Next door to Syria, Iraq was reacting to Iran’s military exercise by beefing up its own maneuvers along the border. Caught in the middle was CENTCOM, forced to play watchdog. The commanding officer of CENTCOM was frying the phone lines to the Joint Chiefs, warning this was a perfect excuse for Saddam to mobilize. If that happened without the U.S. having a strategy to deal with it, escalation would surely follow. Mason agreed, clearly remembering those dangerous months back in 1990 when the U.S. had been forced to play catch-up with the Iraqi Army.
Soon after his appointment as DCI, Dick Mason began studying Middle Eastern history, culture, and politics. He quickly realized why the word byzantine was so often used to describe the region. It was a millennia-old quagmire of imperialism, tribal squabbles, and religious discord. And nothing epitomized this better than the relationship between Syria, Iraq, and Iran.
Syria was perhaps the most Machiavellian of the players. As a member of the country’s minority Alawite sect, President Bashar Assad’s power base lay in his ability to keep the country militarized and enmeshed in conflict, whether in Lebanon, in Iraq, or covertly against Israel.
The examples of such serpentine agendas were countless: Iran making back-channel overtures to Israel during the Gulf War while supporting Hezbollah terrorists in Lebanon; Syria temporarily lowering its anti-Zionist banner and joining the Gulf War coalition against Iraq; Lebanese Muslims, fearing Syrian Alawite rule more than Israeli intervention, tacitly aligned with Israel during its 1982 invasion of Lebanon; Saddam Hussein harboring exiled Ayatollah Kohmeini from Iran while murdering his own Shiite population.
In the Mideast, Mason knew, rarely could you take events at face value.
“So is Iraq the only wild card here?” asked NSA Talbot.
“Not necessarily,” said Mason. “All we know for sure is what Syria and Iran appear to be doing, and that’s conducting exercises. Syria is being tight-lipped, which is nothing new, but Iran has been pretty open about it.”
“It all appears routine,” added General Cathermeier. “If there’s anything more to it, we’ll have to wait for further indications. Iraq we know all about. Saddam is his old duplicitous self. This mix-up is just what he’s always looking for.”
“That’s what we need to focus on,” said the secretary of defense. “Iraq can bear the burden of whatever response we choose, and if we choose correctly, Syria and Iran are sure to get the message.”
This got nods, but Mason was apprehensive. The policy of oblique message sending had never proven effective in the Mideast, but it was popular in Washington as it was an easily renounced position. If you don’t commit, you don’t get burned.
“So what are we talking about?” said Talbot. “Statements, UN resolutions—”
“Forget that,” said the secretary of state. “We need something tangible. Syria almost never responds to diplomatic pressure, and we sure as hell can’t tell the Iranians to stop their goddamned exercise because we don’t like the timing of it.”
“I agree,” said the sec def. “Better we act before the Israelis get jumpy. A reaction from them is bound to draw more fire than one from us. Besides, everybody expects us to rattle the saber a bit. We have an image to consider here.”
Everyone chuckled.
They were now talking about a military response, Mason realized. Though it would likely be a simple showing of the flag, it was a decision not to be reached hastily, especially where the Mideast was concerned. The lessons of the hostage crisis, the Marines in Beirut, and the Gulf War were not far from any of their minds.
“Any ideas, General?” James Talbot asked the JCS chairman.
“We’ve got the Independence battle group off Italy on exercises. They’re due to wrap up in three days. And the Enterprise group is on the Indian Ocean. Both are just coming off a refit cycle. Get them in position, increase CENT-COM overflights, and we’ll have their attention.”
“And if we need more than that?” asked Talbot.
“It would depend on the situation, but it would give us increased firepower.”
Talbot considered this; he looked around the table. “Any problems with this?”
No one spoke. Mason looked down at his notes. He’d expressed his opinion to both the president and Talbot, but it was clear the course had been chosen. “How long to draw up an op plan, General?” Talbot asked.
“Five days.”
“Do it. I’ll brief the president.”
10
Tanner took the afternoon right from Hon Kong to Osaka and arrived back at the Royal Palms at dusk; He was stepping from the shower when a knock came at his door. It was a bellman.
“Mr. Tanner, your party is waiting for you in the restaurant.”
“My party?”
“Yes, sir.”
Camille, Tanner thought and smiled. “Please tell her I’ll be down shortly.”
Ten minutes later, he walked into the restaurant. He was two steps through the doors when he saw her in the corner booth.
Even at this distance her black hair shimmered in the candlelight and her eyes shone as they returned his gaze. Her dress was simple, low-cut black silk with a single strand of pearls dipping into her cleavage.
He stared for a moment longer and then walked over.
“Welcome home,” she said.
“Hello.” He stared.
She smiled. “Do you want to sit down, or are you going to eat standing up?”
They shared a bottle of wine, then ordered dinner, which Briggs barely tasted. The conversation was effortless, and again he was surprised how natural it seemed between them. Even so, he felt an undercurrent of electricity, pleasant, yet slightly unnerving
Camille said, “It was a long two days.”
“For me, too.”
Suddenly she became demure; she toyed with the rim of her wineglass. For a moment Tanner wondered, disappointed, if this was an affectation, but he decided it wasn’t. There was a duality to Camille that he found irresistible. She was sexy and chaste, bold and uncertain, strong and submissive.
“So,” she said. “Shall we sit for a while, or we can walk on the beach—”
He stood up and extended his hand. “Come with me.”
“Where—”
“Just come.”
She took his hand.
Two minutes later they were at her room. Without a word, Camille opened the door, and Briggs followed her inside. He shut the door. The room was dark except for the moonlight filtering through the balcony door; a breeze billowed the curtains.
Camille leaned against the wall. “Don’t leave me this time, Briggs.”
“I promise.”
Then they were together, kissing, her arms around his neck. She arched her back against the wall, pushing her hips and breasts against him. Tanner drew down the zipper at her back. Her dress slid away. She wore no bra. He grazed his fingertips over the upper swell of her breasts, then gently cupped them and traced his thumbs over her nipples. She sucked in her breath and leaned her head back.
“Oh, God. Hurry, Briggs; I don’t want to wait.”
In one smooth motion, Tanner lifted her off the ground. She wrapped her legs around his waist and began unbuttoning his shirt as he carried her to the bed. As they fell together, she curled her hands around his neck and drew him down on top of her.
Afterward, they sat on the balcony wrapped together in a blanket, watching the ocean. Camille traced her finger along the corner of Tanner’s eye. “What’s this scar?”