The club had been at its present location near the Potomac River since 1856, and as the world entered the twenty-first century, it remained restricted but without regard to race or religion. The membership, however, was still made up of important, influential men who wielded power and wealth.
DR. Carl Joplin, in the company of Mr. Saviz Kahnani from the Iranian Embassy, walked from the cab up to the steps leading into the club. Jacob the doorman opened the glassed-in portals. The African-American wore a rather unique garb that had been traditional for the greeters at Bonhomme Richard since the 1890s. It consisted of a top hat, a bright red, gold-trimmed jacket, and navy blue trousers with a wide red stripe down the outside of each leg. The hot summer weather did not disturb Jacob, since he stayed inside the air-conditioned foyer and peered through the glass door for arriving members. When he spotted the two diplomats, he stepped out to hold the door open for them.
"Good evening, Dr. Joplin."
"Hello, Jacob," Joplin said, gesturing to Kahnani to go in ahead of him. When they entered the lobby, Joplin stopped by the desk to check in. The clerk, a dignified sixty-year-old with thick white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, informed Dr. Joplin that his reserved conference room on the second floor was waiting for him.
Joplin took the lead, and Kahnani followed him up a flight of stairs. From there they went down a long hallway to a spot where a door stood open. When they entered the fourteen-by-fifteen-foot room, they saw a couple of plush leather chairs with a small table between them. The American had already called in to make sure a pot of fresh coffee and a selection of pastries were waiting. Each man served himself in turn, then sat down to sip the coffee and enjoy sweet rolls, making light conversation.
Saviz Kahnani was the Iranian charge d'affaires, who represented his ambassador on special occasions. He, like Joplin, was one of those silent gentlemen who worked behind the scenes on delicate matters of international diplomacy. This very late get-together was one of those situations.
After a quarter hour of chitchat and munching, the Iranian looked quizzically at his American host, saying, "Well, well. What occasion has brought us together this evening, Carl?"
"A discussion regarding that little situation on the Iran-Afghanistan border seems to be in order," Joplin replied.
Kahnani smiled and nodded. "Why aren't I surprised?"
"Why indeed?" Joplin replied. "The confrontations there, while deadly and explosive, seem to be going nowhere for everyone involved. Don't you think?"
Kahnani only shrugged.
"My government believes it is time to come up with a solution that will save face for everyone concerned," Joplin said.
"Make me trust you, Carl."
"I'll do my best, Saviz. We are at a stalemate. Neither side is going to come out ahead in this thing. Why keep it up?" He was aware that for the Iranian to agree, his government would have to give up their Persian Empire project. The President and the Secretary of State had sent Joplin without really expecting the Iranians to go for a cease-fire, but thought that the meeting would be a good opportunity for them to start giving it serious consideration.
"Perhaps if the Americans and their coalition friends agreed to pull out of Afghanistan, my government would consider what you're proposing," Kahnani said.
"That can't be done," Joplin replied.
"Then we have no reason to consider the proposal," Kahnani responded, telling a lie in the diplomatic sense. "We do not find ourselves in agreement regarding a stalemate."
"Then there's something else to consider," Joplin said. He reached for the coffeepot. "Care for another cup, Saviz?"
"Thank you, Carl," Kahnani said. He watched Joplin refill the cup, then asked, "What is this 'something else' that must be considered?"
"The Israelis might decide to interfere," Joplin said, setting the pot down.
"They would only interfere if they had America's approval," Kahnani said.
"Not necessarily," Carl stated. "They have had their backs up about the Hezbollah for quite some time now. And that includes the support the group receives from Iran."
"Mmm," Kahnani mused. "Well, dear Carl, I have no authority to make a deal with you this evening. However, I shall pass on your suggestions to my ambassador, who will then take them to Tehran."
That was exactly what Joplin expected, but something in Kahnani's tone of voice disturbed the veteran diplomat. It was an implication that a nasty surprise was in store for the Americans. Joplin kept his face inscrutable as he said, "Tell your ambassador not to fail to mention the Israelis."
"As you wish."
CHAPTER 17
GNB STUDIOS
WASHINGTON, D. C.
22 AUGUST 2245 HOURS
DIRK Wallenger sat in his dressing room, the makeup for that evening's show freshly applied by a young intern working at the studio for the summer. The newscaster's tie was correct, and his jacket was over the back of his chair and ready to slip into when he was summoned to the set. Everything was ready for the upcoming broadcast of confessing his error to the public. Some of the crew, in fact, were looking forward to it with a certain amount of unrestrained glee. The newscaster could be an arrogant, demanding ass at times.
Wallenger stared at himself in the mirror as he sank into a mood of self-reflection. Don Allen's censure of the story of the prisoner of war had actually hurt his feelings more than angered him. He had to admit that Don was absolutely correct. He had been so anxious to strike a blow for his own political and philosophical causes that he had broadcast a falsehood fed to him by people wanting to have their sham propaganda over national TV. And to make things worse, he had even put an additional slant on it.
Wallenger now realized that he had gotten a bad perspective on the story because of his passionate hatred of authority in general and politicians in particular. When they conducted war-justified of not--his basic attitudes warped his self-control. Although he abhorred armed conflict, he really wasn't a pacifist and saw no sense in being one. Pacifism would work only if every person on the planet felt that way. But that would never be, since there were always sons of bitches such as the Taliban, Nazis, or Communists who were more than ready and willing to shove their agenda of conquest and domination down the throats of the populations they wished to control. And there were never problems for the despots to get enough followers for them to get the job done.
In truth, Wallenger wasn't surprised about the war against the militant groups of Islam. They were asking for it since 9/11, not to mention the crimes committed in Madrid and London. Those episodes had been as stupid as the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Not only were the Islamic fundamentalists going to be stomped out of existence, but other Muslims who had failed to loudly and publicly condemn the zealots would end up paying a high price as well. Wallenger's problem was that he let his dislike of politicians and financiers such as his father get mixed up in some of the most important areas of his life. He knew he had to stop being a mere commentator on the war and get out there where it was happening to develop a more realistic attitude about the fighting and the people actually doing it. That would be a great way of developing a logical understanding of the process.