A Thing of State, page 35
It was no wonder, perhaps, that Sidi was so dangerous and so defiant. He and his friends and secret backers had analyzed their target all too well. The long chain of weakness from Bosnia to Somalia to North Korea to Rwanda to Haiti to the “second Gulf War” and so on into the darkness, built up to an overwhelming certainty in their minds: the United States was no longer a great power but a great weakling, and its Presidents and its people would no longer make the tough choices and do the tough things that would assert and maintain America’s power, since those things would inevitably at times threaten their fighting men and women, their material comfort, and their self-centered way of life.
“You seek safety in your cocoon,” Sidi had declared to Larry King three days ago (having savored the uses of worldwide television and finding that its leaders were begging him to make use of them to advance his cause against their country), “but we will pierce it. There is nothing but a dead butterfly inside.”
“That’s chilling stuff,” Mary had remarked when she and Ray watched this latest example of what their daughter called “Sidi-ism.”
“Verbal brinkmanship,” he said dismissively, managing to sound more unconcerned than he felt.
“He seems very confident,” she observed. “The tone is becoming more positive the more the President wavers. And don’t tell me he isn’t wavering. The whole world knows it.”
He had not been able to offer any strong rejoinder at that moment. Now he thought perhaps he might be able to. He was more hopeful than Willie had been, after their Oval Office contention.
“Hi,” he said now, returning her call. “What’s up?”
“The usual,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Samir’s disappeared.”
“Damn it,” he said, “what’s the matter with that boy? How long?”
“Almost two days,” she said, “and Bets is frantic. Boo seems to be alive and well and in his usual cheery good shape—Bets called Joanie and all’s well there. He has no idea where Samir is, saw him ‘last night or the night before,’ quote unquote. Predicts comfortably that he’ll turn up safe and sound. Scoffs at the idea that he isn’t safe and sound. Joanie’s unperturbed. Bets, as I say, is frantic. I’m a little uneasy myself. Have you talked to Hugo Mallerbie?”
“He’s left a call for me,” the Secretary said. “I’m planning to get to him as soon as I’ve finished talking to you. Meanwhile tell Bets to keep calm. We’ll get on it. I suppose she’s talked to the police.”
“Not yet. She wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
“For heaven’s sake,” he said, exasperated; would nothing ever go forward without a fuss in that household? “Of course she won’t embarrass me. Anyway, it will take them a while to make the connection.”
“Unless somebody in the media gets hold of it.”
“That goes with the territory. I’m sure this is just an elaborate extension of domestic dramas. Tell her we’ll look into it and everything will be okay. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’ve just come from 1600 Pennsylvania, where Willie Wilson and our boy had a shoot-out in the Oval Office.”
“Who won?”
“I think Willie may have, though the opposition concealed his bleeding skillfully. He did indicate, however, that he is going to offer a compromise to end the current agitation. Which was a concession, of a sort.”
“Of what sort?” she inquired. “Did he tell you and Willie what it’s going to be?”
“No,” he confessed, “but he did give Willie his word that he would have something to offer very soon.”
“How much is his word worth at this juncture?” she inquired.
The Secretary was amused but serious.
“That remains to be seen, but I really think this time he means to stop all the fun and games and get down to serious business. I’m beginning to think we’ve reached a turning point—maybe Willie did it, or maybe he was just ready to be more practical and Willie furnished the right impetus at the right time. I am, however, more hopeful than I’ve been for some weeks that we’re going to come out of this mess in good shape.”
“I’d like to agree with you,” she said, “but I’m afraid I remain skeptical. He’s too tricky. Did he give you any indication that he would like your help on this?”
“No,” he admitted with some discomfort, “but I assume that will come along in due time.”
“It had better,” she said stoutly. “You’re the Secretary of State. Jaime Serrano is a nice Cuban boy but he’s not exactly the most experienced of diplomatic advisers.”
“Jaime’s all right,” he said, adding humorously, “for a boy of forty-seven. We work together well. We can work it out between us.”
“If you’re given the chance,” she said. “If the President doesn’t pull it out of his hat and surprise you along with the rest of the world.”
“He may do that,” he admitted, “although I think he’s shrewd enough not to.”
“We’ll hope so,” she said, unimpressed. “You do sound hopeful. The United States comes out of this with honor and respect and real achievement, thanks to the statesmanly solution devised by its brilliant President. Is that what you think?”
“We all have to think that, don’t we?” he asked simply.
“Yes,” she agreed, but less confidently. “I suppose we do.”
He called Bets, told her he was sure Samir was just being dramatic and would be home soon, and seemed to calm her down considerably by telling her that he would get Hugo onto it if Samir wasn’t home by nightfall; told his secretary to call Hugo and Eldridge Barnes and tell them he would see them at one-thirty; told her to inform the kitchen that he would like a light meal, alone, at noon; and filled in the interim by turning to the reports on a troubled world’s crises that came across his desk all day and all night twenty-four hours a day in a tide that never stopped.
Promptly at one-thirty Hugo and Eldridge came in. He could sense at once that something was troubling them; two things, as it turned out.
