President Storebridge stood up and walked to the door to usher in the representative of Iran.
“Glad you could come, Ambassador LeFevre. We are most appreciative of your government’s willingness to act in our behalf.”
“It is a pleasure and a privilege, Mr. President, but unfortunately, I am the bearer of bad tidings.”
“We’re not altogether surprised,” Secretary Southem said dourly. “So what does President Sofrekheneh have to say about this latest provocation? We certainly have the Persians dead to rights with all of our evidence.”
“It will come as no surprise, I’m sure, that the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran doesn’t much care about your opinions, your evidence, or the lives of your people. His exact words were, ‘So, once again The Great Satan, gets his comeuppance. They shift the blame from themselves to the peace loving people of Islam—the true victims. You can tell them for me that we will not lower ourselves to reply to this insult.’”
Ambassador LeFevre read the statement from a typed note.
Secretary Southem shrugged in disgust.
“How nice of him to reply,” The president said.
“Sorry. He was implacable. I couldn’t get him to budge a millimeter.”
“We know it’s not your fault, Mr. Ambassador. I am quite sure that this is not the last of it,” President Storebridge said with resignation.
“I’ll take my leave, then, Mr. President, unless you have more need of the services of my government.”
“No, and thanks.”
The president and secretary shook hands again with the Swiss ambassador, and he turned crisply and exited the room.
The two men looked at each other somberly.
“The question of the day is going to be, ‘now what?’ I’m afraid, and I predict that we will have much the same question after meeting with our next two guests.”
The president’s interoffice phone lit up with a flashing light. He pressed the speaker button and said, “Are they here?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Bring them to the office then, Sally Rose.”
“Right away, Mr. President.”
Less than a minute later the familiar soft knock on the Oval Office door sounded again.
“Come in.”
“Mr. President, the foreign minister of Saudi Arabia, His Majesty Prince Muhammad ibn Saud, and the foreign minister of Syria, Dr. Amjad Zia Abuzia Kutchemeshgi.”
The president and the secretary personally ushered the two men to their chairs. The prince seemed slightly uncomfortable in his expensive Western suit, but neither man betrayed the slightest hint of being ill at ease or the impression that they felt as if they were being called on the carpet.
“Mr. President, it is a pleasure and an honor to be invited to this great seat of power,” flattered the prince.
“The Syrian state is similarly honored to be here today, sir. And, Jeremy, it’s nice to see you again. What has it been, two months?”
“I’m afraid so, Amjad, too long.”
“Well, gentlemen, we realize that the request for this meeting is a bit abrupt, and we are well aware of your busy schedules. Why don’t we get right down to the business at hand,” said the president with what seemed to be an uncouth abruptness to both of the Arabs.
Prince Muhammad thought to himself that this undereducated man—who had somehow gotten elected to the most powerful office in the world—could be excused for not appreciating the fine points of courtesy. Praise be to Allah that we have Jeremy Southem to deal with on a regular basis.
“Yes, Mr. President, that would be most efficient.”
Only Jeremy Southem of the two Americans took note of the irony in the prince’s response and the implied insult. He thought it more than likely that the man would next offer his left hand for the president to shake.
“What can we do for you, Mr. President and Mr. Secretary?” asked Dr. Kutchemeshgi.
“You are no doubt aware of two recent suicide bombings perpetrated on our soil, gentlemen.”
The Arab foreign ministers nodded.
“What you may not know, is that the criminals who committed these heinous crimes had direct ties to both of your countries.”
Both men knew perfectly well that the suicide bombings were linked to their countries. They remained impassive.
“We are sure that your governments had nothing to do with the crimes, of course, gentlemen; but we need assurances from both of your governments that steps will be taken to interdict the criminal elements in your countries that are responsible, and that the radicalist networks are dismantled.”
“We are shocked to learn that there could be any involvement by our countrymen, Mr. President. Can you share the intelligence you have regarding the cases?”
Jeremy Southem had to fight the urge not to roll his eyes.
“Jeremy?” The president asked, glancing at the large portfolio in front of the secretary.
“Yes, sir. Here is the evidence, gentlemen. I’m afraid it is abundantly evident that cells in your countries and in Iran cooperated to commit these murders in our country.”
He passed the prepared evidence statements and photographs to the two Arab diplomats. They perused the data briefly without altering their expressions.
The prince spoke first.
“I will look into this promptly, Mr. President and Mr. Secretary, of that you can be assured. If our investigation corroborates your evidence, we will bring the criminals to justice swiftly and efficiently.”
Southem recognized the diplomat’s between-the-lines communication: a scapegoat would be delivered up, and the very likely involvement of the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate—the Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah, or the Syrian Political Security Directorate would never be mentioned. At least the message had been delivered.
Dr. Kutchemeshgi said, “My government looks on such actions as particularly grievous, and you can rest assured that, if indeed our nationals were involved, they will find no place far enough, deep enough, or obscure enough in which to hide. We will keep you well informed.”
Prince ibn Saud coughed gently.
