by Tom Clancy
The Treaty. He went back to it, returning to his notes. How had the government ever allowed itself to be maneuvered into this?
We shall overcome...
That simple, wasn’t it? The panicked telephone calls and cables from Israel’s American friends, the way they were starting to jump ship, as though ...
But how could it have been otherwise? Avi asked himself. In any case, the Vatican Treaty was a done deal. Probably a done deal, he told himself. The eruptions in the Israeli population had begun, and the next few days would be passionate. The reasons were simple enough to understand:
Israel was essentially vacating the West Bank. Army units would remain in place, much as American units were still based in Germany and Japan, but the West Bank was to become a Palestinian state, demilitarized, its borders guaranteed by the U.N., which was probably a nice sheet of framed parchment, Ben Jakob reflected. The real guarantee would come from Israel and America. Saudi Arabia and its sister Gulf states would pay for the economic rehabilitation of the Palestinians. Access to Jerusalem was guaranteed also—that’s where most of the Israeli troops would be, with large and easily secured base camps and the right to patrol at will. Jerusalem itself became a dominion of the Vatican. An elected mayor—he wondered if the Israeli now holding the post would keep his post.... Why not? he asked himself, he was the most even-handed of men—would handle civil administration, but international and religious affairs would be managed under Vatican authority by a troika of three clerics. Local security for Jerusalem was to be handled by a Swiss motorized regiment. Avi might have snorted at that, but the Swiss had been the model for the Israeli Army, and the Swiss were supposed to train with the American regiment. The 10th Cavalry were supposed to be crack regular troops. On paper it was all very neat.
Things on paper usually were.
On Israel’s streets, however, the rabid demonstrations had already begun. Thousands of Israeli citizens were to be displaced. Two police officers and a soldier had already been hurt—at Israeli hands. The Arabs were keeping out of everyone’s way. A separate commission run by the Saudis would try to settle which Arab family owned what piece of ground—a situation that Israel had thoroughly muddled when it had seized land that might or might not have been owned by Arabs, and—but that was not Avi’s problem, and he thanked God for it. His given name was Abraham, not Solomon.
Will it work? he wondered.
It cannot possibly work, Qati told himself. Word that a treaty had been signed had thrown him into a ten-hour bout of nausea, and now that he had the treaty text, he felt himself at death’s door itself.
Peace? And yet Israel will continue to exist? What, then, of his sacrifices, what of the hundreds, thousands, of freedom fighters sacrificed under Israeli guns and bombs? For what had they died? For what had Qati sacrificed his life? He might as well have died, Qati told himself. He’d denied himself everything. He might have lived a normal life, might have had a wife and sons and a house and comfortable work, might have been a doctor or engineer or banker or merchant. He had the intelligence to succeed at anything his mind selected as worthy of himself—but no, he had chosen the most difficult of paths. His goal was to build a new nation, to make a home for his people, to give them the human dignity they deserved. To lead his people. To defeat the invaders.
To be remembered.
That was what he craved. Anyone could recognize injustice, but to remedy it would have allowed him to be remembered as a man who had changed the course of human history, if only in a small way, if only for a small nation....
That wasn’t true, Qati admitted to himself. To accomplish his task meant defying the great nations, the Americans and Europeans who had inflicted their prejudices on his ancient homeland, and men who did that were not remembered as small men. Were he successful, he would be remembered among the great, for great deeds define great men, and the great men were those whom history remembered. But whose deeds would be remembered now? Who had conquered what—or whom?
It was not possible, the Commander told himself. Yet his stomach told him something else as he read over the treaty text with its dry, precise words. The Palestinian people, his noble, courageous people, could they possibly be seduced by this infamy?
Qati stood and walked back to his private bathroom to retch again. That, part of his brain said even as he bent over the bowl, was the answer to his question. After a time he stood and drank a glass of water to remove the vile taste from his mouth, but there was another taste that was not so easily removed.
Across the street, in another safe house run by the organization, Günther Bock was listening to Deutsche Welle’s German overseas radio service. Despite his politics and his location, Bock would never stop thinking of himself as a German. A German revolutionary-socialist to be sure, but a German. It had been another warm day in his true home, the radio reported, with clear skies, a fine day to walk along the Rhein holding Petra’s hand, and ...
The brief news report stopped his heart. “Convicted murderess Petra Hassler-Bock was found hanged in her prison cell this afternoon, the victim of an apparent suicide. The wife of escaped terrorist Günther Bock, Petra Hassler-Bock was convicted of the brutal murder of Wilhelm Manstein after her arrest in Berlin and sentenced to life imprisonment. Petra Hassler-Bock was thirty-eight years of age.
“The resurgence of the Dresden football club has surprised many observers. Led by star forward Willi Scheer ...”
Bock’s eyes went wide in the unlit darkness of his room. Unable even to look at the lit radio dial, his eyes found the open window and stared at the stars of evening.
Petra, dead?
