“You are talking about military intervention?”
“That is precisely what I am talking about, Mr. Vanek.”
“And Israel believes airstrikes will accomplish this?” Vanek asked. “Or are you considering a full military invasion?”
“Israel cannot win a conventional ground war against Iran by itself,” Safran said.
“So you want the United States to commit forces.” Vanek shook his head. “That will not happen, Mr. Ambassador.”
Safran leaned forward. “Then we will continue our current operations,” he said. “But even if we are able to succeed, we can only slow the bleeding. Without a more direct and drastic response to Iran’s advancing nuclear weapons development, the Middle East will hemorrhage, and America will have no choice but to get its hands dirty.”
“The Middle East has been hemorrhaging for centuries,” Vanek barked. “And how dare you imply the U.S. has been sitting on its hands while the whole region goes up in flames. We have lost thousands of American lives fighting two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan since 9/11 trying to stabilize that region.”
“And it is those wars which caused the chaos that exists there now,” Safran said, equally loud. “Perhaps if America had chosen the right enemy, we would never have witnessed the rise of ISIS, and Iran would not have conducted a nuclear test.”
“Kurt, Mr. Safran, please calm down,” Ambrosi pleaded. “This argument will get us nowhere, and we are losing focus on why we are here in the first place.”
The two men quieted. “Thank you, Leo,” Vanek said after sipping water from a glass pre-positioned on the table by the situation room staffers before the meeting began. He looked up at the Israeli ambassador across the table. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador.”
“No apology needed, Mr. Vanek. I know your son lost a leg in Afghanistan and your wife lost a brother in Iraq. It is I who should apologize for not being more sensitive to your feelings.”
Safran said the right words, but there was a hint of insincerity in his voice. Unsure if Vanek made the same observation, Ambrosi spoke up before the shouting began again. “Mr. Ambassador, in the absence of putting boots on the ground in Iran, perhaps America could offer a more direct level of intelligence sharing that will help both of our countries better understand where Iran is in its efforts to weaponize its nuclear material. America would certainly benefit from a more solid read-out on any ballistic missile advancements that may have occurred in violation of the sanctions. And we could possibly provide Israel with whatever MASINT we collected on the detonation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambrosi,” Safran said. “This arrangement may be better discussed between our respective intelligence chiefs.”
“Certainly,” Ambrosi said.
“I would caution against an increase in intel-sharing right now,” Parker said. “The world is going to be focused on what either of our countries do in response to the nuclear test, and if America is implicated in any way with unilateral Israeli actions, it could torpedo any chance at a diplomatic solution to this crisis.” Parker looked around the table for any reactions. Safran and Vanek seemed to be considering Parker’s statement, but Ambrosi gave his deputy an unmistakable evil eye before writing a note on the paper in front of him. Miller’s eyes narrowed.
“I will bring up the intelligence sharing proposal with the president this afternoon,” Vanek told Safran. “But I can tell you that he has already spoken with your prime minister, and we are looking into fast-tracking the delivery of improved Patriot missile batteries to complement your Iron Dome system. The U.S. is already preparing to announce more sanctions in an effort to bring Iran back to the negotiating table, though I would comment off the record that our negotiating position is considerably weaker right now.”
“I’d say,” Parker muttered under his breath, grinning. His grin slowly disappeared when he caught Miller’s admonishing glare from across the table.
“The president has agreed to station additional tanker aircraft in Turkey for future joint use if those negotiations fail,” Vanek said. “As always, the president is keeping all options open. Our position, however, is that the time is not right for any offensive action, and all we ask is for more patience.”
Safran began to say something, but Vanek cut him off. “We understand that Israel has been more than patient over the past decade. More patient, perhaps, than anyone should have expected, given Iran’s past declarations and deceptions. It is a credit to the great State of Israel that you have exercised such measured restraint, limiting any military action against Iran to the airstrikes on its nuclear facilities five years ago. All our president is asking is that Israel continue that restraint for just a little longer while we try to solve this diplomatically.”
Safran sighed. “I am a diplomat, Mr. Vanek, and I too hope we can contain Iran through diplomatic means. But if diplomacy fails, you will see me again. Let us hope it is as partners and not as opponents.” He stood up and shook Vanek’s hand as everyone else in the room took the cue that the meeting was over.
“Let’s hope I see you before then, Mr. Ambassador,” Vanek said. “And perhaps it will be with cocktails in our hands and under lighter circumstances.”
A Marine captain entered the room and escorted the two Israelis out. When the door shut, Vanek turned to Ambrosi. “That went well,” he said.
“It did?” Ambrosi asked.
“Well, except for that asshole’s comment of us not doing anything over in the sandbox.” Vanek pocketed his pen and zipped his notebook shut. “Old Moshe there got an initiation of what it’s like when you come into the White House without doing your homework, and using day-old talking points.” He added, “If you send me your notes, Leo, I’ll consolidate them with mine and brief the boss on the meeting when I see him after dinner.”
“Sure thing,” Ambrosi answered. When Vanek left, he turned to Parker. “Sit down, Scott.” Parker flipped the business card Miller slid across the table to him before leaving, put it in his pocket, and did what he was told.
