by Tom Clancy
“Okay,” the President said. “What about body language?”
“He appears very confident, very secure. He likes where he is now.”
“As well he might.” It was Ed Foley again.
Adler nodded. “Agreed. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be ‘serene.’ ”
“When I met him a few years ago,” Jack remembered, “he was aggressive, hostile, looking for enemies, that sort of thing.”
“None of that earlier today.” SecState stopped and asked himself if it was still the same day. Probably, he decided. “Like I said, serene, but then on the way back, Mr. Clark here brought something up.”
“What’s that?” Goodley asked.
“It set off the metal detector.” John pulled the necklace out again, and handed it to the President.
“Get some shopping done?”
“Well, everybody wanted me to do a walkabout,” he reminded his audience. “What better place than a market?” Clark went on to report the incident with the goldsmith, while POTUS examined the necklace.
“If he sells these things for seven hundred bucks, maybe we should all get his address. Isolated incident, John?”
“The French station chief was walking with me. He said that this guy was pretty representative.”
“So?” van Damm asked.
“So maybe Daryaei doesn’t have much to be all that serene about,” Scott Adler suggested.
“People like that don’t always know what the peasants are thinking,” the chief of staff thought.
“That’s what brought the Shah down,” Ed Foley told him. “And Daryaei is one of the people who made that happen. I don’t think it likely that he’s forgotten that particular lesson ... and we know that he’s still cracking down on people who step out of line.” The DCI turned to look at his field officer. “Good one, John.”
“Lefevre—the French spook—told me twice that we don’t have a very good feel for the mood in the street over there. Maybe he was shining me on,” Clark continued, “but I don’t think so.”
“We know there’s dissent. There always is,” Ben Goodley said.
“But we don’t know how much.” It was Adler again. “On the whole, I think we have a man here who wants to project serenity for a reason. He’s had a couple of good months. He’s knocked over a major enemy. He has some internal problems whose magnitude we need to evaluate. He’s hopping back and forth to Iraq—we saw that. He’s tired-looking. Tense staff. I’d say he has a full plate right now. Okay, he told me how he wants peace. I almost buy it. I think he needs time to consolidate. Clark here tells me that food prices are high. That’s an inherently rich country, and Daryaei can best quiet things down by playing on his political success and turning that into economic success as quickly as possible. Putting food on the table won’t hurt. For the moment, he needs to look in instead of looking out.
“So I think it’s possible that we have a window of opportunity here,” SecState concluded.
“Extend the open hand of friendship?” Arnie asked.
“I think we keep the contacts quiet and informal for the time being. I can pick somebody to handle the meetings. And then we see what develops.”
The President nodded. “Good one, Scott. Now I guess we’d better get you up to speed on China.”
“When do I leave?” SecState inquired, with a pained expression.
“You’ll have a bigger airplane this time,” his President promised him.
41
HYENAS
MOVIE STAR FELT THE main landing gear thump down at Dulles International Airport. The physical sensation didn’t exactly end his doubts, but it did announce that it was time to put them aside. He lived in a practical world. The entry routine was—routine, again.
“Back so soon?” the immigration officer asked, flipping to the last entry in the passport.
“Ja, doch.” Movie Star replied in his German identity. “Perhaps I get apartment here soon.”
“The prices in Washington are kinda steep,” the man reported, stamping the booklet yet again. “Have a pleasant stay, sir.”
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t that he had anything to fear. He was carrying nothing illegal, except what was in his head, and he knew that American intelligence had virtually never caused substantive harm to a terrorist group, but this trip was different, even if only he knew it, as he walked alone in the mob of the terminal. As before, no one would meet him. They had a rendezvous to which he would be the last to arrive. He was more valuable than the other members of the team. Again he rented a car, and again he drove toward Washington, checking his mirror, taking the wrong exit deliberately and watching to see if anyone followed as he reversed direction to get back on the proper road. Again as before, the coast was clear. If there were anyone on him, the coverage was so sophisticated that he had no chance at all to survive. He knew how that worked: multiple cars, even a helicopter or two, but such an investment of time and resources only happened if the opposition knew nearly everything—it took time to organize—and that could only mean deep penetration of his group by the American CIA. The Israelis were capable of such a thing, or so everyone in the terrorist movement feared, but over the years a brutally Darwinian process had ended the lives of all the careless men; the Israeli Mossad had never once blanched at the sight of Islamic blood, and had he been discovered by that agency, he would long since have been dead. Or that’s what he told himself, still watching his rearview mirror because that was how he stayed alive.
On the other hand, it amused him greatly that this mission would not have been possible without the Israelis. Islamic terrorist groups existed in America, but they had all the hallmarks of amateurs. They were overtly religious. They held meetings in known places. They talked among themselves. They could be seen, spotted, and positively identified as being different from the other fish in their adopted sea. And then they wondered how they were caught. Fools, Movie Star thought. But they served their purpose. In being visible, they attracted attention, and the American FBI had only so many assets. However formidable the world’s intelligence services, they were also human institutions, and humans universally pounded on the nails that stuck up.