He knew it was true, knew better than to tell himself it was impossible. It was all too possible ... inevitable, in fact. Apparent suicide! Of course, just as all the Baader-Meinhof members had apparently committed suicide, one having reportedly shot himself in the head ... three times. “A real death-grip on the gun” had been the joke in the West German police community of the time.
They’d murdered his wife, Bock knew. His beautiful Petra was dead. His best friend, his truest comrade, his lover. Dead. It should not have hit him as hard as it did, Günther knew. What else might he have expected? They’d had to kill her, of course. She was both a link with the past and a potentially dangerous link with Germany’s socialist future. In killing her they’d further secured the political stability of the new Germany, Das Vierte Reich.
“Petra,” he whispered to himself. She was more than a political figure, more than a revolutionary. He remembered every contour of her face, every curve of her youthful body. He remembered waiting for their children to be born, and the smile with which she’d greeted him after delivering Erika and Ursel. They too were gone, as totally removed from him as though they’d also died.
It was not a time to be alone. Bock dressed and walked across the street. Qati, he was glad to see, was still awake, though he looked ghastly.
“What is wrong, my friend?” the Commander asked.
“Petra is dead.”
Qati showed genuine pain on his face. “What happened?”
“The report is that she was found dead in her cell—hanged.” His Petra, Bock thought in delayed shock, found strangled by her graceful neck. The image was too painful for contemplation. He’d seen that kind of death. He and Petra had executed a class enemy that way and watched his face turn pale, then darken, and ... The image was unbearable. He could not allow himself to see Petra that way.
Qati bowed his head in sorrow. “May Allah have mercy on our beloved comrade.”
Bock managed not to frown. Neither he nor Petra had ever believed in God, but Qati had meant well by his prayer, even though it was nothing more than a waste of breath. At the very least it was an expression of sympathy and goodwill—and friendship. Bock needed that right now, and so he ignored the irrelevancy and took a deep breath.
“It is a bad day for our cause, Ismael.”
“Worse than you think, this cursed treaty—”
“I know,” Bock said. “I know.”
“What do you think?” One thing Qati could depend on was Bock’s honesty. Günther was objective about everything.
The German took a cigarette from the Commander’s desk and lit it from the table lighter. He didn’t sit, but rather paced the room. He had to move about to prove to himself that he was still alive as he commanded his mind to consider the question objectively.
“One must see this as merely one part of a larger plan. When the Russians betrayed world socialism, they set in motion a series of events aimed at solidifying control over most of the world on the part of the capitalist classes. I used to think that the Soviets merely advanced this as a matter of clever strategy, to get economic assistance for themselves—you must understand that the Russians are a backward people, Ismael. They couldn’t even make communism work. Of course, communism was invented by a German,” he added with an ironic grimace (that Marx had been a Jew was something he diplomatically left out). Bock paused for a moment, then went on with a coldly analytical voice. He was grateful for the chance to close the door briefly on his emotions and speak like the revolutionary of old.
“I was wrong. It was not a question of tactics at all. It is a complete betrayal. Progressive elements within the Soviet Union have been outmaneuvered even more thoroughly than in the DDR. Their rapprochement with America is quite genuine. They are trading ideological purity for temporary prosperity, yes, but there is no plan on their part to return to the socialist fold.
“America, for its part, is charging a price for the help they offer. America forced the Soviets to deny support for Iraq, to lessen support for you and your Arab brothers, and finally to accede to their plan to secure Israel once and for all. Clearly the Israel Lobby in America has been planning this trick for some time. What makes it different is Soviet acquiescence. What we now face is not merely America, but conspiracy on a global scale. We have no friends, Ismael. We have only ourselves.”
“Do you say we are defeated?”
“No!” Bock’s eyes blazed for a moment. “If we stop now—they have advantage enough already, my friend. Give them one more and they will use the current state of affairs to hunt all of us down. Your relationship with the Russians is as bad as it has ever been. It will get worse still. Next, the Russians will begin cooperation with the Americans and Zionists.”
“Who would have ever thought that the Americans and Russians would—”
“No one. No one except those who brought it about, the American ruling elite and their bought dogs, Narmonov and his lackeys. They were exceedingly clever, my friend. We ought to have seen it coming, but we did not. You didn’t see it coming here. I never saw it coming in Europe. The failure was ours.”
Qati told himself that the truth was precisely what he needed to hear, but his stomach told him something else entirely.
“What ideas do you have for remedying the situation?” the Commander asked.
“We are faced with an alliance of two very unlikely friends and their hangers-on. One must find a way to destroy the alliance. In historical terms, when an alliance is broken the former allies are even more suspicious of each other than they were before the alliance was formed. How to do that?” Bock shrugged. “I don’t know. That will require time.... The opportunities are there. Should be there,” he corrected himself. “There is much potential for discord. There are many people who feel as we do, many still in Germany who feel as I do.”
“But you say it must begin between America and Russia?” Qati asked, interested as always by his friend’s meanderings.
“That is where it must lead. If there were a way to make it start there, so much the better, but that would seem unlikely.”
“Perhaps not as unlikely as you imagine, Günther,” Qati said to himself, scarcely aware that he’d spoken aloud.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. We will discuss this later. I am tired, my friend.”
