Ricketts had decided he had to go now, and he had told the DCI so. The DCI had then informed him that that decision was now in the hands of Kinkaid.
Kinkaid had found him in the coffee room.
“Tell me why it has to be now,” Kinkaid insisted.
“Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m not going to approve it.”
“I’ll see the DCI,” Ricketts argued.
“He gave it to me.”
“Then he can un-give it to you.”
“Maybe.”
Ricketts hated these games. “The location I have for our friend is only for an hour. Two at the most. I don’t decide when to do this, he does. I have no idea where he’ll be before or after. Just during that window. That’s it. If I don’t get him then, I’ll probably never get him.”
“You sure?”
Ricketts sneered. “You know better than that. We’re never sure. The whole thing could be a trap. But I’m prepared to bet my life it’s not a trap, and he’ll be there. That’s as sure as I ever get.”
Kinkaid sighed. “Look, I know I’ve been hard on you. I just don’t like it when things I’m responsible for are outside of my control.”
“You’re not responsible.”
“The hell I’m not. This will come down on my head if you fail.”
“I won’t fail,” Ricketts said.
“When we get him back here, you going to do the interrogation?”
“Personally. I’d like Sami to help.”
Kinkaid was surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yes. He understands.”
“I’ll think about it.” Kinkaid turned, then Ricketts spoke again.
“I don’t have to bring him back at all.”
“We can’t do that,” Kinkaid replied, understanding exactly what he meant.
“I can get someone else to do it.”
“Nope. Bring him. We need to have a chat.”
Ricketts nodded and walked past Kinkaid.
19
Woods wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find, but he was sure he expected to find something: blood, marks on the pavement, empty shell casings, something. But there wasn’t anything. He and Big stood there next to Jacob, the beach behind them, and stared at a very ordinary road.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Woods asked.
“Yes, I am sure. This is where they killed Irit,” Jacob said, his arms folded in front of him, his voice hardening.
Woods stared at him, then at the water. “They came from the sea?”
“Yes,” Jacob said. “In rubber rafts.”
“Why did they do it?” Woods asked.
“It is so hard for others to understand,” Jacob said wearily. His eyes met those of the American Naval officers. “They do it because they hate us. They hate Jews. Just like the Germans before them, and others before them; they want to kill all Jews.”
“But why?”
“Ask them. All we want is to be left alone. This is our land, given to us by God. The Promised Land. They think it is theirs and we stole it from them when we became a nation in 1948. They tried to kill us then, and they try to kill us now. They will always try to kill us. So we defend ourselves. But it is never enough. They come and kill our daughters, our sons…”
“I’ve seen enough,” said Woods with finality. “We owe it to Vialli, Big. We can’t just let this drop.”
They walked to Jacob’s car.
“What are you thinking? Another letter to your congressman?” Big asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Nothing we can do, Trey.”
“Nobody cares. Nobody. Not Congress, not the President, not the Department of Defense, not anybody. Huge power, and no will to use it. That’s us.”
Big looked at Woods earnestly. “Yep. That about sums it up.”
Ricketts waited to board the airplane in Athens, Greece. He was wearing a fine gray Armani suit with a dark blue shirt and a designer tie, expensive loafers, and socks with a diamond pattern. His recently grown moustache was perfectly trimmed and his hair was oiled and combed back. A shiny stainless steel diving watch showed slightly below his French-cuffed shirt. He looked every bit the rich sophisticated Lebanese businessman he was trying to portray.
The Middle East Airline’s clerk took his passport and ticket. She smiled, then addressed him in Arabic. “Going home?”
“Yes. Finally.”
She examined the ticket and checked his name and photograph on his Lebanese passport. “Beirut?”
“Yes.”
“Are you from there?”
“All my life.”
“Me too,” she said. “What part?”
“On the beach. My parents managed the Sheraton Hotel, until the city became like Berlin in ’45. We closed it down, and I have worked in many other hotels since. Now, I own my own hotel.”
“Which one?”
“It is in Spain.” He smiled warmly. “Much safer.”
“Beirut is safer now…”
He shrugged. “My parents say so as well. I just go to visit. I will return to live, and build a new big hotel on the beach, when everyone else is out. The Israelis, the Syrians, the Iranians, everybody.”
“I will come visit your hotel,” she said. “I hope it is soon.” She handed him his passport and ticket and he joined the line of people waiting to board.
“What are you doing here?” Big asked as he reclined on his bunk reading Tolstoy.
“Taylor put in an emergency leave chit. I had to come in to sign off on it.”
“I just don’t get it. This guy introduces a million characters in about fifty pages; they stand around at parties, ‘interact,’ have feelings, it’s boring.”
“What is?”
“War and Peace.”
“Maybe you need to skip to the war part.”
“I’ve been thinking about Irit’s picture. What do you think?” Big asked, closing his book.
“I don’t know. I’m sure she said it was from birth. But I don’t remember talking to her about it. I can’t remember if Vialli said that, or if she did. If it was just him, he might have gotten it wrong. I suppose she could just tell people that so she doesn’t have to explain the accident every day. It might be too embarrassing. Maybe she got it caught in an elevator door or something.”
“Right. Or maybe there’s a lot more to this.”
“Like what?”
“How about the whole fake interview thing?”
Woods shook his head. “That one really got me. I mean Boomer even put that in his postcard. No mistake there.”
“So what the hell is going on?”
“Don’t know. We just don’t know enough.”
“You going to the reception tonight?”
Woods gave him a weary “oh no” look. “What reception?”
“At the Air Force base.”
“What Air Force base?”
“Ramat David.”
“Who is that?”
“You know, Israeli Air Force, F-15s, F-16s. Guys with wings, cool guys, like us.”
Woods pulled his T-shirt off and tossed it into the bottom of his closet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, while you were out playing tourista to the Holy Shrines, the Israeli Air Force sent word to CAG that they wanted to sponsor a reception for all the aircrew in the Air Wing to come to Ramat David. We leave in two hours, by bus. You coming?”
Woods sighed. “I’d love to talk to those guys. That sounds great. What’s the uniform? Is anybody else from the squadron going?”
“Whites. Everybody.”
Woods made a mental survey of the state of his tropical white uniform. “Maybe there’ll be somebody there who can tell us more about this Sheikh guy.”