"There will be thousands of Frenchmen there," Juan said. "And half of them will be children. If we wish to liberate our colleagues, the impact must be a strong one. This should be strong enough."
"Where will we go afterwards?" Rene asked.
"The Bekaa Valley is still available, and from there, wherever we wish. I have good contacts in Syria, still, and there are always options."
"It's a four-hour flight, and there is always an American aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean."
"They will not attack an aircraft filled with children," Esteban pointed out. "They might even give us an escort," he added with a smile.
"It is only twelve kilometers to the airport," Andre reminded them, "a fine multilane highway."
"So, then, we must plan the mission in every detail. Esteban, you will get yourself a job there. You, too, Andre. We must pick our places, then select the time and the day.
"We'll need more men. At least ten more."
"That is a problem. Where can we get ten reliable men?" Juan asked.
"Sicarios can be hired. We need only promise them the right amount of money," Esteban pointed out.
"They must be faithful men," Rene told them forcefully.
"They will be faithful enough," the Basque told them. "I know where to go for them."
They were all bearded. It was the easiest disguise to adopt, and though the national police in their countries had pictures of them, the pictures were all of young, shaven men. A passerby might have thought them to be artists, the way they looked, and the way they all leaned inward on the table to speak with intense whispers. They were all dressed moderately well, though not expensively so. Perhaps they were arguing over some political issue, the waiter thought from his station ten meters away, or some confidential business matter. He couldn't know that he was right on both counts. A few minutes later, he watched them shake hands and depart in different directions, having left cash to pay the bill, and, the waiter discovered, a niggardly tip. Artists, he thought. They were notoriously cheap bastards.
"But this is an environmental disaster waiting to happen!" Carol Brightling insisted.
"Carol," the chief of staff replied. "It's about our balance of payments. It will save America something like fifty billion dollars, and we need that. On the environmental side, I know what your concerns are, but the president of Atlantic Richfield has promised me personally that this will be a clean operation. They've learned a lot in the past twenty years, on the engineering side and the public relations side, about cleaning up their act, haven't they?"
"Have you ever been there?" the President's science advisor asked.
"Nope." He shook his head. "I've flown over Alaska, but that's it."
"You would think differently if you'd ever seen the place, trust me."
"They strip-mine coal in Ohio. I've seen that. And I've seen them cover it back up and plant grass and trees. Hell, one of those strip mines-in two years they're going to have the PGA championship on the golf course that they built there! It's cleaned up, Carol. They know how now, and they know it makes good sense to do it, economically and politically. So, no, Carol, the President will not withdraw his support for this drilling project. It makes economic sense for the country." And who really cares a rat's ass for land that only a few hundred people have ever seen? he didn't add.
"I have to talk to him personally about it," the science advisor insisted.
"No." The chief of staff shook his head emphatically. "That's not going to happen. Not on this issue. All you'd accomplish is to undercut your position, and that isn't smart, Carol."
"But I promised."
"Promised whom?"
"The Sierra Club."
"Carol, the Sierra Club isn't part of this administration. And we get their letters. I've read them. They're turning into an extremist organization on issues like this. Anybody can say 'do nothing,' and that's about all they're saying since this Mayflower guy took it over."
"Kevin is a good man and a very smart one."
"You couldn't prove that by me, Carol," the chief of staff snorted. "He's a Luddite."
"Goddamnit, Arnie, not everyone who disagrees with you is an extremist, okay?"
"That one is. The Sierra Club's going to self-destruct if they keep him on top of the masthead. Anyway." The chief of staff checked his schedule. "I have work to do. Your position on this issue, Dr. Brightling, is to support the Administration. That means you personally support the drilling bill for AAMP. There is only one position in this building, and that position is what the President says it is. That's the price you pay for working as an advisor to the President, Carol. You get to influence policy, but once that policy is promulgated, you support it, whether you believe it or not. You will say publicly that you think that drilling that oil is a good thing for America and for the environment. Do you understand that?"
"No, Arnie, I won't!" Brightling insisted.
"Carol, you will. And you will do it convincingly, in such a way as to make the more moderate environmental groups see the logic of the situation. If, that is, you like working here."
"Are you threatening me?"
"No, Carol, I am not threatening you. I am explaining to you how the rules work here. Because you have to play by the rules, just like I do, and just like everyone else does. If you work here you must be loyal to the President. If you are not loyal, then you cannot work here. You knew those rules when you came onboard, and you knew you had to live by them. Okay, now it's time for a gut check. Carol, will you live by the rules or won't you?"
Her face was red under the makeup. She hadn't learned to conceal her anger. the chief of staff saw, and that was too bad. You couldn't afford to get angry over minor bullshit items, not at this level of government. And this was a minor bullshit item. When you found something as valuable as several billion barrels of oil in a place that belonged to you, you drilled into the ground to get it out. It was as simple as that - and it was simpler still if the oil companies promised not to hurt anything as a result. It would remain that simple as long as the voters drove automobiles. "Well, Carol?" he asked.
"Yes, Arnie, I know the rules, and I will live by the rules," she confirmed at last.
"Good. I want you to prepare a statement this afternoon for release next week. I want to see it today. The usual stuff, the science of it, the safety of the engineering measures, that sort of thing. Thanks for coming over, Carol," he said in dismissal.
Dr. Brightling stood and moved to the door. She hesitated there, wanting to turn and tell Arnie what he could do with his statement… but she kept moving into the corridor in the West Wing, turned north, and went down the stairs for the street level. Two Secret Service agents noted the look on her face and wondered what had rained on her parade that morning - or maybe had turned a hailstorm loose on it. She walked across the street with an unusually stiff gait, then up the steps into the OEOB. In her office, she turned on her Gateway computer and called up her word-processing program, wanting to put her fist through the glass screen rather than type on the keyboard. To be ordered around by that man! Who didn't know anything about science, and didn't care about environmental policy. All Arnie cared about was politics, and politics was the most artificial damned thing in the world!