“Reza Aghani,” said the admiral, “you are being detained by the United States government as an illegal combatant, more specifically for heading up a terrorist team that tried to blow up a passenger terminal in Logan International Airport. You of course were transporting the bomb.

“You are no longer in the custody of civilians. You are under tight arrest by the United States military. And we have fewer restrictions. The good news for you is that we may stop short of beheading you.

“However, you should not rule out other methods of persuasion. I will be back here twenty-four hours from now, and if you have not told us truthfully what we want to know, I will have you immediately transferred to a military prison and interrogation center. And there you will be subject to more stringent questioning and may be executed.”

Admiral Morgan did not wait for a reply. Nor even to check whether the man understood what had been said. The admiral merely turned sharply on his heel and jerked his head at Jimmy Ramshawe, signaling that he too should depart.

Once outside the room, Admiral Morgan headed immediately to the exquisitely furnished presidential drawing room, slung his overcoat over the back of an eighteenth-century Chippendale chair, and sat down, somewhat luxuriously, in a softly upholstered dark green chaise longue probably worth a hundred thousand dollars.

The cost of refurbishing this room had been some kind of White House joke, ever since thieves had somehow gained entry and stolen around $600,000 worth of antiques, Sheraton furniture, crystal chandeliers, paintings, and god knows what else. It had happened on the watch of Jimmy Carter, the no-frills, no-alcohol, cost-cutting president, and, understandably, it embarrassed the hell out of him.

It did not, however, embarrass the hell out of Admiral Morgan, who slipped into the high life as if to the manor born. “Coffee, James,” he commanded. “And see if they can rustle up a few cookies, while we attempt to frighten the truth out of that goddamned little fuckhead with his eyes closed next door.”

“Right away, sir,” snapped Jimmy, adopting the subservient tone of a lieutenant commander to an admiral. “Be right back.”

Jimmy left. The admiral mused. A log fire crackled in the grate. Absently, he reached for the television remote and flicked on Fox News. The entire channel was devoted to the events at Logan that morning, the reporters complaining of a news blackout but revealing that the president would address the nation at 7 P.M.

In the principal part of the newscast, no mention was made of the downed airliner currently resting on the bed of the Potomac estuary. At least not until a small segment on the rest of the day’s news was précised by the female anchor. It was based on a short press release issued by the National Air Traffic Control Center, Herndon. This had stated merely that an unknown, lightly loaded Canadian-based Boeing 737, carrying no U.S. citizens, had vanished from their screens, somewhere out over the Atlantic off the Virginia coast.

Admiral Morgan, who had written the release himself and had the president’s press office transmit it to Herndon, was somewhat smugly pleased. As he had intended, there was no suggestion of what fate had befallen it, no accurate location.

The spectacular-looking young redhead who delivered the broadcast may not have been employed by the television station solely for her vast experience of journalism and international events. But she was very beautiful and confirmed that no details had yet been released.

She then interviewed, on a link, a member of the International Air Transport Association and wondered what the mood was like in their office with a large passenger jet missing. “Is there a sense of failure?” she suggested.

The exec from IATA blinked and said, “I’m sorry. Would you rephrase that?”

“No, well, I mean, it’s kind of your responsibility, right?” she added. “I guess you guys somehow let us down?”

“Ma’am, we do not actually fly the aircraft.”

“No. But they’re your pilot members, right?”

“Fuck me,” said Arnold and hit the OFF button, astounded as ever by the blissful manner in which modern “journalists” are prepared to get something completely wrong, broadcast it to millions, and not appear to care one way or another.

Jimmy returned, followed by a waiter with cookies and coffee. The waiter poured from a priceless-looking engraved Georgian silver coffeepot, which had presumably been standard issue during the elegant age of the Georgian peanut farmer.

“You know, Arnie, I’ve been thinking,” said Jimmy. “This really would have been another 9/11, and that means there must be a very active al Qaeda cell working right here on the East Coast. Because 9/11 was not just one jet aircraft, and they did not intend just one hit on one target: there were four attacks aimed at four different targets, all on one day.”

“And I guess that’s got you thinking there could be another this evening?”

“Darned right it has,” replied Jimmy. “Do you think they could break that little sonofabitch next door in the next hour?”

“Probably not, kid. Our best chance might be in Houston, if they can locate the missing Ramon Salman. But even that’s a long shot.”

At that moment the door opened and the tall, angular figure of the president’s national security adviser, Alan Brett, came into the room. “You ready for the CIA guys, Arnie? I have them outside right now.”

“Gimme five, would you?” replied the admiral. “Have a cup of coffee and tell me your views. We haven’t had much time for a chat.”

“Tell you the truth,” replied the professor, “I’m real nervous they might try to hit us again. This guy next door is an obvious hard man, not scared of us, accustomed to being put under pressure, and full of hatred and defiance. You can tell a lot about a character who simply does not react.”

“He’s pretty small to be an obvious hard man,” muttered Jimmy Ramshawe in his deep Australian drawl. “Doesn’t look to me like he could hold down a baby kangaroo.”

“Guess you could say the same about the diminutive Julius Caesar,” replied Alan Brett with a grin. “And he managed to conquer most of the known world.”

“Well, this bastard had a serious shot at conquering the Boston airport,” interjected Arnold Morgan. “And he must be interrogated as if he’s some kind of a monster.”

“I think the CIA guys know that,” said Alan Brett. “How long have they got?”

“I’m going to tell the president to ship this guy out directly to Guantánamo Bay at noon tomorrow,” said Arnold.

“Then the interrogators right here have around eighteen hours.”

“No more than that,” said the admiral. “But they really should operate as if they’ve got about two hours. Any news on the 737?”

“Just before I left, the president was talking to the CNO. Sounded like the Navy was about to take over the salvage and investigation.”

“And Houston? No sign of Ramon Salman?”

“Not a thing.”

“Okay, Alan. I don’t need to brief the CIA guys. Just tell ’em to get going.”

“Nice speech, Paul,” said Admiral Morgan. “Let’s keep the focus on the heroism of the Boston cops, because that’ll shut the media up for a few days-keep ’em prancing around trying to speak to their goddamned relatives and schoolmasters, while we quietly turn the screws on the terrorists.”

“You mean ‘terrorist,’ old buddy. Right now we’ve only got one.”

Arnold Morgan surveyed the interior of the Oval Office and then muttered, “With all the great resources of the American empire at our disposal, we have to be able to find the missing Ramon Salman, and that’s what I’m counting on.”

The president nodded and then added, “By the way, Arnie, you probably could get a job as a press officer if you really tried. You sure as hell threw ’em off the scent of the missing airliner.”