Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (93 page)

“We will watch this process with great interest,” Ambassador Ochoa promised. Cutting the income of the drug traffickers by that much would reduce their ability to buy protection, and help his government do what it had so earnestly tried to do, for the monetary power of the drug trade was a political cancer in the body of his country.

“I regret the circumstances that brought this meeting about, but I am glad that we've had a chance to discuss the issues. Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, for being so forthright. I want you to know that I am always open to any exchange of views. Most of all, I want you and your government to know that I have great respect for the rule ' of law, and that respect does not stop at our borders. Whatever may have happened in the past, I propose a new beginning, and I will back up my words with action.”

Both men stood, and Ryan took his hand again, and led him outside. There followed a few minutes on the edge of the Rose Garden in front of some TV cameras. The White House Press Office would release a statement about a friendly meeting between the two men. The photos would run on the news to show that it might not be a lie.

“It promises to be a good spring,” Ochoa said, noting the clear sky and warming breezes.

“But summers here can be very unpleasant. Tell me, what's it like in Bogotá?”

“We are high up. It's never terribly hot, but the sun can be punishing. This is a fine garden. My wife loves flowers. She's becoming famous,” the ambassador said. “She's developed her own new type of rose. Somehow she crossbred yellow and pink and produced something that's almost golden in color.”

“What does she call it?” Ryan's entire knowledge of roses was that you had to be careful about the branches, or stalks, or whatever you called the thorny part. But the cameras were rolling.

“In English, it would be 'Dawn Display.' All the good names for roses, it seems, have already been taken,” Ochoa noted, with a friendly smile.

“Perhaps we might have some for the garden here?”

“Maria would be greatly honored, Mr. President.”

“Then we have more than one agreement, señor.” Another handshake.

Ochoa knew the game, too. For the cameras his Latin face broke into the friendliest of diplomatic smiles, but the handshake also had genuine warmth in it. “Dawn Display—-for a truly new day between us, Mr. President.”

“My word on it.” And they took their leave. Ryan walked back into the West Wing. Arnie was waiting inside the door. It was widely known but little acknowledged that the Oval Office was wired like a pinball machine—or more properly, a recording studio.

“You're learning. You're really learning,” the chief of staff observed.

“That one was easy, Arnie. We've been fucking those people over for too long. All I had to do was tell the truth. I want that legislation fast-tracked. When will the draft be ready?”

“Couple of weeks. It's going to raise some hell,” van Damm warned.

“I don't care,” the President replied. “How about we try something that might work instead of spending money for show all the time? We've tried shooting the airplanes down. We've tried murder. We've tried interdiction. We've tried going after pushers. We've exhausted all the other possibilities, and they don't work because there's too much money involved for people not to give it a go. How about we go after the source of the problem for a change? That's where the problem starts, and that's where the money comes from.”

“I'm just telling you it's going to be hard.”

“What useful thing isn't?” Ryan asked, heading back to his office. Instead of the direct door off the corridor, he went through the secretaries' room. “Ellen?” he said, gesturing to the Oval Office.

“Am I corrupting you?” Mrs. Sumter asked, bringing her cigarettes, to the semi-concealed smiles of the other ladies in the room.

“Cathy might see it that way, but we don't have to tell her, do we?” In the sanctity of his office, the President of the United States lit up a skinny woman's cigarette, celebrating with one addiction an attack on another—and, oh, by the way, having neutralized a potential diplomatic earthquake.

T
HE LAST OF
the travelers left
America
, strangely enough, from
Minneapolis-St.
Paul
International
Airport
, via Northwest and KLM flights. Badrayn would sweat it out for hours more. In the interest of security, none of them had so much as a telephone number to call to announce success, warn of failure, or to give to whomever might have arrested them, tying them to the UIR with something more than their own words. Instead, Badrayn had people at all of the return airports with flight schedules. When the travelers got off their flights in
Europe
and were visually recognized, then calls would be made circuitously, from public phones, using pre-paid and anonymous calling cards.

