“Dorothea, I sort of like that name. It implies defense, nothing too aggressive that might offend the Iranians, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Mr. President. I hadn’t thought of it that way. About the funding for RAMPART, I—we, that is, many people in our party, believe we should focus our economic priorities on domestic issues. The new universal health care program is slated to cost one point six trillion dollars over the next ten years. We must have the money to fund it. Our constituents expect it. That is what we ran on in the last elections.”
“Again, Dorothea, I agree.” He leaned toward her, flashed his smile at her, and put his hand on hers. “National defense is in a different pot. The money for RAMPART, a mere two billion this year, will not affect our ability to fund the new healthcare program.”
She withdrew from the physical contact and, although she leaned back a bit, she held his gaze. “Mr. President, we will have to defend this expenditure publicly. Frankly, I … we … are not comfortable with that thought. I can tell you as Chair of the House’s Intelligence Oversight Committee that the information on this alleged Iranian doomsday plan is very thin.”
She leaned down to retrieve a tissue from her pocketbook by her feet and blew her nose. “Sorry, I think that I’m coming down with a cold.”
She put the tissue away and resumed, “The information is from one source, an untested source at that. We can’t take the risk that it is fabricated out of whole cloth for reasons known only to the source, assuming there is a source in the first place. Although we can all guess what those reason are: winning resettlement in the United States and a green card and the funds to live like a millionaire, when our poverty programs are starving for funds.”
Langdon paused, as if to refocus her remarks. “Another point about the RAMPART program: We don’t know if it will succeed, or even if it’s necessary. The first casualty of RAMPART will certainly be our privacy. We all know the history of the intelligence people who claim they act in the name of our rights but are the first to violate them. The Patriot Act is enough of a travesty: government prying, wiretapping without warrants…”
Tremaine sat impassively, hearing her out.
“RAMPART will absolutely dwarf any previous programs,” Langdon continued. “Already, thousands … maybe millions … of innocent people … voters … our base … are caught in the NSA’s net. Anyone on the Internet, really, is a potential victim. I cannot emphasize enough, Mr. President, my belief that you must put a stop to RAMPART!”
As she turned to leave his office, Tremaine said, “I very much appreciate your thoughts. Take care of that cold.”
Tremaine was convinced of what he must do. Unless he stood taller than he had so far on the issue of the violence in Iran, his international stature would be diminished, and he would be known as the man capable of high and principled rhetoric but incapable of following through when it counted. He could not afford to lose credibility abroad, weakening American influence, and his opponents at home would be quick to fault him.
He knew well that his international experience was negligible, and this was no time to give ammunition to his domestic critics. Moreover, he was miffed that the French president had stolen the leadership from him on what was a human rights and democracy issue.
Dorothea Langdon had also given him some food for thought on RAMPART. Had his National Security team sold him a bill of goods? Was the CIA trying to push itself to the head of the line, together with the NSA, by claiming to hold what might, after all, be bad information? There were recent precedents. How would he look if there was no Iranian cyber project or intention to use it against the United States? What would be his reelection chances?
Why can’t the CIA produce harder, more convincing, more actionable intelligence? he groused to himself.
Tremaine’s mind went back to choosing a different option. If Iran could be made to understand that the United States had no hostile intentions, perhaps it would be more likely to stand down on any further aggressive acts. Maybe the United States should increase its assistance to the victims of the recent earthquake in a place called Yazd, he remembered.
54. On the Road to Shiraz
People had rushed out of their houses, most of which were damaged, some irretrievably. Some were going back inside to help others wedged under the weight of walls and roofs. Screams of despair came from victims’ families, moans of pain from the survivors under the rubble.
Many were running toward a house whose second floor was where the first had been. A fire had broken out on one side. A man was darting back in to retrieve valuables while a crying woman tried to hold him back with one hand. Her other hand held on to a little girl, who seemed confused and in shock.
Fires lit up the night in the direction of the city center. The smell of smoke permeated the air. Sirens sounded from police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks.
Kella grabbed Steve’s arm, “Let’s get Farah to a hospital. Maybe there’s still a chance.”
Steve saw an ambulance driving toward them and moved to the middle of the road to wave it down. It stopped. The driver opened the back of his vehicle when he saw Steve and Naurouz carrying Farah toward him. Naurouz and the driver put her on a stretcher and strapped her in. Without speaking and divulging they were foreigners, Steve and Kella climbed in the back with her while Naurouz sat in the front with the driver.
They drove through destruction and chaos. In one neighborhood where many streets were parallel, the quake had destroyed
