“Attacks against American citizens do not please me,” Ryan answered.
“I had nothing to do with this, you know that.”
“I do now, yes. Will you answer a question? If they had asked for your help, would you have given it?”
“No,” Daryaei said.
“Why should I believe that?”
“To slaughter so many people, even unbelievers, is a crime before God.”
“Besides,” Ryan added, “you know how we would react to such a thing.”
“You accuse me of the ability to do such a thing?”
“You accuse us of such things regularly. But in this case, you were mistaken.”
“You hate me.”
“I have no love for you,” Jack admitted readily. “You are the enemy of my country. You have supported those who kill my fellow citizens. You have taken pleasure in the deaths of people whom you have never met.”
“And yet you refused to allow your President to kill me.”
“That is incorrect. I refused to allow my President to destroy the city.”
“Why?”
“If you truly think yourself a man of God, how can you ask such a question?”
“You are an unbeliever!”
“Wrong. I believe, just as you do, but in a different way. Are we so different? Prince Ali doesn't think so. Does peace between us frighten you so much as that? Or do you fear gratitude more than hate? In any case, you asked why, and I will answer. I was asked to assist in the deaths of innocent people. I could not live with that on my conscience. It was as simple as that. Even the deaths of those I should perhaps consider unbelievers. Is that so hard for you to understand?”
Prince Ali said something that he didn't bother to translate, perhaps a quote from the Koran. It sounded stylized and poetic. Whatever it was, Daryaei nodded and spoke one last time to Ryan.
“I will consider this. Goodbye.”
Durling settled into the chair for the first time. Arnold van Damm sat across the room.
“You handled matters well.”
“Was there anything else we could have done?”
“I suppose not. It's today, then?”
“Right.”
“Ryan's handling it?” Durling asked, looking through the summary sheets.
“Yes, it seemed the best thing to do.”
“I want to see him when he gets back.”
“Bidn't you know? He resigned. As of today, he's out,” van Damm said.
“The hell you say!”
“He's out,” Arnie reiterated.
Durling shook his finger at the man. “Before you leave, you tell him that I want him in my office.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The executions were at noon on Saturday, six days after the bomb exploded. The people gathered, Ghosn and Qati were led out into the market square. They were given time to pray. It was a first for Jack, being a spectator at something like this. Murray just stood, his face set. Clark and Chavez, along with a gaggle of security personnel, were mainly watching the crowd.
“It just seems so inconsequential,” Ryan said as the event got underway.
“It is not! The world will learn from this,” Prince Ali said solemnly. “Many will learn. This is justice happening. That is the lesson.”
“Some lesson.” Ryan turned to look at his companions atop the building. He'd had time to reflect, and all he saw was — what? Ryan didn't know. He'd done his job, but what had it all meant? “The deaths of sixty thousand people who never should have died put an end to wars that need never have been? Is that how history is made, Ali?”
“All men die, Jack. Insh-Allah, never again in numbers so great. You stopped it, you prevented something worse. What you did, my friend… the blessings of God go with you.”
“I would have confirmed the launch order,” Avi said, his voice uncomfortable in its frankness. “And then? I would have blown my brains out, perhaps? Who can say? Of this I am certain: I would not have had the courage to say no.”
“Nor I,” Golovko said.
Ryan said nothing as he looked back down at the square. He'd missed the first one, but that was all right.
Even though Qati knew it was coming, it didn't matter. As with so many things in life, it was all controlled by reflex. A soldier prodded his side with a sword, barely enough to break the skin. Instantly, Qati's back arched, his neck extended itself in an involuntary flinch. The captain of the Saudi Special Forces already had his sword moving. He must have practiced, Jack realized a moment later, because the head was removed with a single stroke as deceptively powerful as a ballet master's. Qati's head landed a meter or so away, and then the body flopped down, blood spraying from the severed vessels. He could see the arms and legs tightening against the restraints, but that, too, was mere reflex. The blood pumped out in a steady rhythm as Qati's heart continued to work, striving to preserve a life already departed. Finally, that, too, stopped, and all that was left of Qati were separated parts and a dark stain on the ground. The Saudi captain wiped the sword clean on what looked like a bolt of silk, replaced it in the golden scabbard, and walked into a path the crowd made for him.
The crowd did not exult. In fact, there was no noise at all. Perhaps a collective intake of breath, a few murmured prayers from the more devout among those present; for whose souls the prayers were offered only they and their God could say. At once, those in the front row began to depart. A few from inside the crowd who'd been denied a view came to the fence line, but they stayed there for only a moment before going about their business. After the prescribed interval, the body parts would be collected and given a proper burial in accordance with the religion that each of them had defiled.
Jack didn't know what emotion he was supposed to feel. He'd seen enough death. He knew that much. But these deaths did not touch his heart at all, and now he wondered and worried a little about that.
“You asked me how history is made, Jack,” Ali said. “You have just seen it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You do not need us to tell you,” Golovko said.
The men who started a war, or tried to, executed like criminals in the market square, Jack thought. Not a bad precedent.
“Maybe you're right, maybe it will make people think twice before the next time.” That's an idea whose time has come.
“In all our countries,” Ali said, “the sword is the symbol of justice… an anachronism, perhaps, from a time when men acted as men. But a sword still has a use.”
“Certainly it is precise,” Golovko observed.
“So, Jack, you have fully left government service?” Ali asked, after a moment. Ryan turned away from the scene, just as everyone else had done.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And those foolish 'ethics' laws no longer apply. Good.” Ali turned. The Special Forces officer appeared as though by magic. The salute he gave Prince Ali was the sort to impress Kipling. The sword came next. The scabbard was wrought gold encrusted with jewels. The hilt was gold and ivory, and you could see where parts of it had been worn down by generations of strong hands. Manifestly the weapon of a king.
“This is three hundred years old,” Ali said, turning to Ryan. “It has been carried in peace and war by my ancestors. It even has a name — Breeze of Evening is the best I can do in English. It means more than that, of course. We wish you to have it, Dr. Ryan, as a reminder of those who died — and those who did not, because of you. It has killed many times. His Majesty believes that the sword has killed enough.”
Ryan took the scimitar from the Prince's hand. The gold scabbard was nicked and abraded by generations of sandstorms and battles, but Ryan saw that his reflection was not so terribly distorted as he might have feared. The blade, he saw, on drawing it partway, was mirror-bright, still rippled from the Damascus smith who'd shaped the steel into its fearful and effective purpose. Such a dichotomy, Ryan thought, smiling without knowing it, that something so beautiful could have so terrible a purpose. Such irony. And yet—