by Tom Clancy
No, the decision had already been irreversibly made. These senior commanders hadn’t grasped that. They hadn’t thought it all the way through.
Well, had they been truly competent officers, they would have been killed ages ago, by their beloved leader.
“Yes,” the most senior of them said.
“Thank you.” Badrayn lifted the phone and punched the buttons again.
THE DIMENSIONS OF the constitutional crisis in which America has found itself were not apparent until yesterday. Although the issue may seem to be technical, the substance of it is not.
John Patrick Ryan is a man of ability, but whether or not he has the necessary talent to perform his presidential duties has yet to be established. The initial indications are less than promising. Government service is not a job for amateurs. Our country has often enough turned to such people, but always in the past they have been in the minority, able to grow into their duties in an orderly way.
There is nothing orderly about the crisis, facing the country. To this point Mr. Ryan has done a proper and careful job of stabilizing the government. His interim appointment to head the FBI, for example, Daniel Murray, is an acceptable choice. Similarly, George Winston is probably a fair interim choice for the Department of the Treasury, though he is politically unschooled. Scott Adler, a highly talented, lifelong foreign service officer, may be the best member of the current cabinet ... Ryan skipped the next two paragraphs.
Vice President Edward Kealty, whatever his personal failings, knows government, and his middle-of-the-road position on most national issues offers a steady course until elections can select a new administration. But are his claims true?
“Do you care?” Ryan asked the lead editorial for the next day’s Times.
“They know him. They don’t know you,” Arnie answered. Then the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Foley for you, Mr. President. He says it’s important.”
“Okay ... Ed? Putting you on speaker.” Jack pushed the proper button and replaced the receiver. “Arnie’s listening in.”
“It’s definite. Iran’s making a move, big and fast. I have a TV feed for you if you have the time.”
“Roll it.” Jack knew how to do that. In this office and others were televisions fed off secure fiber-optic cables to the Pentagon and elsewhere. He pulled the controller from a drawer and turned the set on. The “show” lasted only fifteen seconds, was rerun again, then freeze-framed.
“Who are they?” Jack asked.
Foley read off the names. Ryan had heard two of them before. “Mid- and top-level advisers to Daryaei. They’re in Baghdad, and somebody decided to get the word out. Okay, we know senior generals are flying out. Now we have five mullahs talking about rebuilding an important mosque on national TV. Tomorrow they’ll be talking louder,” the DCI-designate promised.
“Anything from people on the ground?”
“Negative,” Ed admitted. “I was talking to station chief Riyadh about sneaking up there for a sit-down, but by the time he gets there, there won’t be anyone to sit down with.”
“THAT’S A LITTLE big,” an officer said aboard the duty AWACS. He read off the alpha-numeric display. “Colonel,” the lieutenant called over the command line, “I have what appears to be a 737 charter inbound Mehrabad to Baghdad, course two-two-zero, speed four-five-zero knots, twenty thousand feet. PALM BOWL reports encrypted voice traffic to Baghdad from that track.”
Farther aft, the senior officer commanding the aircraft checked his display. The elltee in front was right. The colonel lit up his radio to report to KKMC.
THE REST OF them arrived together. They should have waited longer, Badrayn thought. Better to show up with the aircraft already here, the quicker to—but, no.
It was amusing to see them this way, these powerful men. A week earlier they’d strutted everywhere, sure of their place and their power, their khaki shirts decorated with various ribbons denoting some heroic service or other. That was unfair. Some had led men into battle, once or twice. Maybe one or two of them had actually killed an enemy. Iranian enemies. The same people to whom they would now entrust their safety, because they feared their own countrymen more. So now they stood about in little worried knots, unable to trust even their own bodyguards. Especially them. They had guns and were close, and they would not have been in this fix had bodyguards been trustworthy.
