Executive Orders

by Tom Clancy

  “Very well, sir. The PRC does not have the ability to invade Taiwan. They lack the necessary amphibious assets to move large numbers of troops for a forced-entry assault. So what happens if things blow up anyway? Most likely scenario is a nasty air and sea battle, but one that leads to no resolution, since neither side can finish off the other. That also means a shooting war astride one of the world’s most important trade routes, with all sorts of adverse diplomatic consequences for all the players. I can’t see the purpose in doing this intentionally. Just too destructive to be deliberate policy... I think.” He shrugged. It didn’t make sense, but neither did a deliberate attack on a harmless airliner—and he’d just told his audience that had probably been deliberate.

  “And we have large trade relationships with both,” the President noted. “We want to prevent that, don’t we? I’m afraid it’s looking like we have to move that carrier, Robby. Let’s get some options put together, and let’s try to figure out what the hell the PRC might be up to.”

  CLARK WOKE UP first, feeling quite miserable. But that wasn’t allowed under the circumstances. Ten minutes later, he was shaved, dressed, and heading out the door, leaving Chavez in bed. Ding didn’t speak the language anyway.

  “Morning walk?” It was the guy who’d brought them in from the airport.

  “I could use a stretch,” John admitted. “And you are?”

  “Marcel Lefevre.”

  “Station chief?” John asked bluntly.

  “Actually, I am the commercial attaché,” the Frenchman replied—meaning, yes. “You mind if I come along?”

  “Not at all,” Clark replied, surprising his companion as they headed for the door. “Just wanted to take a walk. Any markets around here?”

  “Yes, I will show you.”

  Ten minutes later, they were in a street of commerce. Two Iranian shadows were fifty feet behind them, and obvious about it, though they did nothing more than to observe.

  The sounds brought it all back. Clark’s Farsi was not all that impressive, especially since it was over fifteen years since he’d practiced it, but though his speech might not have been terribly good, his hearing clicked back in, soon catching the chatter and bargaining as the two Westerners passed stalls on both sides of the street.

  “How are food prices?”

  “Fairly high,” Lefevre answered. “Especially with all the supplies they shipped to Iraq. A few grumbles about that.”

  There was something lacking, John saw, after a few minutes of contemplation. Passing half a block of food stalls, they were now in another area—gold, always a popular trade item in this part of the world. People were buying and selling. But there wasn’t the enthusiasm he remembered from before. He looked at the stalls as he passed, trying to figure what it was.

  “Something for your wife?” Lefevre asked.

  Clark tried an unconvincing smile. “Oh, you never know. Anniversary coming up soon.” He stopped to look at a necklace.

  “Where are you from?” the dealer asked.

  “America,” John replied, also in English. The man had picked out his nationality at once, probably from his clothes, and taken the chance to speak in that language.

  “We do not see many Americans here.”

  “Too bad. In my younger days I traveled here quite a lot.” It was actually rather a nice necklace, and on checking the price tag and doing the mental calculation, the cost was reasonable as hell. And he did have an anniversary approaching.

  “Perhaps someday that will change,” the goldsmith said.

  “There are many differences between my country and yours,” John observed sadly. Yes, he could afford it, and as usual he had plenty of cash with him. One nice thing about American currency was that it was damned near universally accepted.

  “Things change,” the man said next.

  “Things have changed,” John agreed. He looked at a slightly more expensive necklace. It wasn’t any problem handling them. One thing about Islamic countries, they had a way of discouraging thieves. “There’s so little smiling here, and this is a market street.”

  “You have two men following you.”

  “Really? Well, I’m not breaking any laws, am I?” Clark asked with some obvious concern.

  “No, you are not.” But the man was nervous.

  “This one,” John said, handing it to the goldsmith.

  “How will you pay?”

  “American dollars, is that okay?”

  “Yes, and the price is nine hundred of your dollars.”

  It required all of his control not to show surprise. Even in a New York wholesale shop, this necklace would have been triple that, and while he wasn’t quite prepared to spend that much, haggling was part of the fun of shopping in this part of the world. He’d figured that he could talk the guy down to maybe fifteen hundred, still a considerable bargain. Had he heard the man properly?