Ambrosi leaned on the table next to Parker. “Do you know why we were invited to this meeting?”
Parker quickly tried to think of a good answer to what he was sure was a trick question. Two seconds. Nothing. He gave up. “No.”
“We...or more accurately I was invited to give the impression of a confident administration that was looking for realistic ways we could work with Israel on this while at the same time keeping them from going off half-assed and starting another war that, frankly, we’re not ready for. I wanted you to come along when I found out there would be two of them. It’s always better to have more people on your side of the table to make the other guy a little uncomfortable.”
“I figured that much,” Parker said.
“What I didn’t bring you along for was for you to open your goddamn mouth!” Ambrosi wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth. “I know the fucking risk of sharing intelligence with those bastards. And I damn-sure didn’t need you to point that out in front of them. You made me look like an idiot in here.”
“They know we’re not stupid,” Parker said. “I didn’t tell them anything they don’t already know.”
“Then you didn’t have to say anything at all. Which was exactly what you were supposed to do.”
“With all due respect, a quick ‘Hey Scott, don’t say anything when the Israelis get here’ would have done the trick.”
“‘Hey Scott, don’t ever speak in a meeting again unless you are asked a direct question.’ How’s that? Is that better?”
Parker pursed his lips. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“Can I go now?”
“Please.” As Parker stood up to leave, Ambrosi said, “One more thing.” He looked at Parker and waited until the steam stopped coming from his subordinate’s ears. “Do you know what operations Safran was talking about continuing? He talked as if COS knew Israel was up to something. Another round of airstrikes, maybe?”
Parker smiled inwar
dly. “I’m not sure,” he lied. You really are an idiot, aren’t you? he thought. “Maybe it has to do with those Mossad operatives who keep getting killed that the Iranian and Arab media are reporting as failed assassination attempts. I mean, if you want to believe those sources.”
Ambrosi thought about that for a few seconds. “Well, if Israel’s playing the assassination game, I think we’re right to keep out of it—even if it’s just giving them intel,” he said, subtly acknowledging Parker’s earlier comment without saying so.
Parker slid his hands in his pockets and nodded agreement. His fingers brushed Miller’s card. “Yeah, I’m not sure we need to give them any more help than we already are.”
Chapter 16
Casey paid for their food, and he and Andie sat at an open pub-style table in the back of the Potbelly Sandwich Works on 11th Street NW. Casey placed his shopping bag on the empty chair next to him.
“So you think the Seahawks are gonna repeat this year?” Andie asked after they both finished their first bites.
Casey wiped the grease from the toasted Italian sandwich off his chin. “God, I hope not. I mean, I’m not cheering for New England, necessarily, but I can’t stand Richard Sherman.”
“That man talks too much,” Andie agreed. “Did you see Roddy White’s response on ESPN to Sherman’s criticism of him and Julio?”
Casey nodded as he tried to swallow another part of his lunch, forgoing the napkin and clearing the grease drippings with the back of his hand, which he then “cleaned” by wiping it on his jeans. “That was awesome,” he said. “Roddy is like a college professor when he breaks down Sherman’s schoolyard rants.”
“Roddy White,” Andie said looking off in the distance, obviously focused on a vision that only she could see. “Now that’s a man I’d cook grits for every morning.”
“I like grits,” Casey said with raised eyebrows.
Andie came back to reality and looked at Casey across the table. “There’s a Cracker Barrel in Dumfries where your cracker-ass can get all the cheese grits you want,” she said and bit into her ham sandwich.
Casey smiled. “I do love cheese grits.”
“Speaking of grits, how are you and Susan doing?” Andie asked.
“All right, I guess.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
Casey washed down the last of his sandwich with a sip of water and said, “We’re still getting used to being just friends.”
“You mean you’re just getting used to it,” Andie said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not so obvious. But I know y’all haven’t been dating for a few years, and from what Susan told me, she’s got a new man anyway. That means she’s used to y’all being just friends, so by deduction, you’re the only one in that relationship still getting used to it.”
“I guess you’re right, but...wait...she told you she has a new boyfriend?”
Andie smiled. “Honey, Susan and I bonded during all that Cogburn shit in New York. We call each other a few times a year just to touch base. I’m guessing you didn’t know that.”
“What? No, I didn’t know that,” Casey said. “If you knew we weren’t dating anymore, why’d you ask in the first place?”
Her smile became a laugh. “Damn, I didn’t know you were so sensitive about it,” she said. “I’m sorry. Really. I just wanted to know how things were going for you. I get to talk to Susan every few months or so, but the first time I hear from you in almost four years, I get held hostage at gunpoint in my own apartment. That gave me the impression that you’ve been pretty busy since I left.”
“So why didn’t you just ask how I was doing?”
“Because it’s usually the reaction to a question that tells the true story, rather than the answer,” Andie said. “Susan told me you were getting along fine with her new beau, but your reaction tells me that’s not exactly true.”
