I Do Solemnly Swear (21 page)

“How long will it take?”

“How would you prefer the funds?”

Feeling like a two-bit hustler, he laid the duffel bag on her desk. “In cash. American currency.”

She glanced at the duffel bag. “The only way that much money will fit in such a bag is if they are one-thousand-dollar bills. Is that OK?”

Vitelli didn’t really care if they loaded a Brinks truck full of silver dollars. “That’s fine.”

“We should be able to complete this transaction within the hour.”

I’ll be filthy rich in sixty minutes?
“Terrific!”

“May I see two forms of identification, both with a photo ID, please?”

He handed her the Maryland driver’s license and the passport given to him when he left Washington.

“There’s a lounge on the second level, Mr. Crandall. Make yourself comfortable, and I will contact you when I’ve completed the paperwork.”

Vitelli shook her velvety hand, then trotted up the stairs. He’d expected a couple of sofas, a TV, perhaps, and maybe even refreshments. The lounge was like the Taj Mahal family room. Leather sofas and chairs, cherry desks with computers, a sixty-inch television, a full-service bar, and two ravishing hostesses. He ordered a Bloody Mary and munched on appetizers he wished he had the recipe for.

This is a bank?

A wave of guilt prickled his conscience.

It wasn’t as if he’d discharged a 9mm into Rodgers’s chest or plunged a knife in his gut. All he’d done was remove some wine and replace it with...What? Vitelli had liked President Rodgers. Admired him. But five million dollars could tarnish even the purest soul. Unsettling feelings swept through him. His father’s favorite proverb kept replaying in his mind.

What goes around comes around
.

He tried to dismiss it, but it was locked in his conscience.

After Vitelli chugged three cocktails and felt a bit giddy, gorged himself with hors d’oeuvres, and thoroughly enjoyed an explicit fantasy about the hostess with Beyoncé legs, Cybil Curtis strolled into the lounge. Vitelli followed her down the winding staircase to her desk and planted his woozy body in the plush armchair.

She handed him a Montblanc pen and several forms. “Please sign these documents where indicated by the X.”

Vitelli was tempted to read what he was signing, but why should he care what Mr. Crandall signed? As long as he walked out the door with a duffel bag full of money, he’d sign Crandall’s death warrant if necessary. By tomorrow evening, he’d be sipping a glass of Chianti in Pesaro and breaking bread with long-lost relatives.

He scribbled his signature on the forms, gave them to Cybil, and she handed him the blue duffel bag. Unable to resist, he unzipped it and peeked inside. He gaped at the bundles of neatly wrapped bills and forced his lungs to take a breath of air. Grover Cleveland had never looked so handsome!

Cybil Curtis extended her hand. “Best of luck, Mr. Crandall. If you wish, I can arrange a security escort for you.”

Overflowing with alcohol-induced courage, he said, “That’s not necessary. Thank you for your assistance.”

He left the Island Bank and awkwardly jogged north on Main Street toward his hotel. Bent forward from the weight of his windfall, and still quite light-headed, he looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. He entered the lobby, rode the elevator to the fifth floor, and staggered to his room. He’d never been superstitious but felt inordinately uneasy staying in room 513. He closed the door, turned the dead bolt, and secured the chain. Vitelli, face flushed and head spinning, stepped over to the king-size bed, unzipped the duffel bag, and dumped countless bundles of thousand-dollar bills on the forest-green comforter. He stood mesmerized for several moments. That it was all his seemed incomprehensible. He bent over and started stuffing bundles back into the duffel bag.

The floor behind him squeaked.

