Butler pulled off the diplomatic gloves. He clasped his hands and leaned forward in his chair. “Sir, we know that your government is as concerned as ours and is thinking along the same lines.”
“And how do you know that?” von Lubeck asked, showing a little surprise.
“Because,” Butler replied, “you are building up your forces in Turkey. At last count you have over a hundred Leopard tanks in place at your training camp outside Urfa. They’re fully operational, along with two army regiments and the required logistical infrastructure to keep them in the field for six weeks. That, sir, is a formidable presence — all within two hundred miles of Iraq’s border.” Mazie shot Butler a startled look. She knew of the training area used by the Germans but hadn’t heard of their buildup. Butler realized he had made an assumption that wasn’t true. That was a very bad mistake in his business. “My apologies, Mrs. Hazelton. I thought the DCI had briefed you and Secretary Serick.”
“And you are suggesting?” von Lubeck asked.
Mazie recovered and said, “We are suggesting that you open a second front in the north to advance on Baghdad and drive a wedge between Syria and Iran.”
“The UIF,” Butler said, “is fully committed to the buildup in the south. Iraq has bled its northern forces dry, and what’s left in place is a shadow force meant to intimidate the Kurds.”
“The Kurds have always been a thorn in the side of the Iraqis,” von Lubeck said, dissembling as he reviewed his bargaining strategy. German intelligence had accurately predicted the war, and his government had secretly increased its military presence at Urfa in anticipation of a two-front war. But timing was everything in his world, and everything had a price. How much more could he get from the Americans — or was it time to commit?
Mazie decided to lay her cards on the table. “We need your help. I shudder to think what would happen under an administration controlled by Leland.” She stood and walked to the fireplace. “We also believe that it’s time Germany takes its proper place on the world stage.”
Von Lubeck stood beside her. “What is our place in the new world order — or should I say the new world disorder? My country is searching for an answer to that question, but we seem to have lost our identity in a sea of modernity.”
“Perhaps,” Mazie said, “you need to return to the old virtues, but without the madness of the last century.”
Von Lubeck gazed into the fire and committed. “It will take some convincing on my part.” He paused, marshaling his thoughts. “There also remains the problem of Turkey. We cannot act without their agreement, which I don’t believe they’ll give.”
“I can solve that problem,” Butler promised.
The meeting was over, and von Lubeck was the gracious host as he escorted them to their car. They were silent until they were clear of the garage and in traffic. Mazie reached out and touched Butler’s hand. The warmth of her hand surprised him. “I was blindsided in there,” she said. “Secretary Serick and I fully discussed this with the DCI after speaking to the president. Why didn’t he tell us about the German buildup in Turkey?”
“Maybe he didn’t know,” Butler replied. “It won’t happen again.” It was a promise he meant to keep.
Mazie thought for a moment. “Von Lubeck wants something. What is it?”
“Who knows?” Butler replied. “He’s probably thinking he can play Bismarck.”
Clark’s office was austere in the extreme. A gray metal desk occupied one end, and plastic file boxes lined two walls. Three folding chairs completed the furniture. The only spot of color was a small vase on her desk holding a beautiful orchid. “Very pretty,” Pontowski said, sniffing at the orchid.
“My driver,” Clark said. “He says they grow wild and brings me one every day.” She closed the door and sat down behind her desk. The gentle whir of the air conditioner seemed to fill the room. “I’ve a problem we need to discuss,” she announced. “I believe you know Victor Kamigami.”
Pontowski sat in one of the folding chairs and tried to get comfortable. “We have a history,” he admitted. “In China.”
She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “He may have committed a crime on my base. Specifically, he murdered a prisoner in his custody.”
“I didn’t know he was here,” Pontowski said, hedging an answer. He had been busy the last eighteen hours bedding down the AVG and needed sleep.
“SEAC deployed the First SOS to Alpha as its base camp,” she explained. “Their mission is to extract villagers out of areas controlled by the PLA. I assigned them an empty barracks on the perimeter and a bunker for their helicopters. We haven’t seen much of them since. I assume he’s still on base.” She folded her hands and related the incident with the snipers. “They hadn’t been here two hours when it happened.” Her voice hardened. “No one — I don’t care who it is — commits murder on my base.”
“You didn’t actually see it?” Pontowski asked.
She shook her head. “I only know what one of his men told me. But I was there, just around the corner. In fact, I was escorted there so I wouldn’t see it.”
Pontowski tried to adjust his body to the chair but failed. In exasperation he turned it around and straddled it, his arms resting on the back. “Let’s ask him. He won’t lie. Unfortunately, under the right circumstances, I can see him doing it.”
“And what exactly are the right circumstances?” she asked, her words laced with sarcasm. “What kind of man would do that?”
Pontowski searched for the words to explain. “First, Victor is the national security adviser’s father—”
“So he has political protection?” Clark snapped.
“No. Not at all. But he operates from a different set of rules. It’s hard to explain. It’s like he’s the ancient warrior.”
“Which means what?” Clark shot at him.
“That’s all he is — a warrior. It’s almost like war seeks him out and draws him in to correct some horrible wrong. Do you know what happened to his family?” She shook her head. As best he could, Pontowski filled in the details. When he was finished, he said, “I would not want to be one of the soldiers who murdered his family.”
Clark mulled it over. “Let’s ask him.” Then, “Breakfast?” Pontowski readily agreed. They walked outside and headed for the mess hall. But before they were halfway there, her handheld radio beeped at her. A C-17 was inbound with eighty passengers and cargo. She gave Pontowski a sideways glance and said, “Shall we go ‘howdy’ the folks?” She turned and motioned at her driver, who was following them in the minivan. “My shadow,” she said. They drove to the parking ramp and arrived in time to see the big C-17 land. Rockne joined them as the high-winged cargo plane taxied slowly off the runway and onto the confined parking ramp. “It might be your cops,” Clark told him.
Together they watched the cargo ramp come down and people stream off the back. A loadmaster handed Clark a passenger list and cargo manifest. “A flight surgeon with eight medics,” she announced. “And seventy-two cops.” She handed Rockne the manifest. “And one K9.”
Rockne came alert, and his eyes narrowed as he searched the people milling around in confusion. The flight surgeon and eight medics gathered around three pallets with their baggage and equipment. Then someone issued an order, and a young airman, who looked suspiciously like Cindy Cloggins, lifted a fanion, a small unit flag on a six-foot staff. What had been a shapeless amoeba flowing around the plane formed on the fanion in ranks of eight, nine deep. Jessica Maul marched to the front with a dog at her side. But the dog’s leash was not attached, and she held it in her left hand, folded in fourths. She came to attention and slapped the leash sharply against her thigh. “Squadron,” she called, her voice full of command. “A-ten-hut!” As one, the formation responded. Her commands were crisp as she formed them up. Then, “Squadron! For-ward harch!” They marched across the ramp directly toward Pontowski, Clark, and Rockne. Twenty feet short, Jessica halted the squadron and saluted. “Sir, ma’am, Three Forty-third Training Squadron reporting for duty.”