The Sum of All Fears jr-7 Read online

  “One advantage to government service, isn't it?” Ryan looked up and down the corridor. It was empty, though he wondered if the Israelis had managed to bug it. If so, the Muzak might interfere with their bugs. “What do you think?”

  “Even money.”

  “That good?”

  “Yeah,” Adler said with a grin. “This is the one, Jack. It was a good idea you had.”

  “Not just mine. I'll never get any credit for it anyway. Nobody'll ever know.”

  “We'll know. Let's get to work.”

  “Let me know how they react. Good luck, man.”

  “I think mazeltov is the proper expression.” Adler took Ryan's hand. “Good flight.”

  The embassy limo took Ryan directly to the aircraft, whose engines were already turning. It had priority clearance to taxi, and was airborne in less than five minutes from the time he boarded. The VC-2oB headed south, down the dagger-shape that was Israel, then east over the Gulf of Aqaba and into Saudi airspace.

  As was his custom, Ryan stared out the window. His mind went over what he was supposed to do, but that had been rehearsed for over a week, and his brain could do that quietly while Ryan stared. The air was clear, the sky virtually cloudless as they flew over what was to all appearances a barren wasteland of sand and rock. What color there was came from stunted bushes too small to pick out individually, and had the general effect of an unshaven face. Jack knew that much of Israel looked exactly the same, as did the Sinai, where all those tank battles had been fought, and he found himself wondering why men chose to die for land like this. But they had, for almost as long as man had existed on the planet. Man's first organized wars had been fought here, and they hadn't stopped. At least not yet.

  Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, is roughly in the center of the country, which is as large as all of America east of the Mississippi. The executive aircraft made a relatively fast descent, allowed by the modest amount of air traffic here, and the air was agreeably smooth as the pilot brought the aircraft low into the Riyadh International. In another few minutes, the Gulfstream taxied towards the cargo terminal, and the attendant opened the forward door.

  After two hours' exposure to air conditioning, Jack felt as though he'd stepped into a blast furnace. The shade temperature was over 110, and there was no shade. Worse, the sun reflected off the pavement as though from a mirror, so intensely that Ryan's face stung from it. There to greet him was the deputy chief of mission at the embassy, and the usual security people. In a moment, he was sweating inside yet another embassy limo.

  “Good flight?” the DCM asked.

  “Not bad. Everything ready here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was nice to be called “sir,” Jack thought. “Well, let's get on with it.”

  “My instructions are to accompany you as far as the door.”

  “That's right.”

  “You might be interested to know that we haven't had any press inquiries. D.C. has kept this one pretty quiet.”

  “That'll change in about five hours.”

  Riyadh was a clean city, though quite different from Western metropolises. The contrast with Israeli towns was remarkable. Nearly everything was new. Only two hours away, but that was by air. This place had never been the crossroads Palestine had been. The ancient trading routes had given the brutal heat of Arabia a wide berth, and though the coastal fishing and trading towns had known prosperity for millennia, the nomadic people of the interior had lived a stark existence, held together only by their Islamic faith, which was in turn anchored by the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Two things had changed that. The British in the First World War had used this area as a diversion against Ottoman Turkey, drawing their forces here and away from sites which might have been of greater utility to their allies in Germany and Austria-Hungary. Then in the 1930s, oil had been discovered. Oil in quantities so vast as to make Texas an apostrophe. With that, first the Arab world had changed, and then the whole world had soon followed.

