US Embassy, Tel Aviv
July 19, 3:26 p.m.
Cleveland and the two advisers were crowded around one end of a small table in an anteroom of the ambassador’s office, so the camera for the video feed could pick up everyone at once. On the other end of the connection were Secretary of State Evan Townsend, Deputy Secretary Arthur Ravel, and Deputy Secretary of Management and Resources Noah Webster—in effect the department’s COO.
“That’s all we have at the moment, Mr. Secretary,” said Cleveland. “Deputy Chief Goldberg is currently assigned to arrange a meeting with Prime Minister Meir; Jon Lin is connecting with CIA to pick their brains. I wish we had more.”
Cleveland could see the impact of his report on each of their faces, but each face carried a different message. Secretary Townsend was deep in thought, the inner wheels of his organized mind sifting each of the elements through different shaped strainers. Secretary Ravel’s eyes were full of questions, but he knew his place. Townsend would get the first questions. And Secretary Webster looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.
“Agent Mullaney,” asked Townsend, “how confident are you in this source, Commander Abbaddi?”
“I trust him completely,” said Mullaney. “Sultan has been commander of the Jordanian Royal Guard Brigade, the personal bodyguards for the king and his family, for more than a decade. His father was a decorated member of the brigade, as was his father before him. More important, personally—he risked his life and his team to save a US ambassador, my crew, and me.”
Secretary Townsend nodded his head. “Thank you, Agent …”
“Sir, if I may, there’s one other thing,” said Mullaney. “I’ve known Sultan for nearly ten years. Went to his home, had dinner with his wife and children. And I can tell you one thing for certain. Commander Abbaddi would never issue a warning like that on his own. He is devoted to his king and would never overstep his authority. That warning came from King Hussein II himself. And we can trust it.”
Townsend was digesting Mullaney’s information when Secretary Ravel caught his boss’s eye. “Go ahead, Arthur.”
“If a peace plan is announced tomorrow, what keeps it from blowing up?” asked Ravel.
It’s the wrong question. Cleveland’s mind was pondering questions well beyond whether a peace deal could survive. Of course it could blow up … probably would. But what if they did it? What if the Arabs and the Israelis really came together as allies, as trading partners, as defenders of each other’s territory?
“The Palestinians will erupt into another intifada,” Ravel continued. “Hamas and Hezbollah will never sign a peace with Israel. And Israeli right-wingers will never trust Egypt or the Saudis. Any peace proposal is likely to be dead on arrival.”
During Ravel’s comments, Cleveland watched as Ruth Hughes pushed her chair back from the table, her arms crossed and resting on her ribs, a look of frustration and disdain on her face. Hughes was an experienced and effective negotiator, trained to keep her emotions invisible. But at this moment, her scorn for Ravel’s reasoning was as bright as the lights on Broadway.
She closed on the table again. “Come on, Arthur, look past the obvious for once. First of all, don’t discount sovereign recognition. For the Israeli economy, a true peace with the Arab world would open up a huge market for its high-tech industries. Create normalized relations with its neighbors. And tourism would skyrocket in Israel. But the most important point is here”—Hughes turned to the map of Israel that was hanging on the wall behind them and tapped her pen on a spot in the middle of the map—“Jerusalem.”
Hughes looked over her shoulder at the screen of images from Washington. “Do you really think any proposed peace agreement between the Arabs and Israel would ignore the Palestinian question? That would be ludicrous. It’s a safe bet that—if this announcement is about a peace deal—the parties have already decided the future of Palestine. And this is what Palestine will look like.”
Taking her pen, Hughes drew a north-south line on the map, slicing off the very eastern tip of Jerusalem to the top of the Dead Sea then turned east to the border with Jordan.
“Something like that is the only thing that makes sense,” she said. “Palestine gets a sliver of East Jerusalem to call its capital and a chunk of land down to the Dead Sea. That takes the Palestinians out of the question. Hamas and Hezbollah will come into line, or Egypt and Jordan will help Israel crush them out of existence—particularly with the chaos reigning in Syria. And the Jewish ultra-orthodox and right wing? Don’t be surprised, Mr. Secretary, if the peace agreement allows Israel to build its temple.”
Cleveland intertwined his fingers at the back of his head and stretched his body, drawing attention to himself. “The Saudis are terrified of Iran,” he said, his eyes closed. “The Egyptians are fearful of another rising of the Muslim Brotherhood. Syria would be friendless and isolated, a country ripped apart by civil war and the Islamic insurgency of ISIS. Syria is ripe for the taking. But who will move on Syria first—Turkey or Iran? New empire builders … Ottoman, Persian, and Islamic … would have their hearts and their sights set on that same slice of land–ancient Assyria–land each of them once ruled. An Arab-Israeli agreement could bring peace, but it could also be the unwitting trigger to a continental clash of empires that could throw the world into chaos.” He opened his eyes and focused his attention on the camera. “That’s my opinion. Opinions are not facts, but it makes sense.”
