“Then why are the Saudis low-keying this?”
“You told me that Prince Ali gave you another impression?”
Ryan nodded. “That’s right. Go on.”
“The Kingdom is a little schizophrenic. They like us, and they trust us as strategic partners, but they also dislike us and distrust us as a culture. It’s not even that simple, and it goes round and round, but they’re afraid that too much exposure to the West will adversely affect their society. They’re highly conservative on what we call social issues, like when our Army was over there in ’91, and they requested that Army chaplains remove the religious insignia from their uniforms, and seeing women drive cars and carry guns drove them a little nuts. So, on one hand, they depend on us as guarantor of their security– Prince Ali keeps asking you about that, right?–but on the other hand they worry that in protecting them we might mess up their country. It keeps coming back to religion. They’d probably prefer to make a deal with Daryaei than to have to invite us back to guard their border, and so the majority of their government is going to run down that track in the knowledge that we will come in if asked. Kuwait’s going to be a different story. If we ask to be allowed to stage an exercise, they’ll say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat, even if the Saudis ask them not to.
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Good news, Daryaei knows that, and he can’t move all that fast. If he starts moving troops south–”
“The Agency will give us warning,” Goodley said confidently. “We know what to look for, and they’re not sophisticated enough to hide it.”
“If we run troops into Kuwait now, it will be perceived as an aggressive act,” Adler warned. “Better we should meet with Daryaei first and sound him out.”
“Just so we give him the right signal,” Vasco put in.
“Oh, we won’t make that mistake, and I think he knows that the status of the Gulf countries is a top-drawer item with us. No mixed signals this time.” Ambassador April Glaspie had been accused of giving such a signal to Saddam Hussein in the summer of 1990–but she’d denied Hussein’s account, and the latter wasn’t all that reliable a source of information. Maybe it had been a linguistic nuance. Most likely of all, he’d heard exactly what he’d wanted to hear and not what had actually been said, a habit frequently shared by heads of state and children.
“How fast can you set it up?” the President asked.
“Pretty fast,” the Secretary of State replied.
“Do it,” Ryan ordered. “All possible speed. Ben?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I talked with Robby Jackson already. Coordinate with him for a plan to get a modest security force rapid-deployed over there. Enough to show that we’re interested, not enough to provoke them. Let’s also call Kuwait and tell them that we’re here if they need us, and that we can deploy to their country if they so request. Who’s on-deck for this?”
“Twenty-fourth Mech, Fort Stewart, Georgia. I checked,” Goodley said, rather proud of himself. “Their second brigade is on rotating alert-status now. Also a brigade of the 82nd at Fort Bragg. With the equipment warehoused in Kuwait, we can do the match-up and be rolling in as little as forty-eight hours. I’d also advise increasing the readiness state of the Maritime Pre-Positioning Ships at Diego Garcia. That we can do quietly.”
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“Nice job, Ben. Call the SecDef and tell him I want it done–quietly.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’ll tell Daryaei that we offer a friendly hand to the United Islamic Republic,” Adler said. “Also that we’re committed to peace and stability in that region, and that means territorial integrity. I wonder what he’ll say . . . ?”
Eyes turned to Bert Vasco, who was learning to curse his newly acquired status as resident genius. “He might just have wanted to rattle their cage. I don’t think he wants to rattle ours.”
“That’s your first hedge,” Ryan observed.
“Not enough information,” Vasco replied. “I don’t see that he wants a conflict with us. That happened once, and everybody watched. Yes, he doesn’t like us. Yes, he doesn’t like the Saudis or any of the other states. But, no, he doesn’t want to take us on. Maybe he could knock them all off. That’s a military call, and I’m just an FSO. But not with us in the game, and he knows it. So, political pressure on Kuwait and the Kingdom, sure. Beyond that, however, I don’t see enough to be worried about.”
“Yet,” the President added.
“Yes, sir, yet,” Vasco agreed.
“Am I leaning on you too hard, Bert?”
“It’s okay, Mr. President. At least you listen to me. It wouldn’t hurt for us to generate a Special National Intelligence Estimate of the UIR’s full capabilities and intentions. I need broader access to what the intel community’s generating.”
Jack turned. “Ben, the SNIE is ordered. Bert’s on the team with full access, by my order. You know, guys, giving orders can be fun,” the President added, with a smile to break up the tension that the meeting had generated. “This is a potential problem, but not a ball-buster yet, correct?” There were nods. “Okay. Thank you, gentlemen. Let’s keep an eye on this one.”
SINGAPORE AIRLINES FLIGHT 26 landed five minutes later, coming to the terminal at 10:25 A.M. The first-class passengers, having enjoyed wider, softer seats, now en-
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joyed quicker access to the entry rigmarole which America inflicts on her visitors. The traveler recovered his two-suiter from the carousel, and with his carry-on slung on his other shoulder, picked a line to stand in, in his hand held his entry card, which declared nothing of interest to the United States government. The truth would not have been pleasing to them in any case.
“Hello,” the inspector said, taking the card and scanning it. The passport came next. It seemed an old one, its pages liberally covered with exit and entry stamps. He found a blank page and prepared to make a new mark. “Purpose of your visit to America?”
“Business,” the traveler replied. “I am here for the auto show at Javits Center.”
“Uh-huh.” The inspector had scarcely heard the answer. The stamp was placed and the visitor pointed to another line. There his bags were X-rayed instead of opened. “Anything to declare?”
“No.” Simple answers were best. Another inspector looked at the TV display of the bag and saw nothing interesting. The traveler was waved through, and he collected his bags from the conveyor and walked out to where the taxis were.
Amazing, he thought, finding a place in another line, and getting into a cab in less than five minutes. His first concern, being caught at the customs checkpoint, was behind him. For his next, the taxi he was in could not have been pre-selected for him. He’d fumbled with his bags and let a woman go ahead of him in order to keep that from happening. Now he slumped back in his seat and made a show of looking around, while in reality looking to see if there was a car following the cab into town. The pre-lunchtime traffic was so dense that it hardly seemed possible, all the more so that he was in one of thousands of yellow vehicles, darting in and out of traffic like cattle in a stampede. About the only bad news was that his hotel was sufficiently far from the convention center that he’d need another cab. Well, that couldn’t be helped, and he needed to check in first anyway.
Another thirty minutes and he was in the hotel, in the elevator, going up to the sixth floor, a helpful bellman
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holding his two-suiter while the traveler retained his carry-on. He tipped the bellman two dollars–he’d been briefed on what to tip; better to give a modest one than to be remembered as one who’d tipped too much or not at all– which was taken with gratitude, but not too much. With his entry tasks complete, the traveler unpacked his suits and shirts, also removing extraneous items from his carry-on. The shaving kit he left in, using what the hotel provided to re-shave his bristly face after a cleansing shower. Despite the tension, he was amazed at how good he felt. He’d been on the go for–what? Twenty-two hours? Something like that. But he’d gotten a lot of sleep, and air travel didn’t make him anxious, as it did for so many. He ordered lunch from the room-service menu, then dressed, and slinging his carry-on over his shoulder, walked downstairs and got a cab for the Javits Center. The auto show, he thought. He’d always liked cars.
Behind him in space and time, most of the nineteen others were still in the air. Some were just landing–Boston first, then more in New York, and one at Dulles–to make their own way through customs, testing their knowledge and their luck against the Great Satan, or whatever rubbish Daryaei termed their collective enemy. Satan, after all, had great powers and was worthy of respect. Satan could look in a man’s eyes and see his thoughts, almost as Allah could. No, these Americans were functionaries, only dangerous to them if given warning.