Ashani checked the door and then in a quiet voice croaked out the words, “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. He says it will put oil prices through the roof, which will give the treasury a much needed boost, but mostly he says it will cement the fact that the Americans are waging war against us.”

Ashani could feel his blood rising. He thought of Amatullah’s stupid plan to kidnap the British sailors and marines the previous spring. It had been his crazy idea to create an incident after several high-ranking Iranian officials had defected to the West. While Amatullah thought the entire thing played very well with his countrymen, he had never realized the damage it had done to them internationally. It showed him to be a thug and a man who lied with great ease. The British, with the aid of the Americans, had presented rock-solid satellite images that the sailors had been plucked from Iraqi water, not Iranian. Amatullah had declared the evidence fabricated and was willing to put his fate in the hands of the UN Security Council, but Ayatollah Najar intervened at the last minute and convinced Amatullah to release the hostages. The propagandist then had the gall to hold a staged ceremony where he announced the release as a gift to the British people.

Ashani knew he had to get hold of Najar and try to talk some sense into someone before these reprisals began. Glancing toward the door, he whispered to Jalali, “You need to get me out of here.”

CIA Director Kennedy looked out the heavily tinted side window of her armored Chevy Suburban with a dazed expression. The buildings, pedestrians, and naked trees zoomed by like a reel of film in fast forward. She was running on fumes, and it was only 4:00 in the afternoon. Her expanded security detail was plowing its way through early rush hour traffic trying to get her to the State Department. Secretary Wicka had requested an informal meeting to help her prepare for her presentation at the UN. This was all a new experience for Kennedy. To say that the previous secretary of state disliked the CIA would have been too strong. It was probably more accurate that he was guarded. Which was not unusual. Association with the CIA had a way of making most people nervous. Kind of like being around someone with a communicable disease. An ominous and even nefarious label was often attached to America ’s top spy agency. She had dealt with people who openly despised the agency, some going as far as to tell her the place should be shuttered and its employees thrown into jail. Kennedy wrote these confrontations off as vitriol launched by left wing extremists who deluded themselves into thinking everyone would get along if America simply played nice.

Secretary of State Wicka, fortunately, did not hold those opinions. Liberal in her politics, she was a woman who had traveled the world and understood both human nature and the complexities of individual cultures. A widow and the mother of five boys and a girl, she had been hammering the president on sexism since the day she had been confirmed. Not sexism in his administration or even the country. Wicka held the belief that the long-term key to winning the war on terror was to get the women involved. As long as the Muslim extremist culture was dominated by bigoted men stuck in the Middle Ages, there could be little hope of finding peace. Kennedy had joined ranks with her in pushing this as a key policy for the president.

The vehicle came to an unexpected stop a mile from Foggy Bottom. She was about to ask her driver what was going on when she saw the intersection was blocked by another motorcade of sedans and SUVs. With Iran making noise and threatening reprisals, the Department of Homeland Security had recommended that personal protection details for all key administration figures be stepped up. Kennedy’s security chief had already made the adjustment even though she voiced her opinion that the decision was premature. DC traffic was some of the worst in the country, and all of these motorcades only made things worse.

Just as the intersection cleared, Kennedy’s mobile Secure Telephone Unit began buzzing. She looked at the readout and saw it was her office. She pulled the black handset from its cradle and said, “Hello?”

“I have Mitch on the line.” It was the voice of one of Kennedy’s three assistants.

“Patch him through, please.”

There was clicking noise and then Rapp came on. “Irene?”

“Yes.”

“I just finished the first leg of my journey.”

“Are you back in the air?”

“I wouldn’t be talking to you if I was still on the ground.”

“How did it go?”

“The guy is unbelievable. He actually tried to blame it on us at one point.”

Kennedy sighed. Moments like this made her wonder if Ben Freidman was actually an ally. “What did he say?”

“He tried to say it was our planes that were seen in the air.”

“How did you respond?”

“I told him there weren’t any planes in the air. Theirs or ours. That was when I saw the chink in that ugly mug of his. He started to get real evasive and nervous. Especially when I laid out for him exactly how the place had been destroyed.”

“How did he react?”

“Worried…he wanted to know who I had talked to.”

“And?”

“I told him I had a source inside his government.”

Kennedy smiled and said, “You didn’t.”

“Damn right. That prick. He’s got more spies in America than practically every other country combined, and what’d we give them last year? Five billion dollars in aid?”

“Roughly.” The motorcade was now pulling up to the first checkpoint a block away from the State Department. The CIA security people had called ahead, so the crash gate was down and they were being waved through. “You do know he’s going to launch an investigation to find out who talked to you?”

“Good. It might keep him out of my hair for a while. I told him to stay silent and tell his government to keep denying.”

“You didn’t tell him what you were up to, did you?”

“No.”

“Good.” The motorcade breezed through the checkpoint and pulled up in front of the main entrance. “Anything else?”

“No. Our guy in Mosul has everything set up. I’ll call you as soon as I finish the meeting.”

“Thanks.” Kennedy placed the phone its cradle and waited for the door to be opened. It seemed like overkill, but it was the policy of her protective detail. They wanted to sweep the area to make sure there were no threats before she left the cover of the Suburban. Five seconds later the door was opened. Kennedy left the vehicle and was flanked by men as she headed up the stairs and into the building. They were greeted by a State Department official who escorted them past the metal detectors and into a waiting elevator.

Wicka was waiting for Kennedy in her expansive office. While the outside of the Harry S. Truman Building would not ever be chronicled in the annals of great American architecture, the secretary’s office was impressive. It looked as if it had been transported from an eighteenth-century French villa. The furniture, carpeting, gilded ceiling, and alabaster fireplace radiated wealth and prestige.

The secretary of state looked over the top of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose. Her short frosted hair was cut in layers. She pushed her chair back and stood.

“Thank you for coming, Irene.”

“My pleasure, Sunny.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No thank you. I’m fine.”

Wicka walked over to a small wet bar and grabbed two coffee mugs. She set them down and pulled a bottle of Hennessy brandy out of the cupboard. She poured some brandy into each mug and then carried them over to where Kennedy was standing.

“You look like you could use some.” Wicka handed Kennedy one of the mugs.