"This is very unsettling, if not especially surprising," the Prince said over the encrypted line.
"There was no stopping it. I know how it looks to you, Your Highness," the President said tiredly. He could have indulged in coffee, but he did want to get some sleep tonight. "We are going to place our military at a higher state of readiness." "Is there anything you want us to do?" Ryan asked.
"For the moment, just to know that your support has not changed." "It hasn't. I've told you before. Our security commitment to the Kingdom remains the same. If you want us to do something to demonstrate that, we're ready to take whatever steps seem reasonable and appropriate. Do you—"
"No, Mr. President, we have no formal requests at this time." That statement was delivered in a tone that made Jack's eyes flicker off the speakerphone and to his visitors.
"In that case, might I suggest that you have some of your people discuss options with some of mine?"
"It must be kept quiet. My government has no wish to inflame the situation."
"We'll do what we can. You can start talking to Admiral Jackson—he's J-3 in the—"
"Yes, Mr. President, I met him in the East Room. I will have our working-level people contact him later today."
"Okay. If you need me, Ali, I'm always at the end of the phone."
"Thank you, Jack. I hope you will sleep well." You'll need it. We all will. And the line went dead. Ryan killed the button on the phone to make sure.
"Opinions?"
"Ali wants us to do something, but the King hasn't decided yet," Adler said.
"They'll try to establish contacts with the UIR." Vasco took up the conversation. "Their first instinct will be to get a dialogue going, try to do a little business. The Saudis will take the lead. Figure Kuwait and the rest of the lesser states will let them handle the contacts, but we'll be hearing from them soon, probably through channels."
"We have a good ambassador in Kuwait?" the President asked.
"Will Bach," Adler said, with an emphatic nod. "Career FSO. Good man. Not real imaginative, but a good plugger, knows the language and culture, lots of friends in their royal family. Good commercial guy. He's been pretty effective as a middleman between our business-people and their government."
"Good deputy chief of mission to back him up," Vasco went on, "and the attaches there are tops, all spooks, good ones."
"Okay, Bert." Ryan took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Tell me what happens next."
"The whole south side of the Gulf is scared shitless. This is their nightmare come true."
Ryan nodded and shifted his gaze. "Ben, I want CIA's assessment of the UIR's intentions, and I want you to call Robby and see what kind of options we have. Get Tony Bretano into the loop. He wanted to be SecDef, and I want him to start thinking about the non-admin part of the job."
"Langley doesn't have much of a clue," Adler pointed out. "Not their fault, but that's how it is." And so their assessment would present a range of potential options, from theater nuclear war—Iran might have nukes, after all—to the Second Coming, and three or four options in between, each with its theoretical justification. That way, as usual, the President had the chance to choose the wrong one,and it wouldn't be anyone's fault but his own.
"Yeah, I know. Scott, let's see if we can establish some contacts with the UIR, too."
"Extend the olive branch?"
"You got it," the President agreed. "Everyone figure they need time to consolidate before they do anything radical?"
There were nods with the President's assessment, but not from everyone.
"Mr. President?" Vasco said.
"Yeah, Bert—by the way, good call. You weren't exactly right on timing, but damned if you weren't right enough."
"Thanks. Mr. President, on the consolidation issue, that's about people, right?"
"Sure." Ryan and the rest nodded. Consolidating a government meant little more than that the people got used to the new system of rule and accepted it.
"Sir, if you look at the number of people in Iraq who have to get used to this new government, compare that number to the population of the Gulf states. It's a big jump in terms of distance and territory, but not in terms of population," Vasco said, reminding them that although Saudi Arabia was larger than all of America east of the Mississippi, it had fewer people than the Philadelphia metropolitan area.
"They're not going to do anything right away," Adler objected.
"They might. Depends on what you mean by 'right away, Mr. Secretary."
"Iran has too many internal problems," Goodley started to say.
Vasco had come to like presidential access and attention, and decided to seize the floor. "Don't underestimate the religious dimension," he warned. "That is a unifying factor which could erase or at least suppress their internal problems. Their flag says it. The name of the country says it. People all over the world like a winner. Daryaei sure looks like a winner now, doesn't he? One other thing."
"What's that, Bert?" Adler asked.
"You notice the flag? The two stars are pretty small," Vasco said pensively.
"So?" This was Goodley. Ryan looked back at the.TV and the announcer. The flag was still there behind him and—
"So, there's plenty of room for more."
IT WAS A moment such as he had dreamed of, but the culmination of such a dream is always better than its contemplation, because now the cheers were real, striking his ears from the outside, not the inside. Mahmoud Haji Daryaei had flown in before dawn, and with the rising of the sun he'd walked into the central mosque, removing his shoes, washing his hands and forearms, because a man was supposed to be clean before his God. Humbly, he'd listened to the incantation from the minaret, calling the faithful to prayer, and this day people didn't roll back over and try to capture a few more hours of sleep. Today they flocked to the mosque from blocks around in a gesture of devotion that moved their visitor to his core. Daryaei took no special place, but he appreciated the singularity of the moment, and tears streamed down his dark, deeply lined cheeks at the overwhelming emotion of the moment. He had fulfilled the first of his tasks. He had fulfilled the wishes of the Prophet Mohammed. He had restored a measure of unity to the Faith, the first step in his holy quest. In the reverent hush following the conclusion of morning prayers, he rose and walked out into the street, and there he was recognized. To the despairing panic of his security guards, he walked along the street, returning the greetings of people at first stupefied and then ecstatic to see the former enemy of their country walking among them as a guest.
There were no cameras to record this. It was not a moment to be polluted by publicity, and though there was danger, he accepted it. What he was doing would tell him much. It would tell him of the power of his Faith, and the renewed faith of these people, and it would tell him whether or not he had Allah's blessing on his quest, for Daryaei truly was a humble man, doing what he had to do, not for himself, but for his God. Why else, he often asked himself, would he have chosen a life of danger and denial? Soon the sidewalk traffic turned into a crowd, and from a crowd to a mob. People he'd never met appointed themselves to be his guardians, forcing a path for him through the bodies and the cheers as his aged legs made their way while his now-serene dark eyes swept left and right, wondering if danger would come, but finding only joy that reflected his own. He gazed and gestured to the crowd as a grandfather might greet his progeny, not smiling, but composed, accepting their love and respect, and with his benign eyes promising greater things, because great deeds had to be followed by greater ones, and the moment was right.
"SO, WHAT SORT of man is he?" Movie Star asked. His flight to Frankfurt had been followed by one to Athens, and from there to Beirut, and from there to Tehran. He knew Daryaei only by reputation.