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You've blindly walked into the middle of a hijacking.
A growing incomprehension and the tentative beginnings of a dazed fear mushroomed inside Senator Pitt. He moved forward as if hypnotized, past Captain Collins and his officers, and stared at the pale, familiar faces of Presidents Hasan and De Lorenzo. He stopped short and looked down into the stricken eyes of Hala Kamil.
At that moment he realized people were going to die.
He silently put his arm around Hala's shoulder and was swept with sudden anger. "In God's name, do you know what you're doing?"
"I know very well what I'm doing," said Ammar. "Auah has worked with me every step of the way. In your poker idiom, he has sweetened the pot by raising the stakes with the unexpected arrivals of the SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations, and now a distinguished Senator from the United States."
"You've made a grave mistake," the Senator snarled defiantly. "You'll never live to get away with this and brag about it.
" , but I can and I will."
:'Impossible!"
'Not impossible at all," said Ammar with an ominous finality in his voice. "As you shall soon see."
Nichols had donned his overcoat and was stuffing papers inside his attached case before departing for home when his secretary leaned through his open door.
"A gentleman from Langley is here with a drop."
"Have him come in."
A CIA agent whom Nichols recognized entered carrying an old-fashioned leather accountant's-style briefcase.
"You caught me just in time, Keith," said Nichols. "I was on my way home."
Keith Farquar had a bushy mustache, thick brown hair, and wore horned-rimmed glasses. A large, no-nonsense type of man with contemplative eyes, he was, Nichols thought, the kind of agent who made up the solid bulwark of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Without an invitation Farquar sat down in a chair, placed the case on his lap and set the correct numbers on a combination lock that released the catch and switched off the circuit of a small incendiary explosive inside. He lifted out a thin file and placed it on the desk in front of Nichols.
"Mr. Brogan instructed me to tell you that hard data on Akhmad Yazid is extremely sparse. Biographical records regarding birth, parents and ancestors, schooling, marriage, children, or any mention in legal proceedings either criminal or civil, are virtually nonexistent. Most of what our Middle East section was able to put together comes from descriptions of people who have known him. Unfortunately, most of them, for one reason or another, became ene es of Yazid. So their accounts are somewhat biased."
"Did your psychological section make up a profile?" asked Nichols.
"They put together a rough projection. Yazid is as hard to penetrate as a desert sandstorm. A shroud of security has covered him in mystery.
Journalists' interviews with people around him are met with ambiguity and vague shrugs."
"Which adds to the mirage," commented Nichols.
Farquar smiled. "Mr. Brogan's exact description of Yazid. 'An elusive mirage."
"
"'Thank you for bringing the file by," said Nichols. "And thank everyone involved with assembling the information for me."
"Anything for a client." Farquar snapped the catches closed on his briefcase and ambled toward the door. "Have a nice evening."
"You too."
Nichols buzzed for his secretary. She appeared wearing a coat and holding a purse. "Anything I can do before I leave?"
she asked apprehensively, afraid she would be asked to work overtime for the third night in a row.
"Could you please call my wife on your way out?" asked Nichols. "And tell her not to worry. I'll make the dinner party, but will be delayed for about half an hour."
His secretary sighed thankfully. "Yes, sir, I'll tell her. Good night.
