To the Death am-10 Page 15

  The drift of the story was that the public had never been informed of the true scale of the terrorist plot. They had not even been told that it was, without question, the work of either al Qaeda or an associate organization with close links to Hamas, the Palestinian group.

  Henry Brady revealed, flatly, that the man who was shot and then taken, in police custody, to Mass General was now in Guantánamo Bay.

  A series of judicious inquiries in New York then led Henry to discover that there had been three arrests at an apartment on Houston Street on January 18, and that one of the men had been flown immediately to Guantánamo Bay. In Henry’s opinion, the other two were on their way, and all of this was on the specific orders of Admiral Morgan.

  “No civilian,” wrote Henry, “no retired officer, unelected, unappointed, in the entire history of the United States has ever wielded such formidable power in the Oval Office. Except for Admiral Morgan these past several years.”

  He then moved more pointedly to the precise events that took place on January 15. This part of the story was pieced together after a series of interviews with the press office at the Air Traffic Control Center in Herndon, Virginia. Henry had conducted these in person, driven out there and informed the receptionist he was Henry Brady of the Washington Post, and he wished to talk to someone in a senior position, orders of the editor.

  The editor of course was in no position to order anyone to do anything at Herndon, but it startled the receptionist and Henry was given access to a couple of public affairs officers.

  He made the most of what he was given. Which, in fairness, was not much. Yes, the ATC operators had locked on to Flight 62, which had maintained course, despite being instructed to make a change and swing left inland. It had continued north out over the ocean.

  “Why was the course change ordered?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. That is classified information.”

  “Military?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I cannot answer that.”

  “Is it classified?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how much longer, after the 737 ceased to obey orders from Herndon, did you track it?”

  “Sir, I did not say it ceased to obey orders. I said it continued on its northerly course.”

  “In flagrant defiance of the ATC instructions, right?” Henry was trying to close in.

  “Not necessarily, sir. There may have been an electronic foul-up. Flight 62 may not have been receiving us. We were not in communication. And that would make it an accident, sir. Not defiance.”

  Henry persisted. “Okay, let me rephrase. For how long were you able to track the aircraft after you first noticed it was not obeying instructions?”

  “I would say less than an hour, sir. We had it on radar, fifty miles offshore, east of Norfolk, Virginia.”

  “And then it vanished?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have a record of the height the aircraft was flying when it disappeared?”

  “I am certain we do.”

  “Could I see that record?”

  “I am sorry, but everything’s gone to the government department that investigates such matters.”

  “Would anyone remember whether Flight 62 was at thirty thousand feet or two thousand feet when it vanished?”

  “Possibly, but that information would be classified right now until the documents are released by the government and a satisfactory explanation has been found.”

  “Okay, I’m just trying to establish whether that aircraft, packed with civilian passengers, who are now dead, disappeared from your screens way up there in the stratosphere, either because of a bomb or some other explosion. Or perhaps it just suffered what you guys call catastrophic mechanical failure and plunged into the ocean?”

  “I’m sure one day, sir, this will all come to light. But right now that is not possible.”

  Henry Brady tried to pull rank. “I represent the most powerful political newspaper in the United States,” he said. “And in my opinion, the citizens of this country have a right to know what happened if Americans died in any kind of disaster.”

  “Sir, there were no Americans on board. The aircraft was Canadian-based, Canadian-owned. It was not scheduled to stop in the USA.”

  “How do you know this, if you were not in communication?”

  “Sir, every flight has a number which betrays its origins. This was TBA 62. We have of course been in contact with its parent corporation.”

  “That’s Thunder Bay Airways, right?”

  “Correct. And they may be able to help you more than we can.”

  That last sentence had Henry on the line in double-quick time to the little airline on the freezing north shore of Lake Superior. And there he discovered the aircraft was very lightly loaded, it had made a fuel stop in Palm Beach, unscheduled, and there were no Americans on board.

  The chief executive confirmed the flight had been lost, out in the Atlantic, according to the Americans. So far as the airline was concerned, no one had any idea where the wreckage was, not within an area of 2,500 square miles. So far as they were concerned, no further search-and-rescue operations were being conducted.

  Yes, they could confirm that the senior directors of the airline were of Arabian descent, and yes, the majority shareholders were extremely wealthy Saudis. That was public record.

  Henry at that stage had a smattering of facts. And a very big mystery. So far as he was concerned, that was perfect. So long as he could ascertain that Admiral Morgan was right in the middle of it.

  And that would take several leaps of faith, all of them slightly shaky. But Henry was a newspaperman, and his business was not to establish the pure unbridled truth. He worked for a commercial corporation. His business was to sell newspapers, to write a slightly sneering, cynical story against the government, not to establish unbridled truth. Henry was quite prepared to take those leaps of faith.

  And he was prepared to take a really big one on the subject of TBA’s Flight 62.

  This is what he wrote: “So what was the true fate of that innocent passenger jet, flying through peaceful American skies, lawfully taking its people home? Was it really subject to ‘catastrophic mechanical failure’? Or did something more darkly sinister befall it?

