96 - Washington, D.C.
“Mr. President, I have some good news, sir,” Attorney General Harrison said. “I would like to come right over and show you something.”
“Thirty minutes,” President Quaid said. “Be here in thirty minutes. The Saudi ambassador can cool his heels a bit. I’m getting awfully tired of his pep talks to stand firm about not intervening in the Middle East.
“Don’t give in to the terrorists, he tells me. Don’t be intimidated by threats, he says. As if his country’s threat to pull the plug on oil isn’t intimidation. I don’t dare tell him that it isn’t his oil that’s keeping our troops home. I just don’t know that I could persuade our boys and girls to board the planes to fly over there and get blown to pieces by one army or the other. American parents are not in the mood to let their children die defending Jews.
“Yes, sir,” Harrison did not know how to respond. The President sounded as if he was badly in need of good news. “I’m on my way as we speak.”
The Attorney General arrived in twenty-five minutes. There were times and people to whom the traffic laws did not apply. He entered the Oval Office and placed a large manila folder on the President’s desk.
“Cut the guessing games,” President Quaid said wearily. “If you have something to show me, then show me, dammit.”
“Yes, sir,” Harrison muttered. He reached for the envelope and removed a set of eight-by-ten color photographs. The first photograph showed an attractive young woman wearing short white pants and boat shoes. Her thick Patagonia fleece sweater seemed out of place. She stood on a wooden dock. Dozens of sailboats were behind her, some sailing, most tied to moorings or at anchor.
“OK, she’s a babe,” President Quaid said dryly. “Are you engaged? Congratulations. Now get back to work.”
Harrison was flustered.
“Uh, no, sir, no, I don’t know the woman.” He glanced at the photo. “Wouldn’t mind meeting her. But that’s not the point. Sir, this photo was taken six weeks ago. In Maine. Brooklin, Maine. At some harbor where some magazine is published. The FBI flooded the area with agents after coming up with some suspicious activity, Internet searches, at the local library.
“They can be awfully thorough, the FBI, sir. Turns out that boat magazine runs some sort of boat school. People come for a week and do boat stuff. All very obscure. Not the way I’d want to spend my summer vacation, sir.”
All it took was a raised eyebrow from the President for Harrison to focus.
“Seems the agents got a list of everybody who attended the school that summer, then searched for personal web sites for each of them, then took a look at these web sites. Lots of them had little postings about How I Spent My Summer Vacation, complete with photographs.
“This photograph was posted on one of those sites, sir.”
The President’s patience was short. “Get to the point or send in somebody who can.”
“Yes, sir,” Harrison said. He placed the photo on the desk, facing toward the President. He removed a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and used it as a pointer. He pointed at a sailboat tied to a mooring float. It was to the right of the smiling woman’s shining blonde hair.
“See that sailboat, sir? The FBI identified it. It’s a kind of boat called ...” He consulted a yellow legal pad from the manila envelope. “... called a Hinckley Bermuda 40 yawl. Expensive boat. Supposed to be pretty nice, if you’re into boats.”
Harrison removed another photo and placed it on the desk next to the picture of the woman. This was a magnification of the same boat. The boat was pointing away from the photographer. Harrison pointed with his pen at the back end of the boat.
“If you look closely at this photo, sir, you can read the boat’s name. It’s painted on the back of the boat.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what it says.” President Quaid glanced at the mantle clock. He did not want the Saudi ambassador to wait too long.
“The boat is named SWIFT, sir. Is that at all familiar, sir?” he asked.
President Quaid was drumming his fingers on his desk top. He did not answer what he hoped was a rhetorical question.
“Sir, the boat the Coast Guard recovered about thirty miles from where this photo was taken, the boat with the hidden storage compartment, the compartment that screamed of radiation from U-235. That boat was a Hinckley Bermuda 40. It was named SWIFT. This is a photo of the same boat, sir.”
“So? We’ve assumed that before the boat sank, it was able to float, haven’t we?” President Quaid was ready to order the Attorney General to leave.
“Yes, sir, I’ll get to the real news,” Harrison was disappointed that his attempt at building slowly to a dramatic finale was failing. He placed another photo on the desk, next to the other two. This further enlargement showed the same boat, off to the left. To the right of the boat was a small rubber dinghy. Two people were in the dinghy. A man was rowing. A woman sat facing him at the rear of the small boat. Both people had their faces toward shore, almost as if they were looking at the distant photographer.
Harrison placed another photo to the side of the others stretching across the President’s desk. This was an enlargement of the dinghy. The faces, although somewhat distorted, were recognizable. Harrison pointed his pen at the man rowing the boat.
“That is Lt. Chaim Levi, Israeli Navy lieutenant, sir. The guy we shot in New Hampshire.” He placed one final photo on the desk. President Quaid had to roll his chair to that side to be able to look closely at this photo. It was an enlargement of the woman at the back of the dinghy, facing Levi.
“The FBI identified her, sir. Debra Reuben. The name ring any bells, sir? No? Not for me, either. She was a local newscaster, television, in New York City.”
The President was clearly interested now.
“Was, you say?” he asked.
“Before she moved, sir,” Harrison said. “She left New York and moved to Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv, Israel. She did quite well there, too. Became a well known television personality for a while, sir.”
“And then?” The President was more than willing to play Harrison’s game now. The Saudi ambassador could wait.
“And then she joined the government. She was a member of the Prime Minister’s Cabinet of the last government to govern the State of Israel. As far as we can tell sir, if Debra Reuben survived, as she apparently did, she is the most senior living member of the Israeli government.
“And she was in Maine two months after Israel ceased to exist, sir. On the sailboat that carried the bomb. And the strangest thing about that, Mr. President, is that she seems to be keeping her presence a secret. Her mother thinks she’s traveling around Europe with a new boyfriend. We expect that she somehow knew to rendezvous with the boat once it arrived here, Sir. It was all planned.
“I suggest, Sir, that we find Debra Reuben and we’ll find that bomb.”
He beamed at the President.
“So you damn well better find her, Harrison, that’s all I have to say,” the President stood to usher Harrison from the room. At least this was some progress, he thought, but he had an angry Saudi prince to deal with in the mean time.