by Duncan James
CHAPTER THREE – MEANWHILE, IN WASHINGTON
“What the hell’s going on suddenly?” demanded Bill Minton as the phone call from London ended.
Bill Minton had been President of the United States for some three years now, and was acutely conscious of the fact that, if he were to stand any chance of serving for a second term, he would very soon have to start making careful plans for his re-election. He had, at least, already made the decision to run for a second term, although the decision had almost been made for him. His party hierarchy wanted it, party activists and grass-root members across the States wanted it, and many foreign leaders had hinted that a second term would be in the national interest as well as in the overall interests of the international community, which above all needed stability at the moment. Not least, his wife, Millie, had urged him to stand again.
The Democratic Party was in something of a turmoil, and had no real prospect of winning, largely because they had no really credible candidate or policies that in any way appealed to the electorate. Minton, on the other hand, had introduced several popular domestic reforms, to education and the health system not least, as well as tightening up on law enforcement. This was a direct follow-on from his predecessor’s foreign policy initiatives to combat terrorism, which he had supported and was taking forward. Many of his domestic initiatives still had to be brought to fruition, and for the country to change leadership now would be to lose these reforms when there was nothing worthwhile on offer to replace them.
So it seemed to him, and his political advisors, that he had a good chance of being re-elected, and probably with a decent majority, in spite of the closeness of the last two presidential election results. One of the main reasons for this belief was that the man who appeared, at the moment, to be the front-runner for selection by the electoral colleges as the Democratic candidate, was a very loose cannon. Indeed, it was being said that he was so far right wing that even the South African whites were afraid he might win.
But he recognised that nothing is ever certain in politics, and especially not in American politics. It was virtually impossible to take heed of all the lobby groups that existed, for a start, and it was certainly impossible to go anywhere near meeting all their often disparate and conflicting demands. Some were two-bit, wild-eyed organisations, with no real power base or support around the country, while others represented very much minority or specialised views. Generally speaking, these could all safely be ignored. But there were others, mainly ethnically based, which could certainly not be ignored, particularly with the world in its present state of flux.
Almost any candidate, of whatever party, could write off the majority of the small but not insignificant Muslim and Islamic vote for a start, after events in Afghanistan and Iraq and the ructions they had caused. The overall situation in the Middle East, and the growing anti-American feeling throughout the region, was also not a good sign. The only effective way to recapture that particular vote would be to virtually cut off any further help to, and support of Israel, but that was plainly impossible. The strength of the American Jewish vote was such that it simply couldn't be sacrificed or risked. Having said that, it was already a less certain commodity than it had been a few years back, due to the coolness which had developed, and largely remained, during the intensive round of diplomacy in the Middle East while trying to build the anti-Taliban coalition. But Minton certainly wasn’t about to do anything himself which would further weaken his support from that section of the community, although, on the other hand, there seemed little he could do to strengthen it, either. Certainly the ‘road map to peace’ hadn’t achieved much.
Somehow, in spite of America’s own best efforts and the valiant support of their closest allies, it had proved largely impossible to convince the Muslim world that the fight against terrorism wasn’t a fight against the whole Islamic community. Sure, there were countries in the region that were prepared to pay lip-service to being convinced, but they largely sat on the fence when it came to actually giving any practical support. What was desperately needed was to shift the fight against terrorism to a non-Arab terror organisation. But where? The fact was that most of the violent militants were anti-American or anti-Jewish, and from the Arab world, with bases and support in such places as Iran, Syria and probably still Libya. Shifting the fight there would, and had, only make a bad situation worse.
But the hawks in his own administration were determined to see such groups as Hamas, and Hizbollah, backed by Iran and Syria, thwarted before they looked outside the Middle East, although Indonesia, with its own brand of Muslim fundamentalists, had been talked about. And up to a point it made sense while there was still such a built up of military forces in the area, but he had often been sorely tempted to suggest that they should shift their attention to, say, ETA and the Basque separatists, if only to prove the point about not being anti-Muslim. But for all their evil, they were not in the same category as al-Qa'Aeda, and not truly international terrorists, either, so he had held his council. Nevertheless, he remembered that the Spanish Government had once, some time ago, asked the European Union to do something or other about them. He really should find out what, if anything, was done - they probably only froze their assets, or something, and it obviously hadn’t made the slightest difference. Bombs still went off in Madrid and Bilbao, and judges and other senior figures were still shot from time to time. He knew that America had higher priorities at the moment, but the fact remained that if they could only do a little to help and make the maximum out of it in PR terms, it would not make much difference to the Hispanic votes at home one way or the other, but might just help to convince the Arab world that terrorists meant terrorists, and not exclusively Muslims.
