to say that and make it stick.
Right now this report is merely a guess." "We're going to need more time, CAG." "Write an interim message report and send it to the safety center and everyone on the distribution list. Tell them what you think and what you're working on and tell them when you hope to get finished. Then get cracking. I want answers. Not bullshit.
Not guesses. Real answers." He closed the report and pushed it back across the desk.
"Sir, the captain's office says there will be some reporters out here in a few days to interview you about that boat you sank." Farnsworth was standing at the office door.
Jake looked up from the maintenance report he was reading. "When?" "About 1400 Wednesday, sir. They should arrive on the noon cargo plane from Naples." "Okay." "Lieutenant Reed is waiting out here to see you.
Oh... and some congressmen are going to arrive on Tuesday. The XO is going to talk to you about it.
I think he wants you to host them." Farnsworth always saved the worst for last. "Who stimulated that think?" "YN2 Defenbaugh in the captain's office." The captain's office was the administrative heart of the ship, sucking in paper and pumping it out in quantities that awed Jake. And still the yeomen there found time to tell Farnsworth everything aboard ship worth knowing!
"When should I expect the XO'S call?" Farnsworth looked at the insulated pipes in the overhead and pursed his lips. "In maybe thirty minutes or so" sir. There'll be three congressmen and a senator, and the captain's office is gonna bunk "em in the VIP quarters. Four squadrons will each furnish one juniOr officer as an escO
rt. Captain James will meet em On the flight deck when the cargo plane arrives, then a trot to the flag spaces to meet the admiral.
After that, lunch with the XO. Then I thought you might start them on a tour of the ship with the escort officers.
We'll set up a deal that afternoon down in the mess hall where they can meet their constituents.
Politicians always want to shake hands with voters. Finally, dinner with Admiral Parker in the flag mess.
"That schedule should let them find a ton or two of facts," Jake agreed.
"Firm it up and brief the escorts." "Aye aye, sir." "Send Reed in." Jake motioned the bombardier-navigator into a chair and leaned back in his own. He pulled out a desk drawer and propped his feet up on it.
Wait. Where were Reed's wings? He rummaged through his top drawer and took out the gold-colored piece of metal. He tossed it on the desk on top of the maintenance report and resettled his feet on the drawer.
Reed stared at the insignia. You could buy one in any navy exchange for about $4.50.
"You wanted to see me?" Jake prompted.
"Uh, yessir. I've been thinking and all. About our conversation. Maybe I should stay in the cockpit, at least until I get discharged." Jake grunted. He picked up the metal insignia and tossed it across the desk. It landed in front of Reed, inches from the edge. The bombardier palmed it.
"Still going to get out, huh?" "I'll have to think about it. Talk to my wife." Jake found himself searching his pockets for cigarettes and consciously grasped the arms of his chair to keep his hands still. "You may spend another twenty years in the navy and never get shot at again.
It'll be train, train, train, bore a lot more holes in the sky, kiss your wife good-bye for cruise after cruise." "It sounds like you think I should get out." "What I'm telling you is that this job isn't Tom Cruise strutting along with his balls clicking together, ready to zap some commie before breakfast." The movie Top Gun was going through the ready rooms, for about the fourth or fifth time.
"We need people with brains and ability to fill these cockpits, but there's no glamour. None. And you aren't ever going to be the guy who helps win the big one for our side. If there ever is another major war, the first and last shots are going to be fired by some button-pushers in silos or submarines. Then the world will come to an end. Everyone who isn't vaporized by the explosions, or who doesn't die from burns, shattered skulls, or asphyxiation, is going to die slowly of radiation poisoning. And who in his right mind would want to survive?
Civilization will be over. The birds and animals will all die, the seas will become sterile as the fallout poisons them... about the only creatures that will survive will be the cockroaches." Jake was feeling for cigarettes again. He stared at Reed dolefully.
"What the navy has out here on these carriers are jobs for warrIors.
It's an ancient and honorable profession, but just about as obsolete today as horse cavalry. The button-pushers who are preventing a nuclear war, and who will wage it if it happens, aren warriors." Jake shrugged.
"Maybe they're professional executioners.
Hangmen. Whatever the hell they are, they're not warrIors.
He settled his new glasses on his nose and flipped a few pages of the maintenance report.
"I understand," Reed murmured.
