“Greyhill is still smarting from the ass-whipping she gave him in the primaries,” Diele said, which was true enough, but getting even with that bitch Myers was okay by him, too. “I’m sure he’ll be on board with this.”
“How sure?”
“He’s got his head so far up his ass he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on around here. He’s more interested in playing golf with some ambassador or sitting in on policy briefings than actually running things. I do most of the day-to-day around here. I’ll give the order, and if he ever gets wind of it, I’ll sell it to him.” He took a long sip of scotch. The ice tinkled as he drained the glass. His eyes brightened. “Myers will seal the deal.”
“One more thing, Gary, in the spirit of full disclosure.”
“What?”
“If Pearce and Early are running around with Mossa in the desert, they’re going to be collateral damage in a drone strike.”
“Fuck ’em. If they don’t want to get blistered, they shouldn’t put their dicks in the toaster.”
“They’re American citizens.”
“They’re enemy combatants, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You would’ve made one helluva president, Gary,” Fiero said. She raised her glass in a mock toast. “Or maybe you already are.” She finally took a sip of her drink.
The old man’s ego swelled. He knew she was piling it on, but he didn’t care. She was right. In many respects, he was the acting president.
“One more thing, Barbara, while we’re being so chummy. I need you to promise you’ll back us up on this should it ever come to a committee hearing or, God forbid, a full Senate inquiry.”
“You have my word. And I can keep my people in line. You also have the chair of my committee in your pocket, along with the other neocon Republicans to back you up. You won’t have any trouble from us.”
“Good. One last thing. I want you to back off of Greyhill on this whole ‘soft on terrorism’ angle your campaign is running.”
“Why should I? It’s true, isn’t it?”
Diele darkened. “Doesn’t matter. Technically, he’s my boss and the head of my party. I’m supposed to watch out for him.”
“Technically, you are. Taking out Mossa takes one arrow out of my quiver, as per our agreement. But the truth of the matter is, you want Greyhill to get reelected so you can keep your job. I get that. But I want his job, too. So how about this? I keep hammering on this, and if he wakes up and finally sees the threats and starts to take action, we’ll all be better off. But if he doesn’t and the American public still supports him, he’ll still get reelected and you’ll still have your job. There’s a third possibility, of course.”
“What?”
“That I keep hammering, that it costs him the election, and in the spirit of bipartisan cooperation, I nominate you as SecDef or any other damn position you’d want in my administration.”
“Sounds like a step down to me.”
“Okay, then here’s a step up. I keep hammering at Greyhill from the outside while you pull your levers on the party on the inside, eroding confidence in his leadership. If my campaign is successful, Greyhill’s numbers will plummet before the convention, and you can ride in to rescue the nomination for your party.”
Diele’s face turned positively postcoital, brimming with satisfaction. “You and I always did work well together, didn’t we?”
“We’re the smart ones, Gary. We’re the ones that run the whole damn town.”
50
Tassili du Hoggar
Tamanghasset Province, Southern Algeria
12 May
After the wadi they traveled east two more days deeper into the desert, riding in the mornings, resting in the heat of the day, then pushing on past sunset. They were making good time. Mossa explained that they weren’t riding traditional pack camels, but smaller and faster Arabian war camels that could cover over a hundred miles per day if needed, but for now their pace was more relaxed. Pearce and the others rode most of the day but walked the last few miles in the cool of the evening to spare the animals, tied nose to tail by ropes slack with indifference.
The desert had changed since the wadi. Now they traversed gently sloping dunes gradually rising toward the jagged teeth of the Hoggar Mountains in the distance. This was more like the Sahara of his imagination, though still not quite as grand as he’d pictured.
They all walked in silence. The desert seemed to require it. Pearce felt humbled by it, the way a student waits for the master to speak. The setting sun behind the caravan threw long shadows in front of Pearce, the head of his image stretching past the Tuareg walking in front of him. It would be night soon. He was lost in the rhythms of the camel’s unusual gait. Right rear, right front, left rear, left front, step after silent step. Every horse he’d ever known walked just the opposite: right front, left rear, left front, right rear. There was something graceful, even hypnotic, in the strange, silent padding of the great white animals.
Troy had made no efforts to speak with Cella privately since they’d left the village. It was impossible to do so with her father-in-law hovering over her, and she had shown no interest in a private conversation. She seldom strayed more than a few yards from Mossa, especially now that there were no wounds or injuries to treat among the others. They seemed deeply connected, though they hardly spoke, either, except in the company of others. He’d noticed over the years that most Middle Eastern men seldom spoke to women, at least the older, traditional men, even when women were around, which was seldom. But Pearce suspected that their mutual silence was consensual rather than cultural. Cella probably felt very safe around Mossa. Perhaps their common grief had bound them together as well.
“What are you thinking?”
Pearce startled at Cella’s whispered voice. She had somehow managed to slip into step next to him without his noticing. Maybe he really had been hypnotized by his camel’s gait.
“Not much, really.”
“I love the desert this time of day.”
“It’s amazing,” Pearce agreed. The darkening blue sky was giving way to purple, and a swath of stars glittered in the vast expanse overhead. In the distance, a great rock arch towered over the sand, like a portal to another world.
“The Tuaregs are matrilineal. Did you know this?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it.”
Cella pointed at the jagged teeth of granite mountains looming far ahead. “Tin Hinan is the mother of all Tuaregs. She lived in the fourth century B.C. At one time she was buried out there.”
“But not now?”
“An American archaeologist stole her body in the 1920s with the help of the French army. Or so it is believed by some.”
“Sounds like an Indiana Jones movie.”
“I liked those movies. Especially the first one. I liked the woman in it, especially his woman. What was her name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter. I liked her.”
“Why did you like her?”
Cella’s face lit up. “Because when Indy accidentally found her in Tibet, she punched him in the face instead of kissing him.”
Pearce laughed. He jutted his chin out and thrust it toward her. “Knock yourself out.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I probably deserve it.”
“You definitely deserve it.”