Abdullah hesitated.
It had been twenty-four hours since the Iranian general had chosen to kill himself. What a coward! What a woman! The king cursed to himself.
The old man watched him carefully, studying the look on his face.
Abdullah shrugged in frustration. “He failed me,” he said.
“He did more than that. He failed us all.”
“He said he would find him.”
“Yet the young one still lives.”
Abdullah stared in silence. Was there anything the old man didn’t know? No. There really wasn’t. He had learned that before. “It is a disappointment,” he answered slowly. “I needed him. He deserted me. There is nothing I can do about that now.”
The old man nodded slowly. He didn’t accept it so simply—that was clear from the look in his eyes.
Abdullah looked at the old man, though he tried not to stare. There was something about him, something strange and powerful. He still looked old, that was true, but he looked more healthy somehow. Last time they had met, he wouldn’t have given the old man a full week to live. Yet here he was once again, sitting with him in this room. And not only was he here, he looked better. Not younger, but . . . recycled. Freshened and new, as if, through some miracle, he had been granted more time.
It was unnatural. Abnormal.
And Abdullah wanted to know how it was done.
But there was a lot about the old man that the king wanted to know.
Once, years before, after too many questions, the old man had taken his hand and squeezed it so hard that it hurt, all the time looking him straight in the eye. “It is better if you don’t know too much,” he had said. “It is better for you and it is better for me. Let’s just do our business. That is all that you need.”
Through the years, Abdullah had accepted that he would never know about his friend. But looking at him now, with his renewed energy, he was certainly curious as to where he had been.
The old man looked at him, then took his hand. “You have been a good student,” he said in a raspy voice. “From the first time we met, that wonderful day on the beach, I knew you would be one of our stars. From that first night outside the embassy building, when you told me to kill your countrymen, I knew you would be someone our team could count on. I would lay my life on the table for you, Abdullah, and I know you would do the same thing for me.”
“Yes,” Abdullah answered. “I would lie down for you.”
The old man stared at him, his dark, sullen eyes boring into the king’s soul. Abdullah held his gaze the best that he could, but he finally looked away, unable to match the older man’s stare.
“You are frightened,” the old man mumbled. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“No,” Abdullah answered. “I am careful, that’s all.”
The old man shook his head. “You are hesitating. Always thinking. Waiting for the exact time to move. You can’t do that, Abdullah—you have to move now. We’ve been waiting for this moment for way too long. There will be no sign from heaven. Nothing will fall from the sky. You have to take a breath, be committed, and stay with the plan. And you must do it now. It is time that you move.”
“But I was thinking—”
“No more thinking, Abdullah, it is time to act!”
“But if we wait until . . . ”
“You have only a few days,” the old man almost sneered. “The U.S. is suspicious and they are watching you now. Your older brother had a friend. He works for the American president. He knows about you, and he is watching. Every day that you hesitate gives him more time to think. Far too many people around you have died suddenly. Too many bodies can be found in your wake: the Pakistani general who provided the warheads, the Iranian general who killed himself recently, your brother, your father, all of their kin. You are surrounded by death, and they will want to know why. And though the U.S. intelligence apparatus isn’t perfect, they are not nearly so stupid as their critics think. They will figure it out if you give them too much time. So you’ve got to move quickly for this thing to work. You’ve got to strike the U.S. and strike them where it counts. If you take out D.C., you can take out their entire government. Then you can turn your eye on Israel. She will be waiting for you.
“But you can’t wait a few months. You don’t even have days. If you haven’t moved within 72 hours, it may be too late.”
“All right,” Abdullah answered. “I can see that is true.”
“Three days. Maybe four. You must move by then.”
Abdullah only nodded.
“You are ready, then?”
“I am.”
“I hope that you are.”
The king turned and looked out the window again. The sandstorm was almost upon them. It moved across the city like a great tidal wave, swallowing everything that fell in its path. It was a block away, then half a block, a hundred feet. It was here. The sandstorm washed over the building. The light turned orange, then deep brown, then as dark as the night.
The old man moved forward, standing beside the new king. They watched the storm together without saying anything. The sand beat against the windows like a billion pellet shots, and the wind howled across the roof, causing the building to sway.
The two men stood in silence until the old man turned around. “There are still some things I must teach you,” he said in a solemn tone. “They will strengthen you in your weakness, provide you comfort and strength. They will give you support when you need it to see this thing through.”
Abdullah nodded, waiting. “Then teach me, my friend.”
“There are secrets we should talk about. Secrets that go back many years. They are sacred and chosen, and they will change your life. Once you have learned them, you will be bound to your oaths. You can never deny them. They will bind you, my friend, like the web of a spider wrapped around her sleeping prey. They will bind you forever. But you are ready, I am sure. You have been ready for a long time. And now I’m ready too.”
Abdullah waited, submissive, and the old man stared at him.
