At the camp in Kufra, they used to run the trainees ten miles every day in the desert heat. In Los Angeles, he used to do three miles around the UCLA track, morning or evening, depending on which shifts he pulled at the hospital. This morning, dressed as he was, he had to settle for a fast, brisk walk. This part of New York was strange to him, even stranger in that a holiday pall already seemed to have settled upon the city. Early Friday getaways were common enough during the summer months, but this was a long holiday weekend, and with the Fourth falling on a Saturday, most people didn’t have to work next Monday. As he walked through the sparsely populated streets of the financial district, he had the sense of a city already abandoned, its inhabitants having fled to the mountains, the seashores, or the lakes.
He was alone in an alien land.
A country he had slept in for more years than he cared to count.
Awake at last.
Walking uptown along the East River Drive, he looked out over the water to where a red tugboat was churning through a mild chop, raised his gaze farther out to where a tanker plodded heavily along, and wondered what kind of river traffic he could expect tomorrow. He had already concocted what he believed to be a feasible means of escape by water — if ever he managed to get three feet from the scene without being gunned down. Getting killed was a distinct possibility. But losing his life was something to be desired, not feared. Only failure was to be scorned.
Tomorrow, he would get to the President by whatever means possible. If it meant unscrewing the cap of that plastic bottle and hurling the sarin at him from a foot away — he would do it. If it required running through a storm of bullets to reach him, tossing the poison into his face, into his eyes, onto his lips, killing the murderer before he himself was slain — he would do it. And he would seek no greater glory than the knowledge that he had served his God and his leader and his people. But if there was the slightest chance that he might live to serve again, then he would seize it.
He felt certain that his plan of attack would work.
The President would die.
He felt less confident about his means of escape, but here too he might succeed... if only because they were so very stupid.
Running along the river on the way back to the hotel, he grinned broadly, and felt as if his heart might burst through his chest, so joyous were his thoughts.
She had heard nothing from the police.
She called that morning at ten minutes to nine, and spoke to Gregors, who told her they had some very good descriptions of this Scott Hamilton person, which a police artist was putting together right that minute into a composite drawing they could circulate.
“From what we’ve been told,” Gregors said, “from people who were at that cocktail party — men and women alike, by the way — this was a very handsome person, that’s one thing they all agree on. You sometimes...”
She was wondering how her mother could’ve been so goddamn stupid.
“... get descriptions that vary, you know, depending on who’s doing the talking. You get brown eyes, you get blue eyes, you get green eyes, hazel eyes, whatever, this is the same person all these people are describing. What we’ve come up with, though, what the artist is working on now, is a male Hispanic — but a very educated one, no accent, nothing like that — in his late twenties, early thirties. Dark hair, light eyes, very handsome. Runs a cable television station in San Diego, by the way, we’re checking out there right this minute, see if there’s any paper on him. See if he’s got a record, that is.”
“When will you know?” Elita asked.
“Well, it isn’t morning there yet, but they should be getting back to us soon. Meanwhile, we’ll get these people back in to look at the drawing, fine tune it, you know, fix an eyebrow here, a nostril there, get it to look as much like the person as we can. We’re working on this, Miss Randall, don’t worry. You realize, of course...”
He hesitated.
She waited.
There was a crackling on the telephone wire. She wondered if a storm was on its way.
“There’s no indication yet that any foul play is involved here,” Gregors said at last. “Your mother was seen with this man at a party, but that doesn’t mean anything has happened to her, or if something did happen to her, it doesn’t mean this man is responsible for it. We’ll have cases where a person will go off and not tell anyone where she’s going and she’ll turn up safe and sound right around the corner. All I’m saying is that we’re working up the composite as a precautionary measure, in case we should need it in the future, but you mustn’t think we’re automatically assuming something has happened to your mother. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you very much.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Gregors said.
“Thank you,” she said again, and hung up.
The house seemed utterly still.
She looked at her watch.
A little past nine. She wondered if Geoffrey was at work yet. She hadn’t spoken to him since Wednesday night, hadn’t even called to thank him for what had been a truly wonderful time. By now, he had to be thinking she was the most ungrateful jerk imaginable. She looked for his number in her handbag, dialed it, got a woman telling her this was the British Consulate, asked for Mr. Turner, and was sure that the next woman who came on the line was the absurdly strident Lucy Phipps, to whom she did not identify herself. She asked for Mr. Turner again and was put straight through.
“Elita!” he said. “I’ve been worried sick about you! Where on earth are you?”
She told him where she was and told him why she’d come out here, and all at once she found herself bawling into the mouthpiece, sobbing out the whole story of not having been able to get her mother by phone...
“Do you remember my calling her from the Plaza?”
... and no one having seen her since Monday night, and the police interviewing people and getting a composite drawing made...
“Oh, Jesus,” she sobbed, “I don’t know what to do!”
“I’m sure she’s perfectly all right,” Geoffrey said. “Now listen to me, Elita. You can’t help the situation an iota by sitting out there all alone and waiting for the phone to ring. Did you drive out there?”
“No.”
“How did you get there?”
“By jitney.”
“Can you take one back to the city?”
“Yes, but I don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
“Suppose they learn something?”
“I’m sure they’ll learn she’s fine. Just give them your number in New York, and they’ll...”
“Suppose she isn’t,” Elita said.
There was a silence on the line.
“Elita,” he said, “whatever the case, I think you need to be with someone who cares about you. What time is the next jitney?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to look at the schedule.”
“Look at it,” he said.
“All right,” she said.
“Now, Elita. Look at it now, please.”
She blew her nose, found the schedule, and went back to the phone. Still sniffling, she told him that the next bus left at twelve twenty-five and arrived in Manhattan at two-fifteen.
“Where in Manhattan?” he asked.
“Thirty-ninth and Third. And then it makes stops...”
“I’ll be there to meet you at two-fifteen.”
“Geoffrey... I really think I should stay here.”
“Why?” he asked.
She could not think of a single reason why.
“Call the police and give them your number in New York,” he said.
“All right.”
“I’ll see you in a little while.”