Ramadan watched a brief clip of the ambassador’s Winfield House news conference, then visited the home pages of the Telegraph, Times, and Guardian to read what they had to say. Finally, with ten minutes to spare on his thirty-minute chit, he typed in the address of a Karachi-based site that dealt with Islamic issues. The site was administered by an operative of the Sword of Allah, though its content was so benign it never attracted more than a passing glance from the security services of America and Europe. Ramadan entered a chat room as DESMOND826. KINKYKEMEL324 was waiting for him. Ramadan typed: “I think the Sword of Allah should take the deal. But they should definitely ask for more money. After all, the ambassador is a billionaire.”

KINKYKEMEL324: How much more?

DESMOND826: Thirty million feels right.

KINKYKEMEL324: I think the Zionist oppressor should pay, too.

DESMOND826: The ultimate price, just as we discussed during our last conversation.

KINKYKEMEL324: Then it will be done, in the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful.

DESMOND826: Master of the day of judgment.

KINKYKEMEL324: Show us the straight path.

DESMOND826: Peace be upon you, KK.

KINKYKEMEL324: Ciao, Dez.

Ramadan logged out and drank his café crème. “Ruby, My Dear,” by Coltrane and Monk, was now playing on the stereo. Too bad all Americans weren’t so sublime, he thought. The world would be a much better place.

Chapter 46

46

GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON: 2:10 P.M., FRIDAY

The first calls arrived at the embassy switchboard before Ambassador Halton disappeared through the doorway of Winfield House. FBI hostage negotiator John O’Donnell, who had been given just five minutes’ warning of the pending statement, had hastily broken the staff of the ops center into two teams: one to dispense with obvious charlatans and criminal conmen, another to conduct additional screening of any call that sounded remotely legitimate. It was O’Donnell himself who assigned the calls to the appropriate teams. He did so after a brief conversation, usually thirty seconds in length or less. His instincts told him that none of the callers he had spoken to thus far were the real kidnappers, even the callers he had passed along to the second team for additional vetting. He did not share this belief with any of the exhausted men and women gathered around him in the embassy basement.

Two hours after Robert Halton’s appearance before the cameras, O’Donnell picked up a separate line and dialed the switchboard. “How many do you have on hold?”

“Thirty-eight,” the operator said. “Wait…make that forty-two…forty-four…forty-seven. You see my point.”

“Keep them coming.”