“What are you doing?” Tel asked.
“Sending a message,” Kamigami replied.
“Which is?”
“Vampire.” Kamigami gave a long blast on the whistle and moved out, setting a blistering pace.
The spook sitting in the national security adviser’s office was a nondescript man, five feet ten inches tall, in his late forties, hunch-shouldered, and slightly balding. He was a man people passed every day and never saw. Franklin Bernard Butler was also a lieutenant general in the Air Force, the chief of a shadowy organization quartered on the mezzanine of the Pentagon’s basement, and an operational genius in the netherworld of covert intelligence. Mazie looked up from the thin folder she was reading, a very worried expression on her face. “Bernie, how in the world did you get this?”
“The old-fashioned way.”
Mazie arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Spying.”
“I was afraid you were going to say ‘work,’ which is something the Boys never do.” The “Boys” was shorthand for Butler’s group, known only as the Boys in the Basement. She gave a very audible sigh. Levity was not going to lessen the reality of what she was looking at. “How good is this?”
“It doesn’t get any better,” Butler told her. Although he trusted the national security adviser, he wasn’t about to reveal how the Boys had recruited three moles in Iraq during the Persian Gulf War in 1991. The moles had been left behind to burrow into Saddam Hussein’s infrastructure, and now all three were talking. “The president needs to know,” Butler said, telling her the obvious.
Mazie looked at the elegant carriage clock on her desk. Again she sighed, giving in to the inevitable. “Why does it always hit the fan on a Friday afternoon?”
“It’s an immutable law of nature,” Butler replied.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Mike Wilding, United States Army, was the last to enter the White House Situation Room. Wilding nodded at the three people sitting at the table — Mazie, Vice President Sam Kennett, and the director of Central Intelligence, or DCI. The four of them were the heart of the National Security Council and among the president’s most trusted advisers. As expected, Wilding’s boss, the secretary of defense, was not there, as he was reluctant to attend any meeting that included the vice president. Wilding stared at the outsider who was sitting against the back wall. “Bernie Butler,” he muttered. “I should have guessed.”
The door opened, and Patrick Shaw came into the room. “Mizz Hazelton, gentlemen, the President.” Madeline Turner entered the room and sat down.
“Patrick,” Mazie said, “I’m afraid this one is above your pay grade.” Shaw was dumbfounded. It was the first time Mazie had ever asked Shaw to leave a meeting. Normally Shaw would have treated it as a power play and responded accordingly. But Mazie never played silly Washington games. He nodded and closed the door as he left.
“This must be serious,” Turner said.
“I believe it is,” Mazie replied. She looked at Butler, her eyes full of concern.
Butler stood and keyed his remote control. The large computer monitor mounted in the wall opposite the president came to life, and a map of the Middle East flashed on the screen. “My sources claim that the radical Islamic states”—the map flashed, and Iraq, Iran, and Syria were highlighted in red—“have joined in a secret alliance. They’re calling themselves the United Islamic Front — the UIF for short.”
The DCI raised his hand slightly to interrupt, a condescending look on his face. “Syria has been on board in the war against terrorism, Iran is cooperating under the table, and we’ve effectively isolated Iraq. So, why in the name of Allah would they form such an alliance at this time?”
“Oil,” Butler said. “They are going to attack Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates.” Again the map changed, and the target states changed to blue.
The DCI shook his head. “Not hardly,” he announced.
Vice President Kennett scratched his empty left coat sleeve. His missing arm always itched when he was worried. “How good is your source?” he asked.
“Extremely reliable,” Butler answered.
“Confirmation?” General Wilding asked.
“We have two other independent sources saying the same thing,” Butler told him.
“And why haven’t I heard about this?” the DCI barked, his anger showing.
“We forwarded it to Langley yesterday,” Butler explained, his voice a monotone. “When it didn’t show up in the PDB this morning, I took it to Mrs. Hazelton.” The PDB was the President’s Daily Brief, a slick summary of the best intelligence the United States had. It was compiled by a committee at the CIA and seen by only twelve people.
The DCI was outraged. “You’re not on distribution! How did you see it?”
Mazie caught the crinkle in Butler’s lips, the closest he could come to a smile. “Don’t ask the question,” she said, “if you can’t stand the answer.”
“It’s my business to know,” Butler replied. In five simple words he had summed up what intelligence was all about.
The hard professional in Wilding came out. “When? Do you have an order of battle?”
“Not order of battle, sir,” Butler answered. “We’re working on it.” He paused. “But my sense of the matter tells me before the first of the year.”
“What’s the NRO and NSA saying?” This from Vice President Kennett. Like the others, he was at home dealing with the alphabet soup that made up the intelligence community. The NRO was the National Reconnaissance Office, which controlled the Keyhole series of spy satellites, and NSA was the National Security Agency, which monitored communications.
“I’ll have to check,” the DCI said. He hit a button on the small control panel in front of him and spoke into the microphone. “We need the latest satellite imagery for the Persian Gulf and the latest CIS for the same area.” A CIS was a communications intelligence summary produced by the NSA. The DCI looked at Turner. “We should have something in a few minutes.”
“I hate surprises,” Turner told the DCI.
A woman’s voice from the control room said, “NRO coming on the number-two screen now. And a courier has a message for General Butler.”
Butler walked to the door as the second screen came to life. He stepped outside. His second in command was waiting in the hall and handed him a sealed envelope. “The shit is hittin’ the fan over there,” he told Butler.
Butler carried the envelope back into the Situation Room and glanced at the monitor displaying the latest satellite coverage from the Persian Gulf. The DCI was talking. “We’re seeing nothing unusual.” The screen scrolled, and the NSA summary appeared. Listening posts had detected no change in the normal traffic for the region. Butler glanced at the screen and shook his head as he opened the envelope. He read the message twice and cleared his throat. Everyone turned toward him. “Iraq, Syria, and Iran are planning a joint training exercise. No announced time frame.”
General Wilding snorted. “Joint exercise, my—” He caught himself, remembering whom he was talking to.
Turner came to her feet. “The word you’re looking for, General, is ‘ass.’ Which is what they’re making of us and which I’m ending right now. No more surprises. We will stay ahead of this.”
“Level of response?” Mazie asked.
“I want everyone awake and looking at this, but I don’t see any reason for moving up the DEFCON in the Middle East — not yet.” They all agreed with her, fully aware of the political ramifications of such an action during an election year. “Mazie, start talking to your counterparts in NATO.” She pointed a finger at the DCI. “And find out why the CIA missed this. It won’t happen again. Okay, that’s it for now. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning and see where we are.”