Israel had taught him that, after a fashion. Before the fall of the Shah, his own intelligence service, the Savak, had received training from the Israeli Mossad, and not all Savak members had been executed with the arrival of the new Islamic regime. The tradecraft they’d learned had also been taught to those like Movie Star, and the truth of the matter was that it was very easy to understand. The more important the mission, the more caution was required. If you wanted to avoid being spotted, then you had to disappear into your surroundings. In a secular country, do not be obviously devout. In a Christian and Jewish country, do not be Muslim. In a nation that had learned to distrust people from the Middle East, be from somewhere else—or better yet, on occasion, be truthful after a fashion. Yes, I come from there, but I am a Christian, or a Baha’i, or a Kurd, or an Armenian, and they persecuted my family cruelly, and so I came to America, the land of opportunity, to experience true freedom. And if you followed those simple rules, the opportunity was quite real, for America made it so easy. This country welcomed foreigners with an openness that reminded Movie Star of his own culture’s stern law of hospitality.
Here he was in the camp of his enemy, and his doubts faded, as the exhilaration of it increased his heart rate and brought a smile to his face. He was the best at what he did. The Israelis, having trained him at second hand, had never gotten close to him, and if they couldn’t, then neither could the Americans. You just had to be careful.
In each team of three there was one man like him, not quite as experienced as he was, but close enough. Able to rent a car and drive safely. To know to be polite and friendly with all he met. If a policeman were to stop him, he knew to be contrite and apologetic, to ask what he’d done wrong, and then ask for directions, because people remembered hostility more clearly than amity. To profe
ss to be a physician or engineer or something else respectable. It was easy if you were careful.
Movie Star reached his first destination, a middle-level hotel on the outskirts of Annapolis, and checked in under his cover name, Dieter Kolb. The Americans were so foolish. Even their police thought that all Muslims were Arabs, never remembering that Iran was an Aryan country—the very same ethnic identity which Hitler had claimed for his nation. He went to his room, and checked his watch. If everything went according to plan, they would meet in two hours. To be sure, he placed a call to the 1-800 numbers for the proper airlines—and inquired about arriving flights. They’d all arrived on time. There might have been a problem with customs, or bad traffic, but the plan had allowed for that. It was a cautious one.
THEY WERE ALREADY on the road for their next stop, which was Atlantic City, New Jersey, where there was a huge convention center. The various new-model and “concept” cars were wrapped in covers to protect their finish, most of them on conventional auto trailers, but a few in covered trailers like those used by racing teams. One of the manufacturer’s representatives was going over handwritten comments his company had solicited from people who’d stopped by to look at their products. The man rubbed his eyes. Damned headache, sniffles. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. Achy, too. That’s what you got for standing around all day right under the air-conditioning vent.
THE OFFICIAL TELEGRAM was hardly unexpected. The American Secretary of State requested an official consultation with his government to discuss matters of mutual interest. Zhang knew there was no avoiding this, and all the better to receive him in a friendly way, protesting innocence—and inquiring delicately if the American President had merely misspoken himself or had changed long-standing U.S. policy at his press conference. That side issue alone would tie up Adler for some hours, he imagined. The American would probably offer to be an intermediary between Beijing and Taipei, to shuttle back and forth between the two cities, hoping to calm things down. That would be very useful.
For the moment, the exercises were continuing, albeit with somewhat greater respect for the neutral space between the two sets of forces. The heat was still on, but at the “simmer” setting. The People’s Republic, the ambassador had already explained in Washington, had done nothing wrong, had not fired the first shot, and had no desire to initiate hostilities. The problem was with the breakaway province, and if only America would accede to the obvious solution to the problem—there is one China—then the matter would be settled, and quickly.
But America had long held to a policy that made sense to none of the countries involved, wanting to be friendly with Beijing and Taipei, treating the latter as the lesser nation it was, but unwilling to take that to its logical conclusion. Instead, America said that, yes, there was only one China, but that the one China did not have the right to enforce its rule on the “other” China, which, according to official American policy, didn’t actually exist. Such was American consistency. It would be such a pleasure to point this out to Secretary Adler.
“‘THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC is pleased to welcome Secretary Adler in the interests of peace and regional stability.’ Well, isn’t that nice of them,” Ryan said, still in his office at nine in the evening, and wondering what TV his kids were watching without him. He handed the message back to Adler.
“You’re really sure they did it?” SecState asked Admiral Jackson.
“If I go over it any more, the tape will wear out.”
“You know, sometimes people just screw up.”
“Sir, this is not one of those times,” Robby said, wondering if he’d have to run the videotape again. “And they’ve been exercising their fleet for quite a while now.”
“Oh?” Ryan asked.
