by C. A. James
“It isn’t betrayal unless you did it on purpose,” said McCaig. “And it isn’t shameful unless you were stupid or lazy. You were neither.”
“I appreciate your thoughts, Captain. But it does not change the facts.”
“We should be going,” said Christine.
“What are your plans?” asked Zarrabian
“We can’t exactly stay in a hotel,” said McCaig. “She’s too famous. Around here it would be like Elvis showing up.”
“So we can’t go home, because we’re wanted,” said Christine, “and we can’t stay at a hotel.”
“When you have eliminated the impossible,” said Zarrabian, “whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“What’s that got to do with sleeping?” said McCaig.
“You must stay here. There is a bed in the tank house, as well as several blankets and pillows. Miss Garrett, you can sleep out there. Captain McCaig can share my quarters.”
Christine’s mouth turned up with a hint of a smile. “You are trying to bribe the reporter.”
“I would have volunteered without his help,” said McCaig.
“I don’t like it, Jack,” said President Whitman. “I don’t like it one bit. Not one little bit.” He paced back and forth behind his desk in the Oval Office, chewing on a fingernail.
“Mr. President, it’s time,” said Patterson. “This is the second terrorist attack on American soil. Are you going to wait for a third? A fourth? We’ve got to show the Iranians that nobody can attack America and get away with it.”
“Jack, I know you’re a soldier, but do you really understand the price of war?” asked the president. “It just makes me sick to think of all those women and children, grandmas and grandpas—it’s not just soldiers who die. Innocents get killed, too.”
The president continued his pacing. Erica Blackwell closed her eyes for a moment while the president’s back was turned. This was such bullshit, babying Whitman. Christ, the man could barely wipe his ass without help. Put the toilet paper roll on upside down, he’d probably have to get someone to explain it to him. It made Blackwell sick that this athlete-turned-politician was president while the real brains that ran this country had to do it behind closed doors. Blackwell’s accomplishments would be the envy of any president, but history would give it all to Oliver Whitman.
The president stopped and turned as though to speak, but Patterson spoke first.
“Iran has been insulting us, raising oil prices, and spreading Islam since they kicked Shah Pahlavi out, Mr. President. He was a good guy. He was on our side. The Shah was trying to drag that country kicking and screaming into the modern era, and those Islamic radicals, that Ayatollah guy, dragged them back down. Now we finally have our chance to put things right.”
“I know, I know, Jack. We’ve been over this. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”
“My apologies, Mr. President” said Patterson. “It’s just that we’ve come so far. This thing is in the bag, sir. The American public is hopping mad. They’re out for blood. This is our moment.”
“Mr. President,” said Blackwell, “do you remember Reagan’s most famous moment?”
“Of course. ‘Tear this wall down.’ It was a magnificent moment. He helped reunite all of Germany. Everyone knows that.”
“Sir, this could be the beginning of a new era in the Middle East. And you’re going to be the president who was at the helm.”
“Well, I—”
Blackwell’s phone rang. “Hello? . . . Crap. You sure? . . . Did we get to question him? . . . Damn!”
She jabbed her finger hard at her phone, ending the call.
“What was that, Erica? Bad news?” asked the president
“That guy we captured alive from the Boston attack?” she said.
“Jahandar?”
“Yeah, that one. He died before we could question him.”
“Does that matter?” asked the president. “I mean, we have his body and the other four, and we can prove they’re from Iran.”
“Well, Mr. President, Iran is denying everything, and we wanted to keep Jahandar alive long enough to get something. There were too many doctors and staff at the hospital who saw him die, so we can’t pretend he regained consciousness. All we have is that he’s from Iran, like the other guys, but no direct evidence linking the Iranian government.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means,” said Patterson, “that you’ll be seen as a bold leader when you give the order to retaliate against Iran. And that you’re going to be the president who set things straight in the Middle East.”
Whitman sat down at his desk and leaned on one elbow. His fingers drummed on the desk nervously.
“Mr. President,” said Blackwell.
“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “I can’t see any way out of it. Erica, Jack, you’ve both been great. I don’t know what I would have done without you. These are hard times we’re in, aren’t they? But at least we’re in it together.”
“Good morning,” said Zarrabian as Christine entered. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, very well, thank you,” said Christine.
“Good,” said Zarrabian. “Please, have a seat. I have put out the breakfast rolls that Captain McCaig brought us. Let us eat.”
They sat and reached for rolls and bottled water.
“I’d kill for a cup of coffee,” said McCaig.
“Bad figure of speech,” said Christine. “There’s too much of that going around.”
McCaig just grunted as he bit into his roll.
“So I’ll start it off,” said Christine. “We talked a lot. Now what?”
“I would like to know, Captain McCaig, if you still intend to capture me momentarily, or if our time here in this old house has convinced you to wait a bit longer,” said Zarrabian.
“I’ll wait until after breakfast,” said McCaig. “Coffee might make me even more patient.”
“Be serious, TJ,” said Christine.
