Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (25 page)

 
          
“I
wanted to let him know that we’re not done fighting,” Susan said resolutely.
“Beating up his bodyguards will be nothing compared to what I’m going to do to
him on election day.” She stepped over to the reporters and bank of microphones
and started answering questions:

 
          
“Yes,
I attended my husband’s memorial service,” Susan responded to the first
question. “Upon the advice of my husband’s national security adviser, General
Ahmad Baris, I attended in secret. I was also present at his interment in the
family cemetery at Giza. It is a credit to General Baris and his staff that you
did not know I was there. After the mourners left, I was able to perform the
burial ritual.” She held up her left hand, showing a large man’s ring on her
middle finger as well as her engagement ring on her ring finger. “I have
Kamal’s wedding ring, and he now has mine. I also placed topazes on his eyes,
so he will not be blinded by the suns of heaven when he crosses over.

 
          
“Yes,
I spoke with Ulama al-Khan just now. We greeted each other with warmth and
relief that neither was very seriously injured from the attack. He explained
his objection in the National Assembly to me very well, which I fully accept.
His concern was that new elections not be clouded with any constitutional
challenges during our nation’s most critical time. I assured him that I will do
what’s best for Egypt and myself.

 
          
“Yes,
of course, my husband’s murderers should be hunted down, but only to be brought
to justice, not retribution. This should be a time of healing, not revenge. I’m
sure that’s what my husband