Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [53]
The third man at the meeting now spoke. He was Tom Hoctor, third in command of the Central Intelligence Agency’s counterterrorism task force and Russian desk, and Max Pauling’s boss at the Company. “Most occurred in Third World countries, Madam Secretary,” Hoctor said, “and a few breakaway states from the old Soviet Union.”
“We’re not a Third World country,” the Secretary said, lips drawn into a thin line, dark eyes that had stared down dictators across negotiation tables narrowed. She turned to Shulman, the Pentagon’s weapons expert. “You say tens of thousands of our own missiles, the Stingers, have ended up on the black market. How many Russian SAMs do you estimate are in those same hands?”
“Easily as many, Madam Secretary. Once the Soviet Union fell apart, any semblance of weapons control collapsed, too. If you had the right connections, you could buy Russian SAMs, and worse, as easily as buying cases of Russian vodka.”
Hoctor added, “It’s compounded, Madam Secretary, by the situation in China, Poland, other countries who bought thousands of SAMs from the Soviet Union. They’re a good source of weapons to terrorists, too. Poland does a brisk business with Colombian drug lords, and we have information that China recently sold SAMs to an organized-crime syndicate in Sicily.”
“I find it strange,” she said, “that no one has claimed credit for the attacks. Isn’t that what these terrorist groups want, after all, credit and publicity for their twisted aims?”
“Give it time,” McQuaid said. “Someone will.”
They continued to brief her for almost another hour. Toward the end of the meeting, the Secretary fell silent, her eyes on the tabletop, her mouth moving almost indiscernibly as she processed what was on her mind. She looked up, slowly shook her head, and said, “No matter how successful we are in bringing whoever did this to justice, they’ve won, haven’t they?”
The men said nothing.
“They proved their point. The dislocation is complete. No matter what security is put in place, no matter how diligent we are, they’re able to kill us. We fortify our embassies, ring the White House with concrete barriers, run luggage through sophisticated electronic machines, issue warnings about travel to foreign hot spots, do every damn thing we’re capable of doing and they still… kill us.” A rush of air came from her. “They didn’t go after an enemy, someone in government whose policies are contrary to theirs. They went after the easiest targets, people who didn’t give a damn about their politics or grievances, didn’t give a damn about them at all, just Americans who happened to be flying to visit a parent or attend a graduation or—”
She realized she might shed tears, which she would not do, not in anyone’s presence.
“Excuse me,” she said, forcing a smile. “Time for dinner, and this secretary of state is hungry. Thanks for all your insight.”
While Hoctor, Shulman, and McQuaid joined the Secretary’s staff and security people in the press center for dinner served by Air Force personnel, Secretary Rock retired to her private quarters to take dinner alone, which included a glass of Rombauer chardonnay, her favorite, which was flown in from the boutique California vineyard especially for her, and was always on hand when she traveled.
Later, as the plane continued its flight over the Atlantic Ocean, the Secretary and Tom Hoctor sat in the conference room. Hoctor, a small, wiry man with a quick, wide smile, bald pate, narrow face, and a right eye that drooped slightly at the outside corner, filled Secretary Rock in on what initiative was under way in Moscow to identify the source of the SAM missiles that had downed the three U.S. commuter planes. Her request to be briefed about this had been debated at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Hoctor’s boss was against it for security reasons, but he was overruled by the CIA director, who instructed Hoctor