“To the point that they must be wearing things out by now. They’re not as good on maintenance as we are. Besides that, they’re using up a lot of fuel. This is the most at-sea time we’ve ever seen them do. Why are they stringing things out? This shoot-down looks to me like a great excuse to call it a day and head back to port and say they’ve made their point.”
“National pride,” Adler suggested. “Face saving.”
“Well, since then they’ve curtailed operations somewhat. Not approaching the line I showed you. The Taiwanese are really at full alert now. Hell, maybe that’s it,” the J-3 opined. “You don’t attack a pissed-off enemy. You let him relax some first.”
“Rob, you said that a real attack isn’t possible,” Ryan said.
“Jack, in the absence of knowledge of their intentions, I have to go by capabilities. They can stage a major engagement in the strait, and they will probably come off winners if they do. Maybe that will put sufficient political pressure on Taiwan to force some sort of major concession. They killed people,” Jackson reminded the other two. “Sure, the value they place on human life isn’t the same as ours, but when you kill people you cross another invisible line—and they know how we feel about that.”
“Move the carrier up,” Adler said.
“Why, Scott?”
“Mr. President, it gives me a face card to lay on the table. It shows that we’re taking this seriously. As Admiral Jackson just told us, we do take the loss of life seriously, and they will just have to accept the fact that we don’t want and might not allow this to go any further.”
“What if they press anyway—what if there’s another ‘accident’ that might involve us?”
“Mr. President, that’s operations, and that’s my business. We’d park Ike on the east side of the island. They can’t get to her by accident then. They’d have to come through three defense belts to do so, the ROC one over the strait, then Taiwan itself, and then the wall the battle-group commander puts up. I could also spot an Aegis at the bottom end of the strait to give us full radar coverage of the entire passage. If, that is, you order us to move Ike. The advantage for Taiwan, well, four squadrons of fighters, plus airborne radar coverage. That should make them feel more secure.”
“Which will allow me to play a better game if I shuttle back and forth,” the Secretary concluded.
“But that still leaves the IO uncovered. It’s been a long time since we did that.” Robby kept coming back to that, the other two noticed.
“Nothing else there?” Jack asked. He realized that he should have found out before.
“A cruiser, Anzio, two destroyers, plus two frigates guarding an under way-replenishment group based at Diego Garcia. We never leave Diego uncovered by warships, not with the Pre-Positioning Ships there. We have a 688-class sub in the area, too. It’s enough to matter, but not enough to project power. Mr. Adler, you understand what a carrier means.”
SecState nodded. “People take them seriously. That’s why I think we need it off China.”
“He makes a good case, Rob. Where is Ike now?”
“Between Australia and Sumatra, should be approaching the Sunda Strait. Exercise SOUTHERN CUP is supposed to simulate an Indian attack on their northwest coast. If we move her now, she can get to Formosa in four days plus a couple hours.”
“Get her moving that way, Rob, all possible speed.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Jackson acknowledged, his doubts still visible on his face. He gestured to the phone and, getting a nod, he called the National Military Command Center. “This is Admiral Jackson with orders from National Command Authority. Execute GREYHOUND BLUE. Acknowledge that, Colonel.” Robby listened and nodded. “Very well, thank you.” Then he turned to his President. “Okay, Ike will turn north in about ten minutes and make a speed run to Taiwan.”
“That fast?” Adler allowed himself to be impressed.
“The miracle of modern communications, and we already had alert orders to Admiral Dubro. This won’t be a covert move. The battle group will head through several narrows, and people will notice,” he warned.
“Press release won’t hurt,” Adler said. “We’ve done it before.”
“Well, there’s your card to play in Beijing and Taipei,” Ryan
said, having exercised yet another executive order, but distantly concerned that Robby was unhappy about it. The really difficult matter was fuel. A fleet-replenishment group would have to move as well, to refill the bunkers of Eisenhower’s non-nuclear escort ships.
“Will you let on that we know about the shoot-down?”
Adler shook his head. “No, definitely not. It will be more unsettling to them if they think we don’t know.”
“Oh?” This came from a somewhat surprised President.
“Then I can decide when we ‘find out,’ Boss, and when that happens, I have another card to play—that way I can make it a big card.” He turned. “Admiral, don’t overestimate the intelligence of your enemy. Diplomats like me aren’t all that savvy on the technical aspects of what you do. That applies to people in foreign countries, too. A lot of our capabilities are unknown to them.”
“They have spooks to keep them informed,” Jackson objected.
“You think they always listen? Do we?”
The J-3 blinked at that lesson and filed it away for future use.
IT HAPPENED IN a large shopping mall, an American invention that seemed designed for covert operations, with its many entrances, bustling people, and near-perfect anonymity. The first rendezvous wasn’t really a meeting at all. Nothing more than eye contact was made, and that not at a distance closer than ten meters, as the groups strolled past one another. Instead, each of the sub-groups performed a count, confirmed identity visually, and then each checked to be sure that there was no surveillance on the others. With that done, they all returned to their hotel accommodations. The real rendezvous would take place tomorrow.