“Forgive me for troubling you, Ismael.”
“We will avenge Petra, my friend. They will pay for their crimes!” Qati promised him.
“Thank you.” Bock left. Two minutes later he was back in his room. The radio was still on, now playing traditional music. It came back to him then, the weight of the moment. He did not manage tears, however. All Bock felt was rage. Petra’s death was a wrenching personal tragedy, but his whole world of ideas had been betrayed. The death of his wife was just one more symptom of a deeper and more virulent disease. The whole world would pay for Petra’s murder if he could manage it. All in the name of revolutionary justice, of course.
Sleep came hard for Qati. Surprisingly, part of the problem was guilt. He too had his memories of Petra Hassler and her supple body—she hadn’t been married to Günther then—and the thought of her dead, found at the end of a German rope. ... How had she died? Suicide, the news report had said? Qati believed it. They were brittle, these Europeans. Clever but brittle. They knew the passion of the struggle, but they did not know of endurance. Their advantage lay in their broader view. That came from their more cosmopolitan environment and their generally superior education. Whereas Qati and his people tended to be overly focused on their immediate problem, their European comrades could see the broader issues more clearly. The moment of perceptive clarity came as something of a surprise. Qati and his people had always regarded the Europeans as comrades but not as equals, as dilettantes in the business of revolution. That was a mistake. They had always faced a more rigorous revolutionary task because they lacked the ready-made sea of discontent from which Qati and his colleagues drew their recruits. That they had been less successful in their goals was due to objective circumstances, not a reflection on their intelligence or dedication.
Bock could have made a superb operations officer because he saw things clearly.
And now? Qati asked himself. That was a question, but one that would require time for contemplation. It was not a question for a hasty answer. He’d sleep on that one for several days ... more like a week, the Commander promised himself as he tried to find sleep.
“... I have the great privilege and high honor of introducing the President of the United States.”
The assembled members of Congress stood as one person from their crowded seats in the House chamber. Arrayed in the front row were the members of the cabinet, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Justices of the Supreme Court, who also rose. In the balconies were others, among them the Saudi and Israeli ambassadors sitting side-by-side for the first time in memory. The TV cameras panned the great room in which both history and infamy had been made. The applause echoed from wall to wall until hands grew red from it.
President Fowler rested his notes on the lectern. He turned to shake the hand of the Speaker of the House, the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, and his own Vice President, Roger Durling. In the euphoria of the moment no one would comment that Durling came last. Next he turned to smile and wave at the assembled multitude, and the noise increased yet again. Every gesture in Fowler’s repertoire came into play. The one-hand wave, the two-hand wave, hands at shoulder level, and hands over the head. The response was truly bipartisan, and that was remarkable, Fowler noted. His most vociferous enemies in the House and Senate were assiduous in their enthusiasm, and he knew it to be genuine. There still was true patriotism in the Congress, much to the surprise of everyone. Finally, he waved for silence and the applause grudgingly subsided.
“My fellow Americans, I come to this house to report on recent events in Europe and the Middle East, and to lay before the United States Senate a pair of treaty documents which, I hope, will meet with your speedy and enthusiastic approval.” More applause. “With these treaties the United States, operating in close cooperation with many other nations—some trusted old friends, and some valuable new ones—has helped to bring about peace in a region that has helped to give peace to the world, but which has known all too little peace itself.
“One can search all of human history. One can tra
ce the evolution of the human spirit. All of human progress, all the shining lights that have lit our way up from barbarism, all the great and good men and women who have prayed and dreamed and hoped and worked for this moment—this moment, this opportunity, this culmination, is the last page in the history of human conflict. We have reached not a starting point, but a stopping point. We—” More applause interrupted the President. He was very slightly annoyed, having not planned for this interruption. Fowler smiled broadly, waving for silence.
“We have reached a stopping point. I have the honor to report to you that America has led the way on the road to justice and peace.” Applause. “It is fitting that this should be so...”
“A little thick, isn’t it?” Cathy Ryan asked.
“A little.” Jack grunted in his chair and reached for his wine. “It’s just how things go, babe. There are rules for this sort of thing just as there are for opera. You have to follow the formula. Besides, it is a major—hell, a colossal development. Peace is breaking out again.”
“When are you leaving?” Cathy asked.
“Soon,” Jack replied.
“Of course there is a price we must pay for this, but history demands responsibility from those who forge it,” Fowler said on the TV. “It is our task to guarantee the peace. We must send American men and women to protect the State of Israel. We are sworn to defend that small and courageous country against all enemies.”
“What enemies are they?” Cathy asked.
“Syria isn’t happy with the treaty as yet. Neither is Iran. As far as Lebanon goes, well, there isn’t any Lebanon in any real sense of the word. It’s just a place on the map where people die. Libya and all those terrorist groups. There are still enemies to be concerned about.” Ryan finished off the glass and walked into the kitchen to refill it. It was a shame to waste good wine like this, Jack told himself. The way he was guzzling it, he might as well drink anything....