  From the first, the relationship between the Saudis and the West had been delicate. The Saudis were still a curious mixture of the primitive and the sophisticated. Some people on this peninsula were but a single generation from nomadic life that was little different from that of the wanderers of the Bronze Age. At the same time, there was an admirable tradition of Koranic scholarship, a code that was harsh but scrupulously fair, and remarkably similar to the Talmudic traditions of Judaism. In a brief span of time these people had become accustomed to wealth beyond count or meaning. Viewed as comic wastrels by the “sophisticated” West, they were merely the newest entry in a long line of nouveau riche nations of which America had been a recent part. A nouveau riche himself, Ryan smiled at some of the buildings in sympathy. People with “old” money — earned by bumptious ancestors whose rough manners had long since been conveniently forgotten — were always uncomfortable around those who had made, not inherited, their comforts. As it was with individuals, so it was with nations. The Saudis and their Arab brethren were still learning how to be a nation, much less a rich and influential one, but the process was an exciting one for them and their friends. They'd had some easy lessons, and some very hard ones, most recently with their neighbors of the north. For the most part they had learned well, and now Ryan hoped that the next step would be as easily made. A nation achieves greatness by helping others to make peace, not by demonstrating prowess at war or commerce. To learn that, it had taken America from the time of Washington to the time of Theodore Roosevelt, whose Nobel Peace Prize adorned the room in the White House that still bore his name. It took us almost a hundred twenty years, Jack thought, as the car turned and slowed. Teddy got the Prize for arbitrating some little piss-ant border dispute, and we're asking these folks to help us settle the most dangerous flashpoint in the civilized world after merely fifty years of effective nationhood. What reason do we have to look down on these people?

  There is a choreography to occasions of state as delicate and as adamant as any ballet. The car — it used to be a carriage — arrives. The door is opened by a functionary — who used to be called a footman. The Official waits in dignified solitude while the Visitor alights from the car. The Visitor nods to the footman if he's polite, and Ryan was. Another, more senior, functionary first greets the Visitor, then conducts him to the Official. On both sides of the entryway are the official guards, who were in this case uniformed, armed soldiers. Photographers had been left out, for obvious reasons. Such affairs would be more comfortable in temperatures under a hundred degrees, but at least here there was shade from a canopy, as Ryan was conducted to his Official.

  “Welcome to my country, Dr. Ryan.” Prince Ali bin Sheik extended a firm hand to Jack.

  Thank you, Your Highness."

  “Would you follow me?”

  “Gladly, sir.” Before I melt.

  Ali led Jack and the DCM inside, where they parted ways. The building was a palace— Riyadh had quite a few palaces, since there were so many royal princes — but Ryan thought “working palace” might have been a more accurate term. It was smaller than the British counterparts Ryan had visited, and cleaner, Jack saw, somewhat to his surprise. Probably because of the cleaner and dryer air of the region, which contrasted to the damp, sooty atmosphere of London. It was also air conditioned. The inside temperature could not have been far above eighty-five, which somehow seemed comfortable to Ryan. The Prince was dressed in flowing robes with a headdress held atop his head by a pair of circular — whats? Ryan wondered. He ought to have gotten briefed on that, Jack thought too late. Alden was supposed to have done this anyway. Charlie knew this area far better than he did, and — but Charlie Alden was dead, and Jack was carrying the ball.

  Ali bin Sheik was referred to at State and CIA as a Prince-Without-Portfolio. Taller, thinner, and younger than Ryan, he advised the King of Saudi Arabia on foreign affairs and intelligence matters. Probably the Saudi intelligence service — British-trained — reported to him, but that was not as clea
r as it should have been, doubtless another legacy of the Brits, who took their secrecy far more seriously than Americans. Though the file on Ali was a thick one, it mainly dealt with his background. Educated at Cambridge, he'd become an Army officer, and continued his professional studies at Leavenworth and Carlyle Barracks in the United States. At Carlyle he'd been the youngest man in his class, a colonel at twenty-seven — to be a royal prince was career-enhancing — and finished third in a group whose top ten graduates had each gone on to command a division or equivalent post. The Army General who'd briefed Ryan on Ali remembered his classmate fondly as a young man of no mean intellectual gifts and superb command potential. Ali had played a major role in persuading the King to accept American aid during the Iraqi war. He was regarded as a serious player quick to make decisions and quicker still to express displeasure at having his time wasted, despite his courtly manners.

  The Prince's office was easily identified by the two officers at the double doors. A third man opened them, bowing to both as they passed.

  “I've heard much about you,” Ali said casually.

  “All good, I trust,” Ryan replied, trying to be at ease.

  Ali turned with an impish smile. “We have some mutual friends in Britain, Sir John. Do you keep current with your small-arms skills?”

  “I really don't have the time, sir.”

  Ali waved Jack to a chair. “For some things, one should make time.”

