"Go on," Macklin demanded.
"I've noticed a subtle change in Fraiser."
The blunt statement shocked the president. "You better explain yourself, and it better be good."
"As you know," Prost began, somewhat tiredly, "Fraiser has a propensity--a desire to live above his means."
"The point?" Macklin demanded in a thickened voice. "He recently purchased an expensive country estate near Charlottesville." Prost kept his expression bland. "And, last week, he took delivery of a new Lamborghini Diablo roadster."
The president's expression remained impassive. "If he can afford the payments, it's certainly none of our business." "Sir, his government salary is his primary source of income."
Macklin studied his cigar for a moment. "Hartwell," he said with a look of impatience, "I know Fraiser isn't the most frugal person in the world, but I'm sure he's been investing wisely for a number of years."
"Wisely enough," Prost countered with icy calm, "to pay cash for a two-point-three million country estate, and a quarter-million dollar sports car to park next to his '99 Ferrari?"
Macklin stared at him in confusion. "You're positive about this? You checked it yourself?"
"I'm positive."
The president's face reflected a sense of bewilderment. "For the time being, we'll keep this to ourselves."
Prost quietly nodded.
"Before we do anything else," Macklin continued, "I want the FBI to check into this."
"I agree."
The president's eyes bored into Prost. "First thing in the morning," he said with a sharp pitch in his voice, "we'll have the director over for a chat."
In silence, Prost walked to the balcony railing and cast a glance over the grounds. "I hope there'll be a reasonable explanation."
"So do I," Macklin said as he turned to his friend. "It's been one helluva day. How about joining me for a nightcap?" "Thank you, sir," Prost said in a hushed tone. "I could use one."
Chapter 29
The Florida Keys.
Basking in the warmth of the sweet breezes, Massoud Ramazani watched the sun dip into the turquoise-and- emerald waters. While day slowly faded into twilight, the tranquil bay of the small island was tinted a coral pink. In the distance, a gleaming white yacht slowed as it approached the expansive private dock. Walking barefoot through the soft, white sand, Ramazani crossed the narrow beach and walked to the end of the wooden pier. He was fascinated by the graceful lines of Bon Vivant. The magnificent 126-foot Broward motoryacht was equipped with digital satellite television, twin satellite-communications suites, and an Aerospatiale Gazelle helicopter sitting on the renovated upper sundeck. Sporting a fresh coat of paint, the revamped vessel looked like a new ship.
While the captain edged Bon Vivant next to the dock, Named Yahyavi, Khaliq Farkas's trusted assistant, acknowledged Ramazani while he and the helicopter pilot studied the tiny island.
Surrounded by a man-made coral breakwater and a cement seawall, the lushly tropical compound consisted of an open and airy four-bedroom home and two spacious guest cottages. Totally self-contained, the residence was equipped with a twin generator system and a backup portable generator, solar heat, and bottled gas for cooking.
Less than a mile from the mainland, the home was close to a small airport that could accommodate most corporate jets. Secluded and quiet, the residence provided security and cover for Ramazani's terrorist cells. The former owners were pleased to learn that the real-estate auction firm they retained had sold the property to a retired banker from Pittsburgh. Massoud smiled with pleasure when he thought about the role the yacht would play in their assault on the U. S. and their primary target, President Macklin. However, Yahyavi's upcoming trip to Atlanta with Farkas took precedence in the schedule of events. By declaration of Bassam Shakhar, Farkas and Yahyavi would have the first opportunity to become heroes to anti-American groups worldwide.
After Bon Vivant was secured to the dock, Ramazani went aboard and greeted Yahyavi and four handpicked three-man special action cells. To a person, the men smiled broadly and exuded a sense of warmth and friendliness to everyone. Dressed in attire ranging from expensive suits to blue denim work clothes, the highly skilled teams would use portable antiaircraft missiles to create chaos in the U. S. airline industry. Farkas would bring the weapons with him in the Citation, then cram Yahyavi and two of the three-man cells into the jet and drop the missileers near their targeted airports. Fifty-eight other cells would be operating from Los Angeles, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Seattle, Minneapolis--St. Paul, Oakland, Chicago, Newark, Detroit, and Washington, D. C.
