The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [310]
"He is an infidel, a pagan."
"That is true, but he also listened to an imam in my presence. At least he was polite. I tell you, he is faithful."
"We will see," Qati said, walking tiredly and breathlessly to the baggage-claim level. Both men looked around as they moved, searching for eyes. That was always the giveaway, the eyes that fixed on you. It was hard even for the most professional of men to keep from looking at their targets.
They collected their luggage without incident, and Marvin was waiting. He could not stop the blast of air from hitting them, and thin as the air was, it was also colder than either had ever experienced. The heat of the car was welcome indeed.
"How go the preparations?"
"Everything is on schedule, Commander," Russell said. He drove off. The Arabs were quietly impressed by the vast open space, the broad interstate highway - they found the speed-limit signs very strange - and the obvious wealth in the area. They were also impressed with Russell, who had manifestly done quite well. Both men rested easier that he had not betrayed them. It was not that Qati had actually expected it, rather that he knew that his vulnerability increased as they got closer to the final part of the plan. That, he knew, was normal.
The farm was of a good size. Russell had thoughtfully overheated it somewhat, but what Qati noted most of all was its obvious defensibility, with a clear field of fire in all directions. He got them inside and carried the bags for them.
"You guys have to be pretty tired," Marvin observed. "Why don't you just bed down? You're safe here, okay?" Qati took the advice. Ghosn did not. He and Russell went to the kitchen. Ibrahim was happy to learn that Marvin was a skilled cook.
"What is this meat?"
"Venison - deer meat. I know you can't eat pork, but you got any problems with deer?" the American asked.
Ghosn shook his head. "No, but I have never had it."
"It's okay, I promise. I found this at a local store this morning. Native-American soul food, man. This is good mule deer. There's a game-rancher around here who grows them commercially. I can try you out on beefalo, too."
"What the devil is that?"
"Beefalo? Another thing you can only get around here. It's a cross between beef cattle and buffalo. Buffalo is what my people used to eat, man, biggest damned cow you're ever gonna see!" Russell grinned. "Good lean meat, healthy and everything. But venison's the best, Ismael."
"You must not call me that," Ghosn said tiredly. It had been a twenty-seven hour day for him, counting the time zones.
"I got the IDs for you and the Commander." Russell pulled the envelopes from a drawer and tossed them on the table. "Names are exactly what you wanted, see? We just have to do the photos and put them on the cards. I have the equipment to do it."
"Was this hard to get?"
Marvin laughed. "Naw, it's standard commercial stuff. I used my own license form as a master, ginned up the copies, then I got the hardware to do first-class dupes. Lots of companies use photo-passes, and the equipment is standardized. Three hours work. I figure we have all day tomorrow and the day after to go over everything."
"Excellent, Marvin."
"You want a drink?"
"Alcohol, you mean?"
"Hey, man, I saw you have a beer with that German guy, what was his name?"
"Herr Fromm, you mean."
"Come on, it's not as bad as eatin' pork, is it?"
"Thank you, but I will pass on that - is that how you say it?"
" 'Pass on the drink'? - yeah, that's fine, man. How's that Fromm guy doing?" Marvin asked casually, looking at the meat. It was almost done.
"Doing well." Ghosn answered just as casually. "He went off to see his wife."
"Exactly what were you guys working on, anyway?" Russell poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel's.
"He helped us with the explosives, some special tricks, you see. He's an expert in the field."
"Great."
It was the first hopeful sign in a few days, maybe a few weeks, Ryan thought. Dinner was fine, all the better to make it home