SSI OFFICES
They held a death watch in Arlington, Virginia.
None of the SSI officers wanted to leave without knowing which of their associates had been killed. It was nearly midnight when the next e-mail was received. “It’s from Vic Pope,” Leopole explained. “He must’ve bypassed Cohen.”
“Well?” Sandy Carmichael’s tone was unusual: curt, insistent.
“Don Pace is dead. They found his body.”
“So that’s Chadburn and Pace killed. What about Verdugo?”
“Apparently he’s going to recover but he’s out of action.” Leopold dropped the printout on the table before Carmichael. The gesture said, Read it yourself.
Omar Mohammed understood the tension but wanted to defuse a potential eruption. While he admired Sandra Carmichael more than most women he had ever known, she had an Alabama country girl’s feistiness. “We should let Matt Finch know. Personnel is his responsibility.”
Nobody in the room knew any of the casualties well, but everyone felt a sense of responsibility. Finally, Carmichael said, “I think it’ll keep ’til morning.” She looked up at Leopole, who nodded agreement.
Marshall Wilmont fidgeted in his seat. He felt somehow out of place among operators and planners, even though everyone else in the room rated below him on the organizational chart. “You know, Sandy, the admiral usually contacts next of kin himself.”
“Yeah, I know.” She turned toward to door, as if expecting Derringer to appear. “I wonder if he’s woken the SecDef yet.”
M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“Look at this,” Zikri said.
Hurtubise looked over the Libyan’s shoulder. “What is it?”
The navigation radar gave a God’s eye view of the area south of the Canary Islands, operating on the ten-mile scale. Zikri fingered a blip astern of Tarabulus Pride. “This one has been trailing us all day. I have been watching it since dawn. Twice I sped up and slowed down, but it never varies more than two or three knots faster than we are making.”
“You think it’s our Jewish friends?”
Zikri gave a grunt. “Monsieur Hurtubise, you know that I have no Jewish friends. Or Americans. But yes, I think so. Otherwise they would have passed us, like many other ships.”
“Well, what can they do? Ram us?”
“I think they would have done so by now. But then what? As you say, they are probably not going to try their rubber boats again. So we watch them. And wait.”
“I have one-third my men on guard all the time. Until the Jews try something else, there is little for us to do. Now I am going back to sleep. But call me if there’s any change.”
Hurtubise descended the ladder from the bridge and went aft. He wanted to talk before he slept.
“René,” he called to his deputy.
Pinsard was sunning himself with his feet up. Officially he was supervising the lookouts. “Yes?”
Hurtubise knelt by the reclining Frenchman. “The explosives you brought aboard—where is it stored?”
“Semtex in the aft storage locker. Caps and detonators in my compartment. Why?”
“I may want to place some quantities in the engine room and elsewhere down below. See me when you come off duty.”
Pinsard cocked an eye at the older man. “Marcel, are you thinking of scuttling this rust bucket?”
“I am just thinking, René. But keep it to yourself.”