"I don't think you do." Jake closed the report on a finger and eyed the younger man. The people in the navy are first-rate. Our enlisted men are the smartest, best educated, best trained on the planet. You'll never work with better people. The flying is pretty good. The pay is adequate. The family life sucks. Most officers get squeezed out of the service after twenty years or so because they can't all be captains and admirals. Now that's the stuff you should be talking over with your wife.
But... while you wear that uniform I expect you to fly when you're scheduled and to give it the best you've got. Use every ounce of knowledge and brains and ability you have. You owe that to your country." Jake gestured toward the door. "I have work to do." He spread the report open on the desk and began to read as the lieutenant departed.
When the latch clicked shut, the captain leaned back and stared over the top of the glasses at the gray metal door. At length he shook his head slowly, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and picked up the report.
0 0 0 Ali held the door open for Colonel Qazi.
Ali wore a chauffeur's uniform, and after Qazi had passed into the real estate office, he went back to the limousine, took a rag from the trunk, and began to wipe off the few flecks of dust that had accumulated on the car in the ten-minute drive from the agency where he had just rented X.
Inside the real estate office, Qazi stood impassively as the receptionist whispered hurriedly into her telephone, then gave a barely perceptible nod to the office manager when he came rushing out. He was a breathless, corpulent man with only a fringe of hair remaining, one lock of which had been carefully placed so as to run back and forth across his shiny pate. The manager guided him into his office while the receptionist stared after him.
As Qazi sat on the overstuffed sofa and removed his sunglasses, the manager settled behind his desk.
The manager saw the visitor staring at his overflowing ashtray, so he whisked it away. He placed it in a bottom drawer of the desk, then crossed his hands and beamed at his visitor.
Qazi wore a white caftan and burnoose.
Black whiskers flecked with gray adorned his chin.
He looked, he hoped, like a young King Faisal.
"I wish to rent a villa, Signor Livora," Qazi said in very British English.
"Ah, you know my name." "You are highly recommended, sir." "You have come to the right place," Livora beamed.
"We have several fine villas to rent, from... how you say?... modest? To quite large. What are your requirements, Signor..
"Mister Also-Sabah. The villa is not for me, you understand. I am merely an executive secretary." He flicked his right hand, on which he had three rings with rather large, conspicuous stones. The real estate man's shiny, decorated head bobbed knowingly. Ah, yes. He had heard all about those filthy-rich Arab sheiks and all the money they threw around. No doubt he even dreamed of them, sitting here in Naples surrounded by poor Italians and vacationing Europeans and Americans who watched every lira.
Qazi outlined his needs. His master needed ample quarters. Perhaps an estate. Something with grass and gardens. Of course he had his own staff of servants, including a gardener. Something in the country, available for at least three months, beginning next week.
0 0 0 0 0 "What are you going to say to these congressmen and reporters?" Vice-Admiral Morton Lewis asked.
Jake fought the impulse to squirm in his chair.
Admiral Lewis was the commander of the U.s. Sixth Fleet and had flown out to the carrier with the congressional delegation. He and Jake sat in the flag offices beneath the flight deck. The Public Affairs Officer from Lewis" staff had earlier provided Jake with a list of probable press questions and suggested, "sterile" answers.
"I'm just going to tell it like it was, sir." "They're going to grill you on policy." With even, regular features, perfect teeth, and a trim stomach he maintained with a forty-five minute ride on a stationary bicycle every morning, the admiral looked every inch the professional sea dog, 1980's edition. His three stars gleamed on each collar. It was no secret that he wanted a fourth star.
"Yes sir. But I plan to refer them to Washington for questions about policy." "Don't be evasive. We've nothing to hide and we don't want these people inputting that we do. Don't reference them anywhere." "I understand." "The distance the task force maintains from the Lebanese shore, that's a policy matter. It will be questioned. As the air wing commander and as a professional aviator, your opinion as to the wisdom of the employment of this task group will be asked. There is just no way to avoid the fact that if this task group was two hundred miles away from Lebanon, that boat attack would have been impossible. Or at least highly impractical." "Yes sir." Jake grasped the arms of
his chair with both hands and kept both feet on the floor. "But isn't that a matter for Washington to comment upon?" The admiral rubbed his lips with his forefinger. "I recommend the location of this task group in light of the results Washington expected, and Washington concurred. The reasons for the recommendation don't concern you.
"If I'm going to have to give an opinion, I should know your thinking, Admiral." The admiral's forefinger tracked back and forth along his chin.
Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 2 - Final Flight Page 14