“Hugo,” he said, “El”—gesturing them to the chairs by the window—“it must be something pretty serious for you two to gang up on me in tandem like this. What’s the problem?”
“Your son-in-law and Boo Bourassa,” Hugo said as they sat down.
“And a little boat, outbound from a port in the mysterious Middle East to the great big city of New York,” Eldridge said.
The Secretary looked at them for a moment.
“Are they connected?”
“We’re not sure just yet,” Hugo said.
“Something’s fishy.” El Barnes said. “Unusual registry and an unusual pattern of ports visited en route. Something doesn’t quite scan right.”
“Tell me,” Ray Stanley said, prepared, as one had to be in such a world, for anything.
“I’m not sure,” Hugo Mallerbie said, “that there is any connection at all. Probably there isn’t. But Boo Bourassa’s little gatherings are a little more serious than we thought, apparently.”
“And the ship is not a pleasure cruise,” Eldridge Barnes said. “We have good reason to believe some of the cargo may be atomic.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” the Secretary observed. “But why New York?”
“That,” El Barnes said, “is the question.”
“And the answer might not be so pleasant,” Hugo Mallerbie said.
“Are you sure that kind of cargo’s aboard?” the Secretary inquired. “We can raise hell about it, of course, but it would be nice if we could be sure of our facts. We’ve been trapped by that ploy before, apparently designed just to make us look foolish—which it has. I’m sure the President would want to be very certain before he authorized us to do anything.”
“Would he authorize us to do anything?” El Barnes inquired dryly. “He seems to be good at making a noise, not so good at following through.”
The Secretary looked wry.
“You noticed. In instances like this in the past, making a lot of noise has been enough. If you think your information is sufficient—”
“I think it is,” El said. “We have some first-rate informants in that part of the world. I don’t think it would hurt to put up a holler. And even stop it, if necessary.”
“I’ll pass it on,” the Secretary said. “What about Boo? Samir’s missing, incidentally.”
Hugo looked alarmed.
“How long?”
“Going on a day and a half,” Ray Stanley said. “He and my daughter had one of their rows and he left and hasn’t come home. I told her that if he hasn’t come home by nightfall tonight, you’d get on it.”
“We’re already on it,” Hugo said. “He contacted me day before yesterday, very hush-hush—didn’t want you to know about it—said he had some information he felt the government ought to have—was supposed to come see me yesterday afternoon—didn’t show or call—I haven’t heard from him since. I’m worried, too. I’ve asked the FBI to check.”
The Secretary, surprised and upset, felt for a moment as though the world had been swept out from under him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “You must consider it very serious, to bring the FBI into it.”
“Most of Boo’s playmates are atomic scientists,” Hugo said, “although they came into this country in several guises, principally diplomatic. Four more have just arrived from various countries in the region, all carrying diplomatic luggage that customs couldn’t challenge. We have three possible embassy connections definitely identified.”
“And two more possible,” El Barnes said.
“So you can see why I’m concerned about your son-in-law and his ‘information,’” Hugo said.
“Yes,” Ray Stanley said. “So am I. Damned concerned.” He struck one fist into the other. “God damn it, isn’t there enough to worry about in this worthless world?”
“It never stops,” Eldridge Barnes said. “It just never stops. You’ll tell the President about the ship?”
“Immediately,” the Secretary said. “And you”—he looked at them with a mix of confidence and appeal—“will tell me about Samir?”
“At once,” Hugo Mallerbie said; and Eldridge Barnes echoed, “At once.”
Five minutes later they were gone, and he was on the phone to the White House. The President was not immediately available, but he reached Jaime without delay and told him about the ship—withholding the rest “for the time being,” he told himself; struggling not to think, as an old Washington hand, of how the puzzle of Samir might ultimately be solved; dreading what might be, telling himself he was foolish and melodramatic to entertain such thoughts, but in his bones almost certain … almost sure.
He did not call Mary then, did not call Bets. It was, after all, in the realm of wild speculation—really wild, he told himself sternly. But Mary had said she, too, was “uneasy,” which meant that all the instincts sharpened by her own long diplomatic career in the Middle East were at work, probably reaching the same conclusion as his.
I’ve got him dead already, he told himself with a deeply worried self-mockery. This is insane. He isn’t dead. I won’t believe it.
* * *
And indeed, until yesterday, he had not been. He had been simply an earnest, rather confused, rather explosive, temperamental, and somewhat flaky young man who had thought, under the jovial persuasions of Boo Bourassa, that he was involved with a harmless social group of fellows from the same area who shared the same religion and the same way of looking at things. It was not the way his wife or his in-laws saw them, and that only gave his nocturnal adventures an extra defiance and excitement that were quite delicious. It had all been quite innocent, from his point of view. Nobody, after all, was advocating blowing up anything. It wasn’t as though they were plotting an attack on the government of the United States, he had remarked at their last meeting.
Everybody laughed.
