CHAPTER
14
MATTHEW GLADYCE, the press secretary to the President, knew that in the next twenty-four hours he would make the most important decision of his professional life. It was his job to control the responses of the media to the tragic and world shocking events of the last three days. It would be his job to inform the people of the United States just exactly what their President was doing to cope with these events, and to justify his actions. Gladyce had to be very careful.
Now on this Thursday morning after Easter, in the middle of the crisis fireball, Matthew Gladyce cut himself off from direct contact with the media. His junior assistants held the meetings in the White House Press
Conference Room but were limited to handing out carefully composed press releases and ducking shouted questions.
Matthew did not answer the phones constantly ringing in his office; his secretaries screened all his calls and brushed off insistent reporters and high-powered TV commentators trying to call in markers he owed them. It was his job to protect the President of the United States.
Matthew Gladyce, knew from his long experience as a journalist that there was no ritual more revered in America than the traditional insolence of the print and TV media toward important members of the establishment. Imperious TV anchor stars shouted down affable Cabinet members, knocked chips off the shoulders of the President himself, grilled candidates for high office with the ferocity of prosecuting attorneys. The newspapers printed libelous articles in the name of free speech. At one time he had been a part of all this and even admired it. He had enjoyed the inevitable hatred that every public official has for representatives of the media. But three years as press secretary had changed this. Like the rest of the administration-indeed, like all government figures throughout history-be had come to distrust and devalue that great institution of democracy called free speech. Like all authority figures, he had come to regard it as assault and battery. The media were sanctified criminals who robbed institutions and private citizens of their good name. Just to sell their newspapers and commercials to three hundred million people.
And today he would not give those bastards an inch. He was going to throw his fastball by them.
He thought back on the last four days and all the questions he had fielded from the media. The President had cut himself off from all direct communication and Matthew Gladyce had carried the ball. On Monday it had been: 'Why haven't the hijackers made any demands? Is the kidnapping of the President's daughter linked to the killing of the Pope?' Those questions eventually answered themselves, thank God. Now it was established. They were linked. The hijackers had made their demands.
Gladyce had issued the press release under the direct supervision of the President himself These events were a concerted attack on the prestige and worldwide authority of the United States. Then the murder of the President's daughter and the stupid fucking questions: 'How did the President react when he heard of the murder?' Here Gladyce had lost his temper. 'What the fuck do you think he felt, you stupid bastard?' he told the anchor person. Then there had been another stupid question: 'Does this bring back memories of when the President's uncles were murdered?' At that moment Gladyce decided he would leave these press conferences to his juniors.
But now he had to take the stage. He would have to defend the President's ultimatum to the Sultan of Sherhaben. He would leave on the threat to destroy the Sultanate of Sherhaben. He would say that if the hostages were released and Yabril imprisoned, the city of Dak would not be destroyed in language to leave him an out when Dak was destroyed. But most important of all was that the President of the United States would go on television in the afternoon with a major address to the nation.
He glanced out of the window of his office. The White House was surrounded by TV trucks and media correspondents from all over the world. Well, fuck them, Gladyce thought. They would only know what he wanted them to know.
Thursday
Sherhaben
THE ENVOYS off the United States arrived in Sherhaben. Their plane set down on a runway far from the hostage lane commanded by Yabril and still surrounded by Sherhaben troops. Behind those troops were the hordes of TV trucks, media correspondents from all over the world and a vast crowd of onlookers who had traveled from the city of Dak.
The ambassador of Sherhaben, Sharif Waleeb, had taken pills to sleep through most of the voyage. Bert Audick and Arthur Wix had talked, Audick trying to persuade Wix to modify the President's demands so that they could get the release of the hostages without any drastic action.
Finally Wix told Audick, 'I have no leeway to negotiate. I have a very strict brief from the President- they've had their fun and now they are going to pay.'
Audick said grimly, 'You're the national security adviser-for God's sake, advise.'
Wix said stonily, 'There is nothing to advise. The President has made his decision.'
Upon arrival at the Sultan's palace, Wix and Audick were escorted to their palatial suites by armed guards. Indeed the palace seemed to be overrun with military formations. Ambassador Waleeb was ushered into the presence of the Sultan, where he formally presented the ultimatum documents.
The Sultan did not believe in the threat, thinking that anybody could terrify this little man. He said, 'And when Kennedy told you this, how did he appear? Is he a man who utters such wild threats merely to frighten? Would his government even support such an action? He would be gambling his whole political career on this one throw of the dice. Is it not merely a negotiating ploy?'
Waleeb rose from the gold brocade chair in which he had been sitting.
Suddenly his tiny puppetlike figure became impressive. He had a good voice, the Sultan noted. 'Your Highness,' Waleeb said. 'Kennedy knew exactly what you would say, word for word. Within twenty-four hours after the destruction of Dak, if you do not comply with his demands, all Sherhaben will be destroyed. And that is why Dak cannot be saved. That is the only way he can convince you of his most serious intent. He also said that after Dak is destroyed you will agree to his demands but not before. He was calm, he smiled. He is no longer the man he was. He is Azazel.'
Later the two envoys of the President of the United States were brought to a beautiful reception room that included air-conditioned terraces and a swimming pool. They were attended by male servants in Arab dress who brought them food and drinks that were not alcoholic. Surrounded by counselors and bodyguards, the Sultan greeted them.
Ambassador Waleeb made the introductions. Bert Audick the Sultan knew.
They had been closely locked on past oil deals. And Audick had been his host the several times he had visited America, a discreet and obliging host. The Sultan greeted Audick warmly.
The second man was the surprise, and in the lurch of his heartbeat the Sultan recognized the presence of danger and began to believe the reality of Kennedy's threat. For the second of the tribunes, as the Sultan thought of them, was none other than Arthur Wix, the President's national security adviser, and a Jew. He was by reputation the most powerful military figure in the United States and the ultimate enemy of the Arab states in their fight against Israel. The Sultan noted that Arthur Wix did not offer his hand, but only bowed with cold courtesy.
The next thought in the Sultan's mind was that if the President's threat was real, why would he send such a high official into such danger? What if he took these tribunes as hostages, would they not perish in any attack on Sherhaben? And indeed would Bert Audick come and risk a possible death? From what he knew of Audick, certainly