  “As a reporter of more than 20 years’ standing, I am acutely aware of evasiveness; I am tuned to understand when people do not want to answer my perfectly reasonable questions, on behalf of my readers.

  “And in this case they most certainly were reluctant to tell me anything, save for the obvious, that the aircraft disappeared off the screens. We do not know why, and since its communications with the tower were down, we do not know precisely where, although it was out over the deep Atlantic.”

  Henry could really go no further. But this feature story was designed to be about Admiral Morgan, and Henry was obliged to end it with a bit of a flourish. This he managed to do:

  “Perhaps, then, I should offer this: Could the aircraft have been subject to a planted bomb? Or was it in any way possible that this Arab-owned Boeing 737 was somehow connected to the gang that tried to bomb Logan International?

  “And might it have been cold-bloodedly shot down by American military fighters, on the specific orders of the President of the United States, on the advice of his permanent right-hand man, Admiral Arnold Morgan? There are those close to the president who believe this is the real truth.”

  Henry Brady realized this ending was based on the flimsiest of suppositions, but he remembered Anthony Hyman’s words, that this suspicion had been raised by a very senior man in the White House.

  Like many another journalist, Henry had decided to take his chances. If there was a stern White House denial, so what? It all added to the controversy. If nothing was said, then that made his conclusions look even better.

  What Henry did not know was that his story about Admiral Arnold Morgan would have massive ramifications. And that they would begin in an underground room at the back end of Gaza Ci
ty, six thousand miles away.

  General Ravi Rashood was devoted to newspapers. When he and Shakira had lived in Damascus, they had bought a selection of foreign newspapers from the most famous bookshop in the city, the Librairie Avicenne, three times a week. He rarely missed purchasing irregularly available copies of the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and London Daily Telegraph.

  Here in Gaza it was more difficult. Foreign papers arrived only sporadically, and often the Hamas field agents were slow to grasp important items. However, no one missed Henry Brady’s story in the Washington Post, and three copies of it arrived from different sources, in the mail, at the house off Omar el-Mukhtar Street on Monday morning, March 5.

  Ravi sat outside in the courtyard, sipping coffee and contemplating the significance of the strange and powerful man who sat effortlessly at the right hand of the President of the United States.

  He knew precisely who the admiral was, and had indeed given serious thought to assassinating him in London six years previously. But it had proved impossible. The admiral’s security staff, when traveling, rivaled that of the president himself.

  At least it did when he was on official business, as Ravi had assumed he had been, that summer in London.

  Shakira brought him some more coffee and asked him what he was reading. “Oh, nothing much,” replied her husband. “Just some newspaper articles about an American admiral.”

  “Well, if it’s not important, why do you have three copies of it?”

  “How do you know I have three copies of it?”

  “Mostly because I am able to count,” said Shakira sassily. “One in your hand, one sticking out of this envelope, and one on the floor.”

  “I don’t think that makes them important,” said Ravi.

  “Someone did,” she said. “Three people did. Otherwise why did they send them to you?”

  “They actually sent them to Colonel Abdullah, who used to live here.”

  “Well, if they are not important, why did they send them to him?” A part of Shakira’s charm was her determination to go on asking the same question, over and over, until she received the answer she thought she deserved.

  Ravi thought she should have trained as a trial lawyer, rather than a terrorist, but nonetheless declined to mention this to her while she was pouring the coffee.

  And it did not escape her attention that throughout the entire morning, the general was very much within himself, thinking, reading and rereading the newspaper cutting, which displayed for all to see the man who was the real nemesis to one of the biggest terrorist operations in the Middle East.

  Shakira left him for an hour but returned to find him still staring at one of his three newspaper cuttings. She picked up one of the others and said, “So who is this man here, the one you spend all day looking at? What’s his name, Admiral Morgan? I’ve heard that name.”

  “In our business, everyone’s heard that name. That man is the biggest reason in the world why the Great Satan believes that America still has the right to dominate the Middle East, to buy and sell our oil, arm the Israelites with the most terrible weapons against us, and station their armies upon our lands whether we like it or whether we don’t.”

  “Why is he such a nuisance?”

  “He’s worse than a nuisance, my darling. He’s an ogre, nothing less.”

  “What’s an ogre?”

  “A giant, with a club, which he uses to smash people from poor nations, to beat them because they cannot defend themselves against the military strength of the USA.”

  “Well, we have whacked the USA a few times, hah?”

  “Yes, but never as hard as we wish. And it seems to me that every time we can get a plan together, for a major strike against them, this guy ruins it.”

  “What does he ruin?”

  “Everything. He lost us two nuclear submarines. And he got his hands on our operatives in Boston and they all ended up in Guantánamo Bay. One of them obviously was forced to tell them where we live. That’s why someone tried to kill us both.”

  “How do you know it was Admiral Morgan?” said Shakira, who privately thought the admiral, from his picture, was a handsome and rather cheerful-looking older man. Not at all like an ogre.

