“What do you suppose it costs, Domingo?”
“Looks like twenty-one carat, feels like it too…. cou-pla grand, easy.”
“Would you believe seven hundred?”
“You related to the guy, John?” Chavez asked with a laugh. The laugh stopped. “I thought they didn’t like us here?”
“Things change,” John said quietly, quoting the goldsmith.
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“HOW BAD WAS it?” Cathy asked.
“One hundred four survivors, it says, some pretty beat up, ninety confirmed dead, about thirty still unaccounted for, meaning they’re dead, too, just haven’t identified the body parts yet,” Jack said, reading the dispatch just brought to the bedroom door by Agent Raman. “Sixteen Americans in the survivor category. Five dead. Nine unknown and presumed dead. Christ, there were forty PRC citizens aboard.” He shook his head.
“How come–if they don’t get along–”
“Why do they do so much business? They do, and that’s a fact, honey. They spit and snarl at each other like alley cats, but they need each other, too.”
“What will we do?” his wife asked.
“I don’t know yet. We’re saving the press release for tomorrow morning, when we have more information. How the hell am I supposed to sleep on a night like this?” the President of the United States asked. “We have fourteen dead Americans halfway around the world from here. I was supposed to protect them, wasn’t I? I’m not supposed to let people kill our citizens.”
“People die every day, Jack,” the First Lady pointed out.
“Not from air-to-air missiles.” Ryan put the dispatch on his night table and switched off the light, wondering when sleep would come, wondering how the meeting would go in Tehran.
IT STARTED WITH handshakes. A foreign ministry official met them outside the building. The French ambassador handled introductions, and everyone swiftly moved inside, the better to avoid the coverage of a TV camera, though none appeared to be in evidence on the street. Clark and Chavez played their parts, standing close to their principal, but not too close, looking around nervously, as they were supposed to do.
Secretary Adler followed the official, with everyone else in trail. The French ambassador stopped in the anteroom with the others, as Adler and his guide went all the
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way into the rather modest official office of the UIR’s spiritual leader.
“I welcome you in peace,” Daryaei said, rising from his chair to greet his guest. He spoke through an interpreter. It was a normal ploy for such meetings. It made for greater precision in communications–and also if something went badly wrong, it could be said that the interpreter had made the mistake, which gave both sides a convenient way out. “Allah’s blessing on this meeting.”
“Thank you for receiving me on such short notice,” Adler said, taking his seat.
“You have come far. Your journey was a good one?” Daryaei inquired pleasantly. The entire ritual would be pleasant, or at least the beginning of it.
“It was uneventful,” Adler allowed. He struggled not to yawn or show fatigue. Three cups of strong European coffee helped, though they made his stomach a little jumpy. Diplomats in serious meetings were supposed to act like surgeons in an operating room, and he had long practice in showing none of his emotions, jumpy stomach or not.
“I regret that we cannot show you more of our city. There is so much history and beauty here.” Both men waited for the words to be translated. The translator was thirtyish, male, intense, and, Adler saw . . . afraid of Daryaei? he wondered. He was probably a ministry official, dressed in a suit that needed a little pressing, but the Ayatollah was in robes, emphasizing his national and clerical identity. Mahmoud Haji was grave, but not hostile in demeanor–and, strangely, he seemed totally lacking in curiosity.
“Perhaps the next time I visit.”
A friendly nod. “Yes.” This was said in English, which reminded Adler that the man understood his visitor’s language. Nothing all that unusual in form, SecState noted.
“It has been a long time since there were direct contacts between your country and mine, certainly at this level.”
“This is true, but we welcome such contacts. How may I be of service to you, Secretary Adler?”
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“If you do not object, I would like to discuss stability in this region.”
“Stability?” Daryaei asked innocently. “What do you mean?”
“The establishment of the United Islamic Republic has created the largest country in the region. This is a matter of concern to some.”
“I would say that we have improved stability. Was not the Iraqi regime the destabilizing influence? Did not Iraq start two aggressive wars? We certainly did no such thing.”
“This is true,” Adler agreed.
“Islam is a religion of peace and brotherhood,” Daryaei went on, speaking as the teacher he’d been for years. Probably a tough one, Adler thought to himself, with steel under the gentle voice.
“That is also true, but in the world of men the rules of religion are not always followed by those who call themselves religious,” the American pointed out.
“Other countries do not accept the rule of God as we do. Only in the recognition of that rule can men hope to find peace and justice. That means more than saying the words. One must also live the words.”
And thank you for the Sunday school lesson, Adler thought, with a respectful nod. Then why the hell do you support Hezbollah?
“My country wishes no more than peace in this region–throughout the world, for that matter.”
“As is indeed the wish of Allah, as revealed to us through the Prophet.”
He was sticking to the script, Adler saw. Once upon a time, President Jimmy Carter had dispatched an emissary to visit this man’s boss, Khomeini, at his exile home in France. The Shah had been in deep political trouble then, and the opposition had been sounded out, just to hedge America’s bets. The emissary had come home after the meeting to tell his President that Khomeini was a “saint.” Carter had accepted the report at face value, and brought about the removal of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, allowing the “saint” to supplant him.
Oops.
The next administration had dealt with the same man
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and gotten nothing more for it than a scandal and world ridicule.
Ouch.
Those were mistakes Adler was determined not to repeat.
“It is also one of my country’s principles that international borders are to be honored. Respect for territorial integrity is the sine qua non of regional and global stability.”
“Secretary Adler, all men are brothers, this is the will of Allah. Brothers may quarrel from time to time, but to make war is hateful to God. In any case, I find the substance of your remarks somewhat unsettling. You seem to suggest that we have unfriendly intentions to our neighbors. Why do you say such a thing?”
“Excuse me, I think you misunderstand. I make no such suggestions. I have come merely to discuss mutual concerns.”
“Your country and its associates and allies depend on this region for their economic health. We will not do harm to that. You need our oil. We need the things that oil money can buy. Ours is a trading culture. You know that. Our culture is also Islamic, and it is a source of great pain to me that the West seems never to appreciate the substance of our Faith. We are not barbarians, despite what your Jewish friends may say. We have, in fact, no religious quarrel with the Jews. Their patriarch, Abraham, came from this region. They were the first to proclaim the true God, and truly there should be peace between us.”
“It pleases me to hear those words. How may we bring this peace about?” Adler asked, wondering when the last time had been that someone had tried to drop a whole olive tree on his head.
“With time, and with talk. Perhaps it is better that we should have direct contacts. They, too, are people of trade in addition to being people of faith.”
Adler wondered what he meant by that. Direct contacts with Israel. Was it an offer, or a sop to toss at the American government?
“And your Islamic neighbors?” ‘
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“We share the Faith. We share oil. We share a culture. We are already one in so many ways.”
OUTSIDE, CLARK, CHAVEZ, and the ambassador sat quietly. The office personnel studiously ignored them, after having provided the usual refreshments. The security people stood about, not looking at the visitors, but not looking away from them, either. For Chavez it was a chance to meet a new people. He noted that the setting was old-fashioned, and oddly shabby, as though the building hadn’t changed much since the departure of the previous government–a long time ago, he reminded himself–and it wasn’t so much that things were run down as that they weren’t modern. There was a real tension here, though. That he could feel in the air. An American office staff would have looked at him with curiosity. The six people in this room did not. Why?