  “Nine hundred?”

  An emphatic finger pointed right at his heart. “Eight hundred, not a dollar less—you wish to ruin me?” he added loudly.

  “You bargain hard.” Clark adopted a defensive posture for the benefit of the watchers, who were coming closer.

  “You are an unbeliever! You expect charity? This is a fine necklace, and I hope you will give it to your honorable wife and not a lesser, debauched woman!”

  Clark figured he’d put the man in enough danger. He pulled out his wallet and counted off the bills, handing them over.

  “You pay me too much, I am not a thief!” The goldsmith handed one back.

  Seven hundred dollars for this?

  “Excuse me, I meant no insult,” John said, pocketing the necklace, which the man not quite tossed to him without a case.

  “We are not all barbarians,” the dealer said quietly, abruptly turning his back a split-second later. Clark and Lefevre walked to the end of the street and headed to the right. They moved quickly, forcing their tail to follow.

  “What the hell?” the CIA officer observed. He hadn’t expected anything like that to happen.

  “Yes. The enthusiasm for the regime has abated somewhat. What you saw is representative. That was nicely done, Monsieur Clark. How long in the Agency?”

  “Long enough that I don’t like being surprised that much. I believe your word is merde. ”

  “So, is it for your wife?”

  John nodded. “Yeah. Will he get into any trouble?”

  “Unlikely,” Lefevre said. “He may have lost money on the exchange, Clark. An interesting gesture, was it not?”

  “Let’s get back. I have a Cabinet secretary to wake up.” They were back in fifteen minutes. John went right to his room.

  “What’s the weather like outside, Mr. C.?” Clark reached into his pocket and tossed something across the room. Chavez caught it. “Heavy.”

  “What do you suppose it costs, Domingo?”

  “Looks like twenty-one carat, feels like it too.... coupla 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.

  “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 m
orning, 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 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?”

  “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 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?”

  “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?

  Clark had expected that. Being ignored didn’t surprise him. He and Ding were here as security troops, and they were just furniture, unworthy of notice. The people here would be trusted aides and underlings, faithful to their boss because they had to be. They had a measure of power because of him. These visitors would either ratify that power in the international sense or threaten it, and while t
hat was important to their individual well-being, they could no more affect it than they could affect the weather, and so they just tuned their visitors out, except for the security pukes, who were trained to view everyone as a threat even though protocol disallowed them from the physical intimidation which they would have preferred to show.

  For the ambassador it was one more exercise in diplomacy, conversations in carefully chosen words selected to show little on the one hand, and to uncover much on the other. He could guess at what was being said by both sides. He could even guess at the real meaning of the words. It was their truth that interested him. What did Daryaei have planned? The ambassador and his country hoped for peace in the region, and so he and his colleagues had prepped Adler to feel open to that possibility, while at the same time not knowing how this would really go. An interesting man, Daryaei. A man of God who had surely murdered the Iraqi President. A man of peace and justice who ruled his country with an iron hand. A man of mercy who clearly had his own personal staff terrified of him. You had only to look around the room to see that. A modern, Middle Eastern Richelieu? There was a novel thought, the Frenchman joked to himself, behind an impassive face. He’d have to run that idea past his ministry later today. And in with him right now was a brand-new American minister. He allowed for the fact that Adler had a fine reputation as a career diplomat, but was he good enough for this task?

  “WHY DO WE discuss this? Why should I have territorial ambitions?” Daryaei asked, almost pleasantly, but telegraphing his irritation. “My people desire only peace. There has been too much strife here. For all my life I have studied and taught the Faith, and now, finally, in the closing days of my life, there is peace.”

  “We have no more wish for this region than that, except perhaps to reestablish our friendship with your country.”

  “On that we should talk further. I thank your country for not hindering the removal of trade sanctions against the former country of Iraq. Perhaps that is a beginning. At the same time, we would prefer that America did not interfere in the internal affairs of our neighbors.”