I Do Solemnly Swear (27 page)

Chewing on his unlit cigar, General Wolfe chuckled. “It’s comforting to know that we’re dealing with such a reasonable man.”

Kate refused to dignify his comment with an answer.

General Wallace said, “Back in ‘91, shortly after our first air strike on Baghdad, Saddam tried the same tactics. He agreed to release four captured pilots if we did not interfere with his occupation of Kuwait. He actually expected us to turn our heads while he raped, pillaged, and slaughtered his neighbors.”

General Wolfe slammed a fist on the table. “George W. showed those sand lizards what Americans are made of. And that’s
exactly
what we should do, Madam President.”

Kate was in no mood for a debate, so she let the comment slide. She did have quite a different opinion of former president George W. Bush and the invasion of Iraq. But this was not the time or place to enter into that conversation. “I thought when we bombed the communication center, the air force base, and the two warehouses, we
did
show them what we’re made of.”

“Perhaps Ahmadinejad needs a more convincing demonstration of our military might,” General Wallace suggested.

General Cumberland stood, his high forehead glistening under the bright lights. “The Iranian president is well aware that we will not comply with his demands. We do not, under any circumstances, negotiate with terrorists. But by asking for outrageous concessions, he’s hoping that we will compromise. And if we do, it will be a huge victory for him.”

General Wallace asked, “Madam President, have we confirmed that Iran has actually captured our Navy pilots?”

“Ahmad Habib insisted that we watch CNN at eight p.m. I’m certain it has something to do with the pilots.”

Admiral Canfield said, “Navy pilots are well prepared for this sort of situation, Madam President.” His lips tightened to a narrow line, and he blinked several times. “I lost a son during the Middle East war, and no one is more sensitive to an impasse like this than I. But the welfare of our pilots cannot influence our response. We must react in the best interest of the United States and our allies.”

Kate prepared herself for a grueling evening.

They exchanged strategies and opinions for ninety minutes, but Kate had made up her mind long before she’d entered the Situation Room, and none of the Joint Chiefs had changed her position.

At seven fifty-nine p.m., Walter Owens turned on the television.

“This is CNN Senior Correspondent Paul Carrow. Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see is an unedited videotape given to us by the Iranian government. We caution you: it may be disturbing, so please watch it at your own discretion.”

The television screen went black for an instant. A young man’s face slowly came into focus. His right eye was swollen shut,
and his nose looked broken. Kate held her hand over her mouth and silenced a gasp.

“My name is Lieutenant Wesley L. Travis. I am a pilot in the...United States Navy...”

His speech was labored, his words slurred like he’d been drugged.

“Please do not be alarmed by my appearance. My facial injuries were sustained when I ejected from my aircraft.”

Kate felt like her rib cage was shrinking.

“I speak for myself and my fellow pilot, Lieutenant Kyle Stevers. We do not endorse...the atrocious actions of the United States of America. I denounce my country for engaging in an unjustified act of war against a peaceful nation.”

“This is a travesty,” Walter Owens grumbled.

Travis continued. “Madam President...I implore you...Please cease and desist from any further military action against Iran. Comply with President Ahmadinejad’s modest requests. We have been treated kindly by the Iranian people. But any further acts of aggression will ensure our justifiable execution.” As if he were looking for a cue, Travis’s eyes glanced at something to the side of the video camera. “Please wish our families well. Thank you.”

Paul Carrow’s face appeared on the screen.

“Turn it off,” Kate said to Walter Owens.

Admiral Canfield said, “This is a clever ploy, Madam President. We cannot be seduced by this melodramatic performance. The Iranian president wants us to abandon rational solutions. He’s hoping this contrived video will encourage us to make an emotional decision. I assure you, an Iranian soldier held a gun to Lieutenant Stevers’s head while Lieutenant Travis read the script.”

“So should we forget about the pilots and their families?” Kate asked.

“They might already be dead, Madam President,” General Wallace warned. “We have no idea when that video was made.”

