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The entire security team was tense. Twenty or so protestors stood on the other side of the heavy black steel gate, but that’s not what concerned Uri Doran, the man charged with protecting Israel’s Ambassador to the United States of America. It was the camera crews, two of them to be precise. Doran had been with Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, for eighteen years. The organization was the rough equivalent of the Secret Service and the State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He’d learned over the years that cameras were far more dangerous than any bullhorn, sign or brick. Through simple editing, he and his people could be made to look like jackbooted thugs.
The Metropolitan Police had dispatched two squads to help deal with the crowd, but their presence did little to abate Doran’s worries. He’d watched Washington’s finest in action before, and with a record number of law suits for police brutality in the past few years, the men and women in blue were not about to forcibly subdue unruly protestors and put their careers in jeopardy. To make matters even worse, Washington was a town filled with professional protestors who knew exactly when and how to provoke a confrontation. When forced to move, they were prone to pratfalls and overly dramatic wails of pain as if their limbs were being twisted to the point of breaking. All of this was done, of course, right in front of the cameras to elicit maximum drama for the nightly news audience.
Doran clutched his tiny digital two-way in his hand and looked out across the embassy grounds at the protestors. For now they were acting somewhat civilly, but as soon as the ambassador’s armored limousine began to move they would go nuts and rush the gate. For a moment he longed for his days in Argentina when the police would simply turn the water cannons on the crowd and be done with it. This was America, however, and he could hope all he wanted, but such a thing would never happen.
Sitting out the storm would be the best course of action, but the ambassador had told him this was not possible. His presence was requested at the White House, and given the current state of affairs, it was a request he could not ignore. One of Doran’s men had suggested sneaking the ambassador out the back way, in one of the security sedans, but the head of the detail had dismissed it for two reasons. The first was that the ambassador was too vain to show up at the White House in a mere sedan, and the second was that none of the sedans were as safe as the ambassador’s armor-plated gas guzzler. They would just have to gently inch their way through the crowd and fix the dents and scratches later.
Doran stepped back into the embassy to find Ambassador Eitan nervously pointing at his watch. The Shin Bet officer reluctantly nodded and brought his radio to his mouth. He alerted his team that the ambassador was coming out and then after waiting a moment he escorted the ambassador out the door and quickly into the backseat of the black Cadillac.
The random course to the White House had been chosen and the lead and chase sedans were in place. The heavy vehicle rolled slowly toward the gate. From his position in the front seat Doran could see the protestors begin their surge. Doran resisted the urge to grab the Uzi submachine gun from under the dash. They were simple protestors and nothing more, he told himself. He radioed his team, reminding them to stay calm. They’d been through it before.
The gates slowly started to open and the group immediately pressed past the four police officers trying to hold the line. Doran’s orders were specific in one regard: if any protestor was foolish enough to try to run through the open gate they were to be immediately brought to the ground. Having witnessed the efficiency of Doran’s men before, all of the protestors stopped short of the curb. The lead sedan nudged its way through the crowd, creating a path for the limousine, which stayed right on the sedan’s bumper.
The protestors collapsed in around the limousine and began acting like berserk chimpanzees on some safari tour gone bad. They were hammering the limo with their signs, and although Doran couldn’t see it, they would also be scratching the paint job with car keys. Out of nowhere came an object that caused Doran to freeze. He could do nothing but watch. It was against all standard security procedures to open the door. The metal cylinder was hoisted over the shoulder of one of the police officers and then a mist of bright orange paint began to coat the front windshield and the side of the car as the limousine kept moving.
As the three-car motorcade broke free, Doran swore to himself and pressed the transmit button on his two-way, telling his people back at the gate to make sure the culprit was arrested. He would press charges this time and make sure the idiot received the maximum penalty allowed by the American courts.
The ambassador would want to stop now and clean the paint. Under no circumstance would he want to arrive at the White House with a freshly vandalized limousine. Doran would put his foot down this time, though. There was no way he was going to stop in a nonsecured area to clean the car. The Secret Service had a pressure washer available for just such a problem and it could be taken care of in mere minutes in a very secure environment.
The limousine’s internal phone buzzed and Doran picked it up.
“Yes.” He listened to the ambassador complain for a few seconds and then said, “No.” The ambassador was used to getting his way. He began to demand that the car be cleaned. When the ambassador had run out of breath, Doran said, “Mr. Ambassador, we are not stopping, and that is final.”
Doran hung up the phone and let out a frustrated sigh. He dreaded the confrontation that would take place later when they got back to the embassy, but he knew he was right. It was his job to worry about security, and the ambassador’s to worry about diplomacy.
63
The president rose to his feet, and so did everyone else. He crossed the Oval Office and warmly greeted the Saudi ambassador. Clasping both hands around the prince’s, Hayes said, “Mr. Ambassador, thank you for coming by.”
Kennedy immediately noticed the forced smile on the Saudi ambassador’s face. He was not looking forward to whatever it was that he’d been sent to say. She watched cautiously as the ambassador went around the room shaking hands. He was not his normal charming self. He barely made eye contact with Secretary of State Berg and Secretary of Defense Culbertson. He was slightly better with Valerie Jones and Michael Haik, but he only acknowledged General Flood and Kennedy with a slight nod from afar.
When the president and the ambassador were seated in the two chairs in front of the fireplace, everyone else took their place on the couches. Despite the president’s warm welcome, a chill fell over the room almost immediately. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz was looking at the ground, waiting for someone else to speak.
Valerie Jones filled the
void by announcing, “Mr. Ambassador, we would like to assure you that we are taking the assassination of the Palestinian ambassador very seriously.”
The Saudi ambassador kept his head down and looked up at Jones from under a pair of dark eyebrows. “And what are you doing about the recent attack on the civilian population of Hebron?”
Jones immediately retreated from the diplomatic arena. Such a blunt question could only be handled by the president or the secretary of state.
It was Secretary of State Berg who spoke first. “Mr. Ambassador, we are not happy with the recent developments in Hebron, and are putting as much pressure on the Israelis as we can.”
The ambassador was careful to give Secretary Berg a skeptical but respectful look. “Madam Secretary, you either underestimate your influence over your allies or you have yet to exert the proper amount of pressure.”
“Trust me, Mr. Ambassador.” Berg glanced at the president for a second and said, “We are exerting a great deal of pressure on Israel.”
“Then why may I ask is Hebron still under military occupation?”
Before Berg could respond, Secretary Culbertson said, “Because three suicide bombs killed thirty-one Israelis yesterday, bringing the twelve-month total to one hundred and seventy-eight dead and over five hundred injured.” The secretary of defense let the cold statistic hang in the air.
Aziz clasped his hands and sat up a little straighter. “The violence is never ending. Somewhere, somehow, it must stop.”
“I agree, Mr. Ambassador,” replied President Hayes. “But you must agree that Israel is not acting without provocation.”
“The other night when they bombed that neighborhood, killing hundreds …” Aziz shook his head. “They were not provoked.”
No one in the room dared use the Israeli excuse that they were taking out a bomb factory, and it was a good thing they didn’t because after a long moment of silence the Saudi ambassador added, “We have received intelligence reports that say there was no bomb factory as the Israelis have claimed.” Ambassador Aziz turned his dark eyes from Secretary Culbertson to Kennedy and asked, “Director Kennedy, can you confirm or deny this?”
