“Who the hell do you think I learned it from?” Drake snapped.
SEVEN
Ambassador Wexler was having a hard time concentrating on the debate raging across the floor of the general assembly of the United Nations. The gist of it was a conflict that seemed to involve most of the eastern part of Africa. The differences that divided the factions went deeper than religion or race, although in public those were the most hotly contended issues. But the real problem lay far deeper.
For more centuries than most nations could count, the continent had been primarily tribal in nature. Ancient societies had grown and flourished around leaders who could unify factions, and a sense of identity that came with a strong tribal system provided a real source of stability. But the transition from a strongly decentralized government to the form of unified nation government that was necessary to conduct business in the modern age had proved troublesome for the continent. As a result, other nations had imposed their wills on her, along with their governments and their cultures, without looking beneath the surface of the “heathen” culture.
Other nations’ answers were not the right answers for Africa, no more then America’s answers were right for Russia. The peoples of each region had to find their own way, their own expression of community line that reflected the culture from which they had grown.
The ambassador had a sense, watching the debate raging around her, that points were being made by either side in ways that she only vaguely understood. Water rights, land, yes — those she understood. But she could tell from the reaction of other African nations that she was missing many of the subtleties.
Well, no doubt the State Department analysts would be over in the morning to fill her in on their interpretation. There were some good people there, people who had lived and worked in the countries they studied, and she valued them for their ability to provide some context to the arguments, insight into what was really going on.
But the problem with State was that sometimes they identified a little too strongly with their areas of expertise. They were ready to send in the troops — American troops — as a universal solution. And military force wasn’t, not really. Peace came from within, not imposed from outside.
If there ever really were such a thing as peace. There were days when she suspected that war was simply an innate part of human nature, one that could never be successfully repressed for long. She shook her head, marveling at the reasons people found to kill each other. But then again, an outsider looking into the United States would probably find some of her hot spots equally baffling.
There would be no votes called on the arguments presented today. She shifted in her chair, careful to keep her expression neutral. She had no clear sense of what the United States stand should be on any of the issues addressed, and she didn’t want to inadvertently signal a position that didn’t exist.
Her aide, Brad, appeared by her side. He crouched down next to her and passed her a hastily written note. “President wants you in DC ASAP,” it said. She lifted one eyebrow while her mind ran across the various possibilities. Nothing immediately sprang to mind. The world seemed oddly quiet at the moment, at least as far as America’s concerns went.
Brad shook his head. He was only the messenger boy on this one. “No details. He just wants you there.”
She glanced up at the clock, and saw that only five more minutes remained in this session. She flashed five fingers at Brad, who nodded. He would get back to the office and let the White House know, and five minutes seemed a small delay under the circumstances.
As the debate built to a climax, with all parties realizing that time was limited, and trying to get in the last word, she knew it had been the right decision.
The president was alone in the Oval Office. As alone as a president ever is, of course. Secret Service agents were stationed outside his door, not entirely comfortable with being excluded, but reassured because they were on home ground. The senior agent had worked for three presidents, and understood well that at times the constant surveillance and company, even though quiet and unobtrusive, could drive a man crazy. Every president that he had served with had moments when he simply insisted that he’d be alone, even if just for a few minutes. So the president was granted his privacy and, behind the closed doors, was luxuriating in it.
The White House was never entirely silent. The rumble of the air-conditioning, small noises from the kitchens below, the soft steps of Secret Service in the passageway — you could sense the movement all around. But just for these few moments, the president could at least pretend that he was alone.
And he was in more ways than one, wasn’t he? The general’s briefing and the general’s concern over his reelection were clashing in his head. He was self-aware enough to realize it was the ultimate in egotism to believe that he was the only one who could run the country during these times. The United States had managed to survive under even the most incompetent presidents, and he had no doubt that even if the idiot who was running for the other party won, America would survive him, too.
Still, the presidency was a different order of magnitude in the nuclear age, wasn’t it? The world was a much more dangerous place than any of his predecessors had ever dreamed. His detractors could call it egotism if they wanted, but he truly believed that at this moment in history he was the one best equipped to lead the country.
So how to balance it? Wexler would have one answer, the general another. He reflected on the contradictory advice that would shortly be coming his way, staring out through the bulletproof glass at the night sky. An earlier summer thunderstorm had cleared, leaving clean, fresh air in its wake. The stars seem particularly bright tonight, although his view of them was somewhat obscured by the lights that were constantly on around the exterior of the White House. Another trade-off for security, like his privacy.
Was there a way around this? Maybe. His mind lined up the options, ranging from a full-out confrontation (quickly dismissed) to a more covert special operation intervention. That was a possibility, certainly.
But no. Although he had used special operations with great success on occasion, there was too much risk of the details leaking to the public. The last thing he needed right now was the congressional oversight committee questioning his motives. No, this had to be handled very quietly.
The answer came to him, stunning in its simplicity. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He picked up the telephone, and a familiar voice in the White House communications office answered immediately. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“Track down Admiral Magruder — the older one, the one that was chief of naval operations. Tell him I want to see him at his very earliest convenience — like tonight, if he’s free.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The president hung up, chuckling slightly at the disingenuous request.
Maybe someday somebody would. Sarah Wexler’s face flashed through his mind. He grinned at the thought. Maybe Wexler would be the one to do it.
As Wexler stepped outside the assembly room, Brad appeared at her side carrying a briefcase and a small bag. “The car is waiting.” Carrying her emergency traveling gear, Brad led her out and down to the waiting town car. She slipped into it and was whisked away to the airport, and twenty minutes later was boarding a waiting jet. When they touched down in DC, a helo waited to take her to the White House.
