Authors: Allan Topol
Michael blushed. "That's not why I suggested it," he protested.
She didn't like his proposal. "Bad idea. From what you've told me, Suslov will do his homework on the buyer. There's a good chance he'll kill both you and Irina."
"Do you really thinkâ"
"Don't be in such a hurry. Keep your eye on him. Your cover as an oil company development official is a good one... if you don't mess up with Irina. Sooner or later he'll slip; then Kendall can call Drozny. We'll move in with them."
Michael was preparing to argue with her when the buzzer rang on the intercom. "Kathy just called from the White House," Carol said. "The president wants you over there ASAP. That was her term, not mine."
Bristling at the idea of being summoned like a school-child, Joyner grabbed her glasses and stood up. "Sorry, Michael. It's back to McCallister. Is there anything else you want to tell me?"
He leafed through his copy of the report. "We've covered the essentials. If you have any questions from the document, please call me."
"You can be sure I will. Keep me informed with calls and messages on that cell phone the agency technical people gave you. Better yet, use a secure phone in the embassy in Moscow. If the bean counters downstairs give you any trouble on your expenses, send them directly to me. Meanwhile, I'll brief the president, vice president, and a couple of key congressional leaders on what you reported today. We'll have a team ready to move as soon as you tell me we have a chance of catching Suslov in the act. We can't let him make another sale under any circumstances. The risks to the world and millions of innocent people are too great."
"I understand." He loaded the report and pointer into his attach^ case and started toward the door. Then it hit him. He should tell her how he felt. Michael pivoted and looked at Joyner shuffling papers on her desk. "I appreciate the opportunity to do this project. I really do, and I like working directly with you. I'll do my best toâ"
She smiled. "That's enough of that stuff. Just get out of here and do your job. Don't forget that with Irina, you're playing with a grenade. Make sure Suslov doesn't pull the pin."
* * *
Joyner's coat was on. In her hand was the battered thin burgundy briefcase that Ken had given her on her last birthday before he died, the victim of a hit-and-run when he had been chaperoning the prom at the Washington suburban high school where he taught. Suddenly she heard the distinctive
ping... ping... ping
from the red phone on her desk that connected her to the director of the Mossad in Jerusalem. They'd have to wait for her at the White House. Moshe called only if it was urgent. He might have information about Robert McCallister.
Standing, she picked up the red phone. "Joyner here."
In his usual gruff manner, with little time for small talk, Moshe said, "I learned that the pilot they shot down is the son of one of the president's big-shot money men, Terry McCallister."
She was startled. "We were trying to keep a lid on his identity. How'd you find out?"
"Our air force people talk with yours. Life must be miserable in Washington right now."
"That has to be one of the great understatements of all time. You can't believe the heat in this town."
"So why haven't you called? You know we can be of help finding young McCallister and getting him out. We have good relationships in Ankara and strong assets on the ground in that whole area of southeastern Turkey."
"Which is more than I can say."
"Remember, it's easier for us. We can send people who speak the language and blend in."
Joyner was well aware of that fact. She took off her coat. Slowly and painfully, she eased down into the straight-backed, hard wooden desk chair. "I proposed calling you and asking for your help, but..." She paused and sighed.
Before she could continue, Moshe broke in. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Terry McCallister doesn't want those heavy-handed Israelis complicating the chances of his son's release. He's afraid if they find out we're involved, they'll kill young McCallister for sure. So he's convinced his good friend the president to reject your recommendation. 'It's my boy' and all that."
She laughed. "How'd you get to be so smart?"
Of all the CIA directors he had worked with over the years, Moshe liked Joyner the best. She never forgot that the United States and Israel sometimes had different interests on specific matters, but she always leveled with him. There was never any deception, and she had a sense of humor, which was rare in their business. "My dear friend Margaret, I'd be stupid if I couldn't fill out the picture after forty years of working with your government. And, of course, the father's fooling himself. If they want to kill his son, they'll do it whether we're involved or not."
