'No one will question that, and it will satisfy the Kurds who followed him.'
'Very good,' said the President. He picked up a black fountain pen from his blotter. He hesitated. 'Do we know that General Rodgers will toe the mark? I don't have to worry about him writing a book or talking to the press?'
'I'll vouch for General Rodgers,' said Vanzandt. 'He's a company man.'
'I'll hold you to that,' the President said as he affixed his signature to the bottom of the document.
Rizzi removed the pardon and the pen from the President's desk. The President rose and the group began moving to the door. As they did, Rizzi walked over to Herbert and handed the pen to him. The intelligence chief held it tightly, triumphantly, before tucking it into his shirt pocket.
'Remind General Rodgers that whatever he does henceforth not only affects him but the lives and careers of the people who believed in him,' Rizzi said.
'Mike won't have to be told,' Herbert said.
'He went through quite an ordeal in Lebanon,' Rizzi said. 'Make sure he gets some rest.'
Martha walked over. 'We'll see to it, of course,' she said. 'And thank you, Roland, for everything you've done.'
Martha and Herbert left, Herbert waving playfully at Deputy Chief of Staff Klaw, who had come to escort them out.
As the group made their way in silence through the carpeted corridor, Herbert had confidence in what General Vanzandt had said. Mike Rodgers would never do anything to compromise or embarrass those who had fought for him today. But Rizzi was also right: Rodgers had been through a lot. Not just the torture. When Rodgers returned with Striker the next day, what was going to bother him more was the fact that the ROC had been captured on his watch. Rightly or wrongly, he would blame himself for the near-loss of the facility and the physical suffering and psychological wounds endured by the ROC crew and Colonel Seden. He would have to live with the knowledge that Striker was nearly wiped out by friendly fire because of what he hadn't anticipated. According to psychologist Liz Gordon, who had bumped into Herbert as he left Op-Center to come to the White House, those were going to be the toughest crosses to bear.
'And there's no sure way of treating that guilt,' she'd told him. 'With some people you can reason it out. You can convince them that there was nothing they could have done to prevent the situation. Or at least you can make them feel good about other things they've accomplished, their positive body of work. With Mike, there's black and there's white. Either he screwed up or he didn't. Either the terrorist deserved to die or he didn't. Add to that the loss of dignity he and his people suffered — and their suffering was his suffering, you can be very sure of that — and you've got a potentially very knotty psychosis.'
Herbert understood only too well. He was intelligence point man for the CIA in Beirut when the embassy was bombed in 1983. Among the scores of dead was his wife. Not a day passed when he wasn't troubled by guilt and what-ifs. But he couldn't let them stop him. He had to use what he'd learned to try and prevent future Beiruts.
Herbert and Martha made their way from the White House entrance to the specially equipped van in which Herbert traveled around Washington. As he rolled up the ramp into the back, he had just one hope. That a little time, a lot of distance, and a great deal of camaraderie would get Rodgers through this. As Herbert had put it to Liz, 'I learned the hard way that not only is life a school, but the classes get damned difficult and more expensive as you move through it.'
Liz had agreed. Then she'd added, 'Still, Bob — it does beat the hell out of matriculation.'
That was true, Herbert thought as Martha's driver maneuvered from the tight parking lot toward Pennsylvania Avenue. And over the next few days or weeks or however long it took, he would make it his mission to convince Mike Rodgers of that.
SIXTY-TWO
Ibrahim al-Rashid opened his eyes and peered through the dirty window of the prison hospital ward. His nostrils filled with the smell of disinfectant.
Ibrahim knew that he was in Damascus in the custody of Syrian security forces. He also knew that he was seriously injured, though he didn't know how seriously. He knew these things because when he drifted out of sleep he heard the male nurses and guards talking about him. He heard them distant and muffled through the bandages which covered his ears.
During the short periods when he was awake, Ibrahim was dimly aware of other things. He was aware of being talked to by a man in a uniform but being unable to answer. His mouth seemed frozen, incapable of being moved. He was aware of being carried to a bath where parts of his body were stripped and scrubbed. His skin seemed to come off in pieces, like hardened candle wax. Then he was bandaged and brought back here again.
When he slept, the young Kurd had much clearer visions. He had memories of being with Commander Siriner at Base Deir. Ibrahim could still hear the leader shouting, 'They will not fire a shot in these headquarters!' He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with the commander and shooting at the enemy to keep them from entering. He remembered shouting defiance, waiting for the attack and then — there was the fire. A lake of it pouring down on them. He remembered fighting the flames with his arms, helping Field Commander Arkin beat a path with their own bodies so that Commander Siriner could get through. He remembered being pulled up, covered with dirt, carried somewhere, seeing the sky, and then hearing a gunshot.
A tear formed in his eye. 'Commander—?'
Ibrahim tried to turn and look for his comrades. But he couldn't. The bandages, he realized. Not that it mattered. He sensed that he was alone in this place. And the revolution? If it had succeeded, he would not be here with the enemy.
So many people counting on us and we failed, he thought.
Yet did they fail? Is it failure if you plant a seed which others nurture? Is it failure to have begun a thing which had daunted the best and the bravest for decades? Is it failure to have called the attention of all humanity to the plight of his people?
Ibrahim closed his eyes. He saw Commander Siriner and Walid, Hasan and the others. And he saw his brother Mahmoud. They were alive and watching him and they seemed to be content.
Is it failure if you are united in Paradise with your brothers-in-arms?
With a quiet moan, Ibrahim joined them.
SIXTY-THREE
Paul Hood spoke to Mike Rodgers while Hood was in London en route to Washington. Rodgers was about to leave the infirmary at Tel Nef to join the Strikers for the flight back to Washington.
The men had a short, uncommonly strained conversation. Whether he was afraid of releasing rage, frustration, sadness, or whatever else he was feeling, Rodgers wasn't letting go of anything. Getting the general to answer questions about his health and the accomodations at Tel Nef took very specific questions. And even then his answers were terse, his voice flat. Hood ascribed it to exhaustion and the depression that Liz had warned them about.
When he'd placed the call, Hood hadn't intended to tell Rodgers about the pardon. He'd felt that that was something best done when Rodgers was rested and surrounded by the people who had orchestrated the amnesty. People whose judgment he respected. People who could explain that it had been done to protect the national interest and not to bail Rodgers out.
Ultimately, however, Hood felt that Rodgers had a right to know what had transpired. He wanted him to use