A week ago, however, all this had changed. Four new members had suddenly joined the group. They had just arrived in the country, it was explained, as newly assigned staffers of their respective embassies. They had been unanimous in their amazement at how easy it had been to bring through US customs the heavy briefcases that each of them carried. Diplomatic immunity, they agreed amid general amusement, was a wonderful thing. The contents of their briefcases, when put together with various items brought in piecemeal, by other members of the group over the past three years, would have, they all agreed with more happy laughter, “quite an impact” on Washington.
It was then, a bit late, that Samir began to become alarmed. But still he was not entirely frightened. Boo always drove him home after their social gatherings, and four nights ago Boo had exerted all his glib persuasiveness and famous charm to soothe any worries Samir might have. Boo pointed out that the group had always liked to joke a lot; what the newcomers had actually sneaked in was some expensive home electronics equipment for various friends, girlfriends, and superiors in the embassies. Boo recalled that he and Samir had been getting a lot of flak at home about their little gatherings; what they should do now, he suggested, was tell Joanie and Bets and the Secretary and Mary about these innocent smugglings and let them know how silly it made the two of them, Boo and Samir, feel to be criticized for something that was perhaps a little shady in the eyes of US law but was essentially really quite innocent and really just an amusing prank.
From now on, Boo added, so casually that it seemed a reasonable transition, it might be a good idea for Samir to report anything and everything he heard in family conversations about the plans and attitudes of the Secretary. He himself was already doing that, as Samir might have noticed (he hadn’t, because Boo hadn’t been doing it in open meeting), about the activities of the Assistant Secretary for Near Eastern Affairs, Joan Cohn-Bourassa.
Boo was a persuasive man, and when he dropped Samir off at home around two AM, he felt with complete self-confidence that he had Samir convinced. He was accordingly much disturbed a couple of days later, though concealing it behind the joking presence that endeared him to his students, to receive an anonymous telephone call in his Georgetown University office informing him that Samir was known to have called the Undersecretary for International Security Affairs and to have been given an appointment to see him the following afternoon. Why, Boo’s informant did not know, but, he suggested, better safe than sorry. And when in doubt, act.
That night Boo had called Samir and urged him to join the group again. Samir had seemed a bit reluctant—he was, deeply so, but didn’t dare appear too doubtful—and certainly he did not dare refuse the invitation outright for fear that would definitely arouse suspicion. Having made the leap himself from trust to suspicion, for some reason he could not quite define unless it was something a little too effusive in Boo’s manner that had not rung true, he was suddenly, absolutely convinced that what he suspected was true. It was with an uneasiness she sensed that he left a protesting Bets and departed for the meeting.
He was, frankly, terrified; but he went through the motions bravely and, for all his friends of the evening could ascertain from his manner, there was nothing for them to fear.
But they knew now that there was; and, as one of them managed to whisper again to Boo during the evening, better safe than sorry.
When Samir complained of a headache and said reluctantly that he must leave early, there were protestations but no one really tried to detain him. Boo offered to leave early, too, and drive him home, but Samir said he’d rather walk. This caused some amusement and jokes about the perils of walking alone in nighttime Washington, but it was agreed, amid more laughter, that someone of his ethnic background was certainly far less conspicuous in Washington these days than a lot of other people of other ethnic backgrounds; and so he set out, along tree-lined streets and charming old alleyways, to make his way home through the deserted quiet of late-night Georgetown.
He was proceeding at a good clip, feeling apprehensive but determined to walk off his fears and his headache—which, brought on by tension, had been quite genuine though it served his purpose neatly—when he became conscious that a car was approaching behind him. Instinctively he began to hurry, until he heard Boo call his name and, being by that time tired and beginning to think about finding a taxi if possible at that late hour, he turned around thankfully. He could not see the driver but could see Boo waving vigorously from the passenger’s side. He started to step forward, assuming the car would stop. It did not. The last thing he saw before it hit him was Boo’s smiling face, arm raised fraternally, friendly voice calling his name. Then the world stopped.
His body was taken across the river to Virginia and hastily buried in a shallow grave in a clump of trees off a country road near Dulles. Boo got home around two AM and tiptoed to bed on a sofa in the living room, as was his custom when late, not wishing to disturb Joanie who was, as usual at that hour, sound asleep.
Two days later a country boy and his dog found Samir’s body. Headlines flared, the Secretary and his family wept, a private funeral was held, investigations by FBI, State, and CIA began. Twenty-four hours later the sensation was swept away to less prominent pages and much reduced coverage by the news that began to come from the White House.
Matters portentous and a thing of state, hitherto stalled by apparent presidential bluffing and indecision, began to move in Washington, Greater Lolómé, and New York. What the media promptly dubbed “the Lolómé Compromise” took over the front pages and major newscasts.
In Georgetown, Boo and his friends continued to meet quietly, regarded with suspicion by State, CIA, and FBI, but protected by diplomatic immunity and the absence of proof.
In distant seas, what Eldridge Barnes referred to wryly as “our own Marie Celeste” made its last call at a friendly port and began its slow progress across the Atlantic. It, too, was protected by absence of proof. Its cargo remained suspicious but not absolutely identified; no overt challenge could be justified. Kept under surveillance by satellite but immune from interference, it chugged slowly along on its mysterious way, due to make landfall in New York in about two weeks.
