them, carving their way through the surf. Shasif walked through the parking lot and over a small rise covered with scrub brush and onto the service road. Fifty feet down the dirt tract a lone figure stood, staring out over the ocean. The man was of Arab descent. Shasif checked his watch. On time. He walked over to the man.
“Excuse me,” Shasif said, “I’m looking for the Reel Inn. I think I may have missed it.”
The man turned. His eyes were shielded by a pair of sunglasses. “You did,” he replied. “By about three hundred feet. If you are looking for chowder, though, I would try Gladstone’s. The prices are higher, but the food’s better.”
“Thank you.”
That done, Shasif didn’t know what else to say. Just hand him the package and leave? The man made the decision for him, holding out his hand. Shasif drew the CD-ROM case from his jacket pocket and gave it to the man, noticing as he did the scars on his contact’s hands.
Fire, Shasif thought.
“You’re staying for a while?” the man asked.
“Yes. Three days.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Doubletree. City of Commerce.”
“Stay by your phone. We may have something for you. You’ve done well. If you’re interested, we may ask you to play a larger role.”
“Of course. Anything I can do.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
And then the man was gone, walking back down the road.
29
JACK RYAN SR.’S private phone rang, and he lifted it, hoping for a distraction from writing. “Jack Ryan.”
“Mr. President?”
“Well, yeah, I used to be,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair. “Who’s this?”
“Sir, this is Marion Diggs. They made me FORCECOM. I’m at Fort McPherson, Georgia—Atlanta, actually.”
“Four stars now?” Ryan remembered that Diggs had made something of a name for himself a few years back in Saudi Arabia. Pretty good battlefield commander as Buford-Six.
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“How’s life in Atlanta?”
“Not too bad. The command has its moments. Sir—” His voice became a little uneasy. “Sir, I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I’d prefer to do it in person, sir, not over the phone.”
“Okay. Can you come here?”
“Yes, sir, I have a twin-engine aircraft at my disposal. I can be to BWI airport in, oh, two and a half hours or so. Then I can drive down to your home.”
“Fair enough. Give me an ETA and I’ll have the Secret Service pick you up. Is that agreeable?”
“Yes, sir, that would be fine. I can leave here in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, that puts you at BWI around, oh, one-thirty or so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make it so, General. You’ll be met at the airport.”
“Thank you, sir. See you in a few hours.”
Ryan hung up and buzzed Andrea Price-O’Day.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Got company coming, General Marion Diggs. He’s FORCECOM from Atlanta. Flying into BWI. Can you arrange to have him picked up and driven here?”
“Certainly, sir. When’s he getting in?”
“About one-thirty, at the general aviation terminal.”
“We’ll have somebody right there.”
The General’s twin-prop U-21 arrived and did the usual rollout, right up to a Ford Crown Victoria. The general was easy to spot in his green shirt with four silver stars on the epaulets. Andrea had driven up herself, and the two didn’t talk much on the ride south to Peregrine Cliff.
For his part, Ryan had set up lunch himself, including a pound and a half of corned beef from Attman’s on Lombard Street in Baltimore. The drive down and the general’s arrival had been handled fairly stealthily. Less than forty minutes after deplaning, Diggs was at the door. Ryan got it himself.
Ryan had met Diggs only once or twice before. A man of equal height, and black as a hunk of anthracite coal, everything about him said “soldier,” including, Jack saw, a little bit of unease.
“Hey, General, welcome,” Ryan said, taking the man’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I’m—well, I’m a little uneasy about this, but I have a problem I think you ought to know about.”
“Okay, come on in and build a sandwich. Coke okay?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Ryan led him into the kitchen. After both men had assembled their sandwiches, Ryan took his seat. Andrea floated around on the periphery. General or not, he wasn’t exactly a regular here, and Andrea’s job was to keep Ryan alive against all hazards. “So, what’s the problem?”
“Sir, President Kealty is going to try and prosecute a U.S. Army sergeant for alleged murder in Afghanistan.”
“Murder?”
“That’s what the justice department is calling it. They sent down an Assistant Attorney General to my command yesterday, and he questioned me personally. “As commander in chief of Forces