“The surest way to bring that about is to create stability and prosperity in the region. That’s why I’m so hopeful about the Syrian-Egyptian moves toward mutual assistance. With stability and prosperity, we can encourage all the parties, and that included Israel and Iraq, to sit down and hammer out a solution to their problems. But until they do sit down and talk, we’ve got to protect any progress that’s been made toward that goal or we’re right back to square one. But I’m not so foolish as to forget that when Syrians and Egyptians got together in 1973 they started the Yom Kippur War. I don’t want that happening again.”
The DCI folded his hands and spoke quietly. “There is a degree of uncertainty that we have to live with when dealing with Arabs, and I might add, the Israelis. I’m referring, of course, to the Israelis’ recent scientific tests in the Kalahari Desert with the South Africans.”
A feeling of relief swept over Fraser—the DCI had just raised a peripheral issue that should distract Pontowski from cozying up to the current Israeli prime minister.
“Don’t get distracted,” the President said. “We don’t know the exact contours of the relationship between Israel and South Africa or what they’re doing in the Kalahari. For now, focus on Egypt, Syria, and Iraq.”
Fraser didn’t want to let the subject die. “I think the South Africans are using the Israeli lobby to push their case with Congress.”
Pontowski nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen the results of that effort before.” He pointed at Fraser. “Tom, I want you to stay on top of this and have some answers by this afternoon. Don’t leave a single stone unturned.” He walked out of the room, cutting off any further discussion, leaving a hushed and stunned group behind him.
The secretary of state broke the silence. “He’s worried.”
Fraser stood up and glared at him. “Obviously. We’ve got to sort this one out—and fast.” For the next few minutes, he demonstrated the organizational skill that made him such an asset to the President. Finally, they were ready to leave.
“Okay,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff asked, “who presents it to the President? I’d suggest we let General Leo Cox do it. He’s the most knowledgeable man I have on the Middle East.”
Everyone readily agreed, more than willing to let the Defense Intelligence agency handle this one. “No,” Fraser said. “I want the CIA to present it.” No way I’m going to let that son of a bitch get to the President, he thought, stomping out of the room.
Back in his office, he threw the papers he was carrying at Melissa and slammed his door behind him. Once in the privacy of his own office, he paced the floor, rage and fury boiling through him. “Damn,” he growled, “I control access to the President. I set the agenda. Someone’s getting around me.” Slowly, he regained control and the shooting pains in his stomach quieted, leaving only an occasional echo to remind him of his ulcer.
The light for his private line on the phone bank flashed at him. He sat down and hesitated before answering it, making sure he was in total control. It was B. J. Allison, the CEO of one of the largest oil corporations in the United States. Allison was also a heavy contributor to any cause or campaign Fraser might suggest and heavily invested in Middle Eastern oil. “B.J.”—he forced a smile into his voice—“we’ve got to get together for lunch of dinner.” He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yeah, I got rid of the bimbo. Tomorrow night would be fine.”
4
Zack Pontowski was sitting by his wife’s bedside reading and drinking coffee when she woke up. She studied her husband for a few moments, not wanting to disturb him. We’ve been through so much together, she thought, and now you’ve got to watch me die. For a moment, she fought back her tears, not because lupus was again ravaging her body, this time attacking
The DCI folded his hands and spoke quietly. “There is a degree of uncertainty that we have to live with when dealing with Arabs, and I might add, the Israelis. I’m referring, of course, to the Israelis’ recent scientific tests in the Kalahari Desert with the South Africans.”
A feeling of relief swept over Fraser—the DCI had just raised a peripheral issue that should distract Pontowski from cozying up to the current Israeli prime minister.
“Don’t get distracted,” the President said. “We don’t know the exact contours of the relationship between Israel and South Africa or what they’re doing in the Kalahari. For now, focus on Egypt, Syria, and Iraq.”
Fraser didn’t want to let the subject die. “I think the South Africans are using the Israeli lobby to push their case with Congress.”
Pontowski nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen the results of that effort before.” He pointed at Fraser. “Tom, I want you to stay on top of this and have some answers by this afternoon. Don’t leave a single stone unturned.” He walked out of the room, cutting off any further discussion, leaving a hushed and stunned group behind him.
The secretary of state broke the silence. “He’s worried.”
Fraser stood up and glared at him. “Obviously. We’ve got to sort this one out—and fast.” For the next few minutes, he demonstrated the organizational skill that made him such an asset to the President. Finally, they were ready to leave.
“Okay,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff asked, “who presents it to the President? I’d suggest we let General Leo Cox do it. He’s the most knowledgeable man I have on the Middle East.”
Everyone readily agreed, more than willing to let the Defense Intelligence agency handle this one. “No,” Fraser said. “I want the CIA to present it.” No way I’m going to let that son of a bitch get to the President, he thought, stomping out of the room.
Back in his office, he threw the papers he was carrying at Melissa and slammed his door behind him. Once in the privacy of his own office, he paced the floor, rage and fury boiling through him. “Damn,” he growled, “I control access to the President. I set the agenda. Someone’s getting around me.” Slowly, he regained control and the shooting pains in his stomach quieted, leaving only an occasional echo to remind him of his ulcer.
The light for his private line on the phone bank flashed at him. He sat down and hesitated before answering it, making sure he was in total control. It was B. J. Allison, the CEO of one of the largest oil corporations in the United States. Allison was also a heavy contributor to any cause or campaign Fraser might suggest and heavily invested in Middle Eastern oil. “B.J.”—he forced a smile into his voice—“we’ve got to get together for lunch of dinner.” He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. “Yeah, I got rid of the bimbo. Tomorrow night would be fine.”
4
Zack Pontowski was sitting by his wife’s bedside reading and drinking coffee when she woke up. She studied her husband for a few moments, not wanting to disturb him. We’ve been through so much together, she thought, and now you’ve got to watch me die. For a moment, she fought back her tears, not because lupus was again ravaging her body, this time attacking
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