by David Bishop
As the sun moved deeper into the afternoon sky, Faraj headed back to his rental. It was time for his Salat al-ʹasr prayer. This prayer was the third he was required to do each day. The two remaining prayers closely followed sunset, ending with the Salat al-ʹisha which must be performed before midnight.
This actual prayer took no more than five minutes; preparation for the prayer took longer. He locked the door of his one-bedroom unit and began with bismillah—in the name of Allah. Next, came the steps of wudu: He washed his right hand up to the wrist and between the fingers three times, then did the same to his left hand. He took water into his mouth, rinsed, and spit it out, three times. He inhaled over the water, taking the moisture into his nose. He washed his arms from his wrists to his elbows, leaving no part fully dry. The next step was to wash his head and wipe his ears inside and out. Lastly, he rubbed his teeth with a miswak, a twig from the arak tree, used as an alternative to the toothbrush. As was true for nearly everything in America, the miswak was available from online retailers.
Faraj was drifting in his personal deportment, and he knew it. His proclamations of tawbah, required for having engaged in acts prohibited by Allah, were becoming too frequent.
Chapter 3
At nine-fifteen the next morning, Ryan Testler was weaving his rental car through downtown Washington, D.C. His destination was 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. He steered into one long turn, followed by two quicker ones, stopping twice at intersections for pedestrians. He turned onto East Executive Avenue, a short street that started across from the U.S. Treasury Building and ended at the White House. Not long ago, the avenue was closed permanently except for deliveries to the White House. In addition to the innocence of its routine use, this route contributed to the occasional clandestine user, such as Ryan Testler.
* * *
The man opened the top left drawer of his desk and lifted out the ringing black phone. “Yes,” he said into the speaker. “Are you on a secure line?”
“Certainly, as are you.”
“Your report.”
“The package has left Cyprus. Arrival in Maryland is anticipated at twelve to fourteen days.”
“Why the variance?”
“Cargo ships make stops. Clearances, strikes, a lack of a payoff, and other bullshit can cause delays in some ports.”
“Is the shipping company aware of our package?”
“No.”
“Do we have a contact onboard?”
“Yes. One high enough to effect offloading without the approval of another. Do you want that information?”
“No. You are responsible for delivery to the stipulated destination. That information is for you to know. Is that person reliable?”
“Half paid. Half due upon delivery. Like us, he is a contractor, not a follower. As with us, greed fathers his obedience.”
Chapter 4
Ryan drove around some shielding shrubbery and came to a stop at a guard gate. His car was immediately approached by a well-muscled Secret Service officer, the stately White House in partial view behind him. Ryan lowered his driver’s side window and squinted into the late morning sun.
The Secret Service Officer stepped to the car. “May I help you, sir?”
Here goes.
Ryan locked in on the officer’s eyes. “Odd numbers are really odd, but not to a mathematician.”
The officer repeated the question from last night’s phone call. “Chocolate ice cream tastes best on?”
Ryan reran his answer. “Cherry pie.”
“Please pull your car to the other side of the guard shack.” The officer pointed, circling his arm a bit to indicate less than a full turn. “I’ve been at the gate anticipating your arrival. My relief is on the way. I’ll escort you to your meeting.”
Ryan moved his car to the position the officer indicated. After a few minutes, a second officer approached. After their brief talk, the officer returned to Ryan. “Your car will be taken care of. I’ll escort you back to your car when you’re ready to leave.”
Ryan got out of his car, leaving the key in the ignition.
“We won’t be stopped. Do not speak to anyone until we reach our destination.”
“Understood.”
I’m here to see Bobby. That’s the only part I really understand, but not why.
“Please follow me, sir.”
More than a decade ago, Ryan had been the CIA station chief in Saudi Arabia. For two of those years, Bobby Wellington had been the U.S. Ambassador to the Kingdom. At least once a week, late at night, Ryan and Bobby met in the embassy kitchen to have cherry pie á la mode with chocolate ice cream. They often lingered for hours talking about the crosscurrents and undertows of politics and religion in the Middle East.
Today’s use of the White House delivery entrance, and the question Ryan had been asked, confirmed who he was here to see. It was also obvious that whatever the president had in mind, he wanted it kept from the media, and that was fine with Ryan. Had he given an answer other than cherry pie, the secret service would be detaining him for questioning.
Ryan fell in step with the officer as they moved across the paved area and up the sidewalk toward the official residence of the leader of the free world. Every U.S. President has lived in the White House since March 1797, when President John Adams and his wife, Abigail, moved in.
Guess I shouldn’t call him Bobby anymore.
The officer led Ryan toward an entrance into the East Wing. Twenty yards ahead, to his left, walked two women. Except for not having enough time to get here on foot, they could have been two of the ladies from town, part of the pedestrian stream along the sidewalks. The door into the East Wing, the domain of the First Lady, was opened by another of the officers assigned to duty at the White House. Selection of this side entrance avoided the prying eyes of the media monitoring the comings and goings from the West Wing.
