all their F-15 fighters,” Secretary of Defense Bunker said. “There are other things, too, but that radar system is very important to them. It's brand-new. We're just installing it ourselves. The same is true for the F-16's new missile system. Their Air Force is their crown jewel. If we are forced to withhold that shipment for technical reasons, they'll get the signal loud and clear.”
“Can it be done quietly?” Elliot asked.
“We can let them know that if they make noise, it won't help,” van Damm said. “If the speech goes over well at the UN, as it should, we might be able to obviate their congressional lobby.”
“It might be preferable to sweeten the deal by allowing them to get more arms instead of crippling systems they already have.” That was Ryan's last toss. Elliot slammed the door on the DDCI.
“We can't afford that.”
The Chief of Staff agreed: “We can't possibly squeeze any more defense dollars out of the budget, even for Israel. The money just isn't there.”
“I'd prefer to let them know ahead of time — if we really intend to squeeze them,” the Secretary of State said.
Liz Elliot shook her head. “No. If they need to get the message, let them get it the hard way. They like to play tough. They ought to understand.”
“Very well.” The President made a last note on his pad. “We hold until the speech next week. I change the speech to include an invitation to enter formal negotiations in Rome starting two weeks from yesterday. We let Israel know that they either play ball or face the consequences, and that we're not kidding this time. We send that message as Secretary Bunker suggested, and do that by surprise. Anything else?”
“Leaks?” van Damm said quietly.
“What about Israel?” Elliot asked Scott Adler.
“I told them that this was highly sensitive, but—”
“Brent, get on the phone to their Foreign Minister, and tell them that if they start making noise prior to the speech, there will be major consequences.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And as far as this group is concerned, there will be no leaks.” That Presidential command was aimed at the far end of the table. “Adjourned.”
Ryan took his papers and walked outside. Marcus Cabot joined him in the hall after a moment.
“You should know when to keep your mouth shut, Jack.”
“Look, Director, if we press them too hard—”
“We'll get what we want.”
“I think it's wrong, and I think it's dumb. We'll get what we want. Okay, so it takes a few extra months, we'll still get it. We don't have to threaten them.”
“The President wants it done that way.” Cabot ended the discussion by walking off.
“Yes, sir,” Jack responded to thin air.
The rest of the people filed out. Talbot gave Ryan a wink and a nod. The rest, except for Adler, avoided eye contact. Adler came over after a whisper from his boss.
“Nice try, Jack. You almost got yourself fired a few minutes ago.”
That surprised Ryan. Wasn't he supposed to say what he thought? “Look, Scott, if I'm not allowed to—”
“You're not allowed to cross the President, not this one. You do not have the rank to make adverse advice stick. Brent was ready to make that point, but you got in the way — and you lost, and you didn't leave him any room to maneuver. So, next time keep it zipped, okay?”
“Thanks for your support,” Jack answered with an edge on his voice.
“You blew it, Jack. You said the right thing the wrong way. Learn from that, will you?” Adler paused. The boss also says 'well done' for your work in Riyadh. If you'd just learn when to shut up, he says, you'd be a lot more effective.'
“Okay, thanks.” Adler was right, of course. Ryan knew it.
“Where you headed?”
“Home. I don't have anything left to do today at the office.”
“Come along with us. Brent wants to talk to you. We'll have a light dinner at my shop.” Adler led Jack to the elevator.
“Well?” the President asked, still back in the room.
“I'd say it looks awfully good,” van Damm said. “Especially if we can bring this one in before the elections.”
“Be nice to hold a few extra seats,” Fowler agreed. The first two years of his administration had not been easy. Budget problems, added to an economy that couldn't seem to decide what it wanted to do, had crippled his programs and saddled his tough managerial style with more question marks than exclamation points. The congressional elections in November would be the first real public response to their new President, and early poll numbers looked exceedingly iffy. It was the general way of things that the President's party lost seats in off-year elections, but this President could not afford to lose many. “Shame we have to pressure the Israelis, but…”
“Politically it'll be worth it — if we can bring the treaty off.”
“We can,” Elliot said, leaning against the doorframe. “If we make the time line, we can have the treaties out of the Senate by October 16th.”
“You are one ambitious lady, Liz,” Arnold noted. “Well, I have work to do. If you will excuse me, Mr. President?”
“See you tomorrow, Arnie.”
Fowler walked over to the windows facing Pennsylvania Avenue. The blistering heat of early August rose in shimmers from the streets and sidewalks. Across the street in Lafayette Park, there remained two anti-nuclear- weapons signs. That garnered a smirk and a snort from Fowler. Didn't those dumb hippies know that nukes were a thing of the past? He turned.
“Join me for dinner, Elizabeth?”
Dr. Elliot smiled at her boss. “Love to, Bob.”
The one good thing about his brother's involvement with drugs was that he had left nearly a hundred thousand dollars cash behind in a battered suitcase. Marvin Russell had taken that and driven to Minneapolis, where he'd bought presentable clothes, a decent set of luggage, and a ticket. One of the many things he'd learned in prison was the proper methodology for obtaining an alternate identity. He had three of them, complete with passports, that no cop knew anything about. He'd also learned about keeping a low profile. His clothes were presentable, but not flashy. He purchased a stand-by ticket on a flight he expected to be underbooked, saving himself another few hundred dollars. That $91,545.00 had to last him a long time, and life got expensive where he was heading. Life also got very cheap, he knew, but not in terms of money. A warrior could face that, he decided early on.
After a layover in Frankfurt, he traveled on in a southerly direction. No fool, Russell had once participated in an international conference of sorts — he'd sacrificed a total identity-set for that trip, four years previously. At the conference he'd made a few contacts. Most importantly of all, he'd learned of contact procedures. The international terrorist community was a careful one. It had to be, with all the forces arrayed against it, and Russell did not know his luck — of the three contact numbers he remembered, one had long since been compromised and two Red Brigade members rolled quietly up with it. He used one of the others, and that number still worked. The contact had led him to a dinner meeting in Athens where he'd been checked and cleared for further travel. Russell hurried back to his hotel — the local food did not agree with him — and sat down to wait for the phone to ring. To say he was nervous was an understatement. For all Marvin's caution, he knew that he was vulnerable. With not even a pocketknife to defend himself — travelling with weapons was far too dangerous — he was an easy mark for any cop who carried a gun. What if this contact line had been burned? If it had, he'd be arrested here, or summoned into a carefully prepared ambush from which he'd be lucky to escape alive. European cops weren't as mindful of constitutional rights as the Americans — but that thought died a rapid and quiet death. How kindly had the FBI treated his brother?
Damn! One more Sioux warrior shot down like a dog. Not even time to sing his Death Song. They'd pay for that. But only if he lived long enough, Marvin Russell corrected himself.
He sat by the window, the lights behind him extinguished, watching the traffic, watching for approaching
