by Tom Clancy
The Air France first-class lounge served coffee, but the traveler didn’t want any. He was almost done. Only now did his body want to tremble. It was amazing how easily it had gone. Badrayn’s mission brief had told them how easy it would be, but he hadn’t quite believed it, used, as he was, to dealing with Israeli security with their numberless soldiers and guns. After all the tension he’d felt, like being wrapped tightly with rope, it was all diminishing now. He’d slept poorly in his hotel the previous night, and now he’d get on the aircraft and sleep all the way across. On getting back to Tehran, he’d look at Badrayn and laugh and ask for another such mission. On passing the buffet, he saw a bottle of champagne, and poured himself a glass. It made him sneeze, and it was contrary to his religion, but it was the Western way to celebrate, and indeed he had something to celebrate. Twenty minutes later, his flight was called, and he walked off to the jetway with the others. His only concern now was jet lag. The flight would leave at eight sharp, then arrive in Paris at 5:45 P.M.! From breakfast to dinner without the intervening midday meal. Well, such was the miracle of modern travel.
THEY DROVE SEPARATELY to Andrews, Adler in his official car, Clark and Chavez in the latter’s personal auto, and while the Secretary of State was waved through the gate, the CIA officers had to show ID, which at least earned them a salute from the armed airman.
“You really don’t like the place, do you?” the junior officer asked.
“Well, Domingo, back when you were taking the training wheels off your bike, I was in Tehran with a cover so thin you could read an insurance policy through it, yelling ‘Death to America!’ with the gomers and watching our people being paraded around blindfolded by a bunch of crazy kids with guns. For a while there, I thought they were going to be lined up against a wall and hosed. I knew the station chief. Hell, I recognized him. They had him in the bag, too, gave him a rough time.” Just standing there, he remembered, only fifty yards away, not able to do a damned thing ...
“What were you doing?”
“First time, it was a quick recon for the Agency. Second time, it was to be part of the rescue mission that went tits-up at Desert One. We all thought it was bad luck at the time, but that operation really scared me. Probably better it failed,” John concluded. “At least we got them all out alive in the end.”
“So, bad memories, you don’t like the place?”
Clark shrugged. “Not really. Never figured them out. The Saudis I understand—I like ’em a lot. Once you get through the crust, they make friends for life. Some of the rules are a little funny to us, but that’s okay. Kinda like old movies, sense of honor and all that, hospitality,” he went on. “Anyway, lots of good experiences there. Not on the other side of the Gulf. Just as soon leave that place alone.” Ding parked his car. Both men retrieved their bags as a sergeant came up to them.
“Going to Paris, Sarge,” Clark said, holding up his ID again.
“You gentlemen want to come with me?” She waved them toward the VIP terminal. The low, one-story building had been cleared of other distinguished visitors. Scott Adler was on one of the couches, going over some papers.
“Mr. Secretary?”
Adler looked up. “Let me guess, this one is Clark, and this one is Chavez.”
“You might even have a future in the intelligence business.” John smiled. Handshakes were exchanged.
“Good morning, sir,” Chavez said.
“Foley says, with you, my life is in good hands,” SecState offered, closing his briefing book.
“He exaggerates.” Clark walked a few feet to get a Danish. Was it nerves? John asked himself. Ed and Mary Pat were right. This should be a routine operation, in and out, Hi, how are you, eat shit and die, so long. And he’d been in tighter spots than Tehran in 1979—80—not many, but some. He frowned at the pastry. Something had brought the old feeling back, the creepy-crawly sensation on his skin, like something was blowing on the hairs there, the one that told him to turn around and look real hard at things.
“He also tells me you’re on the SNIE team, and I should listen to you,” Adler went on. At least he seemed relaxed, Clark saw.
“The Foleys and I go back some,” John explained.
“You’ve been there before?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.” Clark followed with two minutes of explanation that earned a thoughtful nod from the senior official.
“Me, too. I was one of the people the Canadians snuck out. Just showed up a week before. I was out apartment-hunting when they seized the embassy. Missed all the fun,” SecState concluded. “Thank God.”
“So you know the country some?”
Adler shook his head. “Not really. A few words of the language. I was there to learn up on the place, but it didn’t work out, and I branched off into other areas. I want to hear more about your experiences, though.”
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” John told him. Then a young captain came in to say that the flight was ready. A sergeant got Adler’s things.
The CIA officers lifted their own bags. In addition to two changes of clothes, they had their sidearms—John preferred his Smith & Wesson; Ding liked the Beretta 40—and compact cameras. You never knew when you might see something useful.
BOB HOLTZMAN HAD a lot to think about, as he sat alone in his office. It was a classic newsman’s place of work, the walls glass, which allowed him a modicum of acoustic privacy while also letting him see out into the city room and the reporters there to see in. All he really needed was a cigarette, but you couldn’t smoke in the Post building anymore, which would have amused the hell out of Ben Hecht.