The ambassador flexed his neck back and forth. “All that said—we’re still missing the point. Agent Mullaney hit it square before we got on this call. Any announcement is minor league compared to the Saud getting nuclear weapons. That is our primary focus and most important question. Has Abdullah called in his nukes?”
Cleveland slapped the top of his thighs. “Okay.” With a quickness that belied the groan he uttered, Cleveland got to his feet. “It’s already been a long day,” he said. “And it’s only going to get longer. With your permission, Mr. Secretary, I need a break. We’ll continue to chase down every lead we can find. Can we confer again in three hours? See where we are then?”
For the first time Deputy Secretary Webster leaned into the camera. “Mr. Ambassador,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “you—and your team there—are the experts on the Middle East. You know the region; you have the contacts and the experience. You are on the ground. In three hours, we expect you to bring us some answers. No more questions. No more opinions. We need accurate intelligence. Do your jobs and get us what we need to do ours.”
The transmission ended, Mullaney felt the sting of Webster’s rude rebuke both personally and professionally. It was unnecessary, disrespectful to all of them, but particularly disrespectful to the ambassador in front of two of his direct subordinates. He was trying to shape words to comfort …
“Disrespectful buzzard, isn’t he,” said Hughes. “Those kind come to their own just rewards one day.”
“Ruth.” Cleveland turned to Hughes and laid his arm on the back of her chair. His voice was calm, gentle, considerate. “Secretary Webster is our boss. Some people, people of faith, might say he’s the anointed authority that’s been placed over us. It’s our responsibility to respect and serve that authority. No matter what we receive in return.”
Hughes held Cleveland’s gaze for a long moment. “Atticus … if he speaks to me like that once more, what he receives in return will not be repeatable in polite company.” She snatched her daily planner from the table and got to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll report back to you as soon as I have something concrete.”
The door closed with a distinctive snap as Hughes left the room with an exclamation point. Cleveland was immediately to his feet. “Call Tommy, get the car ready. We’re going to the residence.”
“I thought you were tired,” said Mullaney.
“Just wanted to get off that call,” Cleveland said over his shoulder as he walked quickly into his office. “We have work to do here. But first, we’re going to the residence. I want to talk to Palmyra, Tommy, and you, together. We have work to do on that end too. Just as important … just as critical. Let’s go.”
Washington, DC
July 19, 9:18 a.m.
Noah Webster walked behind Secretary of State Evan Townsend and Deputy Secretary Arthur Ravel as they moved quickly down the seventh-floor hallway of the Truman Building toward the secretary’s office. Townsend looked over his shoulder.
“You were pretty rough with them back there.”
Webster bristled. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you and Boylan had any respect in the world. His tongue longed to be a snake, with fangs that could deliver a swift, lethal strike. But he held its venom in check. “They deserve worse. We need to get in front of whatever is happening before the press finds out how clueless we are. This is a monumental failure of the Israel mission.”
Townsend reached the door to his office and stopped. He didn’t invite Webster to enter.
“Listen, Noah.” Townsend squared his shoulders, blocking the door. “Cleveland’s been in country, what, two … three hours?”
“Less,” said Ravel, as he walked into Townsend’s office.
“Give him a break. Atticus will figure out what’s going on.” Townsend took a step toward Webster and lowered his voice. “In the meantime, Noah, if I were you, I’d be wondering why we haven’t heard a word from anyone else in the Middle East about this big announcement that’s coming tomorrow. Is everyone asleep over there? None of our ambassadors, none of our embassy staff, none of our friends or informants has come forth with any warning or information about the announcement, let alone the Saudis going rogue with their own nukes.”
Townsend was a tall man. He had more than a foot on Webster. Townsend leaned down, closing to within inches of Webster’s face. “If there’s a failure here, Noah,” Townsend whispered, “it’s a failure for which we’re all responsible. Including you … a man who claims unfettered access to the back rooms of the world. If there is a failure, it will have your fingerprints all over it.”
Townsend pulled back and looked Webster squarely in the eye. “Let’s get to work, shall we? We need to brief the president. It would be nice to know what’s going on when we do it.”
The snake in Webster’s mouth coiled, its fangs were bared, venom dripping from their points. Secretary of State Townsend turned, walked into his office, and closed the door. Webster couldn’t tell if the bitter, acidic taste in his mouth was poison or bile.