Angels of Wrath

“You dealt with Senator Sondborn masterfully,” said Parnelles when they were alone.

“I simply told the senator that executive privilege is an important principle that must be maintained,” said Corrine, aware that she was being buttered up for something else. The head of the Intelligence Committee had asked for a public session on the recent attempt by terrorists to explode a dirty bomb above Honolulu; his inquiry would have undoubtedly revealed enough about the First Team that its efficiency would have been threatened. Turning him back was a no-brainer and one of the easier tasks Corrine had accomplished the week before.

“Ferguson exceeded his authority by going into Egypt without clearing the operation first,” said Corrine. She knew Parnelles and Ferguson had a long-standing personal relationship, and guessed that was his concern. “I don’t think there’s a question about that. This was an FBI operation, and he went overboard. It was just Ferg being Ferg.”

“That may be.” Parnelles smiled wryly. He had known Ferguson for a long time, and would have been surprised if Ferguson hadn’t gone off in his own direction. Getting the First Team involved in the Seven Angels operation had been overkill, but it precluded the possibility of a mess if the FBI, as usual, bungled. More important for Parnelles, it positioned the First Team for a more serious task.

“I wouldn’t want to micromanage Ferguson,” Parnelles said. “Sometimes a horse has to be given his head.”

“Or a man enough rope?” suggested Corrine.

“If we have the proper people in place, we learn to trust their judgments,” said Parnelles. “I’m not here to second-guess you or to stick up for Bobby.”

“Okay.” Corrine folded her arms. Talking to Parnelles was like playing three-dimensional chess blindfolded: sometimes it was a struggle simply to know where the pieces were, let alone dissect his strategy.

“Mossad has developed information that a member of the Iraqi resistance will be en route to Syria for a meeting within the next few days,” said Parnelles. “Nisieen Khazaal.”

“Khazaal would leave Iraq?”

“Mossad’s information is almost always correct, especially if they’re passing it along. Nonetheless, we haven’t been able to confirm it. Not through the ordinary channels. Our dedicated resources in Syria are skimpy. The NSA is sifting through intercepts, and the staff in Damascus and down at the farm are sifting the wheat, but we have no verification.”

Nisieen Khazaal had been a member of the Iraqi army before the war. He had been identified by the new government’s intelligence service as well as the CIA as the leader of “New Iraq,” a resistance movement responsible for more than two dozen strikes against various American and Iraqi targets in the last twelve months. Capturing him and putting him on trial would be major coup. Especially now, with the Iraqi government just starting to gain legitimacy.

“We have to get him if we can,” said Corrine. “Even if it’s a long shot.”

“I quite agree.”

* * *

Several hours later, back in D.C., the president poked his head into Alston’s office.

“Well, now, Miss Alston, I am glad to see you here so late,” he told her in his gentlemanly Georgian voice. “The taxpayers are getting their money’s worth.”

“We have to talk, Mr. President,” Corrine said.

“So your note said, my deah. And here I am.” He slid into the chair across from her desk. “So what do you want to tell me?”

President Jonathan McCarthy came by his twang honestly: he traced his ancestry to an indentured servant who’d come over before the Revolution. The accent could range from a very light note to a thick brogue, depending on political requirements — and how tired he was. Since it was going on eleven p.m., she supposed fatigue was responsible for its thickness… though she was never one hundred percent sure.

After Corrine relayed what Parnelles had told her about Khazaal, the president’s smile turned to a frozen frown.

“Why would he be going to Syria?” he asked.

“We’re not sure. Our theory is that there is some sort of summit planned, with outside groups meeting to coordinate strategy and possibly pass money. Khazaal’s organization needs funds. The new government has had some success clamping down on the money that was coming from outside religious groups.”

“I find the timing curious.”

“It may have nothing to do with your trip to Iraq,” she told him. “Or it may have everything to do with it.”

The president had decided to visit Baghdad to help dedicate the new Parliament building there a week and a half from now. It was a critical symbol of democracy in the struggling country, and McCarthy was convinced that his presence would demonstrate how far Iraq had come. At the same time, it would allow him to make what would seem like a spontaneous visit to Jerusalem as well, with the idea of helping the peace process along. The side trip was a closely guarded secret since it was supposed to seem like a spur-of-the-moment idea, but the visit to Baghdad was not. As McCarthy put it, the president of the United States was not some skunk who snuck into town at midnight to sniff around the garbage cans. Iraq was a struggling democracy; his visit would help convince others that the outcome of the struggle was not in doubt. Or at least that was what he hoped.

“I’d like to use Special Demands to investigate this,” said Corrine. “The First Team and the supporting Special Operations elements are already in the Middle East for the Seven Angels case. That’s just about wrapped up. It would be quite a coup to capture Khazaal. And who knows what it would avoid? The possibilities are immense.”

“Do you know what the old farmer thought of possibilities, Miss Alston?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess.”

McCarthy didn’t bother telling her the punch line. “Use the Team. Find this man and arrest him. He should be brought to justice. Just remember, Miss Alston, that my trip to Baghdad is very important. I would not like anything to disrupt it.”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” she said.

“I know you will, deah. I know you will.” He rose. “There is one other item I’d like you to possibly attend to, if you have the time and inclination.”

A request from the president was more than a mere request, and they both knew it. But McCarthy hewed to his well-taught manners, asking rather than demanding. It was one of the reasons his staff worked so hard for him.

“Of course I’ll do it. What do you need?”

“Our ambassador to Iraq, Mr. Bellows. I believe you know him fairly well.”

“My father does.”

McCarthy smiled. Peter Bellows had been a business partner of Corrine’s father two decades before. McCarthy, who had known Corrine’s family since before she was born, knew that. Ten years before, Bellows had left business to become an ambassador. While his first appointments were made mostly as political paybacks, the previous administration had found him very useful, and he was now seen as a very capable man, though McCarthy himself had not had an opportunity to test his mettle.

“I am thinking that with the initiative to the Middle East, I will need a special envoy, someone the Palestinians especially would be comfortable with. And Bellows would be a prime candidate,” said the president.

“I’m sure he’d be fine.”

“How do you know?”

The truth was, she didn’t. Corrine had had no dealings with him, not even when she was working in the senate for the Intelligence Committee. Special envoy was not only an important position, it was also the sort of post that might lead to a Nobel Prize, certainly if the president’s initiative brought the two sides closer together.

“I have only one outstanding requirement for the job,” continued the president, “but it’s critical. I need a man, or a woman, who will tell me the truth, even if it is something I do not want to hear.”

“That sounds like my job description,” said Corrine.

“I’m sorry, deah, but you would not be qualified for this job.”

“I don’t want it.”