“Well, I guess that means this meeting is over,” Rusty said to no one in particular. Kashigian, who had stayed when the other backbenchers left, brushed by MacIntyre, bumping his shoulder. “Don’t get in the way of this, MacIntyre. Otherwise you and your boss Rubenstein will be on the wrong end of history, if you know what I mean.”
“I have no idea what any of what you just said means, but it sounded like you threatened me,” MacIntyre said in a loud voice so that others could hear.
“Just swim in your own lane, okay?” Kashigian said, and he spun about as he left the Sit Room, moving quickly to catch up with the SECDEF and the motorcade waiting outside.
The Situation Room conference room was suddenly empty. MacIntyre headed over to the Mess, where he stood at the take-out window and ordered two frozen yogurts. Balancing the two cups on a tray and his briefing book under his arm, he walked outside past the Secret Service guards, and headed over to Susan Connor, who was standing next to the black Chrysler on West Exec.
“Rusty, it’s February. Who the hell eats ice cream in February?” Susan blurted out.
“Glad to see you got over the Mr. MacIntyre thing. They’re yogurts, not ice cream, and after that meeting I wanted to cool down,” MacIntyre said, handing her a cup.
“They’re nuts, boss,” Susan said, taking the cup of frozen yogurt. “The whole damn Pentagon is nuts!”
The two got into the warm, waiting car. “The Pentagon is a building with about thirty thousand people. The Defense Department is about three million. Not all of them are nuts.” Rusty spooned the yogurt as the Chrysler and its two escort vehicles pulled out through the Eisenhower Building’s courtyard and crossed through a second courtyard to exit onto 17th Street. A Secret Service agent threw the traffic lights to red for the outside street traffic to stop as the lead Suburban pulled out of the gate.
“Well, their Secretary certainly is certifiable,” Susan chortled. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Welcome to the big leagues.” MacIntyre smiled. “You missed the best part. Secretary Conrad is so gung-ho to get the Sauds back on the throne that he is willing to risk a shooting war with China. In the next few weeks.”
“Where does he get off acting like God made him Viceroy of Earth?” Susan lisped, her tongue now frozen from the yogurt. “Where’d we get him anyway? Does he have pictures of the President and a goat or something?”
“He was a takeover expert on Wall Street. Buy an ailing company on the cheap, fix it, then sell it for a multiple of six or seven what he paid for it.” MacIntyre looked out of the car at the few tourists on the sidewalk, all trying to see what big shot was in the car leaving the White House. “Then he ran for Governor of Pennsylvania, where he’s from. Some Main Line blueblood, out to ‘help the people help themselves.’ Or so his campaign claimed. Supposedly turned Pennsylvania around, too. And he delivered the state to the President, along with three hundred million in Wall Street cash. The President thinks Conrad is brilliant.”
“What magic are you going to do?” she asked, again serious.
“As Otter told the boys of Delta Tau Chi, it’s time for a road trip.” MacIntyre took a big bite of the frozen yogurt as their car sped past the Corcoran Gallery and headed toward Foggy Bottom.
Susan Connor frowned. “Was that some kind of seventies reference?”
Returning to the Intelligence Analysis Center, MacIntyre went straight for his boss’s office to debrief him on the meeting. Sol Rubenstein was poring over a draft analysis on North Korea. Without looking up, he welcomed his young deputy with “So I hear you got into a little contretemps with the almighty Secretary of Defense.”
“Word travels fast,” Rusty said, plunking down into one of the two chairs next to the desk.
“I got good sources,” Rubenstein replied, coming around into the other chair. “Rosie called me from the car. She said you stood up to him, the son of a bitch. Good for you. Fuck him.”
Rusty smiled at the support from his boss. “I don’t believe his Defense Intelligence source about the Chinese. Selling missiles is one thing, but sending troops to prop up Islamyah, and then the nutty idea they would give them nukes. Shit, I don’t believe that Islamyah would even ask for that kind of help. More infidels in their holy land?” MacIntyre said, leaning toward his boss.
“I dunno, Rusty, I dunno. Stranger things have happened. It’s possible, it’s possible,” the Director of IAC mused. “Listen, if you were running Islamyah, wouldn’t you want some protection right now? Your weapons don’t work because the Americans all left and won’t send parts. Secretary Conrad is giving a speech a week about how bad the people in Riyadh are. The Iranians are screwing around in Bahrain again. Tehran’s got the Iraqis on their side now. Who knows?”
“I feel like there are an awful lot of moving parts right now, too many pieces on the chessboard, three-level chess,” MacIntyre suggested.
“There are. Lotta balls in the air at the moment. That’s when America needs really good analysis,” Rubenstein said, and then he sat up straight. “Here’s what I suggest you do. Fly over to London. They have smart guys there on this stuff, with good contacts, better than ours, stuff they don’t share through normal liaison channels with CIA. For someone of your rank, they’ll open up. Besides, it’ll give you a chance to buy Sarah something nice on Portobello Road. She’s into antiques, right?”
“You are well informed,” Rusty said, rising out of his chair. “Does someone of my rank get to fly first class this time?”
“No, business class,” Rubenstein said, going back to his papers on North Korea.
MacIntyre walked up to Rubenstein’s desk and quietly placed a small blue device on it.
“What the hell is that?” Rubenstein asked.
“It’s a BlackBerry. It’s already programmed for you with a Yahoo account in your name. It’s also programmed to send me PGPencrypted e-mail at a Yahoo address that only you and a few others know. In short, it’s our own private communications system. I’ll stay in touch that way while I’m on the road.” MacIntyre handed him the BlackBerry.
“I’ll never figure out how to work it,” Rubenstein said, holding the device as if it were some extraterrestrial artifact.
“I know. One of my new analysts will help you. Susan Connor— very tech-savvy. Unlike some.” MacIntyre laughed as he walked toward the door.
Finally, Rubenstein looked up. “You don’t mind, do you, going to talk to the Brits?”
“I already told Debbie to book the flight,” Rusty said. “Just came in here to persuade you.”
“Argh,” the Director bellowed. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“Dr. Rashid, I am so glad you have joined us, and I want you to know that if there is anything we can do to help you get settled, you have only to ask.” The cute young Pakistani nurse was positively effusive as she said good night to the new doctor. It was the end of Ahmed’s first shift and he was bone-tired, but he could not rest. He had a lot more to do tonight.
Ahmed bin Rashid walked to the nearly empty parking lot and started the battered Nissan that had been waiting for him, along
with the apartment, along with the job. His brother’s people had seen to everything. He drove to his apartment building on the Manama Corniche and parked on the street, near the long coastal promenade, with its sweeping views of the bay. Entering the lobby of the modern structure, he went down the stairs to the basement and exited into the alley behind the building. There he found the motorbike where someone had left it for him. He drove it three miles to an old high-rise apartment block on the al Lulu Road near the Central Market. Ahmed entered the building through the service door, conveniently left unlocked. As soon as he stepped through the portal, a pair of hands grabbed him by his shoulders and spun him around, locking him in a tight grip just above the elbows. Stunned, his eyes unfocused in the dark, Ahmed tried to pull away, but whoever was holding him was much stronger.