managed to arrive unseen by the press. The Oval Office was a little crowded. Goodley and the Foleys were there, as well, along with Arnie, of course.
'How's the jet lag, Scott?' Jack asked first, meeting him at the door.
'If it's Tuesday, it must be Washington,' the Secretary of State replied.
'It isn't Tuesday,' Goodley observed, not getting it.
'Then I guess the jet lag is pretty bad.' Adler took his seat and brought out his notes. A Navy mess steward came in with coffee, the fuel of Washington. The arrivals from the UIR all had a cup.
'Tell us about Daryaei,' Ryan commanded.
'He looks healthy. A little tired,' Adler allowed. 'His desk is fairly clean. He spoke quietly, but he's never been one to raise his voice in public, to the best of my knowledge. Interestingly, he was getting into town about the same time we were.'
'Oh?' Ed Foley said, looking up from some of his own notes.
'Yeah, he came in on a business jet, a Gulfstream,' Clark reported. 'Ding got a few pictures.'
'So, he's hopping around some? I guess that makes sense,' POTUS observed. Strangely, Ryan could identify with Daryaei's problems. They weren't all that different from his own, though the Iranian's methods could hardly have been more different.
'His staffs afraid of him,' Chavez added impulsively. 'Like something from an old World War II Nazi movie. The staff in his outer office was pretty wired. If somebody had yelled 'boo, they would have hit the ceiling.'
'I'd agree with that,' Adler said, not vexed at the interruption. 'His demeanor with me was very old-world, quiet, platitudes, that sort of thing. The fact of the matter is that he said nothing of real significance—maybe good, maybe bad. He's willing to have continued contacts with us. He says he desires peace for everybody. He even hinted at a certain degree of goodwill for Israel. For a lot of the meeting, he lectured me on how peaceful he and his reli-gior) are. He emphasized the value of oil and the resulting commercial relationships for all parties involved. He denied having any territorial ambitions. No surprises in any of it.'
'Okay,' the President said. 'What about body language?'
'He appears very confident, very secure. He likes where he is now.'
'As well he might.' It was Ed Foley again.
Adler nodded. 'Agreed. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be 'serene. '
'When I met him a few years ago,' Jack remembered, 'he was aggressive, hostile, looking for enemies, that sort of thing.'
'None of that earlier today.' SecState stopped and asked himself if it was still the same day. Probably, he decided. 'Like I said, serene, but then on the way back, Mr. Clark here brought something up.'
'What's that?' Goodley asked.
'It set off the metal detector.' John pulled the necklace out again, and handed it to the President.
'Get some shopping done?'
'Well, everybody wanted me to do a walkabout,' he reminded his audience. 'What better place than a market?' Clark went on to report the incident with the goldsmith, while POTUS examined the necklace.
'If he sells these things for seven hundred bucks, maybe we should all get his address. Isolated incident, John?'
'The French station chief was walking with me. He said that this guy was pretty representative.'
'So?' van Damm asked.
'So maybe Daryaei doesn't have much to be all that serene about,' Scott Adler suggested.
'People like that don't always know what the peasants are thinking,' the chief of staff thought.
'That's what brought the Shah down,' Ed Foley told him. 'And Daryaei is one of the people who made that happen. I don't think it likely that he's forgotten that particular lesson… and we know that he's still cracking down on people who step out of line.' The DCI turned to look at his field officer. 'Good one, John.'
'Lefevre—the French spook—told me twice that we don't have a very good feel for the mood in the street over there. Maybe he was shining me on,' Clark continued, 'but I don't think so.'
'We know there's dissent. There always is,' Ben Good-ley said.
'But we don't know how much.' It was Adler again. 'On the whole, I think we have a man here who wants to project serenity for a reason. He's had a couple of good months. He's knocked over a major enemy. He has some internal problems whose magnitude we need to evaluate. He's hopping back and forth to Iraq—we saw that. He's tired-looking. Tense staff. I'd say he has a full plate right now. Okay, he told me how he wants peace. I almost buy it. I think he needs time to consolidate. Clark here tells me that food prices are high. That's an inherently rich country, and Daryaei can best quiet things down by playing on his political success and turning that into economic success as quickly as possible. Putting food on the table won't hurt. For the moment, he needs to look in instead of looking out.
'So I think it's possible that we have a window of opportunity here,' SecState concluded.
'Extend the open hand of friendship?' Arnie asked.
'I think we keep the contacts quiet and informal for the time being. I can pick somebody to handle the meetings. And then we see what develops.'
The President nodded. 'Good one, Scott. Now I guess we'd better get you up to speed on China.'
'When do I leave?' SecState inquired, with a pained expression.
'You'll have a bigger airplane this time,' his President promised him.
41 HYENAS
MOVIE STAR FELT THE main landing gear thump down at Dulles International Airport. The physical sensation didn't exactly end his doubts, but it did announce that it was time to put them aside. He lived in a practical world. The entry routine was—routine, again.
'Back so soon?' the immigration officer asked, flipping to the last entry in the passport.
'Ja, doch.' Movie Star replied in his German identity. 'Perhaps I get apartment here soon.'
'The prices in Washington are kinda steep,' the man reported, stamping the booklet yet again. 'Have a pleasant stay, sir.'
'Thank you.'
It wasn't that he had anything to fear. He was carrying nothing illegal, except what was in his head, and he knew that American intelligence had virtually never caused substantive harm to a terrorist group, but this trip was different, even if only he knew it, as he walked alone in the mob of the terminal. As before, no one would meet him. They had a rendezvous to which he would be the last to arrive. He was more valuable than the other members of the team. Again he rented a car, and again he drove toward Washington, checking his mirror, taking the wrong exit deliberately and watching to see if anyone followed as he reversed direction to get back on the proper road. Again as before, the coast was clear. If there were anyone on him, the coverage was so sophisticated that he had no chance at all to survive. He knew how that worked: multiple cars, even a helicopter or two, but such an investment of time and resources only happened if the opposition knew nearly everything—it took time to organize—and that could only mean deep penetration of his group by the American CIA. The Israelis were capable of such a thing, or so everyone in the terrorist movement feared, but over the years a brutally Darwinian process had ended the lives of all the careless men; the Israeli Mossad had never once blanched at the sight of Islamic blood, and had he been discovered by that agency, he would long since have been dead. Or that's what he told himself, still watching his rearview mirror because that was how he stayed alive.
On the other hand, it amused him greatly that this mission would not have been possible without the Israelis. Islamic terrorist groups existed in America, but they had all the hallmarks of amateurs. They were overtly religious. They held meetings in known places. They talked among themselves. They could be seen, spotted, and positively identified as being different from the other fish in their adopted sea. And then they wondered how they were caught. Fools, Movie Star thought. But they served their purpose. In being visible, they attracted attention, and the American FBI had only so many assets. However formidable the world's intelligence services, they were also human institutions, and humans universally pounded on the nails that stuck up.
Israel had taught him that, after a fashion. Before the fall of the Shah, his own intelligence service, the Savak,