The successful return of the travelers to
Tehran
would start the next operation. Sitting in an office there, Badrayn had nothing more to do than look at the clock and worry. He was logged onto the Net via his computer, and had been scanning the news wires, and finding nothing of note. Nothing would be certain until all the travelers got back and made their individual reports. Not even then, really. It would take three or four days, maybe five, before the e-mail lines to CDC would be screaming. Then he'd know.

FACE TIME

T
HE FLIGHT ACROSS THE POND WAS
pleasant. The VC-20B was more a mini-airliner than a business jet, and the Air Force crewmen, who looked to
Clark
as though they might be old enough to take driving lessons, kept things smooth. The aircraft began its descent into the enveloping darkness of the European night, finally landing at a military airfield west of
Paris
.

There was no arrival ceremony per se, but Adler was an official of ministerial rank, and he had to be met, even on a covert mission. In this case, a high-level official—a civil servant—walked up to the aircraft as soon as the engines wound down. Adler recognized him as the stairs descended.

“Claude!”

“Scott. Congratulations on your promotion, my old friend!” In deference to American tastes, kisses were not exchanged.

Clark and Chavez scanned the area for danger, but all they saw were French troops, or maybe police—they couldn't tell at this distance—standing in a circle, with weapons in evidence. Europeans had a penchant for showing people machine guns, even on city streets. It probably had a salutary effect on street muggings, John thought, but it seemed a little excessive. In any case, they'd expected no special dangers in
France
, and indeed there were none. Adler and his friend got in an official vehicle. Clark and Chavez got in the chase car. The flight crew would head off for mandated crew rest, which was USAF-talk for having a few with their French colleagues.

“We go to the lounge for a few minutes before your aircraft is ready,” a French air force colonel explained. “Perhaps you wish to freshen up?”

“Merci, mon commandant,” Ding replied. Yeah, he thought, the Frenchies do know how to make you feel safe.

“Thank you for helping to arrange this,” Adler said to his friend. They'd been FSOs together, once in
Moscow
and once more in
Pretoria
. Both had specialized in sensitive assignments.

“It is nothing, Scott.” Which it wasn't, but diplomats talk like diplomats even when they don't have to. Claude had once helped him get through a divorce in a uniquely French way, all the while speaking as though conducting treaty negotiations. It was almost a joke between the two. “Our ambassador reports that he will be receptive to the right sort of approach.”

“And what might that be?” SecState asked his colleague. They got out at what appeared to be the base officers club, and a minute later found themselves in a private dining room, with a carafe of fine
Beaujolais
on the table. “What's your take on this, Claude? What does Daryaei want?”

The shrug was as much a part of the French character as the wine, which Claude poured. They toasted, and the wine was superb even by the standards of the French diplomatic service. Then came business.

“We're not sure. We wonder about the death of the Turkoman Premier.”

“You don't wonder about the death of—”

“I do not believe anyone has doubts about that, Scott, but that is a long-standing business, is it not?”

“Not exactly.” Another sip. “Claude, you're still the best authority on wine I know. What's he thinking about?”

“Probably many things. His domestic troubles—you Americans don't appreciate them as well as you should. His people are restless, less so now that he's conquered
Iraq
, but the problem is still there. We feel that he must consolidate before he does anything else. We also feel that the process may turn out to be unsuccessful. We are hopeful, Scott. We are hopeful that the extreme aspects of the regime will moderate over time, perhaps not very much time. It must. It is no longer the eighth century, even in that part of the world.”

Adler took a few seconds to consider that, then nodded thoughtfully. “Hope you're right. The guy's always scared me.”

“All men are mortal. He is seventy-two, and he works a hard schedule. In any case, we have to check on him, do we not? If he moves, then we will move, together, as we have done in the past. The Saudis and we have talked on this matter also. They are concerned, but not overly so. Our assessment is the same. We counsel you to keep an open mind.”

