Zen elaborated on the difference in brewing styles. The beer arrived before he finished.
“It’s very good,” said Todd, taking a sip. “Crisp.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t invite me over to discuss beer styles,” said Zen.
He drank heartily, very much like her husband, Todd thought.
“No, though it has been educational.”
Todd studied him. He would make a good President: sure of himself, easygoing yet intelligent, with sound judgment—usually. An excellent service record, a decorated hero, which in some ways made him virtually unassailable.
Then again, she’d seen more veterans than she could count chewed up by the political naysayers. Washington was a place where real achievements meant much less than the dirt others could throw at you.
Todd felt an urge to tell him about her condition, and what it meant, and would mean, for the future. She wanted suddenly to suggest he run for President. But she couldn’t do that. Too many questions, too many complications. And that wasn’t why she had called him here.
“My invitation came after I called on behalf of the Intelligence Committee,” prompted Zen.
“Yes.” Todd pulled herself back into business mode. “Your committee is wondering, no doubt, what’s going on in Iran.”
“Exactly.”
“You and I, Senator—occasionally we have disagreed.”
“More than occasionally,” admitted Zen.
“Even so, I consider you one of our finer senators.”
“I’m flattered.”
“We’re wondering what’s going on in Iran ourselves.”
Zen raised his eyebrow.
“Of course, there are situations when we—when I—cannot tell everyone precisely all that I suspect about things that go on in the world,” said Todd, using her most offhanded tone. “I’m always faced with the question: will what I say jeopardize other people?”
Zen nodded. “I imagine it must be difficult to make that call. I think I may have even said something like that to the committee earlier.”
“Are you here personally?” she asked. “Or as the representative of the committee?”
“Both, I guess.”
“What is it that you personally want to know, Senator?” asked Todd.
Zen had pushed his wheelchair sideways—the table was a little higher than what would have been comfortable. He leaned his right elbow on it, finger to his lips, thinking.
“I would not want any information that would jeopardize anyone’s lives,” he told her.
“That’s good, because you won’t get any.”
“What I would want to know is that the administration is aware of the implications.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m told that the signature of the earthquake is not the sort of signature that one sees in earthquakes.”
“Interesting.” Todd reached for her beer and took another very small sip.
“I think that news is going to be public knowledge pretty soon,” added Zen.
“Well, it is a fact that the area contains a number of nuclear research centers,” said Todd, choosing her words as carefully as he had.
Zen glanced toward the door. The steward was approaching with their dinners.
“Meat loaf,” said Todd. “One of your favorites.”
“It is,” said Zen, sounding a little surprised.
“You must have mentioned it somewhere,” said Todd. “The staff doesn’t miss much.”
“I bet they don’t.”
“I like it, too,” she confessed. “Especially the gravy. But it’s very fattening.”
They ate in silence for a while.
“Very good meat loaf,” said Zen.
“I think a full and candid report is in order for your committee,” said the President. “As soon as it can be arranged.”
“How long, do you think, before that can happen?”
“It may be twenty-four hours,” said Todd.
“That’s quite a while,” said Zen. “There are a lot of historical precedents with much shorter time spans.”
“Hmmm.”
The Constitution gave Congress the power to declare war, of course, but the operation was far short of that. Current law called for the President to “consult” with Congress about the use of force, but even that was a gray area here. The previous administration, and the two before that, hadn’t felt the need to inform Congress of every covert operation being undertaken, and in fact had even been rather “loose” when talking about specific programs.
On the other hand, this was an extremely volatile issue, and the dire consequences could certainly include war. Todd knew she needed to keep Congress on her side, and alienating the Intelligence Committee would not help her meet that goal.
“I think we should have enough information for a thorough briefing by then,” she said. “But there’s always a possibility it will take longer.”
“I would think that if something was going to happen that involved a great deal of resources,” said Zen, “a lot of resources, then consultation would have to take place before those resources were ultimately committed.”
Todd took that to mean the committee wanted to be informed before she sent the bombers in.
“I don’t know that that would be possible,” she parried.
“Possible or not, I would guess that would be the sentiment of the full committee.”
“So the volume of resources makes a difference?” said Todd.
“Well, I don’t know how one measures that,” said Zen carefully. “I do know that, personally, I draw a line somewhere. But if there were, well—to speak theoretically—if there was a sizable commitment, something so large that the press couldn’t help but notice—there are a lot of members who naturally, and rightly, would press for an explanation.”
Todd didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t necessarily demanding that she inform Congress before she attacked, but he was certainly telling her that if she didn’t, there’d be consequences. But then, she was already aware of that.
“In the meantime, I’d like to schedule that briefing from NSC or the Agency,” said Zen, meaning the National Security Council or CIA staff. “Can we say first thing in the morning?”
“I think that’s premature.”
“The afternoon?”
“I don’t know that I could commit to that.”
“An entire day.” Zen’s voice more than hinted disapproval. “That’s a long time under the circumstances. A lot may happen by then.”
“I know some on the committee thinks the intelligence services are overstaffed,” said Todd, her tone matching Zen’s. “But I’m sure you don’t share that feeling.”
Zen only smiled. They ate for a while longer, each concentrating on the food, until Todd broke the silence with a remark about the Nationals, who had unfortunately just lost five games in a row. Zen responded with some thoughts about how soon the hitting might come around. Dessert arrived in the form of a peach cobbler, but Zen took only a few bites.
Todd skipped hers completely. She had a great deal of work to do; the staff knew to save it as a midnight snack, when it would get a fresh dollop of ice cream on the side.
“Tell me one thing,” said Zen as he got ready to leave. “Was it a success?”
Todd studied him. He would make a good President, she decided; his only problem would be the wheelchair. Were people ready to vote for someone with such an obvious handicap, even if it had been “earned” while in the service?
“Good night, Senator,” she said finally. “Best to your wife.”
9
Iran
TURK SLEPT DEEPLY, HIS MIND PLUNGING SO FAR INTO its unconscious layers that he had no memory of dreams when he woke. He was disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was. Then he saw the boulders at the side of the dugout space where he’d bedded down. He rolled onto his back and saw blue sky above.
“Come on,” said Grease. He was a few feet away, hastily grabbing gear. “We have to go.”