“There is a small problem. We hate to ask, but we trust that our usual arrangement will remain in force. It is most difficult, as you know, for some conservative members of our governments to admit to such goings on and will balk at the costs to be incurred.”
“Of course, gentlemen. Our intelligence services will be at your service in the usual spirit of cooperation. We have already set aside a sum of five million dollars to assist in the investigations. Here is the account number for our usual Bank of China account used in these matters.”
Secretary Southem handed one of his cards to the prince who merely glanced at the handwritten password numbers and letters on the back.
“Good, then we should really get to work,” said Dr. Kutchemeshgi.
“I agree,” said the president and showed the foreign ministers to the Oval Office door personally.
When they were gone, Secretary Southem gave a small sigh that at least neither of them had offered his left hand.
“I think that went pretty well, don’t you, Jeremy?” the president asked.
Southem answered with a shrug.
The two Arabs left the West Wing escorted by and under the watchful eye of Anders Ketchum of the Secret Service.
Dr. Kutchemeshgi whispered to Prince ibn Saud, “By Allah and the Prophet, may he be blessed forever, can they be as simple-minded as they appear?”
The prince ran a long index finger across his aquiline nose in a dismissive gesture, pointed back down the hallway and answered tersely, “We’ll see, Amjad. Give it some time.”
The two men left unsaid that the Westerners had not grasped the truly important aspect of the meeting which was that two Arab nations who were regularly at considerable odds with one another met together and in full concert with the U.S. leaders who were blithely unaware of the potential consequences. Furthermore, neither American
had taken note that the foreign minister of Syria had an Iranian name, was a Shi’ite in a Sunni country, and had family ties in Iran that went back ten generations, perhaps the most significant oversight on the Americans’ part of all.
The scrambler phone light blinked again after a five minute period of time elapsed.
“Yes, Sally Rose?”
“The Ambassador of Israel, Mr. President.”
“Bring him in, Sally Rose. I presume you made sure our previous two guests did not meet with Ambassador ben Moises.”
“Most assuredly not, sir. They came and went through entirely opposite corridors.”
The soft knock came again, and Mrs. Mathews brought the Israeli diplomat into the office.
“Come in and take a seat, Daniel. Some coffee?” Secretary Southem offered.
The Israeli declined. He was an old soldier and a reluctant diplomat famous for his brusqueness and for cutting to the heart of issues without preliminary small talk.
“Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, I know you’ve had the Saudis and the Syrians come by today. I trust that you had a forthright discussion.”
“More forthright on our end than vice versa, I’d say.”
“Not surprising, of course. I’ll be direct.”
“As if we would expect anything else of you, Daniel,” said Southem.
“We received your intel on the terrorists…”
“Since President Obama, we don’t call them terrorists. They’re now Persons Who Facilitate Manmade Disasters,” chuckled Southem.
“We have more vigorous descriptors,” responded General ben Moises.
“So, Daniel, what is Israel’s take on our bombings? What, if any, response is Israel contemplating?”
“The same as always, gentlemen. We will defend our existence. Iran is near to making a viable nuclear war head. They already have a medium range missile that can put a bomb in downtown Tel Aviv. We intend to see to it that no bombing such as you suffered takes place in our little country. We certainly will not stand by idly until a nuke is launched.”
“Isn’t that overreacting?”
“You know it isn’t.”
“We’ll be most reluctant to countenance a preemptive strike, you know that, Daniel. That is the take home message from this meeting,” said the secretary of State. “It is not politically defensible.”
“With all due respect to you and your most generous country, gentlemen, we are not running for office; we are dealing with issues of outright survival. It is as primal as that, and no kind of political correctness is going to be allowed to make us a bit of collateral damage in a larger sphere of interest.”
The general’s face betrayed his determination if not the expression of the diplomat that was required of him.
“Let me remind you, General, and you need to take the message back to Prime Minister Cohen: we will not, and I repeat not agree to or support any unilateral action on your part.”
Southem’s face had reddened and the stress in his voice was more than he had intended; but it was the bottom line in the contract between Israel and the United States in his estimation; and it was better said now than to pick up the pieces after some half-baked attack by the arrogant little nation.
“I predicted this conversation almost to your choice of wording, Jeremy; and Ehud Cohen and I discussed our response; so, this is the official line of the State of Israel: We cannot, and we will not sit by and be destroyed. We hope you will take action. We will work with you. But if we come down to an imminent lethal threat, we will act with or without you. If it takes a preemptive strike so be it.”
The president listened as the Israeli hawk scratched a figurative line in the sand.
“Don’t be overly hasty, Daniel, give us some time to work things out. We are going to have to consider all the options before we act. From our end, we cannot obtain the support of the American people for another foray into the Middle-East unless the ‘facilitators of manmade disasters’ force our hand unequivocally by another attack or especially by a more extensive one.”
“Mr. President, yours is a huge nation with over 315 million people. You might be able to argue that a few million casualties here or there can be overlooked in the grand scheme of things, but Israel cannot. There are less than eight million of us. One can see our entire country by looking out the window of an airline jet. We cannot afford the luxury of such thinking.”