Kate thought the decision to bomb Iran had been a difficult one. But seeing Lieutenant Travis’s battered face, imagining what he and Lieutenant Stevers may have already gone through, made everything flesh and blood. She hadn’t seen the faces of the Iranian soldiers killed during the air strikes. But now she’d looked into the blue eyes of a potential victim, an American, and it weighed on her conscience. Flashbacks from the September 11 bombing of the World Trade Center raced through her mind.

“First, I’d like to thank you for your invaluable input and support. You’ve helped make my decision more palatable. I am going to instruct Secretary of State Mitchell to deliver a counter-ultimatum. I will not, under any circumstances, negotiate with Iran. As General Cumberland pointed out, the United States of America has a strict policy prohibiting us from negotiating with terrorists. And I intend to uphold this policy. Ahmadinejad hides under the guise of his presidency, but he is a terrorist in every sense of the word. And terrorists, by nature, are cowards. So we must expose his cowardice by standing firm.

“There are two separate issues to consider: our commitment in the Middle East and the lives of the pilots. This is what I propose. We will agree to sign a document proscribing further military action against Iran, providing they remain a peaceful nation. Any threat to a neighboring country nullifies our agreement. They must cease and desist any production of WMDs, including chemical weapons, and they must allow the United Nations to periodically inspect Iran’s nuclear facilities, to be certain their enrichment program is for the production of energy, not bombs. We will
not
, however, remove our troops or ships from the area and will continue with military support for our allies. If President
Ahmadinejad does not release the pilots to the Saudi government in forty-eight hours, we will coordinate a massive air strike against an undisclosed, heavily populated Iranian city. The bloodshed will be on his hands.”

The group sat frozen, staring at their president as if she were an alien being. At first, Kate guessed that either they were thinking about impeachment proceedings or trying to figure out where to locate the nearest straitjacket. She could hardly believe what she’d just said. How could she expect the Joint Chiefs to understand? General Wolfe stood and turned toward the president. He smiled and began to applaud. The rest of the group stood and joined the ovation.

Cheering. Clapping. Whistling.

Kate didn’t feel that she deserved their adulation, but the overwhelming support moistened her eyes and helped solidify her decision.

***

For Richard Alderson, Toni Mitchell, and Ahmad Habib to meet, King Al Sabah graciously offered a private room in his 86,000-square-foot palace. The king’s overt hospitality, uncharacteristic of years past, amused Mitchell. She’d been around Washington politics for nearly twenty years, long enough to remember how his predecessor, King Fahd, had opposed United States involvement in Arab affairs. But having a hostile lunatic like Ahmadinejad for a neighbor, Mitchell thought, can convert even the most vehement anti-American country into a dedicated ally.

Mitchell sat next to Alderson and gazed around a room decorated more lavishly than anything she’d ever seen. The palace was like something out of a Walt Disney cartoon. Mitchell, whose austere heritage was well rooted through three generations of middle-income ancestors, had formed a rigid aversion to
ostentatious wealth. In the spirit of capitalism and free enterprise, she could almost digest the unimaginable wealth of a Bill Gates. But
obscenely
wealthy, arrogant, and self-absorbed Arabs, like Al Sabah, offended Mitchell. Because nature had been kind and enriched barren deserts with unlimited reserves of crude oil—a natural resource used to bleed the Western world—radical Arabs, many supporting terrorism, became filthy rich. This did not sit well with Mitchell. Consequently, facing the king and accepting his benevolence with sincere appreciation had been enormously difficult for the secretary of state.

Alderson was still sulking. He had been for the last hour. Mitchell elbowed his arm.

“You haven’t said anything about the president’s decision.”

“That’s because I’m still numb,” Alderson said.

“You don’t agree with her?”

“If it works, I’ll join her fan club. If it blows up in her face, I’ll draft my resignation letter.”

Mitchell was astonished with his disloyal answer. Before joining him in Riyadh, she had not interacted with him one on one. Now she clearly understood how his seditious mind worked. She’d always believed that a leopard showed his real spots during the darkest hours. Alderson was now clearly showing his.

Alderson’s eyes scalded Mitchell’s face. “So tell me, do
you
think the president is acting responsibly?”