Somebody’d got to Tom Donner and John Plumber. It had to be Kealty. Holtzman’s views on Kealty were an exact mirror image of his feelings toward Ryan. Kealty’s political ideas, he thought, were pretty good, progressive and sensible. It was just the man who was useless. In another age, his womanizing would have been overlooked, and in fact, Kealty’s political career had straddled those ages, the old and the new. Washington was full of women drawn to power like bees to honey—or like flies to something else—and they got used. Mainly they went away sadder and wiser; in the age of abortion on demand, more permanent consequences were a thing of the past. Politicians were so charming by nature that most of the cookies—that euphemism went way back—even went away with a smile, hardly realizing how they’d been used. But some got hurt, and Kealty had hurt several. One woman had even committed suicide. Bob’s wife, Libby Holtzman, had worked that story, only to see it lost in the shuffle during the brief conflict with Japan, and in the interim the media had decided in some collective way that the story was history, and Kealty had been rehabilitated in everyone’s memory. Even women’s groups had looked at his personal behavior, then compared it with his political views, and decided that the balance fell one way and not another. It all offended Holtzman in a distant way. People had to have some principles, didn’t they?
But this was Washington.
Kealty had got to Donner and Plumber, and must have done so between the taped morning interview and the live evening broadcast. And that meant...
“Oh, shit,” Holtzman breathed, when the lightbulb flashed on in his head.
That was a story! Better yet, it was a story his managing editor would love. Donner had said on live TV that the morning tape had been damaged. It had to be a lie. A reporter who lied directly to the public. There weren’t all that many rules in the business of journalism, and most of them were amorphous things that could be bent or skirted. But not that one. The print and TV media didn’t get along all that well. They competed for the same audience, and the lesser of the two was winning. Lesser? Holtzman asked himself. Of course. TV was flashy, that was all, and maybe a picture was worth a thousand words, but not when the frames were selected with an eye more toward entertainment than information. TV was the girl you looked at. The print media was the one who had your kids.
But how to prove it?
What could be sweeter? He could destroy that peacock, wi
th his perfect suits and his hair spray. He could cast a pall over all television news, and wouldn’t that boost circulation! He could couch it all as a religious ceremony on the altar of Journalistic Integrity. Wrecking careers was part of his business. He’d never broken a fellow reporter before, but there was an anticipatory delight in drumming this one out of the corps.
But what about Plumber? Holtzman knew and respected him. Plumber had come to TV at a different time, when the industry had been trying to gain respectability, and hired journalistic craftsmen on the basis of their professional reputations rather than their movie-star looks. Plumber had to know. And he probably didn’t like it.
RYAN COULDN’T NOT see the Colombian Ambassador. The latter, he saw, was a career diplomat from the aristocracy, immaculately dressed for a meeting with the American chief of state. The handshake was strong and cordial. The usual pleasantries were exchanged in front of the official photographer, and then it was time to talk business.
“Mr. President,” he began formally, “my government has instructed me to inquire about some unusual allegations in your news media.”
Jack nodded soberly. “What do you wish to know?”
“It has been reported that some years ago the United States government may have invaded my country. We find this assertion disturbing, not to mention a violation of international law and various treaty relationships between our two democracies.”
“I understand your feelings on the matter. In your position I would feel much the same way. Let me say now that my administration will not countenance such action under any circumstances. On that, sir, you have my personal word, and I trust you will convey it to your government.” Ryan decided to pour the man some coffee. He’d learned that such small personal gestures were vastly powerful in diplomatic exchanges, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, but was quite willing to accept when they worked for him. It worked this time, too, and broke the tension of the moment.
“Thank you,” the ambassador said, lifting his cup.
“I believe it’s even Colombian coffee,” the President offered.
“Regrettably, not our most famous export product,” Pedro Ochoa admitted.
“I don’t blame you for that,” Jack told his visitor.
“Oh?”
“Mr. Ambassador, I am fully aware that your country has paid a bitter price for America’s bad habits. While I was at CIA, yes, I did look over all manner of information concerning the drug trade and the effects it’s had in your part of the world. I had no part at all in initiating any improper activity in your country, but, yes, I did look over a lot of data. I know about the policemen who’ve been killed—my own father was a police officer, as you know—and the judges, and the journalists. I know that Colombia has worked harder and longer than any other country in your region to bring about a true democratic government, and I will say one more thing, sir. I am ashamed at some of the things that have been said in this city about your country. The drug problem does not begin in Colombia, or Ecuador, or Peru. The drug problem starts here, and you are as much a victim as we are—actually more so. It’s American money that’s poisoning your country. It is not you who hurts us. It is we who hurt you.”