The meeting ended cordially enough. The men shared demitasses of thick bitter Turkish coffee and some biscotti before taking their leave of each other. The president and the secretary knew that Israel meant every word the general had said; and with the help of the U.S. Jewish lobby, the determined little nation would call the bluff of the administration if it threatened to withhold the usual foreign aid or even direct military assistance. The two senior officials of the United States government were beginning to feel their backs being pressed up against the wall.
At precisely four in the afternoon, Sally Rose Mathews showed the DCIA and the ADCIA, Oliver Prentiss, the secretary of Homeland Security, Jensen Dräger, and the DIRNSA, Walter Owen Miller, into the Oval Office.
The president was tired and not in the mood for small talk. He focused his attention on the director of Central Intelligence who had requested the meeting.
“What is so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow, Director?”
“Mr. President, our intel circuits from satellites to mano-a-mano are hot with indications that our nice Muslim friends are hatching not just an attack but a series of them. We work with one hand tied behind our back since the Patriot Act was cancelled, but we are still getting most worrisome indicators. Here is the folder on what we have so far.”
The manila folder was marked: TOP SECRET, EYES ONLY POTUS.
President Storebridge took a cursory look at the voluminous set of documents.
“I obviously can’t go through all of this now. I will get at it today, but give me the highlights.”
DCIA Gerald Lang launched into a precise and efficient assessment, a talent for which he was famous. He presented only the most important pieces of raw evidence, but what he had to say had a telling effect.
“I hate it when you come in with one of your confounded briefs, Director. I wish that just once during my presidency that you could come in and give me some good news.”
“Mr. President, you know what it says over the door.”
His reference was to the inscription over the entrance to the CIA Building.
“’Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’ I know I can’t work without the truth; but I have to tell you, there are times like today when I hate the truth.”
Lang gave the president a small sardonic smile.
“So, any suggestions short of launching a preemptive thermonuclear strike, Director? any of you gentlemen?”
“We’ve put a lot of thought into that.”
He looked at the director of NSA, The secretary of Homeland Security, and his own ADCIA for the National Clandestine Services who all nodded their assent.
“We are not naive about the political situation, Mr. President. Any kind of overt or public attack would be inimitable to what your administration has been advocating since you were a candidate. So, covert is the only way to go.”
“How can you blow up a bomb plant covertly or attack a radical mosque or a Saudi government directorate covertly? I have racked my brains. This very day, the Saudis, Syrians, and Iranians have all denied categorically that their governments have been involved in the atrocities in America and have demanded some time to do their own investigation. An act of retaliation would be a major international incident; and in so saying, I am the master of understatement. The provocations have been dreadful; and we all know they are lying through their teeth; but our country is in a state of seriously poor relations with Europe and the Middle-East. Any move would solidify the world-wide stereotype of us as George Dublyawar-mongers. You’ve got to come up with something we can do and d
eny. Plausible deniability. That’s an absolute.”
“I think we can do better than that, Mr. President. We’d like ADCIA Prentiss to give you an outline of what we have in mind.”
“Please do enlighten me, Mr. Prentiss.”
“Yes, Mr. President. We are trying to wage—and hopefully win—a very real war without accurately identifying the enemy or its motivations for seeking to destroy us. This defies common sense and past military experience. The old rules don’t apply. However, one fact is the same as existed prior to and during our major conflicts during the twentieth century; we once again face a relentless totalitarian ideology bent on our destruction. These enemies have a fervent belief that they have a divine mandate to wreak destruction on all of Western civilization. In a word, we are talking about “Sharia”—the path to God—an all encompassing legal, traditional, and educational theocratic way of life that at its core is totalitarian, virulently intolerant, and absolutely bent on establishing a global Islamic state. They are a threat around the world through their Sharia based concepts of dawah or stealth jihad—insinuation into every facet of Western life to undermine the foundations—Dar al- Islam—subjugation of nonIslamic states, and Dar al-Harb—the house of war. Every bit as importantly, there are substantial numbers of them living undetected in our own country.
“What we are going to suggest is something like what Rudi Giuliani enacted shortly after he became the mayor of New York City and every one from the cops to his own staff thought it was impossible to stem the rise in crime throughout the city. He ordered the police to focus their attention on subway crimes, everything from jumping the turnstiles to rape and murder. The apparatus of the crime wave depended on guns and informants. The minor criminals were found with guns, saved their skins by ratting on the higher ups; and the crime wave began to unravel.
“We want to try a variation on Guiliani’s theme; except, of course, we plan to have a small scale scheme that is as secret as the Manhattan Project was in its day. We will have an assassin like perhaps no other in history. He or she will be given every possible assistance but at more than an arm’s length. He or she will work with complete anonymity—false passports, identities, cover stories, passports and IDs from a dozen other countries, weapons and technology that are not U.S. in origin, and no records at CIA or in any other U.S. governmental entity.”
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