The Art of War

SEVENTEEN

Ambassador Sarah Wexler stormed into the suite that housed the Iranian delegation. She ignored the receptionist’s angry howls and headed straight for the ambassador’s office. She barged in, fire in her eyes, and positioned herself in front of his desk.

At five feet, two inches, Wexler was hardly an imposing figure. She was slim, her age showing in her face and figure, but not in the steely determination with which she approached the grave matters discussed in the international forum. She was known as a tough negotiator, one with a keen understanding of the shifting alliances that govern most of the world, and not above a little skullduggery of her own.

But now, it was clear, Wexler was not in her diplomatic mode. She slammed her fist down on the desk and glared at the large man sitting behind it in traditional garb. “Just what the hell is the meaning of this?” she shouted, leaning forward to stare directly in his eyes. She knew how uncomfortable a woman in a position of authority made the Iranian ambassador, and most of the time she curried to his cultural idiosyncrasies. But this was no time for being anything other than what she was — the international representative of the most powerful nation on earth. “I demand an answer, sir. And right now.”

The ambassador moved back slightly, and rose from his expensive leather chair to tower over her. “Calm yourself, Madam Ambassador,” he said softly. “It is so unbecoming to see you like this.”

Sarah Wexler’s Farsi language skills were minimal at best, but she possessed sufficient command of the language to reply, “Your mother fucks camels.” Switching back to English, she continued, “The next words out of your mouth better explain exactly what your position is or I will do my utmost to ensure that the president obliterates your nation from the face of the earth.” Her tone of voice left no doubt that she meant it.

“I assume you are referring to a matter of internal dissension,” he answered, his voice colder than it had been before. Evidently the remark about his mother had struck home. “If the United States had not interfered, the matter would have been easily settled within our own borders.”

“Interfered?” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “Your people just executed an attack on an American cruiser. Fortunately,” she lied, “the vessel was not damaged. But there was absolutely no provocation for the attack. Now explain exactly why you thought it necessary to offend us in this matter.”

“Even in an Allah-fearing country such as ours, we have dissident elements,” he murmured. “One of the hard-line factions, so at odds with our current peaceful government, took control of the self-defense station. It had been all but abandoned, converted purely to research use. Evidently they obtained funding from some enemy of the United States — it is difficult to tell which one, there are so many of them — adequate to supply it with antisurface missiles. As my people were attempting to regain control of the station, the United States provoked them into attack. I cannot, of course, speculate on their motives. But I can assure you their actions in no way reflect upon my government.”

“Bullshit,” Wexler said flatly. “I don’t buy it, and no one else will, either.” Just for a moment, her face softened as she focused on what was to come. There would be another Gulf War, and this time she feared the casualties would be much greater. They had been so lucky last time, so well-prepared. But Desert Storm concerned even their allies within the region, and she had been warned more than once privately that such action would not be tolerated again. Any discipline of the rogue Iranian state would come from her neighbors, not from a nation halfway across the world interfering in regional affairs.

No, if war broke out again there, it would be far more costly. Under the guise of assisting the United Nations in enforcing sanctions on Iraq, Iran had secretly countered by building up both her biochemical and nuclear arsenals. Wexler was quite certain that if war came again, countless families across the United States would mourn the loss of sons and daughters.

And for what? Oil? Yes, that, and more. The growth of the fundamentalist religious movement across the region hit her on a personal level as she read about the treatment of women within both Iran and Iraq. Garbed always from head to foot in black garments, sequestered behind walls to their houses, not permitted to own property and forbidden to speak in public, they were truly slaves in every sense of the word.

The Iranian ambassador turned away from her, as though dismissing a subordinate, not his equal. She moved to face him again. He looked down on the her, disgust evident in his face. “If not provoked, we would have settled matters. As it is, our own attack on the station was already under way when your fighters breached our airspace. I understand the guidance of U.N. sanctions, but it also provides that there will be no unprovoked attacks upon any nation without consultation. In this instance, the United States acted unilaterally. He paused for moment, his face impassive. “And if you had information on the attack — and by the way, you might wish to caution your intelligence officers to be more thorough, as I understand the cruiser was heavily damaged — then you will know that the site was obliterated by our own missiles falling shortly after your attack. There was no threat to your battle group — not from Iran.” He smiled, and she felt her stomach turn at expression of sheer malice. “Iran is a peace-loving nation.”