Ireland was different, though, and quite unexpectedly and without warning, the brilliant young Prime Minister from across the Atlantic wanted to talk to him about it, and in a hurry, and privately.
“What the hell’s going on, suddenly?” Minton asked his Cabinet Chief, as the phone call to London was ended. “What’s he on about? We weren’t expecting that, were we?”
“No, Mr President, we were not. There’s certainly no hint from the briefing of anything new coming up, and I can’t begin to guess what he wants to talk about.”
Colin Carlucci, as the President’s Chief of Staff, was always present when Minton spoke to foreign leaders, and was responsible for making sure he was properly briefed beforehand. Minton was shaping up quite well - certainly they’d had worse Presidents - but he still needed leading by the hand every now and then, and he knew it. To his great credit, he never shied away from asking for help, advice or support when he thought it was going to be needed.
This call, though, was slated to be even more routine and low key than most of the weekly contacts with London. The Secretary of State’s office had prepared the brief as usual, and gone through it with the President only last night, but there was no reason for him or anyone else to be present. They knew London was taking the same low-key approach, too. Of course, there was a section in the briefing book about Northern Ireland, but nothing had changed since last week, and it was not expected that it would be raised at all, least of all as an issue. Weaver had caught the President on the wrong foot, no mistake, so he had really had little chance but to react as he had done. Indeed, thinking about it, Minton had reacted exactly right, Carlucci concluded.
“Was the call taped?” asked the President.
“Always.”
“Then see if you can get the Secretary of State in here to listen to the end of it - if not, the Deputy. Let’s see what they make of it, and whether they have a clue what this is all about. Use my phone from here, if you like.”
“If he’s free,” said Carlucci to his opposite number, “the President would like to see the Secretary of State in the Oval Office as soon as possible, please. Something came up during the call from London which we weren’t expecting and which wasn’t covered in the brief.” A pause. “Good. Thanks.”
“Mr Bragan’s on hi
s way. I’ll organise the tape in here, shall I?”
Miles Bragan was probably the safest pair of hands, as Secretary of State, in America’s living memory. Both quick witted and sure footed, he had taken very little time to stamp his authority on the world stage, and earn the respect of his peers in most of the major powers. It wasn’t just that he was a nice man and easy to get on with, but rather that he always took a measured view and made up his own mind even if that went against the party line. Neither hawk nor dove, he was a stabilising influence wherever he went, at home or abroad, and was a powerful negotiator.
Both sides in the Middle East were rather dreading his up-coming visit to them, truth be known. He had almost shamed them into the ceasefire they had reached some six months ago, and which, until recently, had more or less held fast. Certainly, plenty of talking had gone on during that time, and although nothing approaching real progress had been agreed, there had been encouraging signs that limited agreement would be possible given more time. But now time had run out once again, and escalating violence had started up all over again. Of course, each side blamed the other for starting it, for over-reacting, and for being responsible for the breakdown in talks. Although neither would admit it, both sides also felt rather ashamed at letting Bragan down, and knew that they were about to have their heads banged together again, in the nicest possible way. They also fully expected, and hoped, that he would be able to produce yet another face-saving formula which would allow a few more months of stumbling progress to be made.
“’Morning, Miles,” welcomed Minton.
“Good morning, Mr President - Colin. What happened?” asked Bragan.
“Absolutely nothing, until right at the end,” replied Minton.
Bragan sat across the oak desk from Minton, next to Carlucci who had the tape ready to play.
“I won’t bore you with everything that passed between us,” continued Minton, “it was just like the brief said it would be in terms of the subjects we discussed, and as relaxed and friendly as ever. As you suggested he would, Weaver offered every support for your trip to the Middle East, and offered specific help if we wanted it in any particular area. The conversation somehow almost drifted from there into making comparisons with Northern Ireland - play the tape, Colin, from where we were talking about votes, after I’d said how difficult it was to take any positive action because of reaction back here.”
Carlucci set the tape recorder going, and Bragan leant forward.
“You’re right,” said Minton. “I guess one day we’ll actually have to do something that hurts. The problem is who to hurt first.”
“And if you hurt them both at once, it has no effect at all.”
“Right again - except that whatever we are likely to do in that part of the world hurts someone here back home, too. That’s always a problem for us. Loss of exports, effect on the dollar - something difficult to handle, you bet, whatever option we discuss.”
