Over the last fifty-four years the ambassador had spent more time in America than Saudi Arabia, which was fitting, since he’d been born at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. His early schooling had been handled by tutors and then at the age of fourteen he was shipped off to Philips Exeter Academy, the ultraexclusive prep school in New Hampshire. After Philips Exeter it was on to Harvard for both his undergraduate and graduate degrees.
Abdul Bin Aziz had a great affinity for America. More than anything, though, he admired his host country’s secular approach to governance. He had seen the true evil that could be perpetrated by men with deep religious conviction and it scared him. This was why he owned three homes in America and rarely allowed his children to return to Saudi Arabia. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz believed that in his lifetime the House of Saud would fall. It would be trampled by the very fanatics his relatives had supported over the years.
The ultra-orthodox Wahhabi sect of Islam had spread like an unruly weed across his country and beyond, choking out all forward and rational thinking, silencing all dissenters within and without the faith, and damning millions of people to a belief system that had more in common with the Stone Age than the twenty-first century.
And now, in this dangerous time, he was once again sent to the White House by his cousin, the crown prince, to try to appease the fanatics without slitting their own throats.
62
The entire security team was tense. Twenty or so protestors stood on the other side of the heavy black steel gate, but that’s not what concerned Uri Doran, the man charged with protecting Israel’s Ambassador to the United States of America. It was the camera crews, two of them to be precise. Doran had been with Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, for eighteen years. The organization was the rough equivalent of the Secret Service and the State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He’d learned over the years that cameras were far more dangerous than any bullhorn, sign or brick. Through simple editing, he and his people could be made to look like jackbooted thugs.
The Metropolitan Police had dispatched two squads to help deal with the crowd, but their presence did little to abate Doran’s worries. He’d watched Washington’s finest in action before, and with a record number of law suits for police brutality in the past few years, the men and women in blue were not about to forcibly subdue unruly protestors and put their careers in jeopardy. To make matters even worse, Washington was a town filled with professional protestors who knew exactly when and how to provoke a confrontation. When forced to move, they were prone to pratfalls and overly dramatic wails of pain as if their limbs were being twisted to the point of breaking. All of this was done, of course, right in front of the cameras to elicit maximum drama for the nightly news audience.
Doran clutched his tiny digital two-way in his hand and looked out across the embassy grounds at the protestors. For now they were acting somewhat civilly, but as soon as the ambassador’s armored limousine began to move they would go nuts and rush the gate. For a moment he longed for his days in Argentina when the police would simply turn the water cannons on the crowd and be done with it. This was America, however, and he could hope all he wanted, but such a thing would never happen.
Sitting out the storm would be the best course of action, but the ambassador had told him this was not possible. His presence was requested at the White House, and given the current state of affairs, it was a request he could not ignore. One of Doran’s men had suggested sneaking the ambassador out the back way, in one of the security sedans, but the head of the detail had dismissed it for two reasons. The first was that the ambassador was too vain to show up at the White House in a mere sedan, and the second was that none of the sedans were as safe as the ambassador’s armor-plated gas guzzler. They would just have to gently inch their way through the crowd and fix the dents and scratches later.
Doran stepped back into the embassy to find Ambassador Eitan nervously pointing at his watch. The Shin Bet officer reluctantly nodded and brought his radio to his mouth. He alerted his team that the ambassador was coming out and then after waiting a moment he escorted the ambassador out the door and quickly into the backseat of the black Cadillac.
The random course to the White House had been chosen and the lead and chase sedans were in place. The heavy vehicle rolled slowly toward the gate. From his position in the front seat Doran could see the protestors begin their surge. Doran resisted the urge to grab the Uzi submachine gun from under the dash. They were simple protestors and nothing more, he told himself. He radioed his team, reminding them to stay calm. They’d been through it before.
The gates slowly started to open and the group immediately pressed past the four police officers trying to hold the line. Doran’s orders were specific in one regard: if any protestor was foolish enough to try to run through the open gate they were to be immediately brought to the ground. Having witnessed the efficiency of Doran’s men before, all of the protestors stopped short of the curb. The lead sedan nudged its way through the crowd, creating a path for the limousine, which stayed right on the sedan’s bumper.
The protestors collapsed in around the limousine and began acting like berserk chimpanzees on some safari tour gone bad. They were hammering the limo with their signs, and although Doran couldn’t see it, they would also be scratching the paint job with car keys. Out of nowhere came an object that caused Doran to freeze. He could do nothing but watch. It was against all standard security procedures to open the door. The metal cylinder was hoisted over the shoulder of one of the police officers and then a mist of bright orange paint began to coat the front windshield and the side of the car as the limousine kept moving.
As the three-car motorcade broke free, Doran swore to himself and pressed the transmit button on his two-way, telling his people back at the gate to make sure the culprit was arrested. He would press charges this time and make sure the idiot received the maximum penalty allowed by the American courts.