Inside, the officer led Ryan down a plain painted corridor. Before leaving to come here, Ryan studied a schematic of the White House. He recognized the sunlit East Colonnade. Windows to the left displayed the manicured South Lawn. Photos of the president and first family lined the opposite wall, including one taken during a visit of the Canadian prime minister.
The Secret Service escort guided Ryan into a side hallway that led directly to the West Wing. Near the end of that passage, the officer held up his hand, stopped, and leaned into the office of the president’s secretary. She was a meaty woman with the poise and presence to command respect. Her above-the-desktop look was finished off by a pair of horn-rim glasses. She lowered her glasses, leaving them to dangle on the end of a black lanyard around her neck. Her office was located between the Oval Office and the room the president used for gatherings with his cabinet. She glanced over at the Secret Service agent and nodded without speaking. She brought the glasses up to her face and refocused on the monitor to her computer.
The escort led Ryan a few more steps to where the roundness of the Oval Office clashed with the straight lines designed into the rest of the West Wing. His escort opened the door, stood back, and nodded.
As Ryan entered, the president’s mess steward left through one of three interior doors. The printout Ryan had perused the night before identified that door as one leading to the president’s small study and, beyond that, into the president’s dining room.
Ryan stood alone in the Oval Office of the West Wing on the first floor of the White House. He recalled a line from The Wizard of Oz. “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
The eight hundred square feet of the Oval Office was small in the context of being the digs of the most powerful man in the history of the universe. His eyes settled on an old oak desk, its back toward the windows.
The voice of President Robert Wellington took the point as he entered the room through the doorway the steward had used to leave. “Hello, Ryan. God, it’s been forever.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“Oh, come on. I get that all day. Can’t I stil
l be Bobby? Like the old days. At least when we’re alone.”
“Hi, Bobby.” Ryan smiled as they shook hands, the president’s other hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
The president motioned Ryan toward the seating area near the center of the room. “Damn fine of you to respond to my invite so promptly. When I walked in I noticed you looking at my desk.”
Ryan sat after the president did. “Yes, sir. It’s obviously old and made by a true craftsman.”
“You know the story behind that thing?”
“No, sir.”
“The way it was told to me, I hope I’ve got this half right, back around 1850 we freed an English ship, the HMS Resolute, from the ice, and returned her to England’s Queen Victoria. Some years later, the queen had this desk made from the timbers of the Resolute. Most of our presidents since have used it. I’ve been told that Franklin Roosevelt, LBJ, Nixon, Ford and a few others did not, at least not within the Oval Office. Ronnie Reagan had it made a bit taller, which was a good thing. In the early days, our presidents were generally shorter fellas.”
“Lot of history, sir.”
“Damn, it’s good to see ya. I shoulda had you here long ago. Sorry about having to bring you in through the backdoor. Routinely, visitors to the White House get booked in and the media pays attention. That’d put you in that limelight you strive to avoid. The way I see it, this is my home. I oughta be able to invite someone in without having to announce it to the world. I get that done with the cooperation of a few carefully chosen members of the White House team.”
“You found a way, sir.”
“Necessity is the mother of invention. Fortunately, you remembered our pie a’ la mode nights in the embassy kitchen. I figured nobody else in the world would instinctively reply that chocolate ice cream goes with cherry pie.”
Ryan grinned and lowered his head. “The simplest snare is often the surest.”
The president raised his eyebrows. “You turned down my offer of a job here, preferring the shadows over some highfalutin desk that comes preloaded with public scrutiny.”
Ryan made a concessionary hand gesture. “A man can often be more productive when his actions are not grist for the mills of politics and the media. Until I got the call last night, I thought you were angry after I turned down your very flattering offer.”
“These last few years I’ve just respected your wish to keep out of the limelight that comes with policy positions. I admit, working out in the open can be a real pain in the-ass.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“In the end, a president is not remembered for the ideals he holds, but for the public’s perception of those ideals.”
“As I see it, sir, members of the media have their own political bents. I imagine they always have. But, nowadays, they don’t bother disguising them. The line between news reporting and news commentary has been erased for many casual viewers.”
“That part about anytime I absolutely need you. That still in play?”
Ryan nodded. “I’m here, sir.”
“I have a mission and it’s got your name on it. I hope we can pull it off without putting you in the limelight. I won’t try to fool you, not that I could. This mission has risk. I can tell you the risk is worth it.”
The president turned toward the two facing gold couches in the center of the room. “Help yourself to coffee and Danish, then sit and we’ll dig into it.”
Chapter 5
The president lowered his coffee cup. Instead of putting it down, he held the warmth between his hands and peered over the top. “Over the years what have you seen in the way of change in the Middle East?”
“Not all that much, sir. Some modernization, and some changes in the men in control in a given country, but overall, damn little. And, if I may add, those changes pale by comparison to America’s investment of blood and treasury.”