“Captain, Ms. Garrett, I must be blunt for a moment,” said Zarrabian. “You have been very cordial to me, and more importantly, very honest. I believe I have done the same. Yet we are enemies, under the traditional white flag right of truce right now. Please do not forget that when soldiers lower the white flag, the truce ends and battle commences—men who minutes earlier sat together peacefully at a negotiating table will resume their deadly fight. Captain McCaig, if you intend to capture me, it will not go well.”
“White flag,” said McCaig. “That’s fair. And when the white flag comes down, each side allows the other to retreat safely before the battle starts again. That’s international law. I doubt most lawyers would say international law applies here, but this is between you and me. I came here under a truce, and I’ll leave under a truce. But make no mistake, Colonel. The moment we’re out of the driveway, I’ll be on the phone.”
“Of course, Captain. And I will be gone.”
“So what now?” asked Christine. “Are we at an impasse? I’m sorry, Colonel, but I can’t see how your story changes the fact that you committed an act of terrorism.”
“If America declared war on Iran and sent a soldier to fight, would you call him a terrorist?”
“Of course not, but . . .” said Christine.
“What if the soldier’s superior officer lied to the soldier, and there was no war? Would that soldier now be guilty?” asked Zarrabian.
“I don’t know. I suppose not,” she replied. “I see where you’re going with this, Colonel. You’re saying your country lied to you, but that you were following what appeared to be lawful orders during a time of war.”
“Exactly.”
“Your story won’t hold up. There is no hard evidence. TJ, that is, Captain McCaig, has good reason to believe you are honest. In court, you have nothing.”
“And you have nothing for your news story either, Ms. Garrett.”
“I have a great deal, Colonel, but it is all pieces that don’t fit together
. Even so, I have more than anyone else. Simply sitting here with you is a dramatic news story, particularly since you and I had our earlier encounter on my boat.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking. I have a theory,” said McCaig. “Don’t shoot me down on this right away, but just hear me out, OK? It’s going to sound crazy.”
“Like everything else. How could it be worse?” said Christine.
“What if this entire operation were the work of someone in America? Some secret group, probably with fingers in the military and in Washington, and with a lot of money.”
“But Zarrabian’s not an American, nor was anybody on his team.”
“No. But what if—and don’t ask me how, because I don’t know—but what if Americans somehow fooled Zarrabian and his team, and the other two teams, into mounting these attacks on America.”
Zarrabian frowned. “You mean a group of Americans somehow pulled this off with no help from my government?”
“Exactly,” said McCaig.
“That makes no sense, TJ,” said Christine. “You’re just trading one set of mysteries for another.”
McCaig leaned forward and looked intently at Christine and then Zarrabian. “Go with me on this one for a minute. Take it as a hypothesis and see where it leads.”
“I do not see how it solves anything,” said Zarrabian. “You want us believe that Americans kidnapped more than a dozen professional soldiers and tricked them? Or bribed senior Iranian military leaders to carry this out?”
“Something like that.”
“It solves nothing, Captain. And most of the previous mysteries remain.”
“You’re thinking like a soldier,” said McCaig. “You’re contemplating the logistical problems. Iranians in Arizona or Americans kidnapping Iranian soldiers, both are hard to believe.”
“Neither makes sense,” said Zarrabian.
“Think about the politics, not the logistics,” said McCaig. “In law enforcement we ask, cui bono? It means, ‘Who benefits?’ If you can figure out who benefits, you can usually find your criminal. Once you know who benefits, it’s much easier to figure out how they did it.”
“It’s the same in journalism,” said Christine. “Cui bono? That tells you where your story is.”
“And these acts of terrorism are clearly intended to provoke military strikes against Iran. So who benefits from a war with Iran?” asked McCaig.
Zarrabian glanced at his wristwatch. “This is interesting, but I must interrupt this discussion. Before you awoke, there was an announcement. The president is giving a speech this morning. It will start in a moment. Shall we watch?”
“Of course!” said Christine.
“OK, but keep thinking about my theory,” said McCaig. “I’m not going to let this one go.”
Zarrabian reached over to the old television and turned it on. It took a few moments to warm up.
“Wow,” said Christine. “That’s the Rose Garden, not just the press room. And, OK, this is going to be something big.”
“Why?” asked McCaig.
“There’s the VP, Helena Marshall Burns,” she said, then leaned closer and squinted at the old television screen. “It’s hard to make people out on this old television, but I think that’s Erica Blackwell on the right, and next to her is Jack Patterson, the White House Chief of Staff. And, yes, that’s Senator Platte, and Congressman Pearce—he’s the house speaker. And I think that’s Senator Nolan, the Majority Leader.”
“Is this significant?” asked Zarrabian.
“This is huge. The vice president, the two majority leaders of Congress, the president’s national security advisor, and the senator in charge of military spending,” said Christine. “It doesn’t get bigger than this.”
President Whitman emerged from the back and walked quickly to the podium.