“You do not believe in a god,” the old man went on, ‘but I’m here to tell you that is a terrible mistake. There are two gods in the universe. They are eternally locked in battle and they are both powerful. One god is the spirit of freedom that has threatened your land. He is your enemy, your destroyer—he seeks to bring you down. He brings the idea of democracy and freedom, which will destroy the kingdom you’ve built. If he wins, he will leave you homeless and destitute. He will destroy your family and everything that your fathers have built.
“Some people will claim that freedom belongs to all mankind. That is a lie. Don’t believe it. From the beginning of time that lie has been deceiving the world.
“Some will say that all people have been given the power to choose. Another lie. Don’t believe it. Life is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of strength. It is not a matter of freedom. It is a matter of power. That’s the only thing that matters: who is strong, who is weak, who can convince enough of the others to follow. That is all that matters in this miserable world.
“If you could remember, you would know that. I remember! You were there. You heard the counsel. You’ve heard the arguments. And now it is your turn to take up your arms.
“And know this, young king, for there may be times when you will doubt. It is no sin, my brother, to defend what you have: your kingdom, your family, this place in this world, the riches and privileges that your forefathers built. It is no sin to protect them, and protect them you will.
“Now, listen to me, Abdullah. There are things you must learn. Certain oaths and combinations that will unlock special doors.”
Abdullah moved toward him. “I am ready,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Major General Neil Brighton stood anxiously in the narrow pantry outside the Oval Office. He glanced at his watch: 10:16. He had only twenty minutes with the president, beginni
ng at 10:20, and as always he found himself standing outside the office early to make sure he was ready to go. It was a courtesy he felt the president deserved, and an easy one to offer, since he worked just down the hall. More, he didn’t want to waste a minute of his allotted time. Twenty precious minutes. He needed them all.
Leaning away from the wall, he glanced down the hall toward his own office. The West Wing was quiet; it was a Saturday afternoon, and most of the staff wasn’t in. He studied the hallway, with its heavy blue-and-white window coverings and imposing paintings—former presidents, western landscapes, the D.C. landscape in 1822—all of them set in large, gold-gilded frames and spaced evenly between the high windows.
Halfway down the narrow hallway was a display of military photographs. But there were none of the typical pictures of speeding fighters, powerful ships, or deadly battle tanks. Instead, the photographs showed soldiers—mostly young men, a few women—all of them battle weary, with dust and sweat and dirt on their faces. The pictures were tender: a young rifleman, his heavy M-16 under his arm, bending down to pet a small kitten with his fingers while anxiously surveying the battle damage around him; a multi-ethnic group of soldiers standing in a circle, their heads bowed in prayer; a young soldier sitting cross-legged in the dirt dressed in full battle gear—flak vest, helmet, protective goggles, and gloves—while holding a tiny baby in his arms. Smoke was wafting in a stiff breeze behind him and debris had been scattered everywhere, but the soldier looked almost peaceful, as if he were holding his own child. There were pictures of soldiers handing out candy, giving a young boy a high-five, kissing a letter from a loved one, helping an old woman across a battle-scarred street. There was a picture of a young medic wrapping the broken leg of a small dog, a little boy standing nervously at the side, one hand on his puppy, another on the medic’s arm. In the middle of the pictures was a handwritten note:
This is why we do it.
And let us never forget.
It had been General Brighton’s idea to put up the display. Most of the national security staff had been against it. Too political. Too sentimental. Too emotional, the National Security Advisor had said. But Brighton had insisted, even going to the president when the others told him no. Upon seeing the photographs, the president had immediately agreed.
The general considered the display one of the better things he had done. Members of the press, congressional delegations, cabinet secretaries, White House staff, all of them passed the display every day. Most of them stopped. The pictures were simply too compelling to pass by casually without a look. And some of those who stopped to look at the pictures studied them for a long time. The images caused them to think. Brighton was happy about that.
Looking farther down the hall, Brighton could see the open door to his office, a tiny cubbyhole at the far end of the West Wing. It was hardly more than a closet, with old wood floors, a single narrow window (sealed shut and covered with shatterproof Mylar coating), and a small wooden desk dating back to the Civil War. It would have been an embarrassingly tiny office had it been in any other government or business building in D.C. But it wasn’t. It was in the White House—which made his 80 square feet of space more valuable than any piece of real estate in the world. Many people would have happily paid a million dollars, ten million dollars, even more, in order to work this close to the president.
General Brighton considered that fact as he stared down the hall. It was fifty-three steps from his office to the Oval Office door. He knew that. Fifty-three steps. He had counted them many times.
Fifty-three steps away from the president, the most powerful man in the world. Fifty-three steps away from some of the most pivotal moments and decisions of the last two hundred years.
Most people had no idea how big the White House really was. Hidden behind carefully planted landscaping, and with much of it built underground, the 55,000 square feet of office space and living quarters were spread across six stories and 134 rooms, with eight staircases, three elevators, and 35 bathrooms. Out of all of this space, Brighton had but one tiny office.
Fifty-three steps from the president.
