There was a portrait of Thomas Jefferson to the right of the entryway. It stared at the president as he walked past.
An honor guard stood at attention near the far side of the roped off area directly under the apex of the great dome. One member of each service made up the five-member guard. Their faces were frozen and emotionless. Even the blinking of their eyes seemed mechanical and precise.
The president and his aides approached the dark mahogany casket. It sat atop a riser draped with a deep red skirt, its lid closed and a single peach-colored rose lying on it. In contrast to the blank faces of the military presence, there was emotion visible on the president’s ashen face. It was not sadness, though he felt that. Nor was it anger. It was reserved puzzlement, not really an appropriate response, but it was his way of reacting. No press was there to capture his expression, so he didn’t mask his feelings. A man was in that box: a man who shortly before had been alive, respected, and loved. But now he was gone. Why?
How many had died? The president pondered that as he stood silently a few inches from the casket. He wanted to touch it, but was that proper? He hadn’t been to a funeral since his dad’s.
A hand touched his elbow. “Sir, it’s time to go.”
The president nodded. His chief of staff was right. He could stand and mourn, reflecting on the tragedy, the brutality, the waste. That would be easy. Or he could try to end it.
“I’m ready,” the president said, ending his unceremonious visit.
Twelve
DOUBTS AND DECISIONS
It was the closest his soul had come to peace in years. But it was not enough. True serenity was yet to come. Soon.
Muhadesh sped past the newly placed outer guard post, manned by three lounging ‘regulars’ who snapped to attention as their commander passed. Indar’s work. It didn’t surprise Muhadesh.
There were two other posts placed near the road into the camp, both close to the main permanent entrance. Upon nearing that, Muhadesh slowed and stopped, stepping out of the Range Rover to survey the chaos. Indar had done his usual best.
The first noticeable change was the absence of the many power poles that strung electrical and phone wires into the camp. Muhadesh looked back. The poles were missing out to five hundred yards along the entrance road. Funny, he thought; he hadn’t noticed that until the vehicle was stopped. He climbed back in and drove on, heading for the command post.
Two work details were piling sandbags against the walls of the command post that faced the parade grounds, and a bulldozer was pushing sand into mounds against the other exposed walls. Another one must have been doing the same on the opposite side of the armory, as was apparent from the sound and clouds of fine sand rising above the low roofs.
A hand waved back and forth. The soldier ran up to the road, and Muhadesh slowed and stopped.
“Captain,” the sergeant called, puffing only slightly.
Muhadesh smiled through the rolled-down window. “Sergeant Ewadi.” One of my few true soldiers. Ewadi was actually only one of two remaining soldiers who had been with Muhadesh back in the days when the 3rd was a true military training ground
“What do you think?” the wiry sergeant asked, a knowing grin opening below the black mustache.
“It all looks interesting. You are advising Lieutenant Indar, correct? You must be — some of these defenses look intelligently placed.” Muhadesh pointed back along the road. “The three posts?”
“Yes, that was my suggestion. The lieutenant is concerning himself with the interior defenses, as you can see.”
Muhadesh could. “Obviously. Does he think that a sand berm will stop American-guided bombs?”
Ewadi laughed, careful that no one was listening. The nearest soldier was fifty feet away. “Even with good planning there are limitations.”
“The soldiers at the posts?” Muhadesh offered.
Ewadi nodded. “They may be my placements, but these weakling weapons instructors of Indar’s would run before they would fire.”
“Speaking of the lieutenant…”
A finger pointed to the command center. “On the back side. He is directing the placement of the wooden poles. They are to be vehicle barriers.” Ewadi’s comment trailed off skeptically.
Muhadesh saluted the sergeant, then put the Range Rover back in gear. Ewadi was one of those factors that made what he did difficult, and what he was about to do painful. He was not a deterrent, however.
The sound of heavy equipment was more prevalent when Muhadesh pulled directly up to the main entrance of the command center. He ignored the soldiers scurrying about nearby and went immediately inside and upstairs to his office.
There was a smell of diesel exhaust in the room. Muhadesh walked behind his desk and slid the window down, closing and locking it, and then closed the heavy blackout shades over it. The room went dim. He switched the desk lamp on, removed his jacket, and sat down, swiveling the chair to face his older model typewriter.
He took out his notebook and several sheets of plain paper. He inserted one sheet in the typewriter and pecked out a two-sentence message. Muhadesh felt his heart sink as the last word was completed. It was really going to happen. This would seal it. The Americans would not be endeared to him for this, but he had his own battle to fight, one of higher personal importance.
The sinking feeling relaxed, and Muhadesh slipped the single sheet of paper into the fax, dialing the number from memory as he had hundreds of times before. Forty seconds later it was fed back out and the confirmation slip showed that it had been received. A few minutes after that it was automatically forwarded from the CIA front company to the Rome station, and then on to Langley.
Muhadesh sketched out the diagram as Sadr had described it, checking the picture against his notes twice before sending it off, repeating the process.
Next he typed up two more messages on separate pieces of paper, though both could have been placed on one. The Americans would prefer it that way, he knew, but this was his way: the way it had to be. The first message would tell the Americans what the objects on the hijacked plane weren’t. The second one would shed light on what they were. Muhadesh folded the latter and tucked it in his shirt pocket.
The typewriter’s hum ceased. Muhadesh laid the final sheet in the fax’s feed slot and touched the repeat dial button. At the same instant the room dimmed almost to darkness. His attention immediately turned to the desk lamp, which he switched on and off. At first he thought it must have been the bulb, but then the larger problem became apparent. The fax machine was also dark, as was the surveillance control panel next to the video monitor.
Muhadesh sprang up, his legs thrusting the chair backward against the wall. The power was out. No! There was one more message to be sent. It had to get to the Americans. The ones already sent would not make sense, and the first, without the third, would cast doubt on his credibility. He removed it from the fax and folded it, placing it with the other in his pocket.
He was frozen for a moment, standing behind the desk. Then rage filled him. His fists clenched at his side. There could be only one cause of the outage.
The shade nearly tore when Muhadesh threw it open, and the window slammed hard against the wooden stops at the top of the frame. Neither sound matched what came from Muhadesh as he leaned through the window and screamed over the parade grounds at the top of his lungs: “Indar!”