Fifteen minutes later the big runway at the Canadian base could be seen, like a string of diamonds against black velvet, and Vitaly brought the Antonov down onto it, occasionally glancing away from the landing lights to fire up another cigarette or to reach for his QuikTrip plastic insulated go-cup of Crimean brandy. The Antonov landed much more gently than it had taken off. But when Vitaly put the brakes on, the sloshing in the fuel containers was much worse and jerked the plane violently backward and forward a dozen times before it gradually died down; tremendous wrenching and popping noises could be heard even through the two bulkheads between the cockpit and the hold.
They were directed onto an apron. Powerful lights were pointed at them, and they were told to remain in the plane. They did, for about three minutes; then one of the crew members came forward and announced that some of the plumbing in the hold had ruptured, and that the plane was rapidly filling up with jet fuel. So they took the party out onto the runway.
Clyde checked his watch. Several hours were left before Fazoul’s time bomb exploded. When all of the Russians, with their lighted cigarettes, had cleared away from the plane, he climbed up into the twisted and partially collapsed jungle gym, avoiding the rivers of jet fuel that were coursing down all around, and had a look at the bomb. He saw the wires that Fazoul had told him to cut. He put the jaws of the wire cutter around them, then stopped himself. Sometimes wires sparked when they were cut, and a spark would be a bad thing in these circumstances.
So he pulled the wad of plastique out of the cranny where Fazoul had wedged it, and stripped off the electrician’s tape holding the timer in place, then simply took the entire bomb with him, being careful not to bump the red switch. He climbed down carefully through the jungle gym, not wanting to lose his footing on the fuel-slickened bars, and walked out of the plane.
It was unbelievably cold out there. The Russians were nowhere to be seen; Canadians had apparently come around and picked them up, and Clyde was strangely alone.
A small jet plane landed on the adjacent runway, bearing the insignia of the United States government. Looking up into the clear night sky, Clyde could see the landing lights of more planes, coming down behind it in the same pattern.
The Gulfstream taxied onto the apron, keeping a respectful distance from the Antonov. Clyde ran toward it; it must be warm in there. By the time he reached it, its door had been opened and its stairway deployed, and a familiar figure was standing on the ground, trying to get a cigarette lit, cursing the cold.
“Deputy,” Hennessey said, “you’re out of your jurisdiction. But I promise not to tell on you.”
“Got any bomb experts?” Clyde said, holding out the plastique.
Hennessey looked at it and raised his eyebrows. “We got every kind of expert known to the United States and Canadian governments,” he said, pointing to the train of jets stacked up into the stars. An Air Force C-130 touched down, and they watched it roar to a near halt and taxi onto the apron. “See, Clyde, it is amazing what feats of organization our government can accomplish—if you don’t mind waiting until it’s too late.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
James Gabor Millikan was not entirely unhappy on the morning of Boxing Day, 1990. He still had his job at the National Security Council. Moreover, he had managed to position himself in such a way that the pivotal role he had played in turning Iraq into a major military power would end up as a scholarly footnote, while his strenuous exertions on behalf of peace and freedom and democracy would appear in headlines and newscasts the world over.
Despite all that, it had been a terrible year. While he had been pursuing the pure science of diplomacy, he had been deceived by his diplomatic colleague of decades, Tariq Aziz, one of the few people with the wit to appreciate what he was doing. As a result, he had had to scramble to maintain his position. He had been forced to do some undignified and injudicious things. He still didn’t know exactly what costs and damages he had racked up in the process; the accounting would take a decade to sort out. He had inflicted some grievous blows on his rival, Hennessey, but Hennessey had shown more than his usual resourcefulness and had managed to emerge from the thing as a hero. Millikan could only thank God that Hennessey’s exploits would remain unknown outside a small circle of high government and military officials.
Millikan stood outside a discreet side entrance to the Hotel Crillon with his assistant, Richard Dellinger, waiting for the Iraqi limousine to pull up for a final meeting with Aziz—one last attempt to avoid war.
Iraq was going to be ground to pieces by the twenty-three-nation coalition that Bush and Baker had assembled. Millikan and Aziz, great respecters of each other’s skills, were no longer allies working to bridge the gulf between the massive and unfocused power of the United States and the quixotic vision of Saddam Hussein. Events had passed them by, and they now had to wait for events to conclude so that they could come back on the stage and try to keep the world together.