Despite the danger to his own life, Badrayn could not help but be amused by it. He’d spent his entire adult life dedicated to bringing about a moment such as this. How long had he dreamed of seeing senior Israeli officials standing about an airport like this—leaving their own people to an uncertain fate, defeated by his ... that irony was not amusing, was it? Over thirty years, and all he’d accomplished was the destruction of an Arab country? Israel still stood. America still protected her, and all he was doing was adjusting the chairs of power around the Persian Gulf.
He was running away no less than they were, Badrayn admitted. Having failed in the mission of his life, he had done this one mercenary job, and then what? At least these generals had money and comfort before them. He had nothing ahead, and only failure behind. With that thought, Ali Badrayn swore, and sat back in his seat, just in time to see a dark shape race across the near runway in its rollout. A bodyguard at the door gestured at the people in the room. Two minutes later, the 737 came back into view. Additional fuel was not needed. The truck-borne stairway headed off, stopping only when the aircraft did. The stairs were in place before the door opened, and the generals, and their families, and one bodyguard each, and for most of them a mistress, hurried out the door into the cold drizzle that had just begun. Badrayn walked out last. Even then he had to wait. The Iraqis had all arrived at the bottom of the stairs in a tight little knot of jostling humanity, forgetting their importance and their dignity as they elbowed their way onto the steps. At the top was a uniformed crew member, smiling a mechanical greeting to people he had every reason to hate. Ali waited until the stairs were clear before heading up, arriving at the small platform and turning to look back. There hadn’t really been all that much reason to rush. There were as yet no green trucks approaching with their confused soldiers. Another hour, it turned out, would have been fine. In due course they’d come here and find nothing but an empty lounge. He shook his head and entered the aircraft. The crewman closed the door behind him.
Forward, the flight crew radioed the tower for clearance to taxi, and that came automatically. The tower controllers had made their calls and passed along their information, but without instructions, they just did their jobs. As they watched, the aircraft made its way to the end of the runway, increased power, and lifted off into the darkness about to descend on their country.
19
RECIPES
IT’S BEEN A WHILE, MR. Clark.”
“Yes, Mr. Holtzman, it has,” John agreed. They were in the same booth as before, all the way in the back, close to the jukebox. Esteban’s was still a nice family place off Wisconsin Avenue, and still well patronized by nearby Georgetown University. But Clark remembered that he’d never told the reporter what his name was.
“Where’s your friend?”
“Busy tonight,” Clark replied. Actually Ding had left work early and driven down to Yorktown, and was taking Patsy out to dinner, but the reporter didn’t need to know that. It was clear from his face that he already knew too much. “So, what can I do for you?” the field officer asked.
“We had a little deal, you’ll recall.”
Clark nodded. “I haven’t forgotten. That was for five years. Time isn’t up yet.” The reply wasn’t much of a surprise.
“Times change.” Holtzman lifted the menu and scanned it. He liked Mexican food, though of late the food didn’t seem to like him very much.
“A deal’s a deal.” Clark didn’t look at his menu. He stared straight across the table. His stare was something people often had trouble dealing with.
“The word’s out. Katryn is
engaged to be married to some fox-chaser out in Winchester.”
“I didn’t know,” Clark admitted. Nor did he especially care.
“Didn’t think you would. You’re not an SPO anymore. Like it back in the field?”
“If you want me to talk about that, you know I can’t—”
“More’s the pity. I’ve been checking up on you for a couple of years now,” the reporter told his guest. “You have one hell of a service reputation, and the word is that your partner is a comer. You were the guy in Japan,” Holtzman said with a smile. “You rescued Koga.”
A scornful look concealed John’s real feelings of alarm. “What the hell would give you that idea?”
“I talked with Koga when he was over. Two-man rescue team, he said. Big guy, little guy. Koga described your eyes—blue, hard, intense, he said, but he also said that you were a reasonable man in your speech. How smart do I have to be to figure that one out?” Holtzman smiled. “Last time we talked, you said I would have made a good spook.” The waiter showed up with two beers. “Ever have this before? Pride of Maryland, a new local micro on the Eastern Shore.” Then the waiter went away. Clark leaned across the table.
