“Director’s office,” a fiftyish female voice answered.
“Goodley for Foley.”
“Please hold, Dr. Goodley.” Then: “Hi, Ben.”
“Hello, Director.” He felt it improper to first-name the DCI. He’d probably go back to work at Langley within the year, and not as a seventh-floor-rank official. “You have what I have?” The page was still warm in his hand from the printer.
“Iraq?”
“Right.”
“You must have read it twice, Ben. I just told Bert Vasco to get his ass up here.” CIA’s own Iraq desk was weak, both thought, while this State guy was very good indeed.
“Looks pretty hot to me.”
“Agreed,” Ed Foley replied, with an unseen nod. “Jesus, but they’re moving fast over there. Give me an hour, maybe ninety minutes.”
“I think the President needs to know,” Goodley said, with a voice that concealed the urgency he felt. Or so he thought.
“He needs to know more than we can tell him now. Ben?” the DCI added.
“Yes, Director?”
“Jack won’t kill you for patience, and we can’t do any more than watch it develop anyway. Remember, we can’t overload him with information. He doesn’t have the time to see it all anymore. What he sees has to be concise. That’s your job,” Ed Foley explained. “It’ll take you a few weeks to figure it out. I’ll help,” the DCI went on, reminding Goodley how junior he was.
“Okay. I’ll be waiting.” The line clicked off.
Goodley had about a minute during which he reread the NSA bulletin, and then the phone rang again.
“Dr. Goodley.”
“Doctor, this is the President’s office,” one of the senior secretaries said. “I have a Mr. Golovko on the President’s private line. Can you take the call?”
“Yes,” he replied, thinking, Oh, shit.
“Go ahead, please,” she said, clicking off the line.
“This is Ben Goodley.”
“This is Golovko. Who are you?”
“I am acting National Security Advisor to the President.” And I know who you are.
“Goodley?” Ben could hear the voice searching his memory. “Ah, yes, you are national intelligence officer who just learned to shave. My congratulations on your promotion.”
The gamesmanship was impressive, though Goodley figured that there was a file on the Russian’s desk with everything down to his shoe size. Even Golovko’s memory couldn’t be that good, and Goodley had been in the White House long enough that the word would have gotten out, and the RVS/KGB would have done its homework.
“Well, somebody has to answer the phones, Minister.” Gamesmanship could go two ways. Golovko wasn’t really a minister, though he acted as such, and that was techni-
cally a secret. It was a weak reply, but it was something. “What can I do for you?”
“You know the arrangement I have with Ivan Emme-tovich?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Very well, tell him that a new country is about to be born. It will be called the United Islamic Republic. It will include, for the moment, Iran and Iraq. I rather suspect that it will wish to grow further.”
“How reliable is that information, sir?” Better to be polite. It would make the Russian feel bigger.
“Young man, I would not make a report to your President unless I felt it to be reliable, but,” he added generously, “I understand you must ask the question. The point of origin for the report does not concern you. The reliability of the source is sufficient for me to pass the information along with my own confidence. There will be more to follow. Do you have similar indications?”
The question froze Goodley’s eyeballs in place, staring down at a blank spot on his desk. He had no guidance on this. Yes, he’d learned that President Ryan had discussed cooperation with Golovko, that he’d also discussed the matter with Ed Foley, and that both had decided to go forward with it. But nobody had told him the parameters for giving information back to Moscow, and he didn’t have time to call Langley for instructions, else he would appear weak to the Russians, and the Russians didn’t want America to appear weak at the moment, and he was the man on the spot, and he had to make a decision. That entire thought process required about a third of a second.
“Yes, Minister, we do. Your timing is excellent. Director Foley and I were just discussing the development.”
“Ah, yes, Dr. Goodley, 1 see that your signals people are as efficient as ever. What a pity that your human sources do not match their performance.”
Ben didn’t dare to respond at all to the observation, though its accuracy caused his stomach to contract. Good-ley had more respect for Jack Ryan than he did for any man, and now he remembered the admiration Jack had often expressed for the man on the other end of the phone.
Welcome to the bigs, kid. Don’t hang any curveballs. He ought to have said that Foley had called him.
“Minister, I will be speaking to President Ryan within the hour, and I will pass your information along. Thank you for your timely call, sir.”
“Good day, Dr. Goodley.”
United Islamic Republic, Ben read on his desk pad. There had once been a United Arab Republic, an unlikely alliance between Syria and Egypt doomed to failure in two respects. The separated countries had been fundamentally incompatible, and the alliance had been made only to destroy Israel, which had objected to the goal, and done so effectively. More to the point, a United Islamic Republic was a religious statement as much as a political one, because Iran was not an Arab nation–as Iraq was–but rather an Aryan one with different ethnic and linguistic roots. Islam was the world’s only major religion to condemn in its scripture all forms of racism and proclaim the equality of all men before God, regardless of color–a fact often overlooked by the West. So, Islam was overtly designed to be a unifying force, and this new notional country would play on that fact with its very name. That said a lot, enough that Golovko didn’t even need to explain it, and it also said that Golovko felt that he and Ryan were on the same wavelength. Goodley checked the wall clock again. It was nighttime in Moscow, too. Golovko was working late– well, not all that late for a senior official. Ben lifted the phone and hit #3 again. It took him less than a minute to summarize the call from Moscow.
“We can believe anything he says–on this issue, anyway. Sergey Nikolay’ch is a pro from way back. I imagine he twisted your tail just a little, right?” the DCI asked.
“Ruffled the fur some,” Goodley admitted.
“It’s a carryover from old days. They do like their status games. Don’t let it bother you, and don’t shoot back. Better just to ignore it,” Foley explained. “Okay, what’s he worried about?”
“A lot of republics with ‘-stan’ at the end,” Goodley blurted out, without thinking.
504
“Concur.” This came from another voice.
“Vasco?”
“Yeah, just walked in.” And then Goodley had to repeat what he’d told Ed Foley. Probably Mary Pat was there, too. Individually, both were good at what they did. In the same room, thinking together, they were a deadly weapon. It was something you had to see to understand, Ben knew.
“This looks to me like a big deal,” Goodley observed.
“Looks that way to me, too,” Vasco said over the speakerphone. “Let us kick a few things around. Be back to you in fifteen or twenty.”
“Would you believe Avi ben Jakob is checking in with us?” Ed reported, after a background noise on the line. “They must be having a really tough day.”
For the moment it was just irony that the Russians were both the first to check in with America (and that they were doing so at all), and that they were the only ones calling straight into the White House, beating the Israelis on both scores. But the amusement wouldn’t last, and all the players knew that. Israel was probably having the worst day of all. Russia was merely having a very bad one. And America was getting to share the experience.
IT WOULD HAVE been uncivilized to deny them a chance at prayer. Cruel though they were, and criminals though they had been, they had to have their chance at prayer, albeit a brief one. Each was in the presence of a learned mullah, who, with firm but not unkind voice, told them of their fates, and cited scripture, and spoke to them of their chance to reconcile with Allah before meeting Him face to face. Every one did–whether they believed in what they did was another issue, and one left for Allah to judge, but the mullahs had done their duty–and then every one was led out into the prison yard.
It was a sort of assembly-line process, carefully timed so that the three clergymen gave each condemned criminal exactly three times the interval required to take each out in his turn, tie him to the post, shoot him, remove the