Executive orders - Tom Clancy [387]
What useful thing isn't? Ryan asked, heading back to his office. Instead of the direct door off the corridor, he went through the secretaries' room. Ellen? he said, gesturing to the Oval Office.
Am I corrupting you? Mrs. Sumter asked, bringing her cigarettes, to the semi-concealed smiles of the other ladies in the room.
Cathy might see it that way, but we don't have to tell her, do we? In the sanctity of his office, the President of the United States lit up a skinny woman's cigarette, celebrating with one addiction an attack on another-and, oh, by the way, having neutralized a potential diplomatic earthquake.
THE LAST OF the travelers left America, strangely enough, from Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, via Northwest and KLM flights. Badrayn would sweat it out for hours more. In the interest of security, none of them had so much as a telephone number to call to announce success, warn of failure, or to give to whomever might have arrested them, tying them to the UIR with something more than their own words. Instead, Badrayn had people at all of the return airports with flight schedules. When the travelers got off their flights in Europe and were visually recognized, then calls would be made circuitously, from public phones, using pre-paid and anonymous calling cards.
The successful return of the travelers to Tehran would start the next operation. Sitting in an office there, Badrayn had nothing more to do than look at the clock and worry. He was logged onto the Net via his computer, and had been scanning the news wires, and finding nothing of note. Nothing would be certain until all the travelers got back and made their individual reports. Not even then, really. It would take three or four days, maybe five, before the e-mail lines to CDC would be screaming. Then he'd know.
* * *
39 - FACE TIME
THE FLIGHT ACROSS THE pond was pleasant. The VC-20B was more a mini-airliner than a business jet, and the Air Force crewmen, who looked to Clark as though they might be old enough to take driving lessons, kept things smooth. The aircraft began its descent into the enveloping darkness of the European night, finally landing at a military airfield west of Paris.
There was no arrival ceremony per se, but Adler was an official of ministerial rank, and he had to be met, even on a covert mission. In this case, a high-level official-a civil servant-walked up to the aircraft as soon as the engines wound down. Adler recognized him as the stairs descended.
Claude!
Scott. Congratulations on your promotion, my old friend! In deference to American tastes, kisses were not exchanged.
Clark and Chavez scanned the area for danger, but all they saw were French troops, or maybe police-they couldn't tell at this distance-standing in a circle, with weapons in evidence. Europeans had a penchant for showing people machine guns, even on city streets. It probably had a salutary effect on street muggings, John thought, but it seemed a little excessive. In any case, they'd expected no special dangers in France, and indeed there were none. Adler and his friend got in an official vehicle. Clark and Chavez got in the chase car. The flight crew would head off for mandated crew rest, which was USAF-talk for having a few with their French colleagues.
We go to the lounge for a few minutes before your aircraft is ready, a French air force colonel explained. Perhaps you wish to freshen up?
Merci, mon commandant, Ding replied. Yeah, he thought, the Frenchies do know how to make you feel safe.
Thank you for helping to arrange this, Adler said to his friend. They'd been FSOs together, once in Moscow and once more in Pretoria. Both had specialized in sensitive assignments.
It is nothing, Scott. Which it wasn't, but diplomats talk like diplomats even when they don't have to. Claude had once helped him get through a divorce in a uniquely French way, all the while speaking as though conducting treaty negotiations. It was almost a joke between the two. Our ambassador reports that he will be receptive to the right sort of approach.