The Solomon Effect

14

St. Martin, the Caribbean: Sunday 25 October

8:00 A.M. local time

The massive doors of the airplane hangar rolled open, filling the cavernous space with a suffocating blast of tropical heat and the deafening roar of the approaching jet.

From the air-conditioned comfort of his limousine, James Nelson Walker watched the Gulfstream roll inside. Ten months of careful research and planning-not to mention a substantial investment of funds-had brought him to this moment.

Up until now, Walker’s role had been largely financial, with Boyd drawing on his years of special operations, and his many contacts, to provide them with the paramilitary expertise they needed. But the next segment of the operation would be under Walker’s control.

The jet pivoted smartly, and a blessed silence fell over the hangar as the engines shut down. Absently kneading his lower lip with one thumb and forefinger, Walker waited while the pilot and copilot removed their headphones. They had no knowledge of their cargo, or the use to which it would be put.

He waited while the two men casually joked with each other, then left the hangar without a backward glance at either the limousine or the white van that waited at the other end of the hangar.

At a nod from Walker, his driver pressed the remote control, closing the big hangar doors and shutting out the bright tropical sunlight with an echoing bang.

“Now,” said Walker to the small, olive-skinned man with a hawklike nose and acne-pitted face who sat beside him.

Dr. Juan Garcia nodded. At his signal, the back doors of the waiting van opened. Two technicians in hazmat suits leaped out.

“How long will it take before we know if the shipment is still viable?” Walker asked while the two technicians opened the jet’s cargo hold.

Garcia shrugged. “We should have a preliminary report within twenty-four hours.”

Walker’s eyes narrowed as he watched the guys in hazmat gear carefully lift the first of the decades-old canisters between them. “We have three days to get this ready to go.”

“If it’s still viable, that won’t be a problem,” said Garcia, turning toward the van. “We’ll be ready.”

Washington, D.C.

Sunday morning dawned clear and sunny and wickedly cold, with a blustering wind that scuttled the small puffy white clouds across the deep blue sky over the nation’s capitol. General Gerald T. Boyd went for a three-mile run along the Potomac, then showered and changed into his dress blues in preparation for the reception being held that morning at the White House.

“Any word on the shipment yet?” he asked his aide, Phillips.

“Not yet, sir.”

Boyd reached for his hat and slipped it on. “The instant something comes through, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later, the General was standing beneath the portico overlooking the White House Rose Garden watching the President of the United States try to coax a scowling New York senator in a skullcap into conversation with the Palestinian Archbishop of Jerusalem when the DCI, Gordon Chandler, walked up to him.

“Our commander in chief doesn’t appear to be having much success there,” said Chandler, dropping his voice so that only Boyd would hear.

“I don’t know about that. At least they’re not killing each other.”

“Not yet. Although rumor has it the reason we’re freezing our collective nuts off out here in the Rose Garden is because half of today’s honored guests have sworn never to be in the same room with each other.”

Boyd kept his gaze on the two men beside the President, and smiled. One more week, you bastards, he thought. Some men hated Jews; others hated the Arabs. Boyd had no use for either side. In the last fifty years, the sons of bitches had collectively cost the United States trillions of dollars and thousands of lives. Thanks to Boyd, all that was about to end.

But all he said was, “I don’t care if they can’t stand to be in the same room together. I just wish they’d learn to be in the same country together.” He let his gaze drift over the dozens of extra Secret Service personnel. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen security at the White House this tight.”

“You haven’t. And the closer we get to Halloween, the tighter it’s going to be.” Chandler cleared his throat. “I hear you advised the President against canceling either today’s reception, or the Children of the Book Conference in Miami next weekend.”

“That’s right.”

“Was that wise?”

Boyd huffed a rough laugh. “You know as well as I do how many terrorist threats we get every day. They’re always bullshit. The President leaks a few choice ones to the press, the people get nice and scared, and no one complains the next time Randolph wants to ram a special defense-spending bill through Congress. It’s a win-win situation all around.”

“I have a nasty feeling this one’s different.”

Boyd studied the long New England face of the man beside him. Gordon Chandler might be a ruthless son of a bitch, but like so many of the idiots down at Langley, he was still an effete Ivy League blueblood. “You got any new intelligence to back that up?”

Chandler dropped his voice again. “You’ve heard about U-114?”

Boyd shrugged. “Nazi subs are valuable commodities these days. I’ll be surprised if there are any left in shallow waters by the end of the decade.”

“I hope to God that’s all there is to it.”

Boyd was aware of his aide, Phillips, hovering a few feet away. Boyd gave the DCI a hearty clap on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, Chandler. Come next Sunday, if no crazy A-rabs have treated us to some nasty Halloween surprise, I’ll suspend my lifelong prohibition against imbibing on the Lord’s day, just so you can have the privilege of buying me a drink.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then you can send a case of Jack Daniel’s to my funeral.”

Captain Phillips waited until the DCI had laughed and moved off. Then he took a step forward and said, “There’ve been some developments.”

Boyd drained his glass and set it aside. “It’s about time. Let’s go.”