“Military strategy is not an exact science. She weighed every conceivable option and chose the best one.”

“Thank you for that little lesson in military tactics. Need I remind you that I am a retired Army colonel?”

“OK,
Colonel
, what would you do if you were in her shoes?”

He tugged at his collar. “I wouldn’t threaten to blow up an entire Iranian city.”

“You’re sidestepping the question, Richard.”

He looked at her with that condescending gawk men get when a woman challenges their manhood. “I haven’t had the luxury of meeting with the Joint Chiefs and examining every possible solution.”

“Well, President Miles has,” Mitchell said. “And her decision is based on hours of strategic deliberation. Whether we agree with her or not, Richard, we have a responsibility to facilitate her directives with our unconditional support.”

“So you ate a bowl of patriotic Wheaties this morning and decided to take out your aggressions on
me
? Why are you getting in
my
face?”

“Because this is not a situation for lukewarm advocates. Mr. Habib is as shrewd as they come. If we are unable to convince him that our position is immutable, if he even sniffs uncertainty in our resolve, Ahmadinejad will call our bluff. We must deliver a convincing performance.”

He poked his index finger on the walnut table, and his cheeks filled with blood. “I’m on
this
side of the table, Ms. Secretary of State, remember?”

“Richard, I respect you, but I must ask that you remain silent during our negotiations.”

Alderson launched up so quickly he almost knocked over his chair.

“What the fuck gives you—”

The double doors swung open. Habib and his entourage made their grand entrance. The ambassador strolled toward the table with casual style, as if he were meeting a fellow countryman for afternoon tea. Mitchell was not impressed with his appearance. He looked like a peasant dressed in a business suit. On certain men, Mitchell found facial hair quite sexy. But Habib had an unruly beard that looked like a rat’s nest.

Alderson, his face still feverish, was standing. The secretary of state eased up. Habib bowed toward Mitchell, hardly acknowledging her, then offered his hand to Alderson.

Ahmad Habib sat opposite Richard Alderson; one of his henchmen sat across from Toni Mitchell. The other four Iranians remained near the entranceway. Habib, Mitchell thought, could pass for Yasir Arafat’s twin, minus the headgear. He had wide-set eyes and a prominent nose. He was an unattractive man—ugly, actually. His fingernails were meticulously manicured. Perfect hands for a Palmolive commercial. The young man accompanying Habib was handsome; he looked more Hispanic than Middle Eastern.

As in their first meeting, Habib directed his conversation toward Alderson, overtly ignoring Mitchell. “Has your government agreed to our requests?”

She wanted to teach him a basic lesson in etiquette, but there were more important things for a sexist pig to learn today. “We have a counter-proposal for President Ahmadinejad,” Mitchell announced.

“Any alternative is unacceptable. I made that clear during our first meeting.”

Mitchell glared at Habib. “Then perhaps you have wasted your time coming to Riyadh.”

For the first time since entering the room, Habib’s coal-black eyes met Mitchell’s.

With her peripheral vision, she could see Alderson peering at the side of her face. She hoped he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. Silence was a powerful negotiating tool, one she’d learned in the business world. Once you play your hand, you sit silently until your opponent responds.

Habib toyed with his wiry beard. In their native tongue, he and his escort exchanged words, apparently unaware that the secretary of state was fluent in several Arabic languages.

“President Ahmadinejad insists on hearing unfavorable news immediately,” Habib said.

“Please outline your counter-proposal.”

“Ambassador Habib,” Mitchell said, “the United States of America will not allow you to use our Navy pilots as pawns during these negotiations. They must be released, unharmed, at once. If you comply, the president will sign a formal agreement with the United Nations prohibiting us from engaging in military intervention against Iran. Providing, of course, your country coexists with other nations in a peaceful manner and your government immediately stops its development of nuclear and chemical weapons of mass destruction. We will not, under any circumstances, de-escalate our military forces in the Middle East.”

Habib sat forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Your president has not acknowledged
any
of our requests?”

“They were beyond reason,” Mitchell said. “Surely you did not expect us to comply.”