“Between you and me, it’s the best plan I’ve seen so far,” Doron said.
“And you’re ready to make real compromises?” Bennett pressed further.
“Yes,” Doron said.
“The West Bank? The Golan Heights? Water? The right of return? East Jerusalem?”
“Maybe not the right of return, but everything else, yes,” Doron said. “We’re ready to agree to nearly all of his suggested compromises. What’s more, we’re ready to begin full diplomatic relations with all of our neighbors — including Iraq—immediately. We are ready to sign a comprehensive peace treaty immediately. You tell me when. You tell me where — Brussels, Rome, Babylon, wherever; it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there. I’ll sign on the dotted line. And Lucente can have the grand ceremony he’s been longing for. So long as he and everyone else in the U.N. understands that the Third Temple is absolutely nonnegotiable. Period. Is that clear enough for you?”
45
Khalid Tariq was enraged.
His face red and his temples throbbing, he had already popped a pill for his high blood pressure that morning. It wasn’t working. He popped another.
“How much longer?” he barked, feeling beads of perspiration form on his upper lip and around his collar.
“We’re almost there, sir,” the pilot said. “We should be on the ground in less than ten minutes.”
Tariq didn’t think he could wait that long. Within the past hour, Kurdish leaders in southern Turkey and northwestern Iran had held a joint press conference in what was left of Ankara, formally declaring their independence. They had already cabled word to U.N. Secretary-General Salvador Lucente, requesting recognition of their new “Democratic Republic of Kurdistan.” Reuters and the Turkish news services were reporting what had been rumored for days: that Kurdish leaders in the Iraqi province of Arbîl would soon be declaring their secession from Iraq to join the new Kurdish state.
On Tariq’s phone was a text message from the Iraqi intelligence station chief in Arbîl. He reported at least two dozen Kurdish leaders were holed up in the governor’s palace and had been meeting for the past several hours. Electronic surveillance indicated the topic was how quickly to make their announcement and how seriously they should take Al-Hassani’s threat to use force to stop them from seceding.
At Tariq’s command, nearly two hundred tanks and some 150,000 Iraqi ground forces were now mobilizing in Mosul and moving slowly but steadily toward Arbîl, the provincial capital, Kirkuk, and Sulaymaniyah. For the moment, it was merely a show of force, designed to convince the Kurdish leaders that they were making a fatal mistake. But Tariq was not a man of hesitation. If the Kurds wanted to commit suicide, so be it. He for one wouldn’t lose any sleep over invading their oil-rich province and crushing their insolence once and for all.
Tariq speed-dialed the senior military commander in Mosul.
“Get me General Qassim,” he demanded when a subordinate answered.
“Yes, sir; right away, sir,” came the reply.
A moment later, he was patched through.
“If they were moving at full speed, General, how soon can your lead mechanized units be rolling down the streets of Kirkuk?”
“Within the hour,” the general replied. “Why?”
“Then get them moving at full speed.”
“Yes, sir,” the general replied. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, sir — are you sure this is the wisest course of action?”
“I do mind you asking, General,” Tariq retorted. “Just do your job. Let me worry about the political strategy. I’ll see you in ten.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Tariq,” the general said. “Consider it done.”
“Mr. President, it’s Chuck Murray. Thanks for taking my call.”
Oaks hadn’t talked to MacPherson’s former press secretary since Murray had left the White House to join a big-ticket PR firm in New York and write a book.
“It’s good to hear your voice, Chuck,” he replied. “Are Tammy and the kids okay? Where are you right now?”
“I’m in Chicago, Mr. President,” Murray explained, noting he had planned to attend the GOP convention but had skipped it at the last minute because his wife and daughters weren’t feeling well. “We were lucky,” he said somberly, “not that we feel like it.”
Murray offered his condolences and his help if the president needed anything.
“As a matter of fact, I could use your help, Chuck,” the president replied. “Are Tammy and the girls well enough for you to be away for a few days?”
“They are mostly frightened at the moment, sir.”
“I imagine they’re terrified.”
“But Tammy’s mom is in town. She’s been here helping the last few days anyway. Why? What do you need, sir?”
“Head to the airport,” Oaks said. “I’m sending a jet for you. We’re going to need a lot of help shaping a message and getting it out over the next few days. Longer, really, but let’s just take things a few days at a time.”
“Actually, sir, that’s why I’m calling,” Murray said.
“What do you mean?” Oaks asked.
“I’d be honored to come and help, Mr. President,” Murray explained. “But you need to go on television quickly — as soon as possible — and talk to the American people.”
“I’ll do that later this morning,” the president demurred. “I’ve got a staffer working on some remarks as we speak.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, it can’t wait for later. You have to do something now, in the next few minutes.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Sir, do you really think anyone is sleeping?” Murray said. “Everyone is up. All over the country. All over the world. They’re up. They’re watching TV, if they have power. They’re surfing the Internet, if they can. They’re consuming every morsel of news they possibly can. And now they need the president of the United States to come out and reassure them, tell them exactly what’s happening — no holds barred — and let them know that you’ll be giving them regular updates over the next few days.”
“Chuck, really, I’m in the middle of—”
But Murray interrupted him. “Mr. President, forgive me, but please — everyone knows we’re on the brink of nuking someone. People are terrified. They don’t know what’s happened, not for sure. They don’t know what’s coming next. They know MacPherson is dead. They’ve seen one picture of you being sworn in on some dinky little executive plane, not Air Force One. They need a leader. They need to hear from you. And they need it now.”
Oaks pondered that for a few moments. “Perhaps you’re right. What do you recommend?”
For the next ten minutes, Murray walked the president through some suggested remarks. He didn’t have access to classified data, of course, but he urged the president to be as candid as possible. Only the truth — as hard as it was going to be to hear — would bond him to the American people and give him the credibility to rally the nation for the war that was coming. Ten minutes weren’t nearly enough, but they were all Oaks had.
When they hung up, the president ordered General Briggs to set up a briefing room and a satellite feed. There could be no mention or visual hint of where he was. But Murray was right. He couldn’t hide, much less appear to. Too much was at stake.
46
Events were moving too fast, but Oaks had no choice.