Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  And now they’d given him the perfect opening to make even more trouble.

  Shit.

  “I asked you a question” — Mcdowell’s eyes flicked to the rank insignia on Thorn’s battle-dress uniform—“Colonel.”

  “My name’s Peter Thorn.”

  “Thorn.” Mcdowell chewed on that for a second or two. Then it clicked. The FBI man snorted in disgust. “The Delta Force cowboy.”

  Thorn knew what the other man was thinking. Two years before he’d led a Delta Force commando raid into Teheran to kill Amir Talehan Iranian general who’d organized a terrorist campaign on American soil that had thrown the whole country into complete chaos. When the operation started going wrong, the President had gotten cold feet and tried to abort the mission.

  Thorn had refused. He’d disobeyed a direct order from the commander-in-chief, pushed ahead, and won — though at a high cost in casualties. Success had protected him against the courtmartial he’d expected, but it hadn’t saved his career from oblivion.

  And for a climber like Mcdowell, that was probably the worst of his sins.

  Mcdowell turned back to Helen. “All right, Agent Gray. Now that you’re done flirting with Colonel Thorn here, maybe you can fill me in on your progress — or lack thereof — on this investigation.”’ He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got half an hour before my helicopter ferries me out of this dump and back to Arkhangelsk, so let’s not waste any more time.”

  Thorn felt his hands straighten into killing edges. With an effort, he forced them to relax. This bastard needed a lesson in manners, but it would have to be a verbal lesson. He stepped forward. “Hold it right there, you son of a—”

  “Colonel Thorn!” Helen exclaimed.

  He stopped and stared at her. Her bright blue eyes were icecold now.

  “You’re out of line, Colonel,” she said sharply. “This is an FBI matter.”

  Thorn suddenly realized what he’d almost done. He’d allowed Mcdowell’s insults to push him to the brink of interfering in Helen’s professional life. And that would have been catastrophic for Helen — and for them.

  For all its progress in the past decades, the FBI’s upper reaches were still mostly a male preserve. As one of the first women to serve in the Hostage Rescue Team, and now as one of the Bureau’s topranking legal attaches, Helen was still swimming against the tide. No matter how chivalrous it might feel, jumping in to fight her battle with Mcdowell would only put everything she’d achieved at peril.

  He just hoped Helen would forgive him for dragging her so close to the edge.

  Swallowing hard, Thorn spun on his heel and left without another word.

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  The Blue Room of the White House was brimming with men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns, mingling with each other and trying to figure out who the important players were.

  Waistcoated waiters circulated with trays of beautifully presented hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne.

  The richly furnished room clearly awed some of the guests with its French Empire furniture, luxurious gold drapes, and portraits of early presidents adorning the royal blue walls. It was an elegant and imposing setting, offering a glimpse of power and luxury that came naturally to few Americans.

  Prince Ibrahim al Saud sipped a glass of mineral water and studied the glittering crowd through narrowed eyes. He was not one to be impressed by such surroundings. Even though he was only one of thousands of princes in Saudi Arabia, he’d been born to privilege and wealth-and the power that wealth provided.

  The prince was relatively inconspicuous among all the other Middle Easterners invited to this reception and dinner for the visiting Egyptian President. Only a few of the guests recognized him on sight, and then usually as the chairman of Caraco.

  The ebb and flow in the crowded room brought an elegantly coiffed elderly woman into the small circle of guests around Ibrahim. Diamonds sparkled on her fingers and ears. She looked in his direction, clearly intrigued.

  One of the men who headed Caraco’s Washington office whispered the pertinent information in his ear: “Mrs. Carleton. Her husband is the Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs. She’s an avid gardener. Famous for her roses.”

  Ibrahim nodded briefly. Carleton’s wife? How ironic. He moved closer to the woman. “My dear Mrs. Carleton, what a pleasure to meet you.”

  She smiled back, though less certainly. “Thank you, Mr …?”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Carleton. Of course you do not know me.

  Please forgive my impertinence, but your fame precedes you.” He bowed.

  “My name is Prince Ibrahim al Saud.”, Her eyes widened slightly.

  “Your Highness. The pleasure is all mine.” She still seemed uncertain. “But what fame are you referring to?”

  “Why, to your garden, Mrs. Carleton,” Ibrahim replied. “I’m sure you know that your beautiful roses are the talk of all Washington. Such natural beauty carries a special significance for those of us reared in the barren desert.”

  She blushed. “Oh, how kind of you to say so, Your Highness. But really, I’m just an amateur, you know …”

  Ibrahim listened to her prattle on with only half an ear. It was all too easy, really. A quip, a personal greeting, a reference to some favored hobby or interest — they all enabled Ibrahim to more easily play the part of a gracious, but charmingly informal, Arab prince of royal blood. As a young boy watching his father wheeling and dealing with Texas oilmen on their first visits to Saudi Arabia, he had learned the lesson that these Americans, for all their oft-professed egalitarianism, were always delighted to attract the attention of royalty.

