SSI OFFICES
Mike Derringer was a well-known workaholic: he arrived early each weekday and often spent part of a weekend at the office. Today was no different. He checked the coffeepot, noticed that Peggy Springer already had turned it on, and not for the tenth time admired her efficiency.
He turned on his office computer to check overnight e-mail and found the usual clutter of messages: reminders, jokes, reunion notices, occasional obituaries. SSI’s computer support division had installed a powerful firewall in all the company’s machines, and Derringer—certainly no prude—gladly did without the Internet’s marketing pollution: penis enlargement, enhanced sexual performance, and teenage Asian sluts. Occasionally Karen assured him that, at age sixty-seven, he needed neither of the first two, but she would personally see to organ reduction if he ever dabbled in the third.
He believed her.
Quickly working his way through the list, making frequent use of the Delete button, Derringer saw a message from a sender called “Double Dare.” Derringer opened the message.
Admiral: Our boat left late yesterday PM, probable heading 270. More to follow. DD.
Derringer swiveled in his chair, punched the intercom, and buzzed Wilmont’s office. There was no response, nor did the admiral expect one at 0745. Marsh is more an 0900 kinda guy, the admiral thought. In descending order down the ladder, he buzzed Sandra Carmichael and Frank Leopole.
“Leopole here.”
“Frank. I’m glad you’re in. Our bird has flown the coop.”
“Be right there, sir.”
“Ah, have you seen Sandy?”
“Negative. I think she’s still inbound.”
“Very well. Hustle up here and I’ll try her cell phone.”
Derringer checked his Rolodex—he still trusted electrons just so far—and punched in the number.
“This is Sandra Carmichael.”
“Sandy, Mike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Ah, I’m still on Sixty-six, approaching the Twenty-nine exit. Call it one-five mikes. Less if this idiot ahead of me moves over.”
Derringer visualized the geography. Carmichael’s Nissan would exit onto the Lee Highway, take Danville Street south across Wilson Boulevard to Clarendon, and proceed east toward Courthouse Road. “Very well. Come straight to my office. Frank and I are working the latest intel.”
“You heard from Dave?”
“That is affirm.”
“Gotcha, sir.” The line went dead.
Leopole walked directly into the office without bothering to knock. “What’ve we got, Admiral?”
“Just a preliminary report from Dave Dare. He says the ship left yesterday afternoon or evening, probably westbound. That’s all we have for now.”
“Then Jeff Malten’s team is…”
“Way out of position in Israel. Yes, I know. I understand that Pope’s people are set to fly out today.”
“Yessir.” The foreign ops director stood for a moment, rubbing his chin and wishing he could dispense with his tie. “Admiral, we could try repositioning Malten but I think maybe we…”
“Concur.” Derringer allowed himself to laugh. “Frank, if we keep this up much longer, we’re going to be telepathic. It took me about eight years before I could do that with Karen.”
Leopole laughed politely, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “Looks like a long day, sir. But if I read you, we still don’t know for certain that Dare’s report is complete enough to act on. I mean, yes, the ship could’ve left, but until we know that it’s definitely headed west, we could end up chasing our own tail.”
“Concur again. But get on the horn and see if you can talk to Malten. Or Cohen might be a better prospect. Just call it a warning order: prepare to fly to Morocco, but also be ready to execute the Suez option.”
“Well, Terry Keegan’s back in Cairo with a leased cargo plane and crew. That’s one of the better contingencies we arranged. He should be able to get to Haifa on pretty short notice.”
“Yes, we should let him know as well.” Derringer looked at the ship’s clock on his wall. “Call it 0800 here—about 1500 there. I’ll try that call myself. Report back here when you’re done and we’ll huddle with Sandy.”
Minutes later, Carmichael entered the office. She dropped her purse in a chair and waited while Derringer got off the phone. “Sandy, good morning. Sit down and I’ll fill you in.”
“Thanks, Admiral. I take it that we’re talking to Jeff Malten this morning?”
“Frank’s doing that. I just talked to Terry Keegan in Cairo. He says he could be gear-up for Haifa with less than an hour’s notice, though the air traffic regs are more bureaucratic in the Hindu-Muslim part of the world. He’s going to talk to our embassy and see if they can get him a short-notice waiver.”
Carmichael’s blond hair bobbed as she nodded. Then she said, “Admiral, the thing that worries me is intelligence. Not that I doubt Dave Dare, but I just don’t think we can launch two teams without more confirmation.”
“I agree. In fact, Frank and I already discussed that. Sandy, I know it’s below your usual responsibility, but could you coordinate all our intel sources until we know something positive? Dave’s working group will have its hands full.”
She stood, straightened her skirt, and said, “I’m on it.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, I meant to ask: anything from Omar about some Iranian contacts?”
“Just that he’s working it. Actually, I wouldn’t expect too much, Sandy. At least not anytime soon. After all, he’s been out of the country over thirty-five years. He said he still has some relatives there, but I don’t think they’re connected. If he turns up something, it’ll be among the expatriate community.”
“Okay. I’ll get to work, Admiral.”
Watching the retired Army O-5 walk out, Derringer admired the view. Best legs on any light colonel I ever saw.