Before his tipsy body could react, someone firmly gripped his ponytail and yanked him upright. His head snapped backward, and his eyes felt like they’d been jarred loose from their sockets. He reached back and felt a sweaty hand grasping his hair,
but before he could swing around or evoke a rational thought, something cold and sharp dragged across Vitelli’s neck. It felt as if the skin had been burned with a blowtorch. Panic did not strike immediately. It wasn’t until a rush of warm blood flooded his shirt and gurgled in his throat that horror overwhelmed him. Unable to draw a breath, he clutched his neck with both hands and gasped for air. His fingers frantically groped at his throat, and he could feel cleaved flesh, his bare windpipe. Like a distant church bell, his ears began to chime, and the room spun out of control. Vitelli’s eyes rolled back, and he fell to the floor. He lay helplessly convulsing, like a fish gulping its last breath. He opened his eyes for a blurry moment and met his killer’s icy stare. Joseph Angelo Vitelli had indeed signed Richard Crandall’s death warrant.

What goes around comes around
.

It was his last earthly thought.

Jack Miller haphazardly stuffed the rest of the money in the duffel bag and dashed out the door.

Firmly gripping his parachute harness, Lieutenant Kyle Stevers descended toward the ground. Gusts of wind had pushed him laterally, away from the raging fires and billowing clouds of iridescent smoke. But the turbulent air kept changing directions, whirling him around like a fallen leaf. Certain his arrival would be less than welcome, he struggled with the blustery wind and tried to maneuver away from the destruction. As the ground, illuminated by an ice-blue moon, came into clear view, Stevers prepared to land textbook-style—the same way he had dozens of times. But sand was tricky. If he miscalculated, hit the ground too hard, or twisted his ankle, he doubted that the Iranian soldiers would feel much compassion for him.

He bent his knees slightly so that his legs would act like springs and cushion the impact. Then, as his boots touched the ground, he squatted and rolled his body, left shoulder first.

He felt a twinge in his right knee, more like a crunching.

God no!
He’d heard this sound before.

Stevers remembered the knee injury he’d sustained as a high school halfback. He could only hope that this injury was not as serious. The last thing he needed was to be stranded in enemy
territory with a five-day supply of food, three liters of water, and a bum knee. He stood up slowly and carefully flexed his knee. He could feel discomfort but little more than when he’d squatted with too much weight during a workout.

Stevers closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord.” He hadn’t spoken to his Creator in a long time. Soon, he thought, they were going to get reacquainted. His teeth were chattering, but he was unsure if it was due to the chilly desert air or because he was more terrified than he’d ever been in his life.

In the distance, Stevers could see the still-burning air force base. He estimated that he was five or six miles away and was thankful he hadn’t touched down closer. Strolling across the barren flatlands wearing an American pilot’s uniform would make him easy prey for Iranian troops. He unharnessed his parachute, removed the shovel from his backpack, and dug a hole in the sandy earth. Not wanting to assist the Iranian’s hunt for him, Stevers buried the parachute and covered the evidence of his landing the best he could. His right knee reminded him that he needed to treat it with utmost care.

He’d lost visual contact with Wes Travis only moments after they’d ejected. He hoped, with fading optimism, that his best friend had landed safely and not too far away. The full moon was both friend and foe. Its illumination would guide him, help with his search for Wes. But it also made it easier for an Iranian search squad to flush him out.

He removed the Beretta M9 from its holster and ejected the clip. Armed with a full clip and only eighteen additional rounds, Stevers was not in a position to ward off a formidable attack. But at least he wasn’t helpless.

Using cupped hands as visors just above his eyebrows, he shielded his eyes from the moon and forced his pupils to dilate
to their maximum. He slowly rotated, studying the level terrain, searching for anything moving. Stevers had until sunrise to find Wes and outline a plan for survival. Once the sun lit the landscape, Iranian troops would hunt for him with relentless determination. Stevers removed the compass and map from the knapsack and began his quest.

Kate leaned forward, rested her palms on the windowsill, and stared out the triple windows, past the dying rose garden. She could see a battalion of protestors stomping down Pennsylvania Avenue. From where she stood, she couldn’t hear the hooting and hollering or the poetic chants of disdain. Nor was she able to read their hand-painted signs. But the
Post
had been kind enough to display the maligning words on the front page.
MILES THE MURDERER. REMEMBER IRAQ. IRANIANS ARE PEOPLE TOO
. She dug her fingernails into her palms.

