by Rachel Lee
He lowered his tone, his voice now sober and direct. "As you know, I am honored to serve the European Union in the Department of Collective Security. In that role, I have become intimately familiar with both our strengths and our vulnerabilities. Honesty compels me to report that our vulnerabilities exceed our strengths. Our borders are all but unguarded. We lack the resources to investigate immigrants. Most of all, we lack the will to do what must be done in order to identify and protect ourselves from terrorists in our midst. In our noble dedication to liberty, we deny ourselves the very tools we most need to combat this menace. When we board a train, a tram or a subway, we hope that no one has planted a bomb. We can only hope, because we lack the vigilance to know."
The members were hushed, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, nodding. Fear. That was the other half of the equation. Fear and anger, seeded and watered, tended and directed. Those were, and had always been, the keys to control the will of the masses.
The time had come to play upon the weakness of this particular audience. Under the EU Constitution, the role of the Parliament was severely constrained. Only the President of the European Commission—the executive branch of the EU government—could propose new legislation. And while the Parliament elected the President, it was hardly a free and open election. The European Council—comprising the heads of state of the member nations—nominated a single candidate, who the Parliament could only approve or disapprove.
Constrained to vote upon only those laws proposed by the President, and only for or against the Presidential candidate proposed by the Council, the Parliament had but one real power. It could, at any time, issue a vote of no confidence and thereby remove the President and his Commission from office. It was this provision that made Soult's ultimate plan possible, and he intended to make full use of it.
Soult smiled, his posture friendly and open. "Members of Parliament, I have two dogs. You no doubt saw them in the media coverage of my appointment. I had no idea that a simple walk around my lawn would acquire such attention or gain them such fame, but such is the way things work in our day and age."
The members laughed, as he had expected. He had been walking his dogs when two television reporters approached him to ask about his new job. In waving to the reporters, he had dropped one of the leashes, and the smaller of his dogs, René, a springer spaniel always eager to make new friends, had dashed forward to greet the female reporter. In a comic scene, captured in full on film and broadcast on every news report in Europe, Soult had coaxed the wayward pup with a dog treat. The moment had instantly humanized him to the people of Europe, and indeed, that had been precisely his intent when he had dropped the leash.
"Fortunately," he continued, still smiling, "it was the smaller of my dogs that slipped away. The other, the Great Dane, would no doubt have knocked the poor woman off her feet in his attempt to befriend her."
Again they laughed, and he let the laughter die before he continued, his voice now firm. "But perhaps it was not mere fortune. For while I hold René's leash with a light hand, I wrap Jacques' leash around my wrist. It is not that I love Jacques any less, or consider him inferior in any way. I simply recognize that, owing to his size, he is the greater danger."
He let that thought settle for a moment. "Members, I regret to say that I am not permitted to apply the same common sense in my profession. Yes, there are European terrorists. There are those who would attack this very institution, those who espouse nationalism and decry European unity. And yet, let us not deny what we know, what the attacks in Madrid, and London, and Black Christmas, and now Prague, have made indisputably clear. Not all dangers are equal. Some are tiny springer spaniels, while others are Great Danes."
He lifted a hand, quieting the few murmurs of dissent. "None of us can sanction or excuse the recent wave of violence against peaceful European Muslims. But neither can we safely ignore that vox populi, however shameful and inappropriate its expression may be. Our people recognize the greater danger of Islamic terrorism. And have no doubts among you, the people act because we will not.
"In the name of equality, we ignore the greater danger. In the name of fairness, we are required to examine all threats as if they were equal, even when we know they are not. Black Christmas and the Prague attack happened because the Department of Collective Security was neither permitted nor given the legal tools to focus on the gravest threat."
The murmurs of dissent had spread, as he had expected, and now he sat and waited for them to settle. He suspected the members' voices rose as much as a nod to principle as to any real opposition to what he had said. That they quieted so quickly only confirmed his opinion.
"Let me be clear," he said. "I speak not of a pogrom. Europe has known far too many of those, and we must never forget the blood that was shed in the name of religious intolerance. When I walk my dogs, I do not hold Jacques by the throat. That would be shameful. That would be as evil as the evil we face. But I recognize that I must watch him more closely, be more aware when he is tempted away from our common path. For if I were to wait until he began to charge, it would be too late. Just as it was too late on Christmas Day. Just as it was too late in Prague.
"Most of our Muslim neighbors are fine citizens. Indeed, in the wake of what has happened in these past weeks—with so many of their mosques desecrated, so many of their businesses destroyed, and so many of their number beaten and killed—I have no doubt that they, too, would like to be free of the stain of their radical brethren. They, too, would like us to root out the evil among them, so that they can live their lives as safe and peaceful members of a calm and prosperous Europe.