“And votes?”
“Yup. And votes. Especially the Jewish vote in this case if we’re not careful, and there’s lots of ‘em,” agreed Minton. “Trouble is, there is no half way house between the demands of either side. No compromise, no deal, nothing.”
“The whole situation in the Middle East is very similar to Northern Ireland really, isn’t it?” opined Weaver.
“Exactly similar,” agreed the President. “One side insists on staying part of the UK, while the other demands to be made part of the Republic. There is just no middle ground. And much as we try to support all you are trying to do, we are very conscious that the efforts being made by NORAID are working against you. And, of course, we have a huge Irish-American vote here, much of which supports what they see as the Northern Irish struggle for freedom. So that in itself is a bit limiting on what we can do, and how far we can go. But you know all that - the art of the impossible! It’s a pity we can’t find a third party they'd both be happy with!”
Bragan noticed the pause.
“Mr President, perhaps we should talk more about that,” said the Prime Minister quietly. “Between ourselves, soon.”
Another pause, Bragan noted, and the informality gone, too.
“Happy to, Prime Minister. It’s time you came over again, and we could find a quiet weekend retreat somewhere if you wanted.”
“Thank you for that,” said Weaver. “I’ll be in touch to arrange something shortly, if I may? Perhaps this weekend?”
Carlucci switched off the tape.
“So what the hell’s going on, suddenly?” asked the President, for the second time.
A puzzled Secretary of State shook his head slowly, frowning.
“Three things Mr President. First of all, it seems to me that your conversation didn't drift into talking about Northern Ireland. I think you were deliberately led into the subject. Secondly, I have no idea why you were, or what the Prime Minister has in mind. My guess would be that his officials will be as puzzled as we are by what he’s up to. You and I both know him well enough now to know that he’s a very sharp cookie, and that he often plays his cards very close to his chest until he’s good and ready to let an idea get an airing. I think that’s where we’re at now. Finally, Bill, I think you responded exactly right.”
“Well, thanks for that, at least,” responded the President. “But I'll be damned if I can understand why no-one here has a clue what’s going on. I thought our links with the UK were so good that we shared almost everything, and what we weren't told we found out anyway.”
“That’s normally true, but sometimes even top officials in Downing Street and Whitehall are taken by surprise since Weaver took office and as I’ve said, my guess would be that this is one of those times.”
“Well, check it out if you will, Miles. I don’t like being caught flat-footed like that.”
“I’ll get on to it right now,” replied Bragan. “I’ll see if the Security people have got wind of anything on their net, too. But perhaps I could make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead, Miles - anything.”
“It’s pretty obvious that Weaver’s in a hurry now, and that he wants to see you soon and privately. If my suspicions are right, and that this caught the other side flat-footed too, then I suggest we keep quiet ourselves until we know more. Casting the net too wide in an effort to find out what’s going on is only going to get other people inquisitive, too, and that is probably just what Weaver doesn't want. Normally, I would get someone on the line to the British Ambassador, and have a word myself with their Foreign Secretary, but this time, I recommend that we don’t. Weaver will be on again himself soon, or Sir Robin Algar or someone like that, to fix the visit - we can do a little probing then, perhaps. But I think we should let them make the next move, as they made the first. It’s their call, after all, and it wouldn’t be helpful to make things difficult for them.”
“I guess that makes a lot of sense, Miles, but I want to know what’s going on.”
The President's Executive Secretary stuck her head round the Oval Office door.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr President, but I’ve had an urgent call which I really should discuss straight away with Mr Carlucci.”
They all knew that Laura Billings wouldn’t butt in if it wasn’t urgent - she’d been around the White House for far too long.
“Would you mind, Mr President?” asked Carlucci.
Minton waved his OK.
“Thanks - I’ll get right back.”
As the door closed behind them, Miles Bragan said,
“I think we should brief the media later today as if nothing untoward has happened, and stick to the line agreed with London. I also think it would be sensible, for the time being at least, not to let this tape get into circulation. If you agree, I’ll take it with me and keep it in my office safe until we can be sure there’s nothing to prevent us putting it with other recent archive material. I’ll also find out who else may have been listening in to your London call, and check them out for security. This may all be un-necessary,
but I’m sure you would agree that it would be better to have Weaver thank us for doing this than for him to blame us for not.”
“You’re right Miles. Until we know more, I suppose we should tread warily. From the way Tony Weaver spoke, we may not have long to wait, anyway. But let me know if your discrete enquiries turn up anything meanwhile.”
