The senator suppressed his laughter. “I can’t say I blame him.”
“On a more serious note,” Scovill said, “the Navy reports contact with three submarines operating in the approaches to the Straits of Hormuz.”
Savane caught it immediately. “Hostile signatures?”
“That’s affirmative,” the colonel replied. “Unfortunately, we can’t identify the nationality. One is probably Iranian, the other two may be Chinese.”
“But not Russian?” Savane asked.
“Definitely not,” General Wilding said. “We’re in close communications with our counterparts in Moscow to prevent that from happening.”
“That’s encouraging,” Savane replied. “I assume this has logistical implications.”
Wilding stood and walked to the center display screen. He clicked at the handheld controller. A map of the approaches to the Persian Gulf came on the screen. “Yes it does, Senator. We are diverting all our supply ships to Diego Garcia until we can neutralize the threat.”
The senator took a deep breath. He fully understood what that would do to the buildup in Saudi Arabia and how it would delay any planned offensive. “Convoy operations?” he asked.
“We are considering it,” Wilding replied.
Savane turned to the president. “This is what you wanted me to see, correct?” Turner nodded. The senator’s lips compressed so tightly they almost disappeared. “I appreciate your confidence and trust.” He thought for a few moments. “During World War Two, General Marshall once said that if you get the objectives right, a lieutenant can write the strategy.”
Shaw’s anger boiled up. Another fuckin’ strategist! Just as quickly he squelched it, remembering the warnings. Damn quack, he told himself, transferring his anger to his doctor. Then reason took control. The cancer’s not his fault.
“Mrs. President,” Savane said, “I’m not a strategist, but I hope you’ve considered opening a second front. May I suggest you approach the Germans and try to get them to work independently of NATO and our…” He paused, searching for the appropriate, tactful, words. “Shall we say our erstwhile French allies?”
For Shaw it was the equivalent of a revelation. Savane knows about Leland! His mental computer shifted into turbo mode as he recalculated the power shift that was taking place. Maddy might salvage the election yet.
Savane folded his hands and looked at Turner. “Mrs. President, let me speak bluntly. There is an undercurrent of public opinion against this war, which some of my colleagues want to ride to a victory in November. I totally disagree with that. But at best I can only delay — until you give me something new to work with.”
Shaw couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Savane wasn’t willing to lose a war in exchange for winning an election. I owe you, Senator. An image of Senator Leland flashed in his mind. But not you, you worthless piece of shit. Secretary of Defense Merritt’s image joined Leland’s. Too bad you chose the wrong side, he thought, thankful that neither man was in the room. That might be enough to send him over the edge. Another thought came to him, and he smiled.
The ride in from the airport took longer than usual because of the heavy traffic. But Butler didn’t mind and napped most of the way. It had not been an easy trip to arrange, but Mazie had told him to make the rendezvous as quickly as possible. Her instructions had been very explicit: “Make them believe.” Fortunately, he still had many contacts in the Turkish capital, which was exactly why Mazie had sent him on this mission to begin with.
The cab stopped in front of the Grand Hotel Ankara on Atatürk Bulvari, across from the Grand National Assembly building. The Grand had lost its former splendor and was no longer the preeminent hotel in Ankara. That honor went to the much newer Hilton or Sheraton. But Butler liked the Grand because of its Turkish flavor. He paid off the cab and walked inside. The woman was waiting for him in the bar.
“My old friend,” she said, coming out of her seat, presenting a cheek to be kissed.
“It has been a long time,” Butler said as they sat down. He looked around the room to see who was watching them. He was surprised to spot Uri, the old Soviet KGB chief of station who had retired in Ankara after the collapse of the Soviet Union. “I see Uri is still here.”
“He works for us now,” the woman said. She leaned across the table and held his hand. “It is good to see you.” For all appearances, they were two old friends meeting after many years. “And the family?”
“Got ’em all through college,” Butler replied. “And yours?”
The woman beamed at him. “Alysha is married. A nice young man.” She sighed. “So long ago. We were young then.” For a moment the memories were back. Butler had been a young airman fresh out of language school and assigned to a listening post near Trabzon on Turkey’s Black Sea coast to eavesdrop on Soviet communications. It was during the height of the Cold War, and Turkish intelligence, not fully trusting its American allies, had sent her to recruit an informer in the American compound. She targeted Butler, and he immediately reported it to his superiors. They in turn told him to develop the contact in order to feed the Turks information. It was a most profitable relationship for all parties, and Butler was established in the intelligence game. But they did the one thing totally forbidden in intelligence — they fell in love. Butler was reassigned and eventually ended up in the Pentagon’s basement.
She looked at Uri, who gave her a slight nod. They were clear. “What is of such importance?”
Butler clasped her hand with both of his, palming off a mini-disk. “Your people need to read this.”
She laughed, a clear bell carrying over the quiet room. “You know I’m lost when it comes to all this.” She spoke in a soft voice, barely audible. “Why is this important?”
“It’s hot. Right from Baghdad.”
“From the horse’s mouth, no doubt.”
“We paid enough for it,” Butler told her.
“The CIA or the Boys?” she asked.
“The Boys,” he replied. Now she was very interested. “The Company gets it tomorrow,” he told her. “As soon as I get home.”
“After which,” she said, “it will disappear into the black hole of Langley, never to be seen again. And you’re doing this because we once shared the same bed?”
“Perhaps,” Butler replied. He strongly suspected he was Alysha’s father. He leaned into her. “It’s the UIF’s operations order for Kurdish Star. Tell your people to read between the lines.” He sensed she was not convinced. “You’re next.”
“And your masters are desperate,” she said, seeing through him. But there was a look of concern in her eyes.
“NATO’s not going to get involved, and you’re on your own.” For a moment he said nothing and only held her hand. Then he stood. “Read it — for Alysha.” He walked away.
The woman sat for a few moments, paid the bill, and walked through the main lobby. Uri was standing outside, waiting for a taxi. He gave her a troubled look and a little nod. Now she was very worried.
A thin trail of smoke drifted over the kampong as the first fire of the morning was lit. A barefoot soldier, his shirt open and pants half undone, walked out onto the veranda of the largest home and stretched, holding a small radio in his left hand. He barked a command, and a teenage girl emerged, a sarong wrapped around her frail body. The man grabbed her breasts as he spoke to her.