Sometimes it felt like a mile.
He glanced again at his watch. 10:18 now. He fidgeted, moving from one foot to the other. He wasn’t nervous, but he was restless; that was just the way it was. One didn’t enter the Oval office without feeling a little on edge.
Four minutes later, the heavy door to the Oval Office swung open and the president’s chief of staff let him into the room. Behind the chief of staff, next to a white Elizabethan couch, the president was standing, his back to his desk. He wore a dark suit with a striped shirt and red tie, and he was bending over while an assistant held a document for him to sign. Behind him, the National Security Advisor, Johnny “Bo” Grison, Brighton’s co-worker on the national security team, was leaning against the gently curved wall, his right arm tucked across his chest, his left elbow resting in his right hand, his fingers touching his lips. The NSA was staring at the floor, deep in thought, and he paid no attention as Brighton walked into the room.
The NSA and General Brighton had a mutual respect for each other, but they were not close friends. They were on the same side of the battle, yes, but they tended to see things from very different points of view. Although the NSA was the man who had recommended to the president that he bring Brighton on as his personal security advisor (he had argued for a long time that the president needed an informal and less structured link between his intelligence and military chains of command), Brighton knew that sometimes the NSA now regretted the move. Grison thought Brighton was a pessimist: too skittish, too fast to react, too willing to see ghosts when there was nothing there. Brighton, on the other hand, thought the NSA was too slow, too methodical, always waiting for more information and never willing to act.
“Bo!” he once exploded in exasperation. “You can’t wait for perfect intelligence. It doesn’t exist. We get what we can, but you will never know everything. If you demand perfect information, then you are demanding the impossible. Sometimes, Bo, you’ve got to go with your gut. Sometimes you have to close your eyes and jump off the cliff. If we always have to wait until you are perfectly comfortable, we’ll never move. Things are changing too quickly. Our enemies are quick and cunning. We have to be quick and cunning too. We’ve got to stay up with them, Bo, or this whole thing falls down.”
“You’re talking like a fighter pilot, ready to blast into the air,” the NSA had shot back. “This is different, Neil. We’ve got to be careful. If we don’t get it right . . . if we make a mistake, then we all pay the price.”
Brighton had stared, his face tense with frustration. “Our enemies aren’t afraid of making mistakes,” was the only thing he had said.
So the two men served in nearly constant conflict, and the president knew it. But he didn’t mind. In fact, that was precisely what he was hoping to get. It gave him the conflicting voices, the different points of view, the balance he needed to make the best decisions he could. And the president was a strong man. He was capable of listening and thinking, then making a decision for himself.
After signing the last document, the president tucked his pen inside his breast pocket, and the aide disappeared through a narrow hallway door, leaving the four men alone. Brighton glanced at the president as he sat down. Not tall, but with the square shoulders of a boxer, the president was, for the first time in his life, starting to show his age. His eyes were accented by crow’s-feet, which a few years ago hadn’t been there, and his temples were turning white now.
The men sat in their customary chairs: the NSA and General Brighton on the white couch, the president and his chief of staff facing them on two padded armchairs. The president was holding an iced tea with lemon. A Diet Coke was waiting for the general. The NSA sipped his water. The chief of staff chewed his gum.
“How’s Sara?” the president asked as the general sat down.
“She’s fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking, sir.” Brighto
n shifted in his seat, then added, “She sends her warmest regards.”
The president watched Brighton squirm, and he smiled.
Brighton’s wife, the lovely Sara, had met the president on many occasions, and she always seemed willing to give him advice, something that made Brighton cringe but that the president loved. She was engaging and pleasant, and the president had a warm spot in his heart for her.
“She still not reading any newspapers?” the president asked.
Brighton smiled. “Still too many, I’m afraid. I can tell as soon as I get home if she’s been reading the Post.”
The other men looked at each other questioningly, and the president leaned over to his chief of staff and explained. “Sara is, and I’m not just saying this—” the president eyed Brighton under a creased brow—“one of the most politically perceptive people I know. She seems to have a sixth sense, a real feel for the country out there. But, as I understand it, she recently swore off reading the papers or watching the news. Said she couldn’t take it any longer. Too frustrating. Too maddening. It was driving her nuts. But I knew she wouldn’t make it. She’s a news junkie.”
The other men smiled. They could relate. The president turned more serious, looking at the general again. “Did she . . . ah, did she see the photograph of your son?”
“Not yet, sir.”
The president leaned forward. “Yeah, well, you tell her, if someone ever shows her, it’s so much garbage, nothing more. It’s nothing. It means nothing. It’s all garbage press.”
Brighton thought of the newspaper image of his soldier son that had appeared on the front page of the Post, the carnage and death of the village around him. Were most of his fellow Americans willing to believe that their soldiers would assault and kill dozens of villagers in Iran? Apparently not. Though the cynic inside him was a little surprised, Brighton was extremely relieved that the story hadn’t grabbed any traction inside the U.S.
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