One of the Oval Office catering staff knocked, and bustled in with a tray of coffee and cookies.
“We’ll need an extra cup this morning, please Sam.”
“Comin’ right up, Mr President, Sir. Mah trolley’s right here, outside.”
The cup appeared as if by magic, proudly borne by Sam.
“They’s yo’ favourite this mornin’, Mr President Sir,” he said, pointing to the tray. “Chocolate chip cookies, as ever. I git inta trouble out there,” he thumbed towards the outer office, “fer spoilin’ you.” His old black face was nearly all grin and white teeth.
“Just so long as you don’t spoil me too often, Sam, or you’ll have Mrs Minton after you as well.”
“Yessir, Mr President, Sir.” Sam and the grin disappeared.
He passed Colin Carlucci in the doorway.
“Mr President, things seem to be moving fast. Laura’s had London on the phone, and your office has had a call too, Mr Bragan. The Prime Minister would like to come over this weekend.”
“Goddam it,” exclaimed the Secretary of State, “they are moving fast, and we’ve missed the call and the chance to probe. What did they say, exactly?”
“They say that you agreed, Mr President, to an early visit to Washington to discuss the Middle East situation, as a public demonstration of their support for your up-coming visit, Mr Bragan. They propose a small party, with maximum publicity, and are quite sure it will be helpful. Apparently, officials are already working on drafts.”
Carlucci sounded quite out of breath.
“Can we do this weekend?” asked Bragan. “What are the diaries like?”
“Laura’s done a quick check, as you’d expect, and it seems we can do it with only a bit of juggling. And the vice-President is in town.”
“Let’s go for it, then. Anything said about a private meeting between me and Weaver?” asked Minton.
“Nothing, so far as I know.” said Carlucci.
“That could just prove I’m right,” said Bragan. “Their officials don’t know about that side of it.”
“So neither must ours,” directed the President. “Colin, as my Chief of Staff you are to make sure that only those are told who positively must know. Is that understood?”
“Absolutely, Mr President. And if I speak to anyone on the other side, I’ll make sure it’s Sir Robin Algar and nobody else. He’s bound to know - he knows everything.”
“So how shall we engineer the private meeting?” asked Bragan.
“I’ll talk to Millie right away,” replied the President, “and we’ll try to fix up a weekend at her brother’s place off Long Island - you know it, you’ve both been there. It’s quiet and it’s secure. If we can’t get there, we’ll have to think about Camp David, but that might be a bit too public. We’ll do the Middle East business here in Washington, and then I suggest we leave you, Miles with their Foreign Secretary - what’s his name...”
“Robert Burgess,” helped Bragan.
“...Yeah, you and Robert Burgess and your officials to deal with the statements and media briefings, while Tony Weaver and I cut across to New York for an extra day. Colin, you’d better come too, as I expect Sir Robin will stay behind as well, but if you agree, Miles, we’ll keep it as small as that. Perhaps you could find out if a day is long enough, will you Colin. I sure hope so. We’ll play the New York trip straight, but without saying we’re going New York, by simply letting it be known that, as old friends, we’re having a quiet day together for private talks and a bit of relaxation. No statements afterwards - nothing. It’s private, OK?”
“Sounds good, Mr President, and it certainly will be very helpful to me to have the public backing of the British Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary before I go whistle-stopping around the Middle East next week. We can make as much noise as we like about that side of their visit, subject to their agreement, but I suggest,” said the Secretary of State, “that we keep very quiet, even within Washington, about the private visit, at least until we know what’s afoot. If you agree, Bill, we must deal with as few people as possible, tell them as little as possible, and put nothing in writing yet. We can always sort out the paperwork later if we need to.”
“Agreed,” said the President. “OK with you, Colin? Can you keep things to yourself so far as possible?”
“Yes, of course, Mr President. I’ll obviously have to bring my private office in on the act, but I’ll restrict that to Alex if I possibly can. He’s totally trustworthy as an Executive Secretary, and has been around long enough to know the ropes on occasions like this.”
“Thank God,” said Bragan, “that we’ve all got such excellent outer offices. I fear we tend to take them too much for granted sometimes.”
“OK then. Let’s get started,” said the President. “On your way out, would one of you ask Laura or one of her people to get Millie on the phone for me? And make sure you keep me in touch with developments.”
As his two most trusted colleagues left, he turned to gaze out over the rose garden. After all that, he still didn’t know what was going on. But then, neither did they, yet.