"I cannot give them that hope," Soult said, his voice now in full force, "without the legal authority to focus my efforts on the greater danger. You cannot grant me that authority unless the Commission proposes legal reforms that recognize that greater danger. Members of Parliament, I ask you to press the Commission for such a proposal. Beseech them, in the name of good and decent European Muslims, in the name of all Europeans. Give me the tools to do the job you have put before me. For if I cannot, then the cycle of senseless violence will continue, and more lives will be needlessly lost. I applaud these hearings, and it would be my honor to answer your questions."
* * *
Later that evening, as dinner settled with a fine cigar and a glass of brandy, he watched the coverage of the hearings in the comfort of his hotel room. He did not think himself a man given to self-satisfaction, but even he smiled at his performance.
He turned to Hector Vasquez, who sat beside him. "It went well, I believe."
"Yes," Vasquez said. "You were very persuasive. I myself would have believed you, had I not known better. Perhaps you were an actor in another life."
Soult chuckled, then drew slowly on his cigar and let the smoke rise from his lips. "The Prague incident was brilliant, by the way. Flawless."
"Thank you," Vasquez said. "In the wake of the street uprisings, every extremist group in Europe was eager to exact revenge. I had only to place one of my men among the Prague cell for a few days to provide them with the ricin, then step away and let their anger do our work for us."
"We are still monitoring them?" Soult asked.
"Of course," Vasquez said. "We have had them under surveillance since you told me about them. We can pick them up whenever it will be most useful."
"Let them be for a while," Soult said, now stroking his chin. "We will need them for the final act. We have given the people their Kristallnacht. Now we must give them their Reichstag Fire. Then they will be truly ready for change, for strong leadership, for protection from their fears, for revenge against their tormentors."
"And then," Vasquez said, raising his glass, "we will have them."
Soult raised his glass and completed the toast. "We will have them all."
Washington, D.C.
Miriam Anson was pinned to her desk. Not literally, of course, but she felt the same as she would have if her feet had been nailed to the floor.
So she worked on the messages as her other tasks permitted, feeling on the one hand that she might be betraying her own agency and government, and feeling on the other that she might have a larger loyalty to the world.
Conflicted barely described it.
If messages from Germany to the Federal Reserve were also traveling to someone in the White House, then they were traveling in pouches she could not trace. E-mails would have been nice, but a lot of agencies relied on couriers for things that needed full secrecy. This town was awash in couriers. How could she possibly know which ones to watch?
Nor would watching them tell her a damn thing.
So, taking advantage of the quieter hours and feeling pressed by the increased nuclear saber-rattling from the Rice Administration since the Prague attack, she'd been staying later and later at her desk.
That night she finally let Terry in on the secret. Marriages couldn't withstand secrets, not secrets that were having such an effect on one of the spouses. She had to tell him why she was working so late so often. She had to tell him why she was so worried and distracted.
At first he was overjoyed to hear that Lawton was still alive. He even accepted Lawton's employment with a secret U.N. organization. But when she started talking about the encrypted messages…that was when he got tough.
"Let me see them," he said.
"But…"
"Miriam." His voice took on a warning edge she had never heard from him before. It was enough. She couldn't handle this alone any longer.
She went to her home office and took the papers out of her safe, then gave them to Terry. While he scanned them, she filled him in on what she knew. Which was little enough, actually.
"Basically," Terry said finally, having scanned all the e-mails, "Tom thinks there's a plant in the White House who's pushing for the use of nukes."
"That's the basic outline."
Terry nodded, his dark face creased with thought. "It does seem fishy. You said these messages originated from a private bank in Frankfurt and went directly to the Fed in Washington?"
"Yes."
He nodded again and lifted his gaze. "Have you ever heard my favorite conspiracy theory?"
"What's that?"
"That big money rules the world. Like a huge shadow government, bound by no law except to fulfill the…shareholders' own wishes. That wars are good for them because they generate profit. That peace is sometimes good because it generates investment. But basically, Miriam, they rule the roost, and decide when we have war and when we have peace."
Miriam was looking at him with astonishment. "What makes you think that?"
"Life. I'm a cop. A detective. I've been paying attention to the news for a long time. The news and editorial opinion. I can see the shadows behind the puppets. Always have."
He smiled crookedly. "Call me crazy if you want."
"I might have a couple of years ago. I can't now, Terry."
He rose, tossing the e-mails on the table, and began to pace their apartment. "I was thinking about moving closer to D.C. This commute is killing us both."
Miriam gaped. "What?"
"Just muttering. While you've been working all the time, I've been house hunting."
"Any luck?"
"Not yet." He turned and faced her. "And it's going to have to wait until we sort this out. Tom's right, Miriam. Someone is pushing Rice."
"How can you be sure of that?"
He held up the messages. "Maybe you should read these again. Or maybe you should just watch Rice's face when he makes a speech. Remember how he used to be? All folksy Southern charm? You couldn't help but like the guy, even if you didn't like his opinions. But now…" Terry shook his head. "Now he looks as if he's been gutted."
"Black Christmas gutted us all."
"That's not what I mean. There's something in his eyes. I don't think he believes what he's saying anymore."
"About using nuclear weapons?"