Ochoa had expected many things from this meeting, but not this. He set his cup down, and his peripheral vision suddenly reported that they were alone in the room. The bodyguards had withdrawn. There wasn’t even an aide to take notes. This was unusual. More than that, Ryan had just admitted that the stories were true—partly true, anyway.
“Mr. President,” he said, in English learned at home and polished at Princeton, “we have not often heard such words from your country.”
“You’re hearing them now, sir.” Two very level pairs of eyes crossed the table. “I will not criticize your country unless you deserve it, and on the basis of what I know, such criticism is not deserved. Diminishing the drug trade, most of all, means attacking the demand side, and that will be a priority of this administration. We are now drafting legislation to punish those who use drugs, not merely those who sell them. When the Congress is properly reestablished, I will press hard for passage of that legislation. I also wish to establish an informal working group, composed of members of my government and yours, to discuss how we may better assist you in your part of the problem—but always with full respect for your national integrity. America has not always been a good neighbor to you. I can’t change the past, but I can try to change the future. Tell me, might your President accept an invitation so that we could discuss this issue face-to-face?” I want to make up for all this lunacy.
“I think it likely that he would view such an invitation favorably, with due consideration for time and other duties, of course.” Which meant, damned right he will!
“Yes, sir, I am myself learning just how demanding such a job can be. Perhaps,” Jack added with a smile, “he might give me some advice.”
“Less than you think.” Ambassador Ochoa was wondering how he’d explain this meeting to his government. Clearly, the basis of a deal was on the table. Ryan was offering what could only be seen in South America as an elaborate apology for something that would never be admitted, and whose full revelation could only damage everyone involved. And yet this was not being done for political reasons, was it?
Was it?
“Your proposed legislation, Mr. President, what will you seek to accomplish?”
“We’re studying that now. For the most part, believe, people use drugs because it’s fun—escape from reality, whatever you might want to call it—it comes down to personal amusement of one sort or another. Our data suggests that at least half of the drugs sold in the country are for recreational users rather than true addicts. I think we should make the use of drugs un-fun, by which I mean some form of punishment for any level of possession or intoxication. Obviously, we do not have the prison space for all the drug users in America, but we do have lots of streets that need sweeping. For recreational users, thirty days—for the first offense—of sweeping streets and collecting garbage in an economically disadvantaged area, wearing distinctive clothing, of course, will take much of the fun out of it. You are Catholic, I believe?”
“Yes, I am, as you are.”
Ryan grinned. “Then you know about shame. We learned it in school, didn’t we? It’s a starting place, that’s all it is for the moment. The administrative issues need to be looked at. Justice is also examining some constitutional questions, but those appear to be less troublesome than I expected. I want this to be law by the end of the year. I’ve got three kids, and the drug problem here frightens the hell out of me at the personal level. This isn’t a perfect response to the problem. The truly addicted people need professional help of one sort or another, and we’re now looking at a variety of state and local programs for things that really work—but, hell, if we can kill off recreational use, that’s at least half of the trade, and where I come from, half is a good start.”
“We will watch this process with great interest,” Ambassador Ochoa promised. Cutting the income of the drug traffickers by that much would reduce their ability to buy protection, and help his government do what it had so earnestly tried to do, for the monetary power of the drug trade was a political cancer in the body of his country.
“I regret the circumstances that brought this meeting about, but I am glad that we’ve had a chance to discuss the issues. Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, for being so forthright. I want you to know that I am always open to any exchange of views. Most of all, I want you and your government to know that I have great respect for the rule of law, and that respect does not stop at our borders. Whatever may have happened in the past, I propose a new beginning, and I will back up my words with action.”
Both men stood, and Ryan took his hand again, and led him outside. There followed a few minutes on the edge of the Rose Garden in front of some TV cameras. The White House Press Office would release a statement about a friendly meeting between the two men. The photos would run on the news to show
that it might not be a lie.
“It promises to be a good spring,” Ochoa said, noting the clear sky and warming breezes.
“But summers here can be very unpleasant. Tell me, what’s it like in Bogotá?”
“We are high up. It’s never terribly hot, but the sun can be punishing. This is a fine garden. My wife loves flowers. She’s becoming famous,” the ambassador said. “She’s developed her own new type of rose. Somehow she crossbred yellow and pink and produced something that’s almost golden in color.”
“What does she call it?” Ryan’s entire knowledge of roses was that you had to be careful about the branches, or stalks, or whatever you called the thorny part. But the cameras were rolling.
“In English, it would be ‘Dawn Display.’ All the good names for roses, it seems, have already been taken,” Ochoa noted, with a friendly smile.
“Perhaps we might have some for the garden here?”
“Maria would be greatly honored, Mr. President.”
“Then we have more than one agreement, señor.” Another handshake.
Ochoa knew the game, too. For the cameras his Latin face broke into the friendliest of diplomatic smiles, but the handshake also had genuine warmth in it. “Dawn Display—for a truly new day between us, Mr. President.”
