“It sounded pretty clear to me, Arnie.”
“That’s because you’re used to listening to professional politicians. The President we have now says things straight. Actually I kind of like that,” van Damm went on, lying; it was driving him crazy. “And it might even make life easier for you. You don’t have to check the tea leaves anymore. All you have to do is take proper notes. Or maybe just judge him by a fair set of rules. We’ve agreed that he’s not a politician, but you’re treating him as if he were. Listen to what he’s really saying, will you?” Or maybe even look at the videotape, he didn’t add. He was skating on the edge now. Talking to the media was like petting a new cat. You never knew when they’d reach up and scratch.
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£
“Come on, Arnie. You’re the most loyal guy in this town. Damn, you would have been a great family doctor. We all know that. But Ryan doesn’t have a clue. The speech at National Cathedral, that loony speech from the Oval Office. He’s about as presidential as the chairman of the Rotary in Bumfuck, Iowa.”
“But who decides what’s presidential and what isn’t?”
“In New York, I do.” The reporter smiled again. “For Chicago, you have to ask somebody else.”
“He is the President of the United States.”
“That’s not what Ed Realty says, and at least Ed acts presidential.”
“Ed’s out. He resigned. Roger took the call from Secretary Hanson, and told me about it. Damn it, you reported that yourself.”
“But what possible motive could he have for–”
“What motive could he have for boffing every skirt that crossed his bow?” the chief of staff demanded. Great, he thought, now I’m losing control of the media!
“Ed’s always been a ladies’ man. He’s gotten better since he got off the booze. It never affected his duties,” the White House correspondent made clear. Like his paper, he was a strong proponent of women’s rights. “This one will have to play out.”
“What position will the Times take?”
“I’ll get you a copy of the editorial,” the reporter promised.
H E COULDN’T STAN D it anymore. He lifted the phone and dialed the six digits while staring out at the darkness. The sun was down now, and clouds were rolling in. It would be a cold, rainy night, leading to a dawn which might or might not take place before his eyes.
“Yes?” a voice said halfway through the first ring.
“Badrayn here. It would be more convenient if the next aircraft were larger.”
“We have a 737 standing by, but I need authorization to have it sent.”
“I will work on this end.”
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It was the TV news which had gotten him moving. Even more muted than usual, there had not been a single political story. Not one, in a nation where political commentary often as not displaced the weather forecasts. Most ominously of all, there was a story about a mosque, an old Shi’a mosque, one that had fallen into disrepair. The story lamented that fact, citing the building’s long and honorable history, and ignoring the fact that it had fallen into disrepair because it had once been a meeting place for a group charged, perhaps truthfully, with plotting the demise of Iraq’s fallen, beloved, great, and evidently soon-to-be-forgotten political leader. Worst of all, the taped footage had shown five mullahs standing outside the mosque, not even looking directly at the camera, merely gesturing at the faded blue tile on the wall and probably discussing what needed to be done. The five were the same ones who’d flown in to be hostages. But not a single soldier was in sight on the TV screen, and the faces of at least two of the mullahs were well known to Iraqi audiences. Somebody had gotten to the TV station, more precisely to the people who worked there. If the reporters and others wanted to retain their jobs and their heads, it was time to face a new reality. Were the brief few moments on the screen enough for the common folk to see and recognize the visitors’ faces–and get the message? Finding out the answer to that question could be dangerous.
But the common people didn’t matter. Colonels and majors did. Generals not on the proper list did. Quite soon they’d know. Probably some already did. They’d be on the phone, first calling up the line to see what was going on. Some would hear lies. Some would hear nothing. They’d start thinking. They’d start making contacts. Over the next twelve hours they’d talk among themselves and have to make hard decisions. These were the men who were identified with the dying regime. The ones who couldn’t run, who had no place to run to and no money to run with, the ones who had to stay. Their identification with the past regime could be a death sentence–for many, certainly would be so. For others, there was a chance. To survive, they would have to do what criminals all over the world
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did. They would save their own lives by offering up a larger fish. So it always was. The colonels would overthrow the generals.
Finally, the generals understood.
“There is a 737 standing by. Enough room for all. It can be here in ninety minutes,” he told them.
“And they will not kill us at Mehrabad Airport?” the deputy chief of staff of the Iraqi army demanded.
“Would you prefer to die here?” Badrayn asked in reply.
“What if it’s all a trap?”
“There is that risk. In that case, the five television personalities will die.” Of course they wouldn’t. That would have to be the act of troops loyal to generals already dead. That sort of loyalty didn’t exist here. They all knew that. The mere act of taking hostages had been an instinctive gesture, and one already invalidated by someone, perhaps in the media, but maybe the colonel who’d headed the guard force over the Iranian clerics. He was supposed to be a trusted intelligence specialist, Badrayn remembered on reflection, a loyal Sunni officer, son of a Ba’ath Party member. That could mean that the Ba’ath Party was already being suborned. It was going too fast now. The mullahs would not have concealed the nature of their mission, would they? But none of that mattered. Killing the hostages would accomplish nothing. The generals were doomed if they stayed here, and martyrdom wasn’t exactly offensive to Iranian clerics. It was an integral part of the Shi’a tradition.
No, the decision had already been irreversibly made. These senior commanders hadn’t grasped that. They hadn’t thought it all the way through.
Well, had they been truly competent officers, they would have been killed ages ago, by their beloved leader.
“Yes,” the most senior of them said.
“Thank you.” Badrayn lifted the phone and punched the buttons again.
THE DIMENSIONS OF the constitutional crisis in which America has found itself were not apparent until yesterday.
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Although the issue may seem to be technical, the substance of it is not.
John Patrick Ryan is a man of ability, but whether or not he has the necessary talent to perform his presidential duties has yet to be established. The initial indications are less than promising. Government service is not a job for amateurs. Our country has often enough turned to such people, but always in the past they have been in the minority, able to grow into their duties in an orderly way.
There is nothing orderly about the crisis facing the country. To this point Mr. Ryan has done a proper and careful job of stabilizing the government. His interim appointment to head the FBI, for example, Daniel Murray, is an acceptable choice. Similarly, George Winston is probably a fair interim choice for the Department of the Treasury, though he is politically unschooled. Scott Adler, a highly talented, lifelong foreign service officer, may be the best member of the current cabinet. . . Ryan skipped the next two paragraphs.
Vice President Edward Kealty, whatever his personal failings, knows government, and his middle-of-the-road position on most national issues offers a steady course until elections can select a new administration. But are his claims true?
“Do you care?” Ryan asked the lead editorial for the next day’s Times.
“They know him. They don’t know you,” Arnie answered. Then the phone rang. v”Yes?”
“Mr. Foley for you, Mr. President. He says it’s important.”
“Okay . . . Ed? Putting you on speaker.” Jack pushed the proper button and replaced the receiver. “Arnie’s listening in.”
“It’s definite. Iran’s making a move, big and fast. I have a TV feed for you if you have the time.”
“Roll it.” Jack knew how to do that. In this office and others were televisions fed off secure fiber-optic cables to the Pentagon and elsewhere. He pulled the controller from a drawer and turned the set on. The “show” lasted only fifteen seconds, was rerun again, then freeze-framed.