“Good morning. As most of you have heard by now, a group of terrorists tried to attack a natural-gas supertanker in Boston Harbor yesterday. Thanks to a vigilant citizen who telephoned an anonymous tip, and to the quick and effective response of the Boston Police SWAT team, the terrorists’ plot was halted with only minor damage. The BPD SWAT team shot all five of the terrorists and took control of their weapons. Four terrorists died immediately. The fifth, apparently their leader, was flown to the Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda, where surgeons performed emergency surgery. However, his wounds were too severe and he died early this morning.
“If this attack had succeeded, it would have been a calamity of massive proportions. The terrorists were stopped after firing just one missile, which caused only minimal damage. If not for the fast response of the Boston Police Department, they would have ruptured all five tanks of the supertanker, releasing seventy million gallons of liquefied natural gas. The flames would have soared thousands of feet into the air. Buildings a half mile away would have caught fire, and buildings up to a mile away would have been damaged. Thousands of innocent civilians might have been killed. Boston Harbor, one of the great shipping ports of our country, would have been badly damaged. The natural-gas supply to industry and to residences on the East Coast and the Midwest would have been disrupted, costing billions in lost productivity and lost opportunity.
“This was not a ragtag band of Islamic radicals with homemade bombs. These were professionals. They were well equipped with the deadliest anti-tank missiles available. They were able to get five heavily armed men and a thousand pounds of military equipment across our borders undetected. They selected their target carefully, and had accomplices who provided access to a building from which they could launch their attack. They knew the shipping schedule for Boston Harbor.
“There can be no doubt: this is the work of a foreign government. This was an act of war.
“The United States of America will not sit by idly while our enemies attack with impunity. Those who conceived, planned, funded, and executed this crime will be held accountable. No matter where they go, no matter where they hide, we will find them. The world will know that those who attack America will face severe and just retribution.
“Thank you, and may God Bless the United States of America.”
The president turned and shook the hands of the gathered senators, congressmen, and his own staff. As he shook Blackwell’s hand, she leaned forward, hands still gripped, and said something in the president’s ear. He nodded and smiled, gave Blackwell’s hand a final shake, and walked into the White House. The White House scene was replaced by Dana Poindexter’s face.
Zarrabian clicked the TV off. “This is terrible news,” he said. “War is almost inevitable.”
“Awful,” said Christine.
“Did you watch Blackwell and Whitman?” asked McCaig. “He may be the president, but to look at their body language, you’d swear it was Blackwell running the place.”
Zarrabian looked baffled. “You just listened your president announce a near-certain war. Why are you concerned with the relationships between a president and his staff?”
“Relationships are at the bottom of everything,” said Christine. “That speech we just heard? The president didn’t write that. Just about everyone in Washington knows that Blackwell, Patterson, and a couple others are the ones who really run the country. They got him elected, they set foreign policy, and they pull all the strings. They just put Whitman up there to be a pretty face and to do the rabble rousing.”
“Rabble rousing?” said Zarrabian. “I believe this means generating anger in the public so that they will support the president’s actions.”
“Exactly,” said Christine. “And Patterson and Platte are finally getting their wishes.”
“What is that?” asked Zarrabian.
“They’re both war mongers,” she replied. “Platte was in the Senate during both the Afghanistan and Iraq wars, and was one of the most vocal hawks. That’s slang for—”
“I know, one who favors military action over political solutions,” said Zarrabian.
“Exactly. During the Iraq war, Senator Platte even
suggested that America should push on into Iran and Syria, that we should just clean up the whole place. And Patterson is even worse. He’s never been a politician, but he’s a so-called military expert on TV interviews. Any time a terrorist farts, they call him up for an analysis; his stock reply is, 'We should have bombed them, and we still should.'”
“I thought I heard that Senator Platte is Patterson’s uncle,” said McCaig.
“He is,” said Christine, “And their family is from Texas. They’re not oil men, but their cronies are. Plus their family has ties to construction companies, defense contractors, shipping interests—companies that make the big bucks from wars.”
“Wow,” said McCaig, “I also heard that when Patterson was between jobs, after the army but before he became Whitman’s big dog, he was at some ultra-conservative think-tank place. He ran the place while the resident scholars wrote white papers advocating military action against Iran.”
“He did,” Christine confirmed. “They maintained that with minimal surgical strikes on oil facilities and seaports, combined with propaganda, bribery, and political pressure, we could topple the Islamic government and make room for a friendlier regime, one that would be pro-West and business friendly. They got a lot of attention, too.”
Zarrabian shook his head. “You Americans. Do you have any idea how offensive such statements are to the rest of the world?”
“Patterson and Platte are probably as happy as the proverbial pig in the manure pile,” said Christine. “They’re finally getting what they’ve always wanted.”
“Ha!” said McCaig. “Maybe Lieutenant General Patterson is our guy. He’s such an ass, I wouldn’t put it past him to come up with a conspiracy like this.”
Christine’s brow furrowed. “Lieutenant General John Patterson, the president’s chief of staff, a terrorist?” She laughed. “You’re kidding, right? The White House itself?”
“Well, probably not the president himself—Whitman is a pretty good guy. He’d never let his team do anything like this. But this is what I’m talking about. Not Patterson, but think of other guys like that. Someone with fingers in the military, and with ties to oil and military contractors.”