Claude might be correct, Adler thought. Daryaei was old, and consolidating the rule over a newly acquired country wasn't exactly a trivial undertaking. More than that, the easiest way to bring a hostile country down, if you have the patience for it, was to be nice to the bastards. A little trade, a few journalists, some CNN, and a couple of G-rated movies, such things could do wonders. If you have the patience. If you had the time. There were plenty of Iranian kids in American universities. That could be the most effective means for
America
to change the UIR. Problem was, Daryaei had to know that, too. And so here he was, Scott Adler, Secretary of State, a post he'd never expected to approach, much less have, and he was supposed to know what to do next. But he'd read enough diplomatic history to know better.

“I'll listen to what he has to say, and we're not looking to make any new enemies, Claude. I think you know that.”

“D'accord.” He topped off Adler's glass. “Unfortunately, you will find none of this in
Tehran
.”

“And two is my limit when I'm working.”

“Your flight crew is excellent,” Claude assured him. “They fly our own ministers.”

“When has your hospitality ever been lacking?”

F
OR
C
LARK AND
Chavez it was Perrier, cheaper to buy here, they both imagined, though the lemons probably were not.

“So how are things in
Washington
?” a French counterpart asked, just killing time, or so it seemed.

“Pretty strange. You know, it's amazing how quiet the country is. Maybe having a lot of the government turned off helps,” John said, trying to dodge.

“And this talk of your President and his adventures?”

“Sounds like a lot of movie stuff to me,” Ding said, with the open face of honesty.

“Stealing a Russian sub? All by himself? Damn.”
Clark
grinned. “I wonder who made that up?”

“But the Russian spy chief,” their host objected. “It is he, and he's been on the television.”

“Yeah, well, I bet we paid him a ton of money to come across, too.”

“Probably wants to do a book and make some more.” Chavez laughed. “Sumbitch'll get it, too. Hey, mon ami, we're just worker bees, okay?”

It didn't fly any better than a lead glider.
Clark
looked into their interrogator's eyes and they just clicked. The man was DGSE, and he knew Agency when he saw it.

“Then be careful of the nectar you will find where you are going, my young friend. It is, perhaps, too sweet.” It was like the start of a card game. The deck was out, and he was shuffling. Probably just one hand, and maybe a friendly one, but the hand had to be played.

“What do you mean?”

“The man you go to meet, he is dangerous. He has the look of one who sees what we do not.”

“You've worked the country?” John asked.

“I have traveled through the country, yes.”

“And?” This was Chavez.

“And I have never understood them.”

“Yeah,”
Clark
agreed. “I know what you're saying.”

“An interesting man, your President,” the Frenchman said again, and it was pure curiosity, actually an endearing thing to see in the eyes of an intelligence officer.

John looked right in those eyes and decided to thank the man for his warning, one pro to another. “Yeah, he is. He's one of us,”
Clark
assured him.

“And those entertaining stories?”

“I cannot say.” Delivered with a smile. Of course they're true. You think reporters have the wit to make such things up?

Both men were thinking the same thing, and both men knew it, though neither could speak it aloud: A shame we cannot get together some evening for a dinner and some stories. But it just wasn't done.

“On the way back, I will offer you a drink.”

“On the way back, I will have it.”

Ding just listened and watched. The old bastard still had it, and there were still lessons to learn from how he did it. “Nice to have a friend,” he said five minutes later on the way to the French aircraft.

“Better than a friend, a pro. You listen to people like him, Domingo.”

N
OBODY HAD EVER
said that governance was easy, even for those who invoked the word of God for nearly everything. The disappointment, even for Daryaei, who'd been governing
Iran
for nearly twenty years in one capacity or another, was in all the petty administrative rubbish that reached his desk and took from his time. He'd never grasped that it was almost entirely his fault. His rule was fair by his own reckoning, but harsh by most others. Most violations of the rules mandated death for the miscreant, and even small administrative errors on the part of bureaucrats could entail the end of a career—that degree of mercy depended on the magnitude of the error, of course. A bureaucrat who said no to everything, noting that the law was clear on an issue, whether it was or not, rarely got into trouble. One who broadened the scope of the government's power over the most minor of day-to-day activities was merely adding to the scope of Daryaei's rule. Such decisions came easily and caused little in the way of difficulty to the arbiter in question.

