In Syria, the army exercise now involved five divisions of armor, two of mechanized and standard infantry, and two squadrons of strike aircraft. Assad’s government was still mute, having ignored requests for additional information. In Israel, where outspoken members of the Knesset were accusing Syria of trying to upset the peace process, Israeli defense forces along the Golan Heights and in the Northern Military District were on heightened alert, and the IAF was increasing its overflights of the border.
As expected, the wild card was Saddam Hussein. Elements from four Iraqi Army divisions were moving toward the Iranian border. This move would have three effects. One, Saddam, ever paranoid of his arch-rival Syria, would likely redistribute army units toward the Syrian border; two, since some Republican Guard and Baghdad units — Saddam’s personal guard — would likely be involved in such a move, the nagging question of whether the Iraqi president was fully in control of the army would finally be settled; and three, U.S. Central Command and regional U.S. forces would have to respond lest they be forced to play catch-up.
The president’s decision, based largely on the advice of Talbot, the secretary of state, and the prime ministers of Britain and Israel, was weak, in Mason’s opinion.
The Independence battle group would be positioned off the coast of Northern Israel, while the Enterprise group, including a Marine Expeditionary Force, or MAU, would be routed to the Persian Gulf to bolster CENTCOM forces.
From the start, both Mason and General Cathermeier advised the president to clarify their objectives before dispatching the groups. In failing to do so, they were ignoring what had kept the U.S. out of a quagmire in the Gulf War, namely the Powell Doctrine. Named after then Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Colin Powell who, like many of his contemporaries, had watched the U.S. military flail about in Vietnam, the doctrine demanded three conditions before military force was applied: the objectives must be clearly defined, the force must be overwhelming and decisive, and the achievement of the objectives must be virtually guaranteed.
The secretary of state argued that such “machinations” sounded too much like a call to war and that while Iraq certainly had a history of aggression, it was flanked by two neighbors who had shown equal if not greater aggression in the past. Saddam’s response was clearly defensive in nature, he said.
The president agreed — but conditionally. “Tine. Just as long as we make it clear that any offensive action on Iraq’s part will result in immediate retribution. Nor will they be allowed to maintain their new positions once the Syrian and Iranian exercises are finished. Clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the sec state.
We’re giving the bastard the proverbial inch, Mason thought. To the Arab mind, such a toothless response was tantamount to victory. As far as Mason was concerned, the only appropriate response was the same kind George Bush had given in August of 1990: Get back where you belong, or we’ll put you there.
But that wasn’t going to happen. In response to Coates’s question, Mason simply said, “We’re moving a pair of battle groups into the area. The president’s making the announcement tomorrow.”
The elevator doors parted, and they entered Coates’s office. Lying on his desk was a Manila folder. Attached to it was a receipt—“Cleared, CIA Office of Security”—and the initials of Security Directorate Deputy Marie Calavos.
Coates opened it and withdrew an eight-by-ten photo and a note:
My dearest George,
This was taken in Khartoum. Though the source of this photo is losing favor with us, we feel it is genuine. This man (the European) is wanted by us as well, but I believe you would find more use for him. Good hunting.
“If they know him,” Mason said, “why not mention him by name?”
Coates grinned, shook his head. “Pyotor’s sense of humor.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“No, but I know somebody who might. He’s got to be Russian, and the other two are obviously Arab…” Coates picked up the phone. “Art, come on up for a minute, will you?”
“Wonder what that means: ‘quickly losing favor with us’?” Mason said.
“Some of the third-party stuff we’ve been getting from the FIS looks like this. Like the photographer is being selective with his shots. See right there…. It’s daylight with no shadows to speak of. At that angle, he could’ve gotten a clear shot of all their faces.”
“But he only gets the one. The other two are just fuzzy enough to make a solid ID impossible.”
“Right. The theory is, this photo and the others like it come from a stringer who’s double-dealing with several agencies.”
Mason smiled grimly. “Same house, different paint.”
“Exactly,” Coates added.
Art Stucky knocked on the door, and Coates waved him in. “Art, what do you make of this?”
Stucky studied the photo. “Holy cow!”
“Somebody you know?” asked Mason.
“You could say that. Yuri Vorsalov.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. We knew he had a falling-out with the Russians, but he went to ground about two years ago. Is this recent?”
Coates nodded. “We think so.” To Mason, he said, “Last we heard he was doing some consulting in the Mideast.”
“Can we get him?” said Stucky.
“We don’t know, Art. Thanks for coming up.”
“Okay, boss.” Stucky turned at the door. “You know, the FBI has the real expert on this guy. Charlie Latham was on him years ago.”
“Thanks, Art.”
“What’s this about Latham?” Mason asked when Stucky was gone.
Coates told him the story. “He took the kid’s death pretty hard.”
“You think we should give him a look at this?”
“Definitely. Nobody knows Vorsalov better than Latham.”
“Okay. He’s downstairs; talk to him. If we can get Vorsalov, I want him. If we’re right about his Mideast connections, he’s a potential gold mine.” Mason tapped the photo. “Also, see what we can find on these other two. They were meeting for a reason. I want to know why.”
Downstairs, Bonnie Latham held Judith’s hand as she talked. Judith was near tears, and Bonnie knew why; the woman had put up with Herb Smith for twenty-five years, and his abuse tonight had been just more of the same. Usually, Judith suffered such episodes gamely and made light of them, but tonight she seemed almost… resolute. Bonnie wondered if her friend had reached a turning point.
“What does your therapist say?” Bonnie asked.
“The same thing you do,” Judith replied. “That I deserve better.”
“She’s right.”
“I just wish I could believe that.”
“Judith, when you come in a room, heads turn. For Christ’s sake, even Dick Mason, battle-hardened cold warrior that he is, fawns over you.”
“Oh, Bonnie, please—”
“Judith, you’re bright and sexy, and you’re one of the most intelligent women I know. That’s why you make me so damned mad!”
“What?”
“You’re ignoring the obvious. I tell you — and everybody who’s a real friend tells you — how wonderful you are. Listen, I want you to start thinking about something, okay?”
“What?”
“Just start to think that maybe, just maybe, we’re right and you’re wrong.”
Judith smiled. “Marsha said that, too.”
“Good! You don’t have to convince yourself overnight, you know. Just think that maybe Herb is the one who’s screwed up. That doesn’t sound so farfetched does it?”
“Not when you put it like that.”