Chapter Thirty-Nine

The American ambassador to the Russian Federation was from Texas and he had his suits cut Western-style. They were always reserved and never gaudy—he never looked as if he was about to take the stage at the Grand Ole Opry. But his suits had just enough piping and darts on them that no one ever had any trouble telling where he hailed from. And if they did, he always topped off his outfit with a good Stetson hat.

Dressing in that fashion was a decision he first made during his post as an ambassador to Italy. The fashion-conscious Italians considered Americans uncouth—considerably less refined in manners of dress—and the ambassador understood he would only fuel their disdain if he appeared at state events dressed in Gucci.

Then he remembered that America’s first ambassador, Benjamin Franklin, faced a similar quandary when he went to France; the French considered the Americans bumpkins and would laugh if they tried to camouflage the fact by adopting the finery of the court. So Franklin, who had always been a city man and dressed in refined, city fashion, adopted homespun and buckskin as his daily attire. He sent letters to his friends on the American frontier and asked them to send him coonskin caps and moccasins. In elegant European parlors, where everyone else was in ruffles and lace, Franklin would show up looking like he was about to go trap a bear, and the ruse worked; that and his wit made him the darling of Parisian society.

The trick worked equally well in the twenty-first century. The American ambassador was known throughout Europe for his distinctive appearance and his lightning-quick mind. Both political parties sent out feelers to see if, after the next election, he would be interested in a post as secretary of state.

And now, the ambassador was taking a seat in the anteroom of the Russian president, settling his Stetson Durango on his knee. Already there were the British and Israeli ambassadors, who shook his hand as he entered.

“So what’s this about, boys?” The ambassador smiled, laugh lines crinkling at the edges of his eyes. “I take it neither of y’all have declared war or anything like that.”

“My embassy called me as I was on my way over,” the Israeli said. “The president has requested a phone conference in five minutes’ time with our prime minister.”

“Then we shall know soon enough,” the British ambassador observed.

The doors to the president’s office opened and his chief of staff beckoned them in. Coffee was served and pleasantries exchanged. Then a secretary stepped in and said something in Russian. The president nodded and looked at the diplomats. “Gentlemen, if you’ll indulge me, I am about to bring the prime minister of Israel into this meeting on the speaker phone.”

The American ambassador noticed his Israeli counterpart lost a shade or two of color in his face but, to his credit, the man said nothing.

The president pressed a button on his phone. “Mister Prime Minister, I have you on speaker and would like to conduct this conversation in English, if that’s acceptable to you; with me are your ambassador, as well as the ambassadors of the United Kingdom and the United States.”

“Much as I would like to hear us all attempt a conversation in Hebrew, English would be fine.” The comment got the chuckle it was looking for. “What can I do for you this fine morning, Mr. President?”

“If you can grant me the patience to hear me through, sir, I would like to start by telling you that the Islamic Republic of Iran is going to launch a missile strike against your nation within seventy-two hours’ time.”

Both the British and the Israeli ambassadors began speaking at once, and the American ambassador held his hat up to get their attention. “Boys, I’ve got the feeling there’s a few more cards about to hit the table. Let’s let the president speak his piece.”

“Thank you,” the president said. “I wish to further inform you all that, within the last week, Iran has received nuclear detonators and upgraded guidance systems for their Shahab 3 medium-range missiles.”

There was a stunned silence. The American broke it by clearing his throat softly and asking, “May we inquire how you know this, Mr. President?”

The president nodded. “We know this because the Russian Federation was the source of those devices.”

Again both the British and the Israeli ambassadors began speaking at once. The Israeli went so far as to use the phrase, “treaty violation.” And again the American quieted them down, saying, “Please continue, Mr. President.”

“The guidance systems we sent are designed to test perfectly in any of the standard test-bed environments,” the president told them. “But when subjected to the G-loads of a launch, they will most certainly fail; in fact, we went to great lengths to be certain they will fail. Our data suggests that, in the western sites that Iran would use to initiate a strike against Israel, the missiles will land in desert areas of Iraq and neighboring parts of the Arabian Gulf.”

Now the American ambassador felt compelled to speak. “Mr. President, the United States is pleased to hear you are operating with the best interests of the state of Israel in mind. But I feel compelled to remind you that, even though we no longer have a combat presence there, nuclear detonation in Iraq and the Gulf cannot be interpreted as anything but an act of war against Iraq and all Coalition nations.”

“I understand that.”

The American ambassador’s BlackBerry began to vibrate, the distinctive three-pulse signal that indicated a top-priority message. Lifting his hat slightly from his knee to disguise the action, he slid the BlackBerry partway under the brim, opened the incoming e-mail and keyed in the code to decrypt it.

“But as I said,” the Russian president continued, “the detonators were supplied by us as well and, while they are the correct weight and appear to be functional, they are not. The detonators are constructed of inert material and cannot initiate either fission or fusion. The missiles will be harmless.”

The American again interrupted the silence that followed. “Gentlemen, I just received a priority message from my CIA station chief, and he confirms, independently, everything the president just told us.”

“I appreciate this information.” It was the speakerphone, the first time the prime minister said anything since beginning the conversation. “But Mr. President, I cannot order Israel to stand down in the face of a nuclear attack, simply on the basis of hearsay. With all due respect, sir, this could be nothing but an elaborate ruse. You admit you have supplied our enemy. What is stopping you from misinforming us to minimize our ability to respond?”

The American ambassador looked at his colleagues. Both appeared ashen.

The Russian president leaned nearer to the speaker phone. “Mister Prime Minister, I take it you have your chief of intelligence with you, listening in on this call. Please do not trouble yourself with confirming or denying this, I know it to be the case. I would like him to corroborate for you the following fact: I have one son and one son only. His name is Mikhail, he is a multirole fighter pilot in our air force and I love him more than anything in this world.”

There was a pause.

“My chief of intelligence confirms this,” the Israeli prime minister said over the speaker-phone.

The Russian president looked at the ornate Tiffany clock on the mantle.

“Mister Prime Minister, my Mikhail is presently airborne in a Sukhoi prototype, our next-generation multirole fighter. He is en route to Israel as we speak; your radar has not yet detected him because of the aircraft’s stealth capabilities. In five minutes, he will activate his fighter’s transponder and make himself visible on your air-traffic-control radar. Here is the identification number . . .”

He gave it and the prime minister repeated it back to him.

“That is correct,” the president said. “Please clear him to land at Ramat David and once he is on the ground, please identify him by the records in your database and then make him a guest in your home. You may send your family to shelter if you so desire, but I am asking you not to send Mikhail. Please keep him as much in harm’s way as anyone in Israel. I am absolutely confident he will suffer no hurt. The missiles will come nowhere near him or any other person living in Israel. That is how you know that what I tell you here is the absolute truth.”

“Offering his only son?” It was the Israeli ambassador, speaking in a whisper. “It is like Scripture: like Abraham and Isaac.”

“I had a similar thought,” the American told him. “Except the story that came to my mind is in the Gospels.”