"About much of anything. I'm used to reading people's faces, honey. It's as if he's mouthing someone else's lines. So the question is, who in the government might have a link with that Frankfurt bank? Or with the people who are using the bank for a front?"
"Someone with banking connections." Miriam nodded. "Well, that covers about a quarter of the White House and cabinet."
Terry chuckled. "Ain't that the truth."
"But it would have to be someone in a position to talk to Rice privately. To really press him."
"To twist his arm with some kind of information. Rice doesn't strike me as the type to sell out for money."
"Me neither." Miriam thought for a few minutes, then rose from the couch and headed for her computer. "I need to do some background checks on Rice's senior appointees."
"I'll bring the coffee." Terry Tyson had no intention of being left out of this one.
Two hours later, they both spoke the same words at the same instant: Morgan-Redstone. Miriam looked up at Terry, and he nodded.
"It's got to be him."
Everyone in America, and many around the world, knew about the attempted assassination of Grant Lawrence. He had locked up the Democratic nomination with a near sweep of the Southern primaries and had just finished giving his victory speech in Tampa, Florida, when he was shot twice in the chest. Miraculously, Lawrence survived the shooting, but it had been a near-run thing, and he had been in and out of a coma for weeks afterward. As a result, the Democratic nomination had passed to Alabama Senator Harrison Rice.
But only a handful of people knew what had really happened in those fateful months. The official explanation was that Lawrence had been shot by a deranged loner, a former army private from Atlanta. And indeed, that man had pulled the trigger. But that had been only the tip of a larger conspiracy, including an Idaho rancher named Wes Dixon, who ran a training camp for Guatemalan insurgents. The attempted assassination—and the training camp—had been paid for by Edward Morgan, a senior vice president at his father's bank…Morgan-Redstone.
Miriam had led the FBI SWAT team that had taken down Dixon and his Guatemalan mercenaries. But Dixon had been killed in the firefight, and Edward Morgan had vanished in New York. With Morgan's disappearance, all ties between the assassination and Morgan-Redstone had evaporated. With no way to press the investigation forward, Miriam had given in to the inevitable and allowed the FBI to portray the Grant Lawrence shooting as an isolated act.
Perhaps not even Harrison Rice knew that he owed his presidency to a brutal, criminal act financed by Edward Morgan. There was certainly nothing in his behavior to suggest any involvement. While Morgan had been Rice's college roommate, Miriam had found no evidence linking Rice to the Lawrence shooting.
But neither Miriam nor Terry could see any reason for the nomination of Phillip Allen Bentley to the position of National Security Advisor. Bentley had no background in intelligence and had never belonged to any of the dozens of foreign policy think tanks that comprised the national security apparatus. Apart from a dry dissertation on the history of international credit banking in feudal Europe, there was no evidence that Bentley had any interest in or aptitude for a national security appointment.
And yet, there he was, nominated by Rice and swiftly confirmed by a nearly unanimous Senate.
Miriam was less interested in what Bentley's résumé lacked than what it said. For the fifteen years prior to his appointment, Phillip Allen Bentley had been a senior executive at Morgan-Redstone…and a personal protégé of Jonathan Morgan himself.
Jonathan Morgan was a star on the international banking scene. He had three times served on the board of directors of the World Bank and had headed a debt relief agency for Eastern European nations emerging from the Soviet Bloc. A thirty-year member of the
Council on Foreign Relations, Jonathan Morgan himself would have been a logical choice for National Security Advisor.
And Jonathan Morgan was Edward Morgan's father.
"It was a proxy nomination," Terry said. "Rice couldn't nominate Morgan—there would have been too many questions about his son's disappearance. So Bentley got the job instead."
"And he probably still answers to his old boss," Miriam said. "Morgan has close ties with the European banking community in Frankfurt. His son paid for the assassination attempt on Grant Lawrence. His protégé becomes National Security Advisor. And we have encrypted messages from a Frankfurt bank to someone who is close to the President. It all fits."
"Yes," Terry said. "It does. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
23
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Ahmed Ahsami reviewed the pages of transaction reports and banking network message traffic with the sharp, cold eye of a desert adder. His source in the Saudi bank had been eager to help after Ahmed had explained how the man's former contact, Yawi Hassan, had been killed. His source had used his access to the banking network, coupled with computer skills that stretched far outside the law, to unearth a mountain of data about international banking traffic from Frankfurt to individual Muslims and Islamic organizations. The man's eagerness had been both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that the man had done his research quickly. A curse in that the man had been so thorough that now Ahmed was forced to wade through hundreds of pages looking for the single thread he needed.
The call to maghrib, or sunset prayer, was a welcome distraction. Ahmed spread his prayer mat on the balcony outside his office and knelt facing Mecca.
In the name of the merciful and compassionate God. Praise belongs to God, the Lord of the worlds, the merciful, the compassionate, the ruler of the day of judgment! Thee we serve and Thee we ask for aid. Guide us in the right path, the path of those Thou art gracious to; not of those Thou art wroth with; nor of those who err.
