Harper was momentarily shaken by the quiet rage he heard in the president’s voice-as well as the utter conviction. But he did his best to set it aside, knowing that he couldn’t stop now. Someone had to bring the man back from the brink, and it was clear that he was the only person still willing to try.
“Yes, but that just supports my point, sir. Even if they destroyed the whole camp, some of the refugees were bound to escape. There were going to be witnesses either way, so why would Bashir make the government’s role in the attack so blatantly evident? Why would he allow the trail to lead right back to his doorstep?”
“To send a message,” Stralen said. “Isn’t that obvious? He claimed he was going to do as much when the State Department issued the sanctions last month.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time he spouted inflammatory rhetoric,” Harper pointed out, “and not once in twenty years has he lifted a finger to do even half of what he threatens. What would make things different this time?” The deputy director shook his head and looked back at the president. “Sir, again, I’m not saying Bashir didn’t have a hand in this. Plain and simple, I’m trying to point out that we need to have all the facts, look into every possibility, before you decide on a course of action.”
“And what happens in the meantime?” Stralen asked quietly.
Harper reluctantly turned his attention back to the air force general.
“You want us to sit on our hands while Bashir sits in Khartoum, laughing about what he’s done?” Stralen said, not giving an inch. “About what he’s gotten away with? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“What are you suggesting?” Harper asked, meeting the other man’s cold blue eyes. He knew he had crossed a line, but he couldn’t back down. Andrews had already done that, and someone had to stop this conversation before it escalated to a far more dangerous level. “What do you propose we do instead, General?”
“What I propose,” Stralen growled, “is that we send in a two- or three-man Delta team to verify his position, and then we drop a JDAM right on top of the bastard’s head. What I suggest is that we take him out, once and for all.”
There was complete silence in the room. Harper stared at the newly appointed head of the DIA for a long moment and couldn’t help but wonder if the man understood the full gravity of what he was saying. Then he turned to look at the president. “Sir, please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”
Brenneman had turned to face the window, but his shoulders were tense, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. He did not respond, giving Harper no idea what he was thinking. “Sir,” Harper said, trying again, “I implore you to look at the larger picture. Omar al-Bashir may be a ruthless dictator, but he is still a head of state, the president of the largest country in Africa.”
“He’s also a wanted man according to the ICC,” Brenneman said.
“And we’ve consistently opposed the court’s authority on the basis of its determinations shackling our political and military policies…and creating a global standard of justice that may conflict with our own. It would be hypocritical to use the indictment as an excuse to go after Bashir.” Harper gave that a moment to sink in. “We all need to remember that while Bashir stays within his own sovereign borders, he has practical immunity from any indictment. We can’t legally send forces across those borders to arrest him. And we can’t just assassinate him.”
“So he gets away with it,” Brenneman murmured. He was still facing the window. “Is that right? Is that what you’re proposing?”
For a few seconds Harper wasn’t sure how to respond. It was suddenly apparent that the president hadn’t really heard a word he’d said, and for one simple reason-he didn’t want to. He was lost in his own private world of pain and grief, and for the time being, he was looking for one thing alone…a way to lash out. In that respect, Stralen was giving him exactly what he wanted, someone to blame and punish for his niece’s death.
Harper could see the appeal. Any human being with a beating heart would be tempted by the lure of immediate vengeance. But that didn’t make it sane or right.
“Mr. President.” It was Andrews who had spoken now, and Harper turned toward him in mild surprise. This was the first time the director had made his presence known since his deputy had entered the room. “With all due respect, Jonathan is right. We can decide Bashir is accountable, but we can’t take him out. The international community would never stand for it.”
“Who cares what they’re willing to stand for?” Stralen said. He fixed his counterpart at the CIA with an angry, accusing stare. “That isn’t the issue here, and for a change our primary concern shouldn’t be world opinion.” He shifted his attention to Harper. “As for your remarks about the ICC…I don’t give a damn about that organization. The indictment is fine with me but should have no bearing on our actions one way or another.”
“Okay, forget the ICC,” Harper said. “With all due respect, General Stralen…are you aware Sudan has an estimated oil reserve of two hundred billion barrels in its very large chunk of the Muglad Basin? And that Russia has made monumental financial and material investments in the Sudanese oil industry? The deals Putin has cut with Khartoum…specifically exercising his political clout through Slavneft-”
Stralen speared him with his gaze. “Don’t lecture me. I know all about Slavneft.”
Harper looked back at Stralen without blinking and went on with slow deliberation. “Then I assume you’re aware it is not only Russia’s seventh or eighth largest oil firm but is wholly state owned,” he said. “I’m sure you also realize the Russians, via Slavneft, have spent something in excess of two hundred million dollars to develop the Abyei petroleum fields in south-central Sudan as part of an umbrella trade agreement-I think it’s fair to use the term alliance — that requires Sudan to subsidize a large chunk of that investment with the purchase of Russian military hardware. Given what you know, I probably don’t have to add that Sudan set an earlier precedent for this relationship with China, which now drills as much of a sixth to a quarter of its total oil supply from fields in the western part of the country. That’s about two hundred thousand barrels every day of the week. The exchange there has involved weapons, too. Primarily small arms, though there were separate arrangements for the sale of Chinese attack aircraft and pilot training to Sudan. And assurances that Beijing would massage the United Nations Security Council in all matters relating to Bashir’s regime, including his genocidal slaughter of the Dinka tribe-”
“Enough.” Brenneman had turned away from the window without warning. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear any more.”
Everyone in the room fell silent. His anguish was plain for all to see. If Harper had to guess, he would have said that the president’s grief was surpassed only by his barely suppressed rage.
“Sir, I understand that you’re upset,” Harper continued quickly. All he could think about was cutting off Stralen before he could do any more damage. “My apologies if this is repetitious…but going after Bashir directly would be a huge mistake. There’s no stressing that enough. It is not a viable or responsible course of-”
“Upset?” The president stared at him with a blank, uncomprehending gaze. The deputy director instantly realized that he had missed something in Brenneman’s tone of voice moments ago and, in doing so, had made a monumental error in judgment. Before he could take it back, though, Brenneman continued in a voice tinged with the wrong kind of amusement. “My niece has just been murdered by a pack of savages in a third-world country, and you think I’m upset? That’s very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation.”