The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [112]
"Yes, we should be able to sell it to our Russian friends."
"How did the American work out?" Qati asked next.
"Quite well. I do like him, Ismael. I understand him better now." The engineer explained why. Qati nodded.
"What should we do with him, then?"
Ghosn shrugged. "Weapons training, perhaps? Let's see if he fits in with the men."
"Very well. I'll send him out this morning to see how well he knows combat skills. And you, how soon will you pick the thing apart?"
"I planned to do it today."
"Excellent. Do not let me stop you."
"How are you feeling, Commander?"
Qati frowned. He felt terrible, but he was telling himself that part of that was the possibility of some sort of treaty with the Israelis. Could it be real? Could it be possible? History said no, but there had been so many changes Some sort of agreement between the Zionists and the Saudis well, after the Iraq business, what could he expect? The Americans had played their role, and now they were presenting some kind of bill. Disappointing, but hardly unexpected, and whatever the Americans were up to would divert attention away from the latest Israeli atrocity. That people calling themselves Arabs had been so womanly as to meekly accept fire and death Qati shook his head. You didn't fight that way. So, the Americans would do something or other to neutralize the political impact of the Israeli massacre, and the Saudis were playing along like the lapdogs they were. Whatever was in the offing, it could hardly affect the Palestinian struggle. He should soon be feeling better, Qati told himself.
"It is of no account. Let me know when you've determined exactly what it is."
Ghosn took his dismissal and left. He was worried about his commander. The man was ill - he knew that much from his brother-in-law, but exactly how sick he didn't know. In any case, he had work to do.
The workshop was a disreputable-looking structure of plain wood walls and a roof of corrugated steel. Had it looked more sturdy, some Israeli F-16 pilot might have destroyed it years before.
The bomb - he still thought of it by that name - lay on the dirt floor. An A-frame like that used for auto or truck service stood over it, with a chain for moving the bomb if necessary, but yesterday two men had set it up in accordance with his instructions. Ghosn turned on the lights - he liked a brightly-lit work-area - and contemplated the bomb.
Why do I keep calling it that? he asked himself. Ghosn shook his head. The obvious place to begin was the access door. It would not be easy. Impact with the ground had telescoped the bombcase, doubtless damaging the internal hinges but he had all the time he wanted.
Ghosn selected a screwdriver from his tool box and went to work.
President Fowler slept late. He was still fatigued from the flight, and he almost laughed at himself in the mirror. Good Lord, three times in less than 24 hours wasn't it? He tried to do the arithmetic in his head, but the effort defeated him before his morning coffee. In any case, three times in relatively short succession. He hadn't done that in quite a long time! But he'd also gotten his rest. His body was composed and relaxed after the morning shower, and the razor plowed through the cream on his face, revealing a man with younger, leaner features that matched the twinkle in his eyes. Three minutes later, he selected a striped tie to go with the white shirt and gray suit. Not somber, but serious was the prescription for the day. He'd let the churchmen dazzle the cameras with their red silk. His speech would be all the more impressive if delivered by a well turned-out businessman/politician, which was his political image, despite the fact that he'd never in his life run a private business of any sort. A serious man, Bob Fowler - with a common touch to be