“Look, I respect your ability, and the last time we talked, you played ball, kept your word, and I respect that, too, but I would like you to remember that when I go out in the field, my life rides on—”
“I won’t reveal your identity. I don’t do that. Three reasons, it’s wrong, it’s against the law, and I don’t want to piss off somebody like you.” The reporter sipped his beer. “Someday I’d sure as hell like to do a book about you. If half the stories are true—”
“Fine, get Val Kilmer to play me in the movies.”
“Too pretty.” Holtzman shook his head with a grin. “Nick Cage has a better stare. Anyway, what this meet is about ...” He paused. “It was Ryan who got her father out, but I’m not clear on how. You went on the beach and got Katryn and her mother out, took them out by boat to a submarine. I don’t know which one, but I know it was one of our nuclear subs. But that’s not the story.”
“What is?”
“Ryan, like you, the Quiet Hero.” Robert Holtzman enjoyed seeing the surprise in Clark’s eyes. “I like the guy. I want to help him.”
“Why?” John asked, wondering if he could believe his host.
“My wife, Libby, got the goods on Kealty. Published it too soon, and we can’t go back to it now. He’s scum, even worse than most of the people down there. Not everybody in the business feels that way, but Libby’s talked to a couple of his victims. Once upon a time a guy could get away with that, especially if his politics were ‘progressive.’ Not anymore. Not supposed to, anyway,” he corrected himself. “I’m not so sure Ryan’s the right guy, either, okay? But he’s honest. He’ll try to do the right thing, for the right reasons. As Roger Durling liked to say, he’s a good man in a storm. I have to sell my editors on that idea.”
“How do you do that?”
“I do a story about how he did something really important for his country. Something old enough that it isn’t sensitive anymore, and recent enough that people know it’s the same guy. Jesus Christ, Clark, he saved the Russians! He prevented an internal power play that could have dialed the Cold War back in for another decade. That’s a big fucking deal—and he never told anybody about it. We’ll make it clear that Ryan didn’t leak this. We’ll even approach him before we run it, and you know what he’ll say—”
“He’d tell you not to run it,” Clark agreed. Then he wondered whom Holtzman might have talked with. Judge Arthur Moore? Bob Ritter? Would they have talked? Ordinarily he’d be sure the answer to that one was an emphatic no, but now? Now he wasn’t so sure. You got to a certain level and people figured breaking the rules was part of some higher duty to the country. John knew about “higher duty” stuff. It had landed him in all manner of trouble, more than once.
“But it’s too good a story not to run. It took me years to figure it all out. The public has a right to know what kind of man is sitting in the Oval Office, especially if he’s the right man,” the reporter went on. Holtzman clearly was a man who could talk a nun right out of her habit.
“Bob, you don’t know the half of it.” Clark stopped talking an instant later, annoyed with himself for saying that much. This was deep water, and he was trying to swim with a weight belt on. Oh, what the hell ... “Okay, tell me what you know about Jack.”
IT WAS AGREED that they’d use the same aircraft, and somewhat to the relief of both sides, that they wouldn’t stay one unnecessary minute in Iran. There was the problem that the 737 didn’t have the range of the smaller G-IVs, however, and it was agreed that the airliner would land in Yemen to refuel. The Iraqis never left the plane at Mehrabad, but when the stairs pulled up, Badrayn did, without a single word of thanks from the people he’d saved. A car was waiting. He didn’t look back. The generals were part of his past, and he part of theirs.
The car took him into town. There was just a driver, who took his time negotiating the streets. Traffic wasn’t all that dense at this time of night, and the going was easy. Forty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a three-story building. Here there was security. So, Badrayn thought, he was living in Tehran now? He got out of the car on his own. A uniformed security guard compared a photograph with his face and gestured him toward the door. Inside another guard, this one a captain by the three pips at his shoulders, patted him down politely. From there it was upstairs to a conference room. By now it was three in the morning, local time.
