“That will be…difficult,” Azar admitted. “I simply don’t know all of the resistance leaders out there. I frankly doubt if anyone on the council knows all of the cells and their leaders.”
“You attend the war council meetings, don’t you?”
“I’m allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I’m not allowed to vote, and I’m discouraged from attending strategy meetings.”
Buzhazi shook his head in exasperation. “You’re probably the smartest person in that council meeting — why you’re not allowed to participate is a damned mystery to me. Well, it’s your problem, Highness. I’m telling you that your loyalists are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don’t know if the person with the gun at the other end of the block is an Islamist or one of your loyalists, so I’m going to blow his head off regardless before he tries to do the same to me. That’s not the way I want it, but that’s the way I’ll play it if I have to.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, General.”
“You can, Highness, if you just drag yourself back into the twenty-first century like I know you can,” Buzhazi said, donning his helmet again and pulling the straps tight.
“What?”
“Come on now, Highness — you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Buzhazi said irritably. “You’re a smart woman as well as a natural-born leader. You’ve lived in America most of your life and you’ve obviously learned that the old ways won’t work anymore. You know as well as I that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what’s hamstringing you. You’ve voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your ‘court’ and you’ve committed to cede authority to a bunch of spineless cowards — half of which aren’t even in this country right now, am I correct?” He could tell by her expression that he was.
Buzhazi shook his head in disappointment quickly turning to disgust. “Pardon me for saying this, Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get with the program before we all die and our country becomes a mass graveyard,” he said angrily. “You’re the one out here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate a response, but you won’t take charge. Why? Because you don’t want your parents to think you’re taking over their thrones? This is the twenty-first century, Azar, for God’s sake, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven’t shown themselves in almost two—”
“Shut up!” Azar screamed, and before Buzhazi could react, she had spun around and planted her right foot solidly in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Buzhazi went down on one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than hurt. By the time he got back on his feet and was able to take at least a half of a normal breath, Mara Saidi was shielding Azar, an automatic machine pistol pointed at him.
“Good kick, Highness,” Buzhazi grunted, rubbing his abdomen. Obviously, he guessed, one of her accommodations for having defects of the hands was her ability to fight with her feet. “The rumors said you could take care of yourself — I see that’s true.”
“The meeting is over, General,” he heard a man say behind him. Buzhazi turned and nodded at Parviz Najar, who had run out of hiding in the blink of an eye and had another machine pistol pointed at him. “Go quickly.”
“After you both lower your weapons,” they heard another voice shout. They all turned to see Major Qolom Haddad hidden behind the rear end of the smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle leveled at Najar. “I’m not going to repeat myself!”
“Everyone, lower your weapons,” Buzhazi said. “I think we’ve both said what we needed to say here.” No one moved. “Major, you and your men, stand down.”
“Sir—”
“Colonel, Captain, stand down as well,” Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida complied, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. “There are no enemies here.”
Buzhazi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded again respectfully, then extended his hand. “Highness, it was good to speak with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I’m going to keep fighting.”
Azar took his hand and bowed her head as well. “It was good to speak with you too, General. I have much to think about.”
“Don’t take too long, Highness. Salam aleikom.” Buzhazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two more soldiers who had been carefully hidden nearby covering his back.
“Peace be unto you as well, General,” Azar called after him.
Buzhazi turned halfway to her, smiled, and called out, “Unlikely, Highness. But thanks anyway.”
Chief of Staff Walter Kordus knocked on the door of the President’s sitting room on the third-floor family residence of the White House. “Sir? She’s here.”
President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and set down the papers he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on to a boxing match but with the sound muted. He wore a white shirt and business slacks, with his tie loosened — he rarely wore anything else but business attire until moments before bed. “Good. Where?”
“You said you didn’t want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought up to the Red Room — I thought that was appropriate.”
“Cute. But she asked to see the Treaty Room. Have her brought up.”
Kordus took a step into the sitting room. “Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She’s the chairwoman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. It’s got to remain business…”
“This is business, Walt,” Gardner said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got those notes I asked you for?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Good.” Gardner went back to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and departed.
A few minutes later, Gardner made his way down the Center Hall, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Kordus intercepted him and passed him a folder. “Hot off the press. Want me to—?”
“Nope. I think we’re done for the night. Thanks, Walt.” He breezed past the chief of staff and entered the Treaty Room. “Hello, Senator. Thanks for meeting me at this ungodly hour.”
She was standing beside the immense mahogany U. S. Grant Cabinet table, lovingly running her long fingers across the inlaid cherry features. The steward had placed a tray of tea on the coffee table on the other side of the room. Her eyes widened and that camera-magnetizing smile appeared when she saw Gardner enter the room. “Mr. President, it is certainly my honor and privilege to be with you tonight,” Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau said in her famous silky Louisiana accent. “Thank you so much for the invitation.” She stood, embraced the President, and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau wore a white low-cut business suit which subtly but effectively displayed her breasts and cleavage, accented for the evening by a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if motorized in tune with her smile and batting eyelashes, and her green eyes flashed with energy. “You know that you may call upon me at any time, sir.”
“Thank you, Senator. Please.” He motioned to a Victorian couch and took her hand as he led her to it, then took an ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.