  Both sat, and things became formal. A servant appeared with a silver tray, and poured coffee for both men before withdrawing.

  “I sincerely regret the news on Dr. Alden. For so fine a man to be brought down so foolishly… May God have mercy on his soul. At the same time, I have looked forward to meeting you for some time, Dr. Ryan.”

  Jack sipped at his coffee. It was thick, bitter, and hideously strong.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you also for agreeing to see me in the place of a more senior official.”

  “The most effective efforts at diplomacy often begin informally. So, how may I be of service?” AH smiled and leaned back in his chair. The fingers of his left hand toyed with his beard. His eyes were as dark as flint, and though they seemed to gaze casually at his visitor, the atmosphere in the room was now businesslike. And that, Ryan saw, was fast enough.

  “My country wishes to explore a means of — that is, the rough outline of a plan with which to alleviate tensions in this area.”

  “With Israel, of course. Adler, I presume, is delivering the same proposal to the Israelis at this moment?”

  “Correct, Your Highness.”

  “That is dramatic,” the Prince observed with an amused smile. “Do go on.”

  Jack began his pitch: “Sir, our foremost consideration in this matter must be the physical security of the State of Israel. Before either of us was born, America and other countries stood by and did very little to prevent the extermination of six million Jews. The guilt attending that infamy lies heavy on my country.”

  Ali nodded gravely before speaking. “I have never understood that. Perhaps you might have done better, but the strategic decisions made during the war by Roosevelt and Churchill were made in good faith. The issue with the shipload of Jews that nobody wanted prior to the outbreak of war, of course, is another issue entirely. I find it very strange indeed that your country did not grant asylum to those poor people. Fundamentally, however, no one saw what was coming, not the Jews, not the Gentiles, and by the time it became clear what was happening, Hitler had physical control of Europe, and no direct intervention on your part was possible. Your leaders decided at that time that the best way to end the slaughter was to win the war as expeditiously as possible. That was logical. They might have made a political issue of the ongoing Endlösung, I believe the term was, but they decided that it would be ineffective from a practical point of view. That, in retrospect, was probably incorrect, but the decision was not made in malice.” Ali paused to let his history lesson sink in for a moment. “In any case, we understand and conditionally accept the reasons behind your national goal to preserve the State of Israel. Our acceptance, as I am sure you will understand, is conditional upon your recognition of other people's rights. This part of the world is not composed of Jews and savages.”

  “And that, sir, is the basis of our proposal,” Ryan replied. “If we can find a formula that recognizes those other rights, will you accept a plan in which America is the guarantor of Israeli security?” Jack didn't have time to hold his breath for the reply.

  “Of course. Have we not made that clear? Who else but America can guarantee the peace? If you must put troops in Israel to make them feel secure, if you must execute a treaty to formalize your guarantee, those are things we can accept, but what of Arab rights?”

  “What is your view of how we should address those rights?” Jack asked.

  Prince Ali was stunned by the question. Was not Ryan's mission to present the American plan? He almost lapsed into anger, but Ali was too clever for that. It wasn't a trap he saw. It was a fundamental change in American policy.

  “Dr. Ryan, you asked that question for a reason, but it was a rhetorical question nonetheless. I believe the answer to that question is yours to make.”

  The answer took three minutes.

  Ali shook his head sadly. “That, Dr. Ryan, is something we would probably find acceptable, but the Israelis will never agree to it even though we might — more precisely, would reject it for the very reason that we would accept it. They should agree to it, of course, but they will not.”

  “Is it acceptable to your government, sir?”

  “I must, of course, present it to others, but I think our response would be favorable.”

  “Any objections at all?”

  The Prince paused to finish his coffee. He stared over Ryan's head towards something on the far wall. “We could offer several modifications, none of them really substantive to the central thesis of your scheme. Actually, I think the negotiations on those minor issues would be easily and quickly accomplished, since they are not matters of consequence to the other interested parties.”

  “And who would be your choice for the Muslim representative?”

  Ali leaned forward. “That is simple. Anyone could tell you. The Imam of the Al-Aqusa Mosque is a distinguished scholar and linguist. His name is Ahmed bin Yussif. Ahmed is consulted by scholars throughout Islam for his opinions on matters of theology. Sunni, Shi'a, all defer to him on selected issues. He is even a Palestinian by birth.”