"You can't believe the pressure Kendall is feeling from Terry McCallister."
Moshe was eager to learn what Washington's next move would be. "Are you sending troops into the region to rescue him?"
"At this point, we don't even know whether it was the Kurds or the Turks who shot down the plane. They both have the capability in that area. Right now all of the options are on the table. That's all I can tell you."
Moshe grumbled. He understood that Kendall was indecisive. He wasn't surprised that Washington hadn't developed a clear course of action. "Let's come back to the reason for my call. Suppose, just suppose, a little birdie flies in through my window and drops some information on my desk about young McCallister. Do you want to know about it?"
Joyner was hesitating. Moshe's offer of clandestine assistance was tempting. The trouble was that Kendall had been adamant: "No Israeli involvement." Usually she was willing to take heat from the White House to do what was right. Here, her dislike for Terry McCallister overrode that impulse.
"Don't do anything, Moshe," she cautioned.
"Do you really mean that?"
"Without any question," she said bluntly, letting him know by the sharp tone in her voice that she was serious. "If your people become players and Robert McCallister ends up getting killed, we'll both have hell to pay for it."
* * *
By the time Joyner entered the cabinet room at the White House, President Kendall, seated in his usual place at the center of the polished wooden table, facing the thick bulletproof glass picture window, looked at her irritably. "We've been waiting for you to start."
"Traffic on the bridge was insane."
"You should have used a chopper." He made no effort to conceal his annoyance.
"Next time I will," she responded without apology.
It was Kendall who had informally dubbed the assembled group "the McCallister crisis team." On the president's right sat Jimmy Grange, an undistinguished Washington lawyer, who had no official position. He had earned his place as the president's adviser and counselor by being Kendall's drinking and golfing buddy ever since they had been roommates at Yale thirty years ago. Across from the two of them sat Chip Morton, secretary of defense, red faced, with a large, veiny, bulbous nose, another longtime pal of Kendall's who had been CEO of Morton Industries, one of the nation's largest defense contractors, before coming into the government. Next to him in air force blues was Gen. Harry Childress, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, with a thin, narrow face and short-cropped, bushy gray hair.
At one end of the table sat the vice president, Mary Beth Reynolds, former Texas governor, an attractive woman with a warm, winning smile and poised manner, whose accomplishments were a tribute to her brains, hard work, and determination to succeed. That was what it took for Reynolds, born into hardscrabble poverty in Odessa, Texas, to propel herself on scholarships through Stanford and the University of Texas Law School, where she had been the editor in chief of the
Law Review,
to a position in one of Houston's mega law firms, which elevated her to managing partner before she entered politics. Reynolds was ending her term as governor of the Lone Star State when Jimmy Grange had paid her a visit during the convention to offer her the second spot on Kendall's ticket. "Don't expect to play a major substantive role," Grange had said.
Reynolds immediately knew what this was all about. "Why don't you just say that you want me because I'm a woman and I'm from Texas, which has all of those electoral votes, not to mention the rest of the South, where Kendall is weak?"
The odious Grange had sneered and replied, "Give that girl a prize."
Despite all of that, Reynolds took the offer because she loved her country, and she saw the post as a stepping-stone to the White House. Her husband, a medical researcher at Rice in the forefront of novel cancer treatments, was eagerly welcomed at NIH. Then a funny thing happened. The press and public liked her so much that Kendall, albeit reluctantly, had to make her seem like a part of his team, or risk having her take the nomination away from him at the end of his first term. So here she was sitting at one end of the table.
At the other, with a thin pair of glasses resting halfway down on his nose, was Warren Doerr, the secretary of state, who viewed the job as a great learning experience that would make him a better teacher when he returned to Princeton. Reynolds, who had a sharp tongue, referred to Doerr as "the professor" in her increasingly frequent one-on-one conversations with Joyner.
Joyner nodded to the others and sat down next to the vice president.