Casey had recovered from the unexpected investigation and analysis of his defunct love life, and he leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I get along with Dylan just fine. He’s a good guy. Hell, I’m even okay with Susan and I being just friends. We haven’t dated for forever, so I’ve adjusted, no problem. You just happened to ask me how we’re doing like less than a week after Susan got engaged.”
“She got engaged?”
“Yes, ma’am. She and Dylan are actually getting married,” Casey said. “I guess that’s really the part I’m gonna have to get used to. Going out for a beer with a buddy who happens to be dating someone else is one thing. Going for a drink with someone else’s wife is something totally different.”
“Only if the husband is an asshole.”
“What?”
“If it’s a jealous husband who doesn’t trust his wife then, sure, there might be problems,” Andie said. “But if Dylan’s a good guy like you said, and you both get along okay, there’s no reason you can’t still be Susan’s friend. If anything, it sounds like maybe the only problem here is you, Casey.”
“Me?”
“Sure. You’re just afraid this Dylan character is going to take away what you think is yours, and he’s not going to share.”
“Look. Susan’s her own person. She’s not mine. She never was.”
“Exactly, Casey. That’s why you shouldn’t worry about losing Susan as a friend. She’s not going to let her marriage take that away. It just changes the routine, not the friendship.”
Casey looked at his empty plate and smiled. “That’s what Susan told me.”
“Well, she’s right,” Andie said. “And so am I. So what’s in the bag?” she asked, ending the impromptu lesson from “Dear Andie.”
Casey was thankful for the change of subject and put the Barnes and Noble bag on the table after pushing his plate to the side. He reached in and handed the book to Andie.
She examined the cover. “Withering on the Vine. So they actually had it.”
“Two more copies left if you want one. Same building as here, just around the corner.”
Andie handed the book back. “No, thank you. Are you gonna read it?”
Casey checked the thickness of Raad’s book and put it back in the bag. “Maybe later. I just bought it so Raad could autograph it.”
“Then you can sell it on eBay?”
“No,” Casey laughed. He checked around the room to make sure the lunchtime crowd was too busy with their own conversations and food to be listening. “I’m meeting Raad at 1500 today. I mean, three o’clock. I told him I wanted to have him sign his book before I went back to New York. But Cohen wants me to try and find out as much information about his near-term schedule as I can or any other clues in his office that might lead us to whoever his contact is.”
Andie stirred the ice in her sweet tea and looked up at Casey. “And you trust Cohen? You think he’s right about Raad?”
“I do now.”
“And that’s not because he had a gun in your face?” Andie asked.
“That was no different than the first time we met.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he tried to kill me, but he missed.” He thought of Mike Tunney, who wasn’t so lucky. “But then he saved my life a week later. So, yeah, I trust him. As much as you can trust any assassin, I suppose.”
Chapter 17
Casey knocked on Raad’s door at the Jennings Institute after he already had two feet in the room. Raad jumped in his chair and knocked over a glass of thick, syrupy juice from some fruit Casey couldn’t identify. Raad quickly grabbed the overturned glass, salvaging half of its contents. “Oh shit! I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Casey said, looking around for anything to help wipe up the mess that somehow missed two stacks of paper. The desk calendar was another story.
Raad muttered something Casey couldn’t understand and pulled a handkerchief from the suit jacket on the back of his chair. “You want me to grab come paper towels from the head?” Casey asked as Raad did his best to sweep the red-brown liquid into a
manageable puddle. Casey saw a folded newspaper to Raad’s left with yellow highlights marking a few words here and there. A capless marker on the carpet told Casey that Raad was making the notations when the accident happened.
“No, no, it is all right,” Raad said, declining Casey’s offer.
Casey bent down to pick up the fallen highlighter. When he straightened, Raad took the saturated linen and dropped it in the waste basket behind him. Casey handed Raad the highlighter and saw that the newspaper was no longer there. Guess that got ruined, too, he thought.
“You are early,” Raad said, inspecting his white oxford shirt for any stray splash marks.
“I know,” Casey said. “I thought the metro ride was going to be longer. I hope you don’t mind. Well, except for making you spill your drink.”
Raad smiled, relaxed after the clean-up job was complete. “Of course not.” He let out a long breath and said, “So you are leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I wanted to get you to sign your book today,” Casey said as he handed Raad the copy of Withering on the Vine he purchased a few hour earlier. “I’m driving back early in the morning and knew I wouldn’t get a chance to see you again. At least not until the next time you come up to New York.”
Raad took the book from Casey and opened it on top of one of the paper piles that was spared the juice attack. “I am glad you came, Casey,” he said as he wrote a note on the book’s title page. “It is always a pleasure to see you, and I do not know the next time I will be back to New York.”
Casey placed the book back in the plastic bag when Raad was done and took a seat in the leather chair in front of the desk. “May I?” he asked, realizing Raad never actually invited him to sit, but wanting to stay and chat. He was there for more than just an autograph, after all.
“Please,” Raad said. “There is something you wish to talk about?”
“Thank you.” Casey set the bag on the floor next to the chair. Casey appeared nervous—only partially acting. “Are you still working with Dr. Brackmann?”
Truth in Hiding Page 9