But real life wasn't that simple. Practical questions of commerce, for example, just the way in which the country did business in everything from the sale of melons to the honking of auto horns around a mosque required a certain degree of judgment, because the Holy Koran hadn't anticipated every situation, and neither had the civil law been based upon it. But to liberalize anything was a major undertaking, because any liberalization of any rule might be seen as a theological error—this in a country where apostasy was a capital crime. And so the lowest-level bureaucrats, when stuck with the necessity of saying yes to a request, from time to time, tended to hem and haw and kick things upstairs, which gave a higher-level official the chance to say no, which came just as easily to them after a career of doing so, but with somewhat greater authority, somewhat greater responsibility, and far more to lose in the event that someone higher still disagreed with the rare and erroneous yes decision. All that meant was that such calls kept perking up the pyramid. In between Daryaei and the bureaucracy was a council of religious leaders (he'd been a member under Khomeini), and a titular parliament, and experienced officials, but, disappointingly to the new UIR's religious leader, the principle held, and he found himself dealing with such weighty issues as the business hours for markets, the price of petrol, and the educational syllabus of grade-school females. The sour expression he'd adopted for such trivial issues merely made his lesser colleagues all the more obsequious in their presentation of the pros and cons, which added an additional measure of gravity to the absurd, while they sought favor for being strict (opposing whatever change was on the table) or for being practical (supporting it). Earning Daryaei's favor was the biggest political game in town, and he inevitably found himself as tied down as an insect in amber by small issues, while he needed all his time to deal with the big ones. The amazing part is that he never understood why people couldn't take some initiative, even as he destroyed people on occasion for taking any.

So it was that he landed in
Baghdad
this evening to meet with local religious leaders. The issue of the day was which mosque in need of repair would get repaired first. It was known that Mahmoud Haji had one personal favorite for his own prayers, another for its architectural beauty, and yet a third for its great historical significance, while the people of the city loved yet another—and wouldn't it be a better idea, politically, to deal with the maintenance needs of that one first, the better to ensure the political stability of the region? After that came a problem with the right of women to drive cars (the previous Iraqi regime had been overly liberal on that!), which was objectionable, but was it not difficult to take away a right already possessed, and what of women who lacked a man (widows, for example) to drive them, and also lacked the money with which to hire one? Should the government look after their needs? Some—physicians for one example, teachers for another—were important to the local society. On the other hand, since
Iran
and
Iraq
were now one, the law had to be the same, and so did one grant a right to Iranian women or deny it to the Iraqi? For these weighty issues and a few others, he had to take an evening flight to
Baghdad
.

Daryaei, sitting in his private jet, looked over the agenda for the meeting and wanted to scream, but he was too patient a man for that—or so he told himself. He had something important to prepare for, after all. In the morning he'd be meeting with the Jew American foreign minister. His expression, as he looked through the papers, frightened even the flight crew, though Mahmoud Haji didn't notice that, and even if he had, would not have understood why.

Why couldn't people take
some initiative!

T
HE JET WAS
a Dassault Falcon 900B, about nine years old, similar in basic type and function to the USAF VC-20B twin-jet. The two-man flight crew was a pair of French air force officers, both rather senior for this “charter,” and there was also a pair of cabin attendants, both female and as charming as they could be. At least one,
Clark
figured, was a DGSE spook. Maybe both. He liked the French, especially their intelligence services. As troublesome an ally as
France
occasionally was, when the French did business in the black world, they damned well did business as well as any and better than most. Fortunately, in the case at hand, aircraft are noisy and hard to bug. Perhaps that explained why one attendant or the other would come back every fifteen minutes or so to ask if they needed anything.

“Anything special we need to know?” John asked, when the latest offer was declined with a smile.

“Not really,” Adler replied. “We want to get a feel for the guy, what he's up to. My friend Claude, back at
Paris
, says that things are not as bad as they look, and his reasoning seems pretty sound. Mainly I'm delivering the usual message.”