"Chip, you wanted to open this up," Kendall said, looking across the table at the portly defense secretary.
"Yeah. There's a new development," Morton replied, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
Joyner wasn't surprised that she was hearing about this for the first time in the meeting. Ever since McCallister's plane had been shot down, Chip had been engaged in a turf battle with Joyner to take charge of the rescue effort. Arguing that the life of a military man was at stake, Chip, with the tacit acquiescence of General Childress, contended that DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, should take the lead, and Joyner's CIA should merely provide assistance when asked. For the first two days Joyner had fought Chip tooth and nail. She didn't give up the battle until the president had taken her aside after one of the team meetings. With Grange standing next to him, he told her, "Back off, Margaret. Let Chip and General Childress run with the ball. It's one of their boys who's down."
All eyes were focused on Chip. He paused, coughed, and cleared his throat, drawing out the suspense.
"For chrissake, spit it out already," Kendall said.
Undeterred, Chip began speaking slowly. "We have been carefully analyzing satellite photos and communications Lieutenant McCallister had before his plane was shot down. Those all clearly point to the Turks being the perpetrators."
Kendall leaned back in his chair and gave a deep sigh. "Jesus, they're our ally."
"It's possible," the conciliatory Doerr interjected, "that one of their guys with his finger on the button in a SAM battery got trigger-happy."
Kendall ignored the words of his secretary of state, as he often did, and turned back to Chip. "Do you have any information about the pilot?"
Chip coughed again. "Following the decision at yesterday's meeting, we put a six-man special-ops unit commanded by Major Davis on the ground in the area where the plane went down. It's remote, mountainous terrain. Lots of caves. Very little vegetation. Only a couple of small, isolated villages, one with a name I can't pronounce, in the immediate area. Davis has been interrogating people."
"Any confrontation with Turkish or Kurdish forces?" the president asked.
Chip turned to General Childress, who picked up the briefing in a heavy Alabama accent. "No engagement as of an hour ago, sir."
"Good. What have they learned?"
Childress reached down to the floor and brought up a cylindrical silver tube. From it he extracted a map, which he spread on the table. "Outside of this village," he said, pointing, "is where Major Davis and his men found pieces of the plane. What they've learned is that Turkish soldiers seized Lieutenant McCallister. They had to pull him away from an angry mob. After that, they drove him off in an army truck."
"Bastards," Kendall muttered. "How do we know all this?"
"Major Davis has bought an informer from the area with cash and a promise to fly the man out of the country when this is over. Ishmael's his name. He agreed to go with Davis and help us find out where they took Lieutenant McCallister."
The president was pleased. Finally they were making some progress. "If Major Davis finds out where the Turks are holding McCallister, I assume that he'll go in and try to rescue the pilot?"
"Your orders were no engagement until you personally approved it," Childress said. "You can change that if you want. It's your decision, Mr. President."
Kendall looked around the room. "Anybody see a downside to my giving Major Davis a blank check? Letting him go in with whatever force he thinks is needed to get our pilot out?"
Jimmy Grange responded in a soft voice: "Lieutenant McCallister might get killed in any rescue effort. Maybe we should run it by Terry first."
Kendall looked at General Childress. "What are the chances of losing Lieutenant McCallister in any rescue effort?"
Childress tried to be patient. It was the kind of ridiculous question the general had grown accustomed to hearing from civilian leaders in Washington over the years. "Major Davis has an elite unit specially trained for this type of operation. They're the best we have."
The president tapped his fingers on the table. "Terry McCallister's been leaning hard on me to do something. If the military people think this makes sense, Terry's got no basis to bitch. Besides, he's not running the country."
Grange was preparing to respond, to remind Kendall how much money Terry had raised and contributed in the last campaign and how valuable he would be the next time around. As his mouth opened, he caught himself. That would be a mistake. He knew Kendall well enough to realize his words would only irritate the president, who wanted to believe that none of his decisions were politically motivated.