“Where is Carroll getting his information from?” the President asked. Stan Abbott, the head of the Secret Service, had already supplied him with the answer. He was probing to see if she was playing the same type of games.
“From Mossad.”
“Perhaps,” Pontowski said, reassured by her honest answer, “the Israelis have their own special filters in place and want to feed us information to meet their own ends. Making sense out of the mass of information that floods into our intelligence agencies is a nightmare that I wouldn’t wish on any sane individual. Someone has to interpret it all and try to put it into a larger framework. I suppose that’s when a person needs an opinion — if you will, a view of the world — to filter and winnow facts.”
He smiled at his favorite secretary. “I know you don’t like or trust Tom Fraser and probably think he’s pushing for the oil interests in all this. But have you ever thought why I selected him for my chief of staff?”
Again, he had surprised her. Melissa thought she had worked very hard to hide her dislike of the man. She shook her head. “I never did understand why you did that.”
“Because he’s a wheeler-dealer, a hatchet man who scares people. He’s my point man and does all the heavy blocking for me. With him as the bad guy, I get to play the good guy. Melissa, I know where he’s coming from. He’s in it because he savors power. Also, he understands me and, more importantly, knows his limits.” Pontowski squeezed her hand. “Go on back to work, Melissa. Keep sending me memos when you think it’s necessary and let me worry about playing political games.”
Melissa felt like crying for so badly underestimating the man. She smiled weakly at him and stood up.
“Melissa, who should I get to replace Bill on the NSC?”
“General Leo Cox,” she answered.
“Please tell Tom to come on in.” He watched her go. Oh, Melissa, he thought, if only you knew. I use Fraser like I use you. Without him, my campaign would have gone broke in the early days of the primaries. Without a bastard like him to dig the money out, launder it, and then pump it into the campaign, the opposition would have swamped me. You have no idea how hard it was to find him; a man not afraid to act on his own, not involve me, and smart enough not to get caught. But I’ll burn him at the stake if I have to. What a popular sacrifice that would be and I can climb total innocence, the abused party betrayed by his friends now setting things right.
Matthew Zachary Pontowski, the President of the United States, could play hardball politics when he had to for he was a political animal, something his wife knew and understood.
Fraser stood in the doorway, waiting to be recognized. Pontowski heaved himself to his feet and walked over to his desk. “Who’s first on the agenda?”
“A delegation from the Hill.” He named two senators and three representatives.
“The Israeli lobby,” Pontowski said. “I’ve been expecting them. Show ‘em in.”
The senior senator heading the small congressional delegation that looked after the interest of Israel in the U.S. Congress was satisfied by what he was learning. Now if he could just get the junior congressman to shut up, they could gracefully bow out of the Oval Office and get back to work.
“Mr. President,” the young congressman said, “we appreciate that you have opened up the supply channels to Israel. But I’m telling you, it only amounts to tokenism and is not nearly enough to replace the losses in equipment the IDF has suffered.”
Pontowski stared at the young man, willing him to silence. It worked. “I don’t mind repeating myself. Like I said when we last met, I will not let Israel be destroyed or occupied by its enemies. Apparently, that promise isn’t enough for you. But I urge you to remember that there are other problems-”
“Which you’re using as a smokescreen to avoid committing the necessary support to save Israel,” the congressman said, interrupting him.
“Mr. President, let me apologize for my colleague,” the old senator said. He made a mental promise to teach the loudmouthed new kid a few political manners.
“John, it’s not necessary,” Pontowski smiled. “I was young once.”
“Don’t patronize me,” the congressman said, slightly more in control.
“I must take the reaction of the oil-producing Arab states and the Soviets into account when I make any move in this war,” Pontowski explained. “Unfortunately, no one is answering the telephone in the Kremlin now and we can’t tell them what our intentions are. So our actions must speak louder than words or the Soviets might overreact. We do not want to give the hard-liners in the Kremlin-the ammunition they need to come out on top. We must not embarrass the Soviets or, even now, we could find ourselves staring down each other’s gun barrels.”
“Mr. President, I don’t give a damn what you say because I think you’re more concerned with what the oil sheiks will do and are using the Soviets as an excuse to not intervene. The invasion of Kuwait and our reaction marked the turning point in our Middle Eastern policies. You’re sacrificing our only worthwhile ally, the only truly democratic state in the Middle East on an oil barrel. And I’m going to prove it.”
Pontowski’s blue eyes turned crystal hard. “Ah yes, the question about illegal campaign funds. Please tell me what you find. I’d like to get to the bottom of it myself.”
The old senator decided it was time to intervene. “Mr. President, thank you for your time.” Within a few minutes, the delegation had been ushered out and were waiting for their limousines to take them back to their offices. The old senator invited the junior congressman to ride with him. It was not a request and inside the cocoon of his car, the old man pulled off his gloves. “Son, you’re suffering a terminal case of the stupids. Zack Pontowski knows what he’s doing. Now you get your act together or I’m going to rip your balls off.”
“But …"the congressman stammered.
“There aren’t any ‘buts,’ “ the senator said. “Do you remember his saying actions must speak louder than words? Just why do you think Zack has left his only grandson in Israel? Learn to read the signs boy, or you’re dead in this town.”
The USAF colonel who headed the advance party setting up MAC’S airlift command post at Ben Guiron Airport reminded Matt of a hyperactive chimpanzee in rut he had once seen in a zoo. The man was all action and totally out of his element. While Matt piloted the embassy staff car through the oiganized chaos on the ramp at the airport, Furry sat beside him going through the charade of making notes as the colonel spewed orders from the backseat.
“I want that section of the ramp reserved for our aircraft,” the colonel said, “and that hangar as a temporary warehouse where we can inventory all arriving cargo prior to signing it over to the Israelis.”
A sardonic grin played across Furry’s mouth that he took care to hide from the colonel. “I’ll see what I can arrange, Colonel Walters.”
“Don’t see, do it,” Walters barked. He leaned forward in the seat, trying to be conciliatory. “Look, I know you tactical fighter types aren’t used to dealing with MAC, but we run the show based on accountability and flying safety. When that first C-Five lands, I’ll show you how it’s done. We’ll get the cargo offloaded, debrief the crew, and if the plane is code one for maintenance, we’ll get a fresh crew out of crew rest and fly her out of here. We’ll do the whole turnaround in less than three hours. We’ll process the cargo and have it ready for release by tomorrow. Colonel Gold at the embassy is an old MAC hand and that will impress the hell out of him.”