“But summers here can be very unpleasant. Tell me, what’s it like in Bogota?”
“We are high up. It’s never terribly hot, but the sun can be punishing. This is a fine garden. My wife loves flowers. She’s becoming famous,” the ambassador said. “She’s developed her own new type of rose. Somehow she cross-
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bred yellow and pink and produced something that’s almost golden in color.”
“What does she call it?” Ryan’s entire knowledge of roses was that you had to be careful about the branches, or stalks, or whatever you called the thorny part. But the cameras were rolling.
“In English, it would be ‘Dawn Display.’ All the good names for roses, it seems, have already been taken,” Ochoa noted, with a friendly smile.
“Perhaps we might have some for the garden here?”
“Maria would be greatly honored, Mr. President.”
“Then we have more than one agreement, senor.” Another handshake.
Ochoa knew the game, too. For the cameras his Latin face broke into the friendliest of diplomatic smiles, but the handshake also had genuine warmth in it. “Dawn Display—for a truly new day between us, Mr. President.”
“My word on it.” And they took their leave. Ryan walked back into the West Wing. Arnie was waiting inside the door. It was widely known but little acknowledged that the Oval Office was wired like a pinball machine–or more properly, a recording studio.
“You’re learning. You’re really learning,” the chief of staff observed.
“That one was easy, Arnie. We’ve been fucking those people over for too long. All I had to do was tell the truth. I want that legislation fast-tracked. When will the draft be ready?”
“Couple of weeks. It’s going to raise some hell,” van Damm warned.
“I don’t care,” the President replied. “How about we try something that might work instead of spending money for show all the time? We’ve tried shooting the airplanes down. We’ve tried murder. We’ve tried interdiction. We’ve tried going after pushers. We’ve exhausted all the other possibilities, and they don’t work because there’s too much money involved for people not to give it a go. How about we go after the source of the problem for a change? That’s where the problem starts, and that’s where the money comes from.”
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“I’m just telling you it’s going to be hard.”
“What useful thing isn’t?” Ryan asked, heading back to his office. Instead of the direct door off the corridor, he went through the secretaries’ room. “Ellen?” he said, gesturing to the Oval Office.
“Am I corrupting you?” Mrs. Sumter asked, bringing her cigarettes, to the semi-concealed smiles of the other ladies in the room.
“Cathy might see it that way, but we don’t have to tell her, do we?” In the sanctity of his office, the President of the United States lit up a skinny woman’s cigarette, celebrating with one addiction an attack on another–and, oh, by the way, having neutralized a potential diplomatic earthquake.
THE LAST OF the travelers left America, strangely enough, from Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, via Northwest and KLM flights. Badrayn would sweat it out for hours more. In the interest of security, none of them had so much as a telephone number to call to announce success, warn of failure, or to give to whomever might have arrested them, tying them to the UIR with something more than their own words. Instead, Badrayn had people at all of the return airports with flight schedules. When the travelers got off their flights in Europe and were visually recognized, then calls would be made circuitously, from public phones, using pre-paid and anonymous calling cards.
The successful return of the travelers to Tehran would start the next operation. Sitting in an office there, Badrayn had nothing more to do than look at the clock and worry. He was logged onto the Net via his computer, and had been scanning the news wires, and finding nothing of note. Nothing would be certain until all the travelers got back and made their individual reports. Not even then, really. It would take three or four days, maybe five, before the e-mail lines to CDC would be screaming. Then he’d know.
39
FACE TIME
THE FLIGHT ACROSS THE pond was pleasant. The VC-20B was more a mini-airliner than a business jet, and the Air Force crewmen, who looked to Clark as though they might be old enough to take driving lessons, kept things smooth. The aircraft began its descent into the enveloping darkness of the European night, finally landing at a military airfield west of Paris.
There was no arrival ceremony per se, but Adler was an official of ministerial rank, and he had to be met, even on a covert mission. In this case, a high-level official–a civil servant–walked up to the aircraft as soon as the engines wound down. Adler recognized him as the stairs descended.
“Claude!”
“Scott. Congratulations on your promotion, my old friend!” In deference to American tastes, kisses were not exchanged.
Clark and Chavez scanned the area for danger, but all they saw were French troops, or maybe police–they couldn’t tell at this distance–standing in a circle, with weapons in evidence. Europeans had a penchant for showing people machine guns, even on city streets. It probably had a salutary effect on street muggings, John thought, but it seemed a little excessive. In any case, they’d expected no special dangers in France, and indeed there were none. Adler and his friend got in an official vehicle. Clark and Chavez got in the chase car. The flight crew would head off for mandated crew rest, which was USAF-talk for having a few with their French colleagues.
“We go to the lounge for a few minutes before your aircraft is ready,” a French air force colonel explained. “Perhaps you wish to freshen up?”
“Merci, mon commandant,” Ding replied. Yeah, he thought, the Frenchies do know how to make you feel safe.
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“Thank you for helping to arrange this,” Adler said to his friend. They’d been FSOs together, once in Moscow and once more in Pretoria. Both had specialized in sensitive assignments.
“It is nothing, Scott.” Which it wasn’t, but diplomats talk like diplomats even when they don’t have to. Claude had once helped him get through a divorce in a uniquely French way, all the while speaking as though conducting treaty negotiations. It was almost a joke between the two. “Our ambassador reports that he will be receptive to the right sort of approach.”
“And what might that be?” SecState asked his colleague. They got out at what appeared to be the base officers club, and a minute later found themselves in a private dining room, with a carafe of fine Beaujolais on the table. “What’s your take on this, Claude? What does Daryaei want?”
The shrug was as much a part of the French character as the wine, which Claude poured. They toasted, and the wine was superb even by the standards of the French diplomatic service. Then came business.
“We’re not sure. We wonder about the death of the Turkoman Premier.”
“You don’t wonder about the death of–”
“I do not believe anyone has doubts about that, Scott, but that is a long-standing business, is it not?”
“Not exactly.” Another sip. “Claude, you’re still the best authority on wine I know. What’s he thinking about?”
“Probably many things. His domestic troubles–you Americans don’t appreciate them as well as you should. His people are restless, less so now that he’s conquered Iraq, but the problem is still there. We feel that he must consolidate before he does anything else. We also feel that the process may turn out to be unsuccessful. We are hopeful, Scott. We are hopeful that the extreme aspects of the regime will moderate over time, perhaps not very much time. It must. It is no longer the eighth century, even in that part of the world.”
Adler took a few seconds to consider that, then nodded thoughtfully. “Hope you’re right. The guy’s always scared me.”
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“All men are mortal. He is seventy-two, and he works a hard schedule. In any case, we have to check on him, do we not? If he moves, then we will move, together, as we have done in the past. The Saudis and we have talked on this matter also. They are concerned, but not overly so. Our assessment is the same. We counsel you to keep an open mind.”
Claude might be correct, Adler thought. Daryaei HUY old, and consolidating the rule over a newly acquired country wasn’t exactly a trivial undertaking. More than that, the easiest way to bring a hostile country down, if you have the patience for it, was to be nice to the bastards. A little trade, a few journalists, some CNN, and a couple of G-rated movies, such things could do wonders. If you have the patience. If you had the time. There were plenty of Iranian kids in American universities. That could be the most effective means for America to change the UIR. Problem was, Daryaei had to know that, too. And so here he was, Scott Adler, Secretary of State, a post he’d never expected to approach, much less have, and he was supposed to know what to do next. But he’d read enough diplomatic history to know better.