Off to the side of the special action cells, three "throwaways" were standing together. The vacant look in the men's dull eyes left no doubt about their fate. Although they were not very intelligent, the men were as dedicated as World War II Kamikaze pilots to their mission of self-sacrifice. They only needed to be aimed in the proper direction.
Ramazani was surprised when Bon Vivant's unsmiling captain grimly eyed him. Tall, with deeply set blue eyes and blond hair, the man was a walking portrait of a crusty Nordic sea dog. Paid a princely sum for shepherding the yacht across the unpredictable Atlantic, the retired cruise-ship captain was anxious to return home. His apprentice first mate, a member of the Iranian Revolutionary Guardsmen, would take over as the captain of Bon Vivant.
"Follow me," the skipper said curtly as he motioned to Ramazani.
While Yahyavi gathered his belongings from his small stateroom, the potbellied captain escorted Ramazani through a mahogany-paneled formal dining room to an elegant king-size master stateroom.
"'Ave a seat," the skipper said coldly, then knocked on a cabin door and walked out of the room.
Smothering his disdain for the captain, Ramazani sat down next to an open wooden crate containing six AK-47 semiautomatic rifles. The Chinese-made weapons were accompanied by twelve thirty-shot magazines. A moment later a stocky, bearded man with tobacco on his breath walked into the stateroom.
Silently, the former director of the MINATOM Defense Complex at Arzamas-16/Sarov, Russia, opened the double doors leading to the teakwood-trimmed sitting room. Without ceremony or emotion, Sergey Plekhanov unlocked and removed the top of a suitcase-size container. Inside, a thermonuclear bomb was securely mounted in steel straps. Plekhanov, abandoned by his military sponsors, had dismissed his unpaid guards and walked away from the nuclear weapons complex with the powerful weapon. Fearing the worst for his family, he buried the bomb under a dilapidated factory, then gathered his wife and daughter and escaped from Russia during a blizzard. Networking with colleagues who were working on nuclear projects in Iran, Plekhanov and his family made their way to Bushehr, Iran.
Two weeks after leaving Russia, Plekhanov met with two of Bassam Shakhar's agents who struck a deal with him. He gave them a map and detailed instructions to the location of the weapon. A month later Shakhar had a powerful nuclear bomb to use on the Americans and Plekhanov and his family moved into a comfortable apartment in Bushehr.
Transfixed by the sight of the weapon, Ramazani was momentarily at a loss for words. I can't believe it's here.
"I show you how to detonate bomb," the Russian scientist announced in an impatient voice. "Then I leave you to your work."
The Permit Express The tedious, painful process of stabilizing Greg's condition had consumed the better part of thirteen hours. Afterward the ship's male nurse prepared Maritza and Greg for the long flight to the U. S. With the patients resting comfortably in the cabin of the LongRanger, Jackie and Scott waved at the ship's crew, then she lifted the helicopter from the pad and transitioned to forward flight. Navigating by GPS, she set course for Athens and climbed into the hazy Mediterranean sky.
Working with Hartwell Prost and senior White House aides, Scott had arranged for an Air Force C-141 Starlifter staffed with medics to meet their helo in Athens. The long-range Lockheed workhorse would transport Greg and Maritza to the National Naval Medical Center at Bethesda, Maryland.
Scott and Jackie would accompany their friends to the naval hospital, then fly commercially to Miami to start searching the Florida Keys for the terrorist base of operations. Scott glanced at Jackie, then gave her a mischievous smile. "Are you comfortable with Hartwell's proposal?"
"Sure," she said lightly, "if I don't think about the fact that this yacht is carrying a nuke."
"Put it out of your mind."
"Right, and stop breathing at the same time."
They remained quiet while Jackie scanned for traffic. "Someone gave Shakhar's people a heads-up," Scott declared in a flat voice. "This time no one will know how we're conducting the operation. It's just you and me and our seaplane."