The ambassador would want to stop now and clean the paint. Under no circumstance would he want to arrive at the White House with a freshly vandalized limousine. Doran would put his foot down this time, though. There was no way he was going to stop in a nonsecured area to clean the car. The Secret Service had a pressure washer available for just such a problem and it could be taken care of in mere minutes in a very secure environment.
The limousine’s internal phone buzzed and Doran picked it up.
“Yes.” He listened to the ambassador complain for a few seconds and then said, “No.” The ambassador was used to getting his way. He began to demand that the car be cleaned. When the ambassador had run out of breath, Doran said, “Mr. Ambassador, we are not stopping, and that is final.”
Doran hung up the phone and let out a frustrated sigh. He dreaded the confrontation that would take place later when they got back to the embassy, but he knew he was right. It was his job to worry about security, and the ambassador’s to worry about diplomacy.
63
The president rose to his feet, and so did everyone else. He crossed the Oval Office and warmly greeted the Saudi ambassador. Clasping both hands around the prince’s, Hayes said, “Mr. Ambassador, thank you for coming by.”
Kennedy immediately noticed the forced smile on the Saudi ambassador’s face. He was not looking forward to whatever it was that he’d been sent to say. She watched cautiously as the ambassador went around the room shaking hands. He was not his normal charming self. He barely made eye contact with Secretary of State Berg and Secretary of Defense Culbertson. He was slightly better with Valerie Jones and Michael Haik, but he only acknowledged General Flood and Kennedy with a slight nod from afar.
When the president and the ambassador were seated in the two chairs in front of the fireplace, everyone else took their place on the couches. Despite the president’s warm welcome, a chill fell over the room almost immediately. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz was looking at the ground, waiting for someone else to speak.
Valerie Jones filled the
void by announcing, “Mr. Ambassador, we would like to assure you that we are taking the assassination of the Palestinian ambassador very seriously.”
The Saudi ambassador kept his head down and looked up at Jones from under a pair of dark eyebrows. “And what are you doing about the recent attack on the civilian population of Hebron?”
Jones immediately retreated from the diplomatic arena. Such a blunt question could only be handled by the president or the secretary of state.
It was Secretary of State Berg who spoke first. “Mr. Ambassador, we are not happy with the recent developments in Hebron, and are putting as much pressure on the Israelis as we can.”
The ambassador was careful to give Secretary Berg a skeptical but respectful look. “Madam Secretary, you either underestimate your influence over your allies or you have yet to exert the proper amount of pressure.”
“Trust me, Mr. Ambassador.” Berg glanced at the president for a second and said, “We are exerting a great deal of pressure on Israel.”
“Then why may I ask is Hebron still under military occupation?”
Before Berg could respond, Secretary Culbertson said, “Because three suicide bombs killed thirty-one Israelis yesterday, bringing the twelve-month total to one hundred and seventy-eight dead and over five hundred injured.” The secretary of defense let the cold statistic hang in the air.
Aziz clasped his hands and sat up a little straighter. “The violence is never ending. Somewhere, somehow, it must stop.”
“I agree, Mr. Ambassador,” replied President Hayes. “But you must agree that Israel is not acting without provocation.”
“The other night when they bombed that neighborhood, killing hundreds …” Aziz shook his head. “They were not provoked.”
No one in the room dared use the Israeli excuse that they were taking out a bomb factory, and it was a good thing they didn’t because after a long moment of silence the Saudi ambassador added, “We have received intelligence reports that say there was no bomb factory as the Israelis have claimed.” Ambassador Aziz turned his dark eyes from Secretary Culbertson to Kennedy and asked, “Director Kennedy, can you confirm or deny this?”
Kennedy was caught off guard by the ambassador but didn’t let it show. Not wanting to appear a bald-faced liar she said, “We have heard the Palestinians’ claims, but so far have been unable to verify them.”
He kept his gaze locked on Kennedy. “And what of the Palestinian ambassador to the UN?”
Kennedy badly wanted to tell Aziz that his cousin Prince Omar was a suspect but that would be unwise. Besides, they had nowhere near enough evidence to make that connection. As recently as this morning Kennedy and Rapp had discussed the possibility of Freidman sending one of his agents to Omar and setting him up. Freidman had made a career of running very complex operations that looked like one thing and turned out to be something very different. If Omar was about to be the patsy for an Israeli operation they would know soon enough.
Answering the question put to her, Kennedy said, “We have absolutely no idea who killed Ambassador Ali, but are running down every possible lead.”
“Including that the Israelis may have done it?”
“Including that the Israelis may have done it,” answered Kennedy.
President Hayes cleared his throat. “Abdul, I value your friendship, and I value the friendship of your country. We have made great strides as of late and I think we need to keep moving in the right direction.”
“And what is that direction, Mr. President?”
Hayes looked momentarily miffed by the question. “Peace and prosperity. We need to continue to open up our markets to each other and work toward forging a long-lasting relationship.”
“And what of the Palestinian crisis?”
“I’ve made myself very clear that this administration supports a Palestinian state.”
Secretary of State Berg quickly added, “As long as Israel is recognized by the Arab states and her security is guaranteed.”
Hayes nodded earnestly.
“Good,” said Aziz. “Then we can count on you to vote for the French resolution this afternoon.”
The silence was deafening, and after a long awkward moment the ambassador began to shake his head. “Must you always favor Israel?” He said this in a desperate voice that was barely loud enough for the room to hear.
“Mr. Ambassador,” said Secretary Berg as gently as possible, “you know better than anyone how complicated this is.”
“Yes, I do,” he sighed, “and unfortunately it is about to get a great deal more complicated.” Aziz turned to President Hayes. “My government is requesting that as a token of our friendship you vote for the French resolution for Palestinian statehood this afternoon.”
President Hayes swallowed hard and began to sadly shake his head. “Abdul, I need time.”
“For what, Mr. President? So you can try to convince the French to table their resolution?” It was now Aziz’s turn to shake his head. “The time has come, Mr. President, to stop the bloodshed. The time has come for you to show that America can be evenhanded in this regard. I plead with you, Mr. President, the Arab people need to see that you will break with Israel when they are wrong.”
Berg tried to draw Aziz away from the president. “Mr. Ambassador, I can assure you that the American people want peace in the Middle East, but it cannot be rushed.”
“Madam Secretary, I can assure you, in turn, that the Arab people want a Palestinian state, and they are tired of waiting.” Aziz turned back to Hayes and with genuine sorrow said, “Mr. President, I take no joy in telling you this, but I have been asked to inform you that if America vetoes the French resolution this afternoon, there will be severe repercussions.”
“Such as?” asked Hayes.
Aziz took a deep breath and announced, “The crown prince will suspend all oil shipments to America immediately, and he has been given assurances by the other OPEC Gulf States that they will do the same.”
64
The ambassador’s words hit home with an impact that rolled through the minds of the presidential advisors like a series of shock waves. No one spoke. There was nothing to say until the ambassador was gone. President Hayes had all but pleaded for the ambassador to give them more time, but the ambassador had been firm. It was time for an even hand and bold steps. Waiting a week or a month served no purpose other than to allow Israel to find a way to hold on to the land.
Kennedy watched as Valerie Jones escorted the ambassador from the room. The president’s chief of staff followed him into the hallway in a desperate effort to get him to reconsider. Kennedy didn’t need to be told what to do. Getting up from the couch, she walked over to the president’s desk and picked up the handset of his bulky secure telephone unit. She punched in ten digits and waited for Charles Workman, her deputy director of intelligence, to answer. On the third ring she got him.
“Charlie, I need an immediate intel pull on everything we have over the last forty-eight hours between Saudi Arabia and the other Gulf States concerning a possible oil embargo against us if we veto the French resolution at the UN.”
Kennedy listened for a moment and said, “No, it’s firsthand. Ambassador Aziz just informed the president of their intentions.” Again she listened to her DDI and then replied, “That’s right. Use every asset we’ve got. I need some hard intel within the hour.”
The director of the CIA returned to find a shell-shocked president and a very agitated secretary of defense. “Mr. President, this embargo could be construed as an act of war.”
“That’s interesting, Rick,” chimed Secretary of State Berg. “That’s what the Japanese said when we placed an oil and steel embargo on them back in forty-one.”
The president looked to Berg, ignoring her historical comparison and asked, “Are they bluffing?”
Berg, who seemed to be taking the news better than anyone else, said, “I’m not sure, but the Gulf States do have a history of false bravado.”
“Meaning?
”
“Meaning … they might be unified at the moment, but who knows what next week will hold. Some of them are in the red … a few are barely in the black.” Berg gestured with her hands that it was a toss-up. “I can’t see a unified embargo holding for very long. We need the oil and they need our money.”
“We can’t allow this embargo to last a day,” announced National Security Advisor Haik. “The mere mention of it could precipitate a worldwide recession. Markets would plunge overnight ten to twenty percent.”
“But what about our reserves?” asked Culbertson. “We can increase our imports from Venezuela and Russia and the former republics … and if we have to we can drill in Alaska.”
“Who says Venezuela and Russia won’t go along with them,” replied Haik. “And besides, all of that will take time. Two months from the onset of the embargo we could probably get back to near normal supply levels, but that’s not what worries me. What worries me is the devastating effect it would have on an already strained economy.” Haik turned his attention to the president. “The last time they really hit us with an embargo was in seventy-three, and it took us a decade to climb out of the hole.”
Valerie Jones hurried back into the room catching the end of the national security advisor’s comments. She quickly added, “And we ended up with interest rates at seventeen percent, runaway inflation and unemployment approaching double digits. Mr. President, we cannot let that happen again.”
Her implication was clear. If the embargo was put into effect any chance he had at serving another four years would be dragged down with the floundering economy. Looking back at Jones, Hayes asked, “What did he say when you walked him out?”