His mind raced. If he was exposed, who knew what the Americans or Chinese might do. The Chinese might even be the greater threat, since any retaliation would likely be blamed on the Americans. He took the sat phone from a drawer, his single link to Braun. He smiled as his rage subsided and summoned his chief of staff.
“Come in, Geraldo,” Rodriguez said agreeably as the man returned, still shaking.
“Destroy this phone within the hour and incinerate the debris. Also, due to the tragedy, our own Independence Day celebration tomorrow will be muted. Cancel the fireworks and other events. I will speak of our shared sorrow and announce the money saved will be added to our Panamanian Relief Fund.”
“But Excellency, the money is spent. There will be no savings.”
“Nor is there a relief fund, you idiot.” Rodriguez shook his head at the man’s inability to grasp the nuance of diplomacy.
“Hello,” Basaev said in Paris.
“It’s a go. Good luck,” Braun said.
“Understood,” Basaev said and hung up.
Braun was improvising in response to the unexpected. China Star was in Singapore, and coverage was limited while Panama dominated the news. Blow-dried anchormen had descended on the isthmus and hired every available helicopter at exorbitant rates, screaming “cover-up” at the Panamanian authorities’ fruitless efforts to restrict air traffic over the canal. But things weren’t all negative. The Black Sea vessel had berthed at last, allowing him to unleash Basaev. He just needed to wind things up while his luck still held.
He studied a CD, a dialogue pieced together from recordings of Rodriguez, Dugan, and Kairouz, with Rodriguez detailing the attacks and the others agreeing. Initially he’d been concerned with the focus on Panama, for Rodriguez talked of little else and he had to use what he had, but the unexpected severity of the Panamanian attack strengthened the ruse. The recording would be more credible still when Kairouz confirmed it, on pain of unspeakable horrors to befall Cassie. Things were coming together despite the unexpected.
He tapped out a message to Motaki.
RECENT EVENTS NO PROBLEM. FINAL PHASE INITIATED. TIDYING UP.
He encrypted the message and piggybacked it on to the porn-site video, then lingered on the site, aroused. He hated to celebrate alone. Perhaps sweet little Yvette had recovered.
Motaki stared at the monitor, bleary-eyed. US markets were closed for the holiday, and it was after market hours in Europe and Asia, but from Toronto to Sao Paulo gold and oil spiked. The panic was sure to roil Asian markets at the open. But where was Sheibani, and why was there no coverage of China Star? And more to the point, would the unintended disaster in Panama heighten global security and jeopardize the final strike?
He calmed himself. Everything was Allah’s will. Panama was necessary to recruit Rodriguez, who provided Braun, who so cleverly blinded the infidels to Iran’s role. Motaki slipped a hardware key into a port to allow access to his office e-mail. He expected the spam message but rose to ensure none of his sleeping family stirred before accessing the porn site.
He read Braun’s message with relief. Soon now, he thought, glancing at the time. He wouldn’t wait up for the Asian markets. He needed his rest.
Doctors scurried by, heads bent in urgent exchanges, struggling with disaster beyond even the worst postulated by planners of never-held emergency drills. Reyes reentered the room he’d fled when Miguelito had stirred and cried for Maria. Telling the boys terrified him because first he must accept it himself, abandoning the lies he’d told himself when he couldn’t reach her. But truth lay nearby in a makeshift morgue.
He met the sad gazes of his parents and in-laws. One grandmother sat at each bedside, holding the boys’ hands as the men stood nearby quiet in their grief. Reyes’s mother rose and took his face between her hands.
“You should rest, hijo. We will call if the little ones wake.”
Reyes shook his head. “There is no rest for me, Mama.”
“I know, hijo, I know. But you need this time to grieve. The boys need your strength.”
Reyes folded her in a hug, then nodded and left. He was near the visitors lounge, crowded with people glued to a TV, when he heard his name.
“Manuel,” Maria’s father said, hurrying after him. “Do you know yet who did this?”
He shook his head. “No. I left the office when—”
He stared past his father-in-law and charged into the lounge to the TV.
“…confirmed the explosion of the M/T Asian Trader was the work of a suicide bomber, as shown in this photo obtained by CNN. At present, no group has claimed responsi—”
Reyes stared. After the blast, the search for his family had taken precedence. Only now did he hear the familiar name. He ran for the stairs.
President Zhang Wei waited until the steward poured tea and bowed from the room.
“So, gentlemen. What of these attacks?”
“They seem linked,” Premier Wang Fei said.
“But motives are unclear,” added Li Gang, Minister for State Security. “Malacca alone could be a US ruse to justify increased US Navy presence in the strait, but Panama makes no sense in that context.”
Wang nodded. “We must consider it. Your instructions, Mr. President?”
“Tread cautiously,” Zhang said. “Offer Panama our help while assuring the US our help is based on mutual interest and not to exert influence. The lie will be recognized, but reducing the burden on US taxpayers will make it palatable. Simultaneously, signal our resolve to protect our own interests in the Malacca Straits by rotating our new destroyers through to visit our friends in Myanmar on a regular basis.”
“At once, Mr. President,” Wang said. “Further thoughts?”
“Just one,” Zhang said. “Not so very long ago, our Venezuelan friend petitioned us to lend financial support to a second canal in Nicaragua. As I recall, one of his main arguments was that it would reduce our vulnerability to trade disruption at Panama.” He paused. “President Rodriguez was quite prescient, it seems.”
“Almost clairvoyant,” Wang agreed.
“Explore that,” President Zhang said.
Gardner cursed the Panamanians. He was on hold. Christ, what a day. He was at post-parade drinks at the Gunthers’ when the news hit. He’d immediately called the DDCI and volunteered to “coordinate intelligence.” That had backfired. Ward had been useless, and that territorial asshole Carlucci in Panama was worse. First he copped an attitude, and then tried a brush-off.
Gardner had soldiered on, working from home to dress up what little he knew into some semblance of a briefing. Then after all that, the Old Man rejected his offer of a personal Power Point presentation, insisting on a phone report — a mediocre recitation at best, and one it seemed the DDCI had already heard.
“Thanks, son,” the Old Man said when he finished. “What’s Ward’s ETA in Panama?”
Carlucci had sandbagged him, obviously with Ward in on it. Blindsided, he’d played along. “This evening, sir. I’ll call back with an updated ETA.”
“Unnecessary. Just inform me of anything significant.”