Catching sight of another low-flying helicopter, Jackie made a slight course correction. "So, when did you get your seaplane rating?"
"Last summer," he said nonchalantly. "I thought it would be an efficient way to complete my biennial flight review." A knowing smile broke across Jackie's tanned face. "How much float time do you have?"
Dalton gave her a sheepish grin. "About five hours--enough to get my rating. What about you?" "Zilch-point-zero."
"That's no problem," Scott said with undisguised bravado. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."
"That's what I'm afraid of." She laughed, then rolled her eyes in his direction. "Has it occurred to you that you don't meet the insurance requirements to rent a floatplane?"
"When you're working with the Agency," he said in mock seriousness, "you don't need to rent things."
"Oh," she said with a slow smile. "Let me guess. We're going to use one of the toys they've confiscated from the bad guys."
"Actually, it belonged to a seaplane operator who was a little light on his tax returns. The friendly boys at the IRS gave it to the CIA." A look of satisfaction settled over his face. "I'm going to handle this through an old friend from the Agency, so no one but the three of us will know about the arrangement."
"How reliable is your friend?"
"Like the sun coming up in the east."
"That sounds reasonable," she said as they flew over a cruise ship. A few moments passed before Jackie gazed at Scott, her attention focused on his eyes. "At the risk of hurting your pride, I feel compelled to raise an obvious question."
Scott gave her a look of amused indulgence. "You have no confidence in me, right? Is that what you're about to say?" Jackie arched an eyebrow. "Between the two of us," she said with a straight face, "we have little to zero experience in floatplanes. Wouldn't it be easier and safer if we used a helicopter?"
He hesitated, then smiled broadly and stretched his arms. "And take all the adventure out of it?"
"Seriously."
"We could use a helo," he explained, "but floatplanes and amphibians are a lot more prevalent in the Keys. We need to blend with the surroundings, do the reggae thing--look like free spirits who belong there."
"Parrotheads?" she mused.
"Something like that."
"If you say so, Cap'n." Jackie smiled evenly. "I just want to be on record when we crawl out of the wreckage." "Duly noted." He chuckled.
"What kind of plane are we going to use?"
"A Maule M-7 on amphibious floats--the same kind I got my rating in--so we're in good shape."
"Yeah, right," she said with typical honesty. "I seem to remember words to that effect in Athens."
Scott's slow smile reflected his usual air of confidence. "He is lifeless who is faultless."
"Too much luck often dulls one's perspective," she suggested gently. "Another old proverb."
"Perhaps," he agreed with a dismissive shrug. "In any event, we're going to use my rule book this time."
She inclined her head to him. "Your book has no rules." "You got it."
Jackie checked the engine instruments and turned to Scott. "What are your plans for Thanksgiving?"
He gave her a quizzical look and slowly smiled. what--five months away?"
"I like to plan ahead."
"I haven't made any plans." He grinned. "You have something in mind?"
"How about having dinner with me at my parents' home?" "Sure," he said with a surprised look. "I'd be honored." "Not so fast," she said with a chuckle. "You haven't met my parents."
Chapter 30
Washington, D. C.
The handpicked Marine guards assigned to the White House had exchanged their dress uniforms for battle fatigues and machine guns. With the commander in chief a target of embittered militants, the grounds of the White House were being patrolled by two highly trained platoons of Marines. Led by seasoned first lieutenants, the "tough as nails" veterans specialized in counterterrorism.
Inside the White House, Secret Service agents refined their plans to spirit the president from the Oval Office in the event of an attack by terrorists. At the first indication of an assault, an agent would push a panel on a wall adjacent to the president's rest room, causing a secret door to slide open. A staircase leading down to a brightly lit tunnel provided the president a means of escape to his private elevator, or another exit near an office that had once served as the White House barbershop.
The risk of further conflict with Iran had sent a shudder through the financial capitals of the world. Concern over who would eventually control the Strait of Hormuz had caused oil futures on the Chicago commodities market to triple in value. Reporting the conflict in great detail, the media anchors and pundits were generally lukewarm to President Macklin and his handling of the situation. World reaction to the attack on Iran had been sharply divided, with many nations in the Middle East fearful of a major war erupting in the Gulf region.
The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel presented a logistical nightmare for the Secret Service, but the president and the first lady insisted on having lunch at least twice a month at the famed power-crowd watering hole. Regardless of the situation in the Persian Gulf, Macklin remained adamant about projecting a calm, relaxed demeanor to the public.
Playing their usual roles in the kitchen and in the dark-paneled dining room, six agents went about their duties dressed as captains, waiters, and busboys. Near the heavy glass door just off the hotel's small lobby, other agents disguised as high-powered Washington insiders and hotel bell captains watched for any signs of trouble.
Earlier, before the club opened, the restaurant had been thoroughly checked for eavesdropping devices and other intelligence-gathering paraphernalia. Satisfied that the club was sanitized, the Secret Service had given the president the standard spiel about lip-readers. In public, Macklin and his wife generally kept their conversations light and pleasant, especially with respect to sensitive matters that could compromise his administration. Today would not be one of those days.
Seated at Table 14, a cozy corner retreat where a couple could dine and not only see, but be seen, the president and his attractive wife were enjoying a glass of wine with their chicken salad. A shapely brunette a decade younger than her husband, Maria Eden-Macklin sat with her long legs discreetly crossed at the ankles. Self-schooled to project the proper image of a first lady, Maria's face seldom reflected anything other than a pleasant expression when she was seen in public. Today, however, the retired foreign correspondent was having a difficult time keeping her emotions beneath the surface.
Maria pushed up the elbow-length sleeves of her tailored designer suit, smiled, then leaned closer to the president and whispered in his ear. "May I speak frankly?"
The president returned her smile and sipped his Chardonnay. "You always do," he said with a chuckle.
She raised her wineglass to conceal her lips. "I don't think you should press your luck." She smiled in a faintly autocratic manner. "You should be forthright about the submarine. If it's missing, have Pete go on television and admit it." "Maria," the president said lightly, "you know this isn't the time"--he glanced around the room--"or the place to bring up that subject. We'll discuss it later in private." "You have a full schedule until late this evening," she declared in a quie
t, firm voice. "We need to talk about this now, before someone leaks it to the press. Pete needs to be honest about the situation."
"It isn't quite that simple." Macklin maintained a hint of a smile and talked in a hushed voice. "Pete and Les don't want to unnecessarily alarm the families of the crew, in case Hampton makes contact in the next day or two."
Briefly, Maria studied her husband. "If something has happened to it, you're going to come across as deceitful. Remember the Trident that sailed to the wrong station in the Pacific and hid for more than a week?"
"Maria, not now," he said impatiently.
"It was rigged for quiet," she hastily continued, "and so deeply submerged that it wasn't able to send or receive messages?"
"They could receive signals by slow underwater methods." Again she raised her wineglass to her lips. "Not if the sender is thousands of miles away."
"Let's drop it," the president insisted.
"For nine days," she said in a hushed voice, "the United States Navy was missing a Trident nuclear-missile submarine and no one had any idea where it was."
"Okay, so a mistake was made," he said with a trace of irritation. "No one likes to admit things like that."
"What's more," she went on, "a shrewd reporter got wind of the story and embarrassed the Navy and the White House. Don't be deceitful," she quietly admonished. "You're the commander in chief."
Macklin returned a casual wave from the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. "We're going to roll the dice," the president said under his breath. "If it's just a communications failure, then we're okay. No one is going to get upset."
"If it hasn't been a communications problem," she suggested, barely moving her lips, "then what?"
The president felt the hard probe of her gaze. "Then I'll do what I have to do. I respect their advice."
"Even if they're wrong?"
"They're advisers, not prophets." He sensed her faint recoil and reached for her hand. "I appreciate your concern, you know that."
She nodded and raised an eyebrow, then gazed around the room while she asked a question. "If you ask Pete to resign, will he do it gracefully?"
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