The president narrowed his eyes and moved his cup lower. “Pick up your spoon.”
“What?”
“Bobby says, pick up your spoon.”
The two men chuckled. Ryan picked up his spoon.
“That’s your magic wand. Wave it and declare what’ll take place to change the playing field in the Middle East and America’s involvement there.”
“My views on that subject haven’t changed all that much since our time together in the Kingdom. It’s their part of the world. Their countries. They gotta do it. We can help, when invited, but otherwise, I’d bring our men home. All of ‘em. If some country there starts developing and deploying things that can threaten us or our allies, and we judge it necessary, we level whatever that is, then we come home and go back to the basic plan.”
“Precisely.”
“What’s going on … Bobby? You have such a plan. Is that part of what brought me here?”
“It’s all of what brought you here. To a large degree, World War II ended the traditional model of some megalomaniac leader of one country invading another to conquer and plunder while expanding his rule. After that the Soviet Union and, to a lesser extent, China attempted to expand their spheres of control through backing rebels such as Fidel Castro in Cuba, Ho Chi Minh in Vietnam, the current nut-job in North Korea, and others. The really sticky stuff of today involves religious ideologies designed to dictate the full spectrum of personal behavior and worship. To make government an extension of religion rather than separate from it, as we believe. This has resulted in a hydra-headed monster with the whole bunch of them behaving under a loose umbrella of organizations. Cooperation among them ebbs and flows. The meat of their differences is layered above the fundamental religious tugs and pulls between the Shia and the Sunni, not to mention numerous splinter groups.”
Ryan finished his Danish. “That’s why it’s a fool’s errand to march in with an expectation of liberating, occupying, and reshaping their regimes and cultures to more closely compare to our own.” He wiped his fingers on his napkin. “The countries of the Middle East are dissimilar to Germany and Japan of the 1940s. Unlike those two countries, reconstituting Middle Eastern countries as democracies and capitalistic economies is all but impossible.”
The president nodded, poking the air between them with his finger. “There are things we can offer when, maybe I should say if, they move toward democracy and capitalism. I’m ready to help should they, without our meddling, decide they want things like a capital market, a central bank, a social safety net, and law enforcement and judicial systems based on equal justice.”
Ryan drank the last of his coffee. “Some of that is possible. Iran is actually doing some of it on its own. Middle Eastern countries are a mishmash of religious sects, some with unnatural borders forced upon them by Britain and its allies at the end of World War I.”
The president was nodding. “The need for a stable oil market is a practical reality. At least until we develop a real, functioning alternative source of energy. We now produce more than half our own oil and are one of the leading exporters.”
President Wellington grinned. “This stuff moves like poured molasses, but since the Arab Spring, change in various forms is spreading throughout the Middle East.”
Ryan moved his empty plate to a small table on his left. “Do you see America as having helped or hindered this process?”
“Well, nothing’s black or white, but, I’m afraid, to the people over there, all too often our military presence feels more like an occupation than a liberation. The militants certainly sell that spin to foster anti-American sentiment. This aids their efforts to recruit and develop fanatics to carry out terrorist attacks throughout the world. In response, many in the Western world are developing an anti-Islamic sentiment. The net impact of all this plays better for the militant’s team than it does for ours.”
“I gather you’ve got some ideas on how to change that.”
“Yes, I do.” The president glanced at the clock over the fireplace. “You’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes, there’s a photo op set up with a troop of Boy Scouts from
my hometown. I need, ah, about fifteen minutes or so.” The president handed a thin folder to Ryan. “Please read this while I’m gone. When I come back, I’d like to hear your views on it.”
* * *
When President Wellington left the room, Ryan helped himself to a second cup of hot coffee, opened the folder, and began to read what the president had titled:
The Wellington Doctrine
This doctrine establishes America’s blueprint for our conduct within the world community. Over time, some additional planks may be needed and others will require some revision. At the current time, this doctrine has primarily been designed with respect to the Middle East. It is not drafted for eloquence or diplomacy, but for clarity.
America will not attempt to dictate how another country should be governed.
America is not in the business of nation-building or regime-changing. That’s the duty of the people of each country, at the time and in the manner the citizens deem appropriate.
We will monitor all countries with military apparatus that reaches beyond its borders.
Threats from military apparatus and training of terrorists who threaten America or our allies will not be tolerated. Should such threats exist, they will be promptly removed by the offending country or, after adequate warning, by us forcefully. Occupation by American troops will not be undertaken beyond that which is necessary to eradicate a given threat.
The governance activities inside other countries are not our business. Removal of threats that endanger America or our allies are our business.
Should any country, lacking same, choose to develop and install non-military systems, including, but not limited to, a judicial system based on the principle of equal justice, a central banking system, social safety nets, open markets for corporate shares, commodities, or capital formation, and such country believes a system within the United States could be a model for the one they choose to develop, we offer counsel and templates. Said country will be free to accept or reject our assistance and we will be free to continue or discontinue that assistance.