  Ibrahim smiled at that thought, though his smile never warmed the soul within his lean frame. There were other Americans, uglier Americans, who mocked anyone in whose body the blood of the Prophet flowed. He remembered such men from his boyhood, too. For an instant, his smile faltered and his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Then he relaxed. This was not the time, or the place, to allow those memories free rein.

  When the undersecretary’s wife had had her fill of his polite attention and moved on, he turned his gaze outward.

  From across the room Ibrahim watched Richard Garrett smoothly working the crowd. Garrett was Caraco’s legal representative for its American division, an unassuming title for a very important role.

  An amiable Yankee who had attended all the right schools and knew all the right people, the former Commerce Secretary was one of the capital’s most familiar and respected faces. He was also a personal friend of the President and a darling of the American media.

  Before his stint at the Commerce Department, Garrett had headed an extremely successful law practice in Washington. His former clients ran the gamut from environmental groups to tobacco companies to financial organizations to foreign governments.

  Each had found their interests advanced in return for sizable fees.

  Three years ago, Ibrahim had been introduced to Garrett by a mutual friend from Harvard. It seemed to the friend they might speak the same language of prestige and power. Ibrahim paid Garrett well to advocate free trade, Arab-American cooperation, and any other cause that might advance Caraco’s business and political needs.

  Ibrahim watched the elegantly attired, white-haired lawyer weave in and out of the crowd, smiling and pumping hands, laying the groundwork for future deals. He was good at what he did and was one of the few Americans the Saudi prince respected. Of course, respect was not trust, so the lobbyist would never know the true nature and depth of Caraco’s corporate operations.

  Garrett worked his way back to Ibrahim and took another glass of champagne. He grinned. “Things are moving our way, Your Highness. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting expedited approval for the Kazakhstan pipeline contract.”

  “Oh?” Ibrahim asked. “So your fabled charm bears fruit again, my friend?”

  “Bushels of it,” Garrett confirmed. His grin grew wider.

  �
�Helped along by generous infusions of Caraco cash, of course. You have many friends in this room, Your Highness.”

  “Naturally.” Ibrahim smiled again to himself, more warmly this time, thinking with pleasure about all those who could not detect the venomous hatred that lay beneath his polished, Western mannerisms.

  Education did have its uses.

  He spotted a young, serious-looking presidential aide in a conservative gray suit making his way through the slowly milling crowd — coming straight toward him. Ah, he thought, at last.

  The young man stopped at his side and cleared his throat importantly.

  “Your Highness? The President asks if you would join him in the Library. If you’ll follow me?”

  Ibrahim nodded. The social aspects of this evening were over.

  Now it was time for business. He and Garrett followed the young presidential aide out of the Blue Room, into a short hallway, and then down a flight of stairs. Since both of them had met the President before, they knew where they were headed.

  At their destination, the aide stepped aside to open the door and then closed it silently behind them.

  The White House Library was less formal than the grand public rooms upstairs, but it was ideally suited for quiet, private meetings.

  Elegantly proportioned wood chairs and bookcases lined the walls — many inlaid with representations of the American eagle, its wings open full in triumph. The books on its shelves represented the best of American literature, as well as collections of presidential papers. The Library was intended for the private use of the President and his family.

  Being invited there was a mark of special favor.

  The President himself stood waiting to greet Ibrahim as he entered flanked by the current Secretary of Commerce. A second man, this one somewhat heavyset and in his mid-fifties, stood off to one side.

  Ibrahim shot a questioning glance at Garrett, who whispered, “That’s Dan Holcomb. With the CIA.”

  The Saudi ran his eyes over the stranger with more interest.

  He welcomed the chance to compare the reports he’d studied with the flesh-and-blood man. Holcomb was the Deputy Director of the CIA — and reputedly the real mover and shaker inside the American spy agency.

  The current Director was rumored to be more interested in editing position papers than in actively pursuing operations. Left to his own devices, Holcomb had apparently jumped into the leadership vacuum with gusto. His presence at this meeting was a good indication that the administration valued its “special relationship” with Caraco and its founder.

  Ibrahim also noted with some amusement the absence of several other men who would have been there just months before.

  None of the President’s political fund-raisers were anywhere in sight.

  Evidently America’s current chief executive and his advisers had learned to be more cautious — though they were clearly still just as interested in amassing campaign and legal defense funds.

  He strode forward to shake hands with the President and the other men, then took the offered seat and cup of coffee. He sipped without pleasure. A weak, thin brew — as always.

  After several minutes of polite and meaningless chitchat — shared memories of student days at Oxford and Harvard and the like — Ibrahim leaned forward. “I know that your time is limited, Mr. President, so I will try not to waste any of it.”

  The President’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, Your Highness. Don’t you worry about that, though. I’ve got an army of bright-eyed aides who keep me running on schedule.”

  Ibrahim allowed the polite fiction to pass unchallenged. This American president had a long and well-deserved reputation for tardiness.

  Choosing his words carefully, he continued. “Very well, then. I’m sure you know how much my companies and I support your administration — in all its endeavors, both domestic and international.”

  The President nodded seriously. “Naturally. And we’re very grateful for your corporation’s assistance, Highness.”