  “That easy?” Ryan closed his eyes and let out a breath. He'd guessed right on that one. Yussif was not exactly a political moderate, and had called for the expulsion of Israel from the West Bank. But he had also denounced terrorism per se on theological grounds. He wasn't quite perfect, but if the Muslims could live with him, he was perfect enough.

  “You are very confident, Dr. Ryan.” Ali shook his head. “Too confident. I grant you that your plan is fairer than anything I or my government expected, but it will never happen.” Ali paused again and fixed Ryan with his eyes. “Now I must ask myself if this was ever a serious proposal, or merely something to give the appearance of fairness.”

  “Your Highness, President Fowler addresses the United Nations General Assembly next Thursday. He will present this very plan then, live and in color. I am authorized to extend your government an invitation to the Vatican to negotiate the treaty formally.”

  The Prince was sufficiently surprised by that that he lapsed into an Americanism: “Do you really think you can bring this off?”

  “Your Highness, we're going to give it one hell of a try.”

  Ali rose and walked to his desk. There he lifted a phone, pushed a button and spoke rapidly and, to Ryan, incomprehensibly. Jack had a sudden, giddy moment of whimsy. The Arabic language, as with the Hebrew, went from right to left instead of left to right, and Ryan wondered how one's brain dealt with that.

  Son of a BITCH, Jack thought to himself. This just might work!

/>   Ali replaced the phone and turned to his visitor. “I think it is time for us to see His Majesty.”

  “That fast?”

  “One advantage to our form of government is that when one government minister wishes access to another, it is merely a matter of calling a cousin or an uncle. We are a family business. I trust that your President is a man of his word.”

  “The UN speech is already written. I've seen it. He expects to take heat from the Israeli lobby at home. He's ready for that.”

  I've seen them in action, Dr. Ryan. Even when we were fighting for our lives alongside American soldiers, they denied us weapons we needed for our own security. Do you think that will change?"

  “Soviet communism is at an end. The Warsaw Pact is at an end. So many things that shaped the world I grew up in are gone, and gone forever. It's time to get rid of the rest of the turmoil in the world. You ask if we can do it — why not? Sir, the only constant factor in human existence is change.” Jack knew that he was being outrageously confident, and wondered how Scott Adler was doing in Jerusalem. Adler wasn't a screamer, but he knew how to lay down the word. That hadn't been done with the Israelis for a long enough time that Jack didn't know when it had last been — or ever — been tried. But the President was committed to this. If the Israelis tried to stop it, they might just find out how lonely the world was.

  “You forgot God, Dr. Ryan.”

  Jack smiled. “No, Your Highness. That's the point, isn't it?”

  Prince Ali wanted to smile, but didn't. It wasn't time yet. He pointed to the door. “Our car is waiting.”

  At the New Cumberland Army Depot in Pennsylvania, the storage facility for standards and flags dating back to Revolutionary times, a brigadier general and a professional antiquarian laid flat on a table the dusty regimental colors once carried by the 10th United States Cavalry. The General wondered if some of the grit on the standard was left over from Colonel Benjamin Henry Grierson's campaign against the Apaches. This standard would go to the regiment. It wouldn't see much use. Maybe once a year it would be taken out, but from this pattern a new one would be made. That this was happening at all was a curiosity. In an age of cutbacks, a new unit was forming. Not that the General objected. The 10th had a distinguished history, but had never gotten its fair shake from Hollywood, for example, which had made but a single movie about the Black regiments. For the 10th was one of four Black units — the 9th and 10th Cavalry, the 24th and 25th Infantry — each of which had played its part in settling the West. This regimental standard dated back to 1866. Its centrepiece was a buffalo, since the Indians who'd fought the troopers of the 10th thought their hair similar to the rough coat of an American bison. Black soldiers had been there at the defeat of Geronimo, and saved Teddy Roosevelt's ass on the charge up San Juan Hill, the General knew. It was about time that they got a little official recognition and if the President had ordered it for political reasons, so what? The 10th had an honorable history, politics notwithstanding.