“Destroying the Global Islamic Media Front would be an incredible hit to the international reach of this sick cult known as ISIS.
“And less than three hours ago, we did just that. American warplanes, helicopters, and special operations troops were involved in an operation in Raqqa, Syria, that severely degraded the GIMF’s ability to wage war through propaganda.
“During this operation, U.S. Army Chief Warrant Officer Troy David Oakley of Pawtucket, Rhode Island, was tragically killed in combat. Our hearts and prayers go out to this brave American hero. His sacrifice will not be forgotten by the grateful nation he served.
“Please remember… those seeking freedom and peace have no greater friend than the United States of America. At home we have successfully assimilated more disparate groups than any other nation in the history of the world. And abroad we have helped our friends, supported our allies, led coalitions against evil from the front.
“But those who would commit terrorism and other atrocities will find no peace from us. Ever. The capture of al-Matari, and the breakup of the plot to use stolen intelligence files against the United States, should indicate this fact to those in the world who are thinking about doing us harm.”
Ryan looked hard into the camera now. “Believe me, if your cause involves fighting America, we will find you, and you will find no safe haven from American justice.”
After the bright lights turned off in the Oval Office, Jack Ryan waited for his lapel mic to be removed, then stood and walked around the desk. He noticed Mary Pat Foley had made her way into the room, and he was surprised to see her. Arnie was there with her, but Arnie was no surprise at all. He would always be there looming during a media event as big as an Oval Office live broadcast. Jack pictured his chief of staff standing there with a hook in his hand as if Ryan were an old vaudevillian and Arnie the stage manager, ready to yank the act off the stage if he did something wrong.
Mary Pat leaned close to the President as the camera and audio people began breaking down the set. “I thought you’d want to know immediately. Stuart Collier, the CIA operative held by the Iranians for the past few months, has been released to the Swiss. He’s out of Iranian airspace.”
Ryan nodded. “What was the ultimate price?”
“Time will tell, Mr. President. We didn’t offer anything other than threats of reprisals against Iran. Ultimately I think they see the fact we revealed the Saudis’ tangential involvement in the ISIS attacks as a good thing for them, and they are rewarding us.”
“Christ,” Ryan said. “That’s the Middle East. There are enough enemies there that you can’t hurt someone you don’t like without helping someone you like even less.”
Mary Pat was about to say something, but Ryan put a hand on her arm. “Mary Pat. It is terrific Collier is out. Good work, and pass that on to Jay for me, too, please. We need to protect Collier for life, of course.”
“Absolutely. Thanks.”
She left the room along with the network media people, then Jack and Arnie sat alone.
“Did you come to rate my performance?” Ryan asked.
“You were fine, but that’s not why I’m here. It’s official. Homeland Security Secretary Andy Zilko will hand in his resignation in the morning. He doesn’t want you to accept it, but he is making the gesture.”
Ryan shrugged. “He’s not the only fall guy for the mistakes that have happened, but it would show character in Zilko if he left. I’ll accept his resignation.”
Arnie nodded. “I’ll let him know. He’ll probably run for senator or governor in Indiana next election. I’m sure he’ll call on you for your support.”
Ryan thought this over a second, though the last thing he ever wanted to think about again was an election of any kind.
He said, “I think he should try working in the private sector for a change. Someplace where he’s held accountable for his actions. If he makes it back into government in a few years that will give him the perspective he needs. We’re here for the country, not the other way around.”
Arnie just laughed. “We’ve got to get you out of here quick, Jack. People will think you’ve gone senile with that kind of talk.”
Ryan chuckled. “Soon, Arnie. Soon.”
EPILOGUE
Sami bin Rashid couldn’t sleep, not even on the Egyptian cotton sheets, not even with the soft mood lighting, and not even in the cool silk pajamas.
It didn’t really make sense to him. Though he normally had trouble sleeping on aircraft, tonight should have been different because he was flying on Etihad Airlines and staying in the Residence, the most opulent commercial airline experience on earth. It wasn’t a seat; it was two rooms with an en suite bathroom/shower, private concierge service, and gourmet meals created by the onboard chef.
This flight from Dubai to Sydney, Australia, was fourteen hours long, and for the first three hours he’d dined well and read distractedly, but after that he’d had nothing but time to sit and ponder his predicament.
Overtly, at least, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia considered bin Rashid a pariah; dangerous, toxic. If Riyadh even admitted they knew his location it would be problematic with the Americans, so he’d used a cover legend and documents and enacted a long-arranged but never seriously considered plan to flee somewhere safe.
He’d chosen Australia. Far away and unknown, the last place anyone would look for him.
Of course members of Saudi intelligence knew he was going; he was doing it with their blessing, in fact. He had been more than pleased to hear through back channels that the kingdom just wanted him to lie low for a time; perhaps a few years, and then they would consider working with him again quietly and at arm’s reach.
He didn’t know what he’d do in Australia, but he had money to do it with, and now he had nothing but time.
So why couldn’t he sleep?
He sat up in the bedroom of the Residence, pulled off his sleep mask, and rubbed his eyes.
Al-Matari. That’s why. The son of a bitch. Somehow he’d fucked up and failed bin Rashid’s American operation. President Jack Ryan had crippled the Islamic State by eviscerating their ability to make slick propaganda pieces to draw in new recruits, and by linking the oil-rich states to the Islamic State, giving off the false impression that the whole fucking caliphate was just part of some evil Saudi oil-business scheme.
Ridiculous.
Sami bin Rashid tossed his eye mask on the bed, stormed out of his little bedroom, through his sitting room, and stepped out of the Residence, still in his silk pajamas.
His personal concierge was on him in an instant, a beautiful woman half a head taller than bin Rashid. She was ready to bring him food or drinks, but bin Rashid waved the woman away, and looked around.
He was glad to see the little bar was open; the bartender stood there with only one patron leaning against the half-moon-shaped surface in the center of the first-class cabin.
Bin Rashid stepped up, still wearing his black silk pajamas. “Give me a drink.”
“Of course, sir. What would you like?”
Bin Rashid did not drink in Dubai, or in Riyadh, but he’d consumed alcohol working in cover as an intel operator in his younger days. He’d turned down offers of champagne from the concierge when he boarded, but now he wanted a drink more than anything in the world, because he did not want to think about al-Matari, and the failed plan to save Saudi Arabia from domestic rot and international Shiite attack.