  The CIA Deputy Director, Holcomb, nodded just as seriously.

  Much of Caraco’s support was financial. Although present American law made direct political contributions from foreignowned businesses illegal, the President and his party organizations had received hundreds of thousands of dollars of “soft money” donations — all ostensibly made by American-born executives of Caraco and its subsidiaries. The fact that Ibrahim made those contributions possible by paying his subordinates special bonuses was left carefully unstated.

  Other corporations offered larger sums, but few made their contributions so freely and so discreetly.

  And campaign finance reforms that would plug the loopholes Ibrahim was exploiting were still bottlenecked in the Congress by partisan infighting.

  There was another side to Caraco’s relationship with the administration, however — one that Holcomb and the President were both clearly aware of. From time to time, Caraco or its subsidiaries provided quiet assistance to the CIA and other U.S. intelligence organizations. Useful items of economic intelligence gathered in the course of its business operations flowed occasionally into U.S. databases. At other times, Caraco’s various enterprises provided convenient cover for covert CIA activities in the Middle East and Eastern Europe.

  Enjoying this little dance of deliberate ambiguity, Ibrahim smiled.

  Bargaining had its own long-established traditions — both in his own country and in the President’s native South.

  Chief among them was that gifts were never true gifts. They always carried a hidden price tag. From the expectant looks on the faces of the President and his advisers, they were waiting for him to name Caraco’s price. So was his own man in this room, Richard Garrett.

  Idly, he wondered whether any of these American politicians would really care if they knew they had already repaid his modest cash investment in their goodwill a hundred times over.

  Washington, D.C was a city that lived on rumor, gossip, and influence.

  Just the fact that he’d been invited to this private meeting with the nation’s top leaders would enhance Ibrahim’s reputation and smooth his way in any future dealings with American bureaucrats, regulators, and law enforcement officials.

  Shifting slightly in his seat, the Saudi prince decided to move directly to his stated reason for seeking this meeting. He looked firmly into the eyes of the American leader. “Much as it saddens me to say so, Mr. President, I am concerned that the new congressional free trade bill with Russia is not being endorsed by your administration as strongly as it might be. I earnestly hope you will reconsider this position.”

  The legislation, designed to lower trade barriers with Russia and Eastern Europe, had been sponsored by a bipartisan coalition, but administration support had been lukewarm — at best.

  The President and the others in the room nodded gravely.

  Since the end of the Cold War, Caraco and its various subsidiaries had been expanding rapidly into the territories of the former Soviet Union.

  Caraco-owned companies were busy pursuing a wide range of enterprises — involving themselves in everything from modernizing Russian oil production and refining to importing Western-made consumer and electronic goods.

  Given the huge sums his corporation had invested in the region, Ibrahim’s acute interest in U.S. policy there was easy to understand.

  The President leaned forward, his manner becoming more animated and less formal. He clearly enjoyed discussing and debating even the smallest details of policy. “Well, now, Highness, I’ll agree with you that this Russian free trade bill is a fine idea — in principle. But let’s speak practically for a moment, shall we? The truth is, most of the old Eastern bloc countries are critically short of the hard currency they’d need to buy our products. And some of my advisers are worried that lifting all trade restrictions now would just open up another source of cheap labor — draining away more American jobs.”

  In translation, Ibrahim knew, that m
eant that the American labor unions which were among this administration’s most ardent backers were unwilling to tolerate yet another free trade pact they believed would put their members’ jobs at risk.

  He smiled warmly. “Ah, but Mr. President, you and I both know the benefits of fair and aboveboard trade far outweigh any such risks. Surely you’ve seen Dr. Wohlmayer’s most recent analysis of the subject?”

  As Ibrahim intended, that sparked a prolonged debate on the advantages and disadvantages of tariffs and free trade — one that eminently suited this president’s tendency both to show off his own knowledge and to micromanage all aspects of his administration.

  Fifteen or so minutes later, the Saudi prince noticed the eyes of the others in the room drifting to the clock or to their watches. Without batting an eyelash, he gracefully brought the conversation to a close, leaving the President with a calm, final request that “your administration study the matter intently and offer as much support for this legislation as possible.”

  “Your Highness,” the President responded politely, “you can rest assured we’ll do everything we can to accommodate you in this matter.”

  Which meant nothing, Ibrahim knew. Not that he really cared one way or another. Meeting the President privately — and, more important — being seen to meet the President privately — had been his primary objective.

  His interest in the free trade bill for Russia and Eastern Europe was purely academic. After all, who knew better than he that America’s days as the economic and political arbiter of the world were numbered?

  Once upstairs in the Blue Room again, Ibrahim said good night to Garrett and asked one of the White House staff to summon his car.

  He’d done what he had come to do. He had no need to rub elbows with any more American politicians.

  Strolling into the warm, Washington night, he spotted his limousine waiting at the curb and got in. As it pulled away, he poured himself a cup of strong Middle Eastern coffee and scanned the faxes waiting for him on the tray. As usual, there were numerous fires to extinguish.