SSI OFFICES
“Frank, we just got an encrypted e-mail from Alex Cohen. Pope and Malten’s teams are going in right now.” Sandy Carmichael’s southern accent smoothed over the emotional ridges she felt.
Leopole looked at the wall clock. “They’re near the Canaries? It’s 2135 here; plus four is 0135 there. Did he say when they’ll board?”
“No. Just that the boats are in the water. I’d imagine they’re several miles out.”
Omar Mohammed, ordinarily the soul of composure, was sharing the watch. He surprised his two colleagues by biting the nail of his ring finger. “I wonder who else he’s told.”
“What’s that?” Carmichael asked.
The elegant Iranian caught himself and dropped his hand to the table. “I am just wondering out loud, Sandra. I am sorry, but I just do not trust Cohen yet. Oh, I don’t mean he would send our people into unnecessary danger. Nothing like that. But he may be communicating with Tel Aviv and who knows who else.”
Carmichael pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, he’s certainly not telling State or DoD. This whole thing is about deniability.”
“Yeah,” Leopold said. “I guess we don’t need to call O’Connor or anybody else until we know what happens.”
Carmichael gave him a tight grin. “Small favors, Frank. That’s up to the admiral or Marsh Wilmont.”
Several laden moments ticked by. Finally Leopold spoke. “Damn. I feel like Ike on D-Day.”
Mohammed eyed him. “The waiting?”
Leopole nodded. “Once you’ve pushed the button, all you can do is wait for the machine to go to work. I think we’ve built a pretty damn good machine. But there’s always some cog waiting out there to foul it up.”