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“There is a chance,” Ashani started, “that the United States did not have knowledge of this act.”
“Do you think they are mourning our loss?”
“No, but I would like to remind the council that the Americans have rid us of both Saddam and the Taliban. We have a back channel with their government. I would like to see what I can find out before we take action.”
“Lies,” Amatullah bellowed. “That is what you will find out.”
Ashani ignored Amatullah. “I do not see what harm it could do to hear what they have to say.”
Amatullah tried to speak, but the Supreme Leader silenced him with a disapproving look. He took a moment to straighten his robes and then said, “The right hand does not always need to know what the left hand is doing.”
Ashani had grown used to these imprecise proclamations from the Supreme Leader. It allowed him to keep his hands clean. The problem, as Ashani knew all too well, was that his edicts left too much room for interpretation.
“There is nothing wrong in finding out what the Americans have to say, but do not trust them. I will leave the details to all of you, but I want to be clear about one thing. This attack cannot go unpunished.”
The members of the council nodded enthusiastically, and a few broke into applause. Ashani had the sinking feeling that they were going down a dangerous road paved with emotion and national pride. The thought of where it might lead them brought on a violent coughing fit. Ashani doubled over in pain. The other members of the council grew concerned until at last it stopped.
“Excuse me,” Ashani said sheepishly. He felt a wetness on his chin and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. He looked down with embarrassment to see it was covered in blood.
The Supreme Leader looked at him with grave concern and said, “My son, you should be in the hospital.”
“My apologies. I will go at once.” Ashani stood and bowed. He felt a sudden shortness of breath. He took two steps toward the door, wavered, and collapsed.
19
WHITE HOUSE
On a slow day Washington, DC, was an electric city. People flocked to the capital from all over the world to conduct business, espionage, and a myriad of other activities legal and illegal. The city was home to countless nonprofits, trade organizations, and financial institutions, and the second-largest hub of journalists outside of New York City. Counting Baltimore, there were six major pro sports teams and another dozen college teams to cheer for. Everything, however, took a backseat to politics. A potential showdown with Iran had the town running on adrenaline. The city had awakened to find the papers plastered with photos of an angry Iranian president and aerial shots of Iran’s destroyed nuclear facility. Every TV and radio channel was buzzing with the story. Iran was blaming the United States and Israel. Thus far Israel had remained silent, but the administration had released a statement through Sue Glusman, the White House press secretary, saying they had absolutely no involvement whatsoever in the accident.
Kennedy had stressed to Glusman and the president that they should refer to the incident as an accident until Iran could prove otherwise. Kennedy was running on a few hours’ sleep. After landing at Andrews Air Force base the day before, she had hopped a helicopter out to Langley, where she worked until 11:00. Her driver took her home. She thanked her mother for watching her son, Tommy, kissed the sleeping boy on the forehead, and then grabbed five hours of sleep, before waking up, kissing her still-sleeping son on the forehead again, and then heading back to the office, all before the sun was up. This was, unfortunately, more common than she would have liked. The director of the CIA didn’t mind the work, but she did mind being away from her son.
Kennedy’s armor-plated Suburban pulled through the Secret Service checkpoint at the Southwest Gate and rolled up to the ground floor entrance. As requested by the president, she was early. An 8:00 a.m. meeting of the National Security Council was scheduled, an
d Alexander wanted Kennedy to bring him up to speed on any overnight developments beforehand. The director of the CIA said good morning to the Secret Service uniformed officer who was sitting just inside the door. She continued down the hall and took the stairs up one level. When she entered the president’s private dining room, she was momentarily surprised to find both Secretary of State Wicka and Secretary of Defense England.
The silver-haired secretary of defense was about to stick a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth when he saw Kennedy. In his typical cut-to-the-chase mode he said, “I love Rapp’s idea. The president was just filling us in. These guys never let the truth get in the way of their message. I say it’s time we give them a little taste of their own medicine.”
Kennedy smiled uncomfortably, which caused the gregarious England to laugh.
He pointed across the table to the president and said, “I told you she wouldn’t like it that you told us.”
Secretary of State Wicka was sitting directly across the table from Kennedy. She frowned at England and said, “That’s because she is one of the few people in this town who can keep a secret.”
“Don’t worry, Irene,” England said. “You don’t survive in investment banking by running around shooting your mouth off. At least not for very long.” England was referring to his tenure at Merrill Lynch and Piper Jaffray. The president had brought him on board because he wanted an analytical businessman to help him drag the Pentagon into the new millennium.
Alexander gestured at the one remaining chair and said, “Please sit.”
Kennedy set her briefcase next to the chair and handed her coat to a navy steward.
“What would you like this morning, Dr. Kennedy?”
“The usual, José. Thank you.”
The president pushed his plate of half-eaten eggs and sausage to the side and wiped the corners of his mouth with a white napkin. “Mitch was right about the bomb damage assessment report?”
“My experts,” England said, “concur, with one exception.”
Kennedy sat and asked, “What is that?”
