kind of man is sitting in the Oval Office, especially if he's the right man,' the reporter went on. Holtzman clearly was a man who could talk a nun right out of her habit.
'Bob, you don't know the half of it.' Clark stopped talking an instant later, annoyed with himself for saying that much. This was deep water, and he was trying to swim with a weight belt on. Oh, what the hell… 'Okay, tell me what you know about Jack.'
IT WAS AGREED that they'd use the same aircraft, and somewhat to the relief of both sides, that they wouldn't stay one unnecessary minute in Iran. There was the problem that the 737 didn't have the range of the smaller G-IVs, however, and it was agreed that the airliner would land in Yemen to refuel. The Iraqis never left the plane at Mehrabad, but when the stairs pulled up, Badrayn did, without a single word of thanks from the people he'd saved. A car was waiting. He didn't look back. The generals were part of his past, and he part of theirs.
The car took him into town. There was just a driver, who took his time negotiating the streets. Traffic wasn't all that dense at this time of night, and the going was easy. Forty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a three-story building. Here there was security. So, Badrayn thought, he was living in Tehran now? He got out of the car on his own. A uniformed security guard compared a photograph with his face and gestured him toward the door. Inside another guard, this one a captain by the three pips at his shoulders, patted him down politely. From there it was upstairs to a conference room. By now it was three in the morning, local time.
He found Daryaei sitting in a comfortable chair reading some papers stapled together at the corner, the quintessential government briefing document instead of the Holy Koran. Well, Daryaei must have had it memorized by now, so long had he studied it.
'Peace be unto you,' Ali said.
'And unto you, peace,' Daryaei replied, not so mechanically as Badrayn had expected. The older man rose and came to him for the expected embrace. The face was far more relaxed than he'd expected. Tired, certainly, since it had been a long day or two for the cleric, but old or not, the man was buoyed by the events. 'You are well?' he asked solicitously, waving his guest to a chair.
Ali allowed himself a long breath as he took his seat. 'I am now. I'd wondered how long the situation in Baghdad would remain stable.'
'There was nothing to be gained from discord. My friends tell me that the old mosque is in need of repair.'
Badrayn might have said that he didn't know—he didn't—but the reason was that he hadn't seen the inside of a mosque in rather a long time, a fact not calculated to please Daryaei. 'There is much to do,' he decided to respond.
'Yes, there is.' Mahmoud Haji Daryaei returned to his chair, setting the papers aside. 'Your services were very valuable. Were there any difficulties?'
Badrayn shook his head. 'Not really, no. It's surprising how fearful such men can be, but I was prepared for that. Your proposal was generous. They had no choice but to take it. You will not…?' Ali allowed himself to ask.
He shook his head. 'No, they shall go in peace.'
And that, if true, was something of a surprise, though Ali didn't allow his face to show it. Daryaei had little reason to love those men. All had played a role in the Iran-Iraq war, and been responsible for the deaths of thousands, a wound still raw on this nation. So many young men had died. The war was one of the reasons why Iran had played no major role in the world for years. But that was about to change, wasn't it?
'So, may I ask what you will do next?'
'Iraq has been a sick country for so long, kept away from the True Faith, wandering in the darkness.'
'And strangled by the embargo,' Badrayn added, wondering what information this observation would elicit.
'It is time for that to end,' Daryaei agreed. Something in his eyes congratulated Ali for the observation. Yes, that was the obvious play, wasn't it? A sop to the West. The embargo would be lifted. Food would then flood the country, and the population would be delighted with the new regime. He would please everybody at once, all the while planning to please no one but himself. And Allah, of course. But Daryaei was one of those who was sure that his policies were inspired by Allah, an idea Badrayn had long since disposed of.
'America will be a problem, as will others closer to you.'
'We are examining those issues.' This statement was delivered comfortably. Well, that made sense. He must have been thinking about this move for years, and at a moment like this one he must have felt invincible. That also made sense, Badrayn knew. Daryaei always thought Allah was on his side—at his side was more accurate. And perhaps He was, but there was much more to it than that. There had to be if you wanted success. Miracles most often appeared when summoned by preparation. Why not a play to see if he might take a hand in the next miracle, Ali thought.
'I've been looking at the new American leader.'
'Oh?' Daryaei's eyes focused a little more tightly.
'It's not difficult, gathering information in the modern age. The American media publishes so much, and it can all be easily accessed now. I have some of my people working on it even now, building a careful dossier.' Badrayn kept his voice casual. It wasn't hard. He was bone-tired. 'It really is quite remarkable how vulnerable they are now.'
'Indeed. Tell me more.'
'The key to America is this Ryan fellow. Is that not obvious?'
'THE KEY TO changing America is a constitutional convention,' Ernie Brown said, after long days of silent contemplation. Pete Holbrook was flipping the controller on his slide projector. He'd shot three rolls of film of the Capitol building, and a few more of other buildings like the White House, unable completely to avoid being the tourist. He grumbled, seeing that one of the slides was in the caddie upside-down. This idea had gestated long enough, and the result wasn't all that impressive.
'We've talked about that for a long time,' Holbrook agreed as he lifted the caddie off the projector. 'But how do you—'
'Force it? Easy. If there's no President and no way to select one within the Constitution, then something has to happen, doesn't it?'
'Kill the President?' Pete snorted. 'Which one?'
There was the problem. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Take out Ryan, and Kealty would step in. Take out Kealty, and Ryan was in like Flynn. It would be tough enough now. Both men remembered all the security they'd seen at the White House. Kill either one, and the American SS would put a wall around the one who was left that you'd need a nuke to breach. The Mountain Men didn't have any of those. They preferred traditional American weapons, like rifles. Even those had their limitations. The South Lawn of the White House was thoroughly forested with trees, and, they'd noticed, also shielded by skillfully concealed earthen berms. Just seeing the White House was possible down only one visual avenue, past the fountain at the building itself. The surrounding buildings were all government-owned, and atop them would always be people with binoculars—and rifles. The American SS were determined to keep the people away from «their» President, the servant of the people, whose guards didn't trust the people at all. But if the man who lived in that house was really one of the people, there would have been no need, would there? Once Teddy Roosevelt had thrown open the doors and shaken hands with ordinary citizens for four whole hours. No way that would happen anymore!
'Both at once. The way I figure, Ryan will be the hard target, right?' Brown asked. 'I mean, he's there where most of the protection is. Kealty has to move around a lot, talking to the newspaper pukes, and he won't be as well protected, will he?'
Holbook replaced the slide caddie. 'Okay, that makes sense.'
'So, if we figure a way to do Ryan, taking Kealty out will be much easier to do on the fly.' Brown took the cellular phone out of his pocket. 'Easy to coordinate.'
'Keep going.'
'It means getting a fix on his schedule, learning his routine, and picking our time.'
'Expensive,' Holbrook observed, flipping to the next slide. It was one so often taken by so many people, from the top of the Washington Monument, the tiny north window, looking down on the White House. Ernie Brown had taken one, too, and had the print blown up to poster size in the local photo shop. Then he'd stared at it for hours. Then he'd gotten a map and checked the scale. Then he'd done some rough calculations.
