questions, but those appear to be less troublesome than I expected. I want this to be law by the end of the year. I've got three kids, and the drug problem here frightens the hell out of me at the personal level. This isn't a perfect response to the problem. The truly addicted people need professional help of one sort or another, and we're now looking at a variety of state and local programs for things that really work—but, hell, if we can kill off recreational use, that's at least half of the trade, and where I come from, half is a good start.'
'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 Bogota?'
'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, senor.' 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.
THE 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.
39 FACE TIME
THE 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