Kate was particularly annoyed when a group of pro-choicers—protesting in favor of third-trimester abortions—joined forces with the antiwar demonstrators. She couldn’t fathom what common bond these two groups shared. Except that perhaps the only prerequisite required to protest was an antiestablishment spirit. One group believed that it was acceptable to abort six-month-old fetuses. The other was infuriated because people had been killed in Iran. That two groups with such dramatically contrasting ideals could even occupy the same
hemisphere
, let alone protest side by side, seemed like the ultimate hypocrisy.

Kate expected Richard Alderson’s call at any minute and gave Emily explicit instructions to interrupt her no matter what.

McDermott, General Cumberland, and Toni Mitchell came into the Oval Office. As they discussed a dozen different scenarios of how Iran might react and what their response would be,
they listened to CNN. It was like a game of chess, but the wooden pieces had been replaced with flesh-and-blood human beings.

Cumberland said, “I learned during the long battle in Iraq that CNN’s sources for breakthrough news are often more reliable than our own. Don’t be surprised if they make an announcement before we hear from Mr. Alderson.”

“It’s damn frightening,” McDermott said, “that network news could be more efficient than the CIA.”

Mitchell said, “CNN reporters were knee-deep in enemy territory during the Iraqi conflict and in Afghanistan. I even remember our first air strike against Baghdad in April of ‘91 during Desert Storm. It seemed unimaginable to be watching a war on cable TV while sitting in my living room munching popcorn.”

In the background, Kate heard, “This is a special report from CNN Senior Correspondent Max Farman.”

McDermott picked up the remote and increased the volume.

Farman, standing in front of the American Embassy in Amman, adjusted his tie and looked into the camera. “This is Max Farman, reporting live from Amman, Jordan. King Abdullah has just made a startling announcement denouncing the actions of President Ahmadinejad, calling his attack on Tel Aviv ‘a blatant attempt to implicate Jordan and to further sabotage peace efforts between the United States, Israel, and other Muslim nations.’”

General Cumberland groaned. “Abdullah apparently has inherited his father’s diplomatic charisma. I’m surprised he’s not asking for American citizenship.”

Farman continued. “The visibly emotional king, his eyes often filled with tears, further said he ‘cannot endorse military action against a fellow Islamic country, but empathizes with America’s delicate position and understands their aggressive posture.’ He
has ordered Iranian troops out of Jordan at once and has issued a letter of apology and sympathy to Prime Minister Netanyahu and all Israeli citizens. CNN will keep you updated as reaction to King Abdullah’s bold statement unfolds. This is Max Farman reporting live from Amman, Jordan.”

McDermott turned down the volume.

“What do you think?” Kate asked.

Cumberland said, “He’s trying to save face. Ahmadinejad must have seduced him in some way. Now that their little affair is over, King Abdullah’s pulling up his skivvies and heading for the hills. He crawled in bed with Ahmadinejad; now he’s trying to cover his ass by crying rape.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Mitchell said. “Ahmadinejad may have duped him to get his troops into Jordan. But I don’t believe that King Abdullah conspired to bomb Israel.”

“Frankly,” McDermott said, “at this juncture, King Abdullah’s innocence or guilt is inconsequential. Iran’s reaction is the only issue.” The COS lowered his voice. “Ahmadinejad’s silence concerns me. Either the son of a bitch is convinced that we mean business or he’s plotting retaliation.”

Kate considered their opinions. McDermott was correct. Only Ahmadinejad’s next move mattered. “We have no choice but to sit tight.” She swiveled in her chair and glimpsed out the window at the growing number of protesters. Their timing could not be worse.

***

For almost a week, Guenther Krause had been navigating the floors of his tiny hotel room, waiting for the telephone call that would change his life. He bitterly understood how cabin fever could drive a man insane. He was certain that one more Whopper or order of fries or bucket of greasy KFC would cause his digestive
system to completely shut down. On top of everything else, he’d been lighting one cigarette off another.