He found Daryaei sitting in a comfortable chair reading some papers stapled together at the corner, the quintessential government briefing document instead of the Holy Koran. Well, Daryaei must have had it memorized by now, so long had he studied it.
“Peace be unto you,” Ali said.
“And unto you, peace,” Daryaei replied, not so mechanically as Badrayn had expected. The older man rose and came to him for the expected embrace. The face was far more relaxed than he’d expected. Tired, certainly, since it had been a long day or two for the cleric, but old or not, the man was buoyed by the events. “You are well?” he asked solicitously, waving his guest to a chair.
Ali allowed himself a long breath as he took his seat. “I am now. I’d wondered how long the situation in Baghdad would remain stable.”
“There was nothing to be gained from discord. My friends tell me that the old mosque is in need of repair.”
Badrayn might have said that he didn’t know—he didn’t—but the reason was that he hadn’t seen the inside of a mosque in rather a long time, a fact not calculated to please Daryaei. “There is much to do,” he decided to respond.
“Yes, there is.” Mahmoud Haji Daryaei returned to his chair, setting the papers aside. “Your services were very valuable. Were there any difficulties?”
Badrayn shook his head. “Not really, no. It’s surprising how fearful such men can be, but I was prepared for that. Your proposal was generous. They had no choice but to take it. You will not ... ?” Ali allowed himself to ask.
He shook his head. “No, they shall go in peace.”
And that, if true, was something of a surprise, though Ali didn’t allow his face to show it. Daryaei had little reason to love those men. All had played a role in the Iran-Iraq war, and been responsible for the deaths of thousands, a wound still raw on this nation. So many young men had died. The war was one of the reasons why Iran had played no major role in the world for years. But that was about to change, wasn’t it?
“So, may I ask what you will do next?”
“Iraq has been a sick country for so long, kept away from the True Faith, wandering in the darkness.”
“And strangled by the embargo,” Badrayn added, wondering what information this observation would elicit.
“It is time for that to end,” Daryaei agreed. Something in his eyes congratulated Ali for the observation. Yes, that was the obvious play, wasn’t it? A sop to the West. The embargo would b
e lifted. Food would then flood the country, and the population would be delighted with the new regime. He would please everybody at once, all the while planning to please no one but himself. And Allah, of course. But Daryaei was one of those who was sure that his policies were inspired by Allah, an idea Badrayn had long since disposed of.
“America will be a problem, as will others closer to you.”
“We are examining those issues.” This statement was delivered comfortably. Well, that made sense. He must have been thinking about this move for years, and at a moment like this one he must have felt invincible. That also made sense, Badrayn knew. Daryaei always thought Allah was on his side—at his side was more accurate. And perhaps He was, but there was much more to it than that. There had to be if you wanted success. Miracles most often appeared when summoned by preparation. Why not a play to see if he might take a hand in the next miracle, Ali thought.
“I’ve been looking at the new American leader.”
“Oh?” Daryaei’s eyes focused a little more tightly.
“It’s not difficult, gathering information in the modern age. The American media publishes so much, and it can all be easily accessed now. I have some of my people working on it even now, building a careful dossier.” Badrayn kept his voice casual. It wasn’t hard. He was bone-tired. “It really is quite remarkable how vulnerable they are now.”
“Indeed. Tell me more.”
“The key to America is this Ryan fellow. Is that not obvious?”
“THE KEY TO changing America is a constitutional convention,” Ernie Brown said, after long days of silent contemplation. Pete Holbrook was flipping the controller on his slide projector. He’d shot three rolls of film of the Capitol building, and a few more of other buildings like the White House, unable completely to avoid being the tourist. He grumbled, seeing that one of the slides was in the caddie upside-down. This idea had gestated long enough, and the result wasn’t all that impressive.