  “So how do you know?”

  “I’m reading this story about him. It seems even the Americans are worried he has too much power. Some Americans, anyway.”

  “Perhaps we should offer him a job?” said Shakira, laughing. “Then he can get back at the Americans who don’t like him. He sounds to me like he’d make a good terrorist.”

  They both laughed. But suddenly Mrs. Rashood had a flash of memory, and she said to her husband, “You remember when we went to Paris a few years back, and you went to London for a few days for an assassination. Was that anything to do with Admiral Morgan?”

  Ravi stared admiringly at his beautiful wife. “You remember?” he said. “All that time ago.”

  “That was the only time I ever heard you wanting to take the life of one specific person. And I remember you mentioned an admiral.”

  “And this is the very same man, and the very same problem, his hatred of us and his determination to crush us.”

  “Then you must be very careful,” she replied. “Because I know it did not work out last time. This is obviously a very clever and dangerous person.”

  “The last time, when I watched him in London, I was only mildly interested. I was just testing the waters.”

  “Will you try again now because of the attempt to kill us in Damascus?”

  “Yes, little Shakira. I must. I feel differently now, ever since I saw you in our backyard, trapped, crying and covered in blood. I thought you might die. And that would have broken my heart.

  “And this newspaper has given me all the information I need. I will assassinate Admiral Morgan. And this time, I will not fail.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Four Months Later Wednesday 20 June

  British Airways’ morning flight from London was right on time at Logan, and the line for the “U.S. Citizens Only” windows was a lot shorter than the one for visitors and legal aliens.

  Window three, sir, straight along to the left. this way, please. window 10. stand right behind the red line. The bewildered-looking foreigners moved slowly along, moving up to the glass booths, being fingerprinted, checked, by steely-eyed immigration agents.

  This was the last line of defense at the American borders. This was where illegal entrants were questioned, then grilled, then sent right back where they came from if all was not in order — passports, entry forms, visas.

  At the right end of the line, where American citizens go through, things were a little more relaxed. The words “Welcome home, sir” were used often. And the agents occasionally wanted to know where a traveler had been abroad. But all U.S. passports were nonetheless scanned and checked. No fingerprints.

  Correctly dressed businessmen and — women seemed always to get through quickest. America runs on business. These people always receive respect. And the very smart young woman in her late twenties, dark suit with a skirt, white blouse, computer, and briefcase, stepped confidently into the booth and handed over her passport.

  She actually thought her heart might stop as the agent opened it and stared at the first page. Martin, Carla, birth date 27 May 1982, birthplace Baltimore, Maryland. The two long lines of numbers at the bottom. The picture of her, staring out.

  The agent flipped to the back page and scanned the barcode through his machine. He glanced at the screen and stared at Carla’s very striking face, which looked Spanish, could have been South American. Then he stamped her officially into the USA, smiled, and said, “Welcome home, ma’am.”

  Thus Carla Martin slipped into the United States of America on an exquisitely forged passport, a sensational copy of a passport belonging to another person. Only the picture showed a slight variance, but Carla’s hair was swept up in the precise manner of the original owner, and in the photograph sh
e wore the same necklace, a pendant with a red garnet stone set into a silver loop.

  When she retrieved her luggage downstairs, just one suitcase, there would be another passport tucked away inside, with only three changes: birth date, birthplace, and name. This one would be in the name of Maureen Carson, born in Michigan, a year younger. This one would be used only to exit the country. The Americans, like all other nations, are disinterested in who’s leaving. Only in who’s trying to break in.

  Carla walked down the steps and waited for her suitcase. Officials with dogs were working around the baggage conveyor. When she grabbed her suitcase and lifted it onto her cart, no one took any notice. She walked to the exit door, where the customs official took her form and nodded briskly.

  Outside the terminal, she waited for a few moments on the sidewalk, and then a jet-black Buick pulled up alongside her. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door before loading her luggage into the trunk.

  When he was back behind the wheel, Carla said quietly, “Thank you, Fausi. Am I ever glad to see you!”

  “Was it nerve-racking?”

  “Very. I was terrified he’d notice the variations in the picture. She looks a bit like me, but not that much.”

  Fausi, a dark, swarthy intelligence officer at the Jordanian embassy in Washington, chuckled. “I knew you’d hold your nerve. And everything was on your side. All the numbers, codes, and details in that passport were absolutely correct and legal.”

  “I know. But the photograph was my weak point. What if he’d noticed, accused me of being a different person? Arrested me? Traveling on a false passport.”

  “He’d have refused you entry,” replied Fausi. “And they would have put you on the next plane back to London. It’s not a hanging offense. And you’re not a known criminal. It would just have been a plan that went wrong. Inconvenient, but not life-threatening.

  “Besides, you carried with you a Carla Martin Social Security number, three Carla Martin credit cards, and a Carla Martin Maryland driver’s license. Everything was in your favor, photograph or no photograph. It was a slight risk, and you took it very well.”