“I want to know exactly what’s going on between the Syrians and Egyptians,” Pontowski told him. “I suspect there’s more to that mutual assistance treaty … I want to know if Iraq is a player … We’ve worked too hard to create a stable Iraq and deny them any significant military capability … And I would like some answers by this afternoon.”
The secretary of state chimed in. “Our observer at the negotiations reports all is in good order.” Pontowski only looked at him. The secretary got the message. “I’ll cable him to start digging and get his staff in gear.”
Fraser’s jaw was rigidly clamped and he worked not to grind his teeth. Nothing, he raged inwardly, was happening in the Middle East to warrant this much attention. Or was something going on he didn’t know about? Who had gotten to him? What were his sources? Don’t get paranoid, he cautioned himself. Pontowski does read three or four newspapers every morning. Maybe he stumbled onto something there. Rather than betray his irritation, Fraser decided to cool it and let others take the lead until he could control the situation.
Admiral Scovill, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, caught Pontowski’s attention. “Sir, I’ll get the DIA over here and find out what they’ve got. If there’s anything unusual going on, they’ll know.”
“Oh come off it,” the director of central intelligence protested. “The Defense Intelligence Agency gets its information from the CIA and the NSA. What would they have that’s so damn unusual? And if they’ve found something, why haven’t we all seen it?”
“Good question,” the admiral answered. “Let’s shake the tree and see what falls out.” A warning kept tickling at the back of his mind that the Middle East was going to become unhinged again. The admiral had played a key part in the logistics buildup that helped force Iraq out of Kuwait and had later counseled that the drawdown of forces from Saudi Arabia following the successful conclusion of the war, leaving only a small trip-wire force in Kuwait and massive military stockpiles in the Saudi desert, was premature. But the current Iraqi government had sent strong signals through the CIA that they would live in peace with their neighbors. The strength of the CIA’s endorsement suggested that the “boys from up the river” had an insider’s knowledge of what was going on. The United States and the world were all too ready to abandon the shifting political sands of the Middle East deserts for the safe bedrock of domestic politics. Situation normal, Admiral Scovill thought, all fucked up.
Fraser looked up as if he had received a sudden inspiration. “Mr. President, is there some person you’d like to talk to, a recognized expert in the field?” Maybe there’s a clue there, he thought.
Pontowski shook his head and stood up. Every eye was on him as he paced the room, a sure sign that he was upset. “I want peace in the Middle East,” he said, his voice controlled and gentlemanly. “The surest way to bring that about is to create stability and prosperity in the region. That’s why I’m so hopeful about the Syrian-Egyptian moves toward mutual assistance. With stability and prosperity, we can encourage all the parties, and that included Israel and Iraq, to sit down and hammer out a solution to their problems. But until they do sit down and talk, we’ve got to protect any progress that’s been made toward that goal or we’re right back to square one. But I’m not so foolish as to forget that when Syrians and Egyptians got together in 1973 they started the Yom Kippur War. I don’t want that happening again.”
The DCI folded his hands and spoke quietly. “There is a degree of uncertainty that we have to live with when dealing with Arabs, and I might add, the Israelis. I’m referring, of course, to the Israelis’ recent scientific tests in the Kalahari Desert with the South Africans.”
A feeling of relief swept over Fraser — the DCI had just raised a peripheral issue that should distract Pontowski from cozying up to the current Israeli prime minister.
“Don’t get distracted,” the President said. “We don’t know the exact contours of the relationship between Israel and South Africa or what they’re doing in the Kalahari. For now, focus on Egypt, Syria, and Iraq.”
Fraser didn’t want to let the subject die. “I think the South Africans are using the Israeli lobby to push their case with Congress.”
Pontowski nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen the results of that effort before.” He pointed at Fraser. “Tom, I want you to stay on top of this and have some answers by this afternoon. Don’t leave a single stone unturned.” He walked out of the room, cutting off any further discussion, leaving a hushed and stunned group behind him.
The secretary of state broke the silence. “He’s worried.”
Fraser stood up and glared at him. “Obviously. We’ve got to sort this one out — and fast.” For the next few minutes, he demonstrated the organizational skill that made him such an asset to the President. Finally, they were ready to leave.
“Okay,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff asked, “who presents it to the President? I’d suggest we let General Leo Cox do it. He’s the most knowledgeable man I have on the Middle East.”
Everyone readily agreed, more than willing to let the Defense Intelligence agency handle this one. “No,” Fraser said. “I want the CIA to present it.” No way I’m going to let that son of a bitch get to the President, he thought, stomping out of the room.
Back in his office, he threw the papers he was carrying at Melissa and slammed his door behind him. Once in the privacy of his own office, he paced the floor, rage and fury boiling through him. “Damn,” he growled, “I control access to the President. I set the agenda. Someone’s getting around me.” Slowly, he regained control and the shooting pains in his stomach quieted, leaving only an occasional echo to remind him of his ulcer.
The light for his private line on the phone bank flashed at him. He sat down and hesitated before answering it, making sure he was in total control. It was B. J. Allison, the CEO of one of the largest oil corporations in the United States. Allison was also a heavy contributor to any cause or campaign Fraser might suggest and heavily invested in Middle Eastern oil. “B.J.”—he forced a smile into his voice—“we’ve got to get together for lunch of dinner.” He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yeah, I got rid of the bimbo. Tomorrow night would be fine.”
4
Zack Pontowski was sitting by his wife’s bedside reading and drinking coffee when she woke up. She studied her husband for a few moments, not wanting to disturb him. We’ve been through so much together, she thought, and now you’ve got to watch me die. For a moment, she fought back her tears, not because lupus was again ravaging her body, this time attacking her skin, but because she couldn’t help him now that he had reached the pinnacle of his career. She cried because he had to carry the burden alone. When she was in firm control and the tears conquered, she moved, letting him know she was awake.
“Sleep well, Tosh?” he asked. It was the same question he always asked her. She smiled at him as he laid down the thick read file that waited for him every morning, removed his glasses, and placed a hand gently over hers. Pontowski had caught her first waking movements and had concentrated on his reading until she was in control.
“You are so vain,” she chided him. “You never let anyone see you wearing glasses.” He humphed in response. “Probably just as well,” she allowed. “Don’t need to hide those steely blue eyes.” He waited until a nurse had helped arrange her in a sitting position before handing her a cup of coffee. “Well, then,” she continued, “have you solved the world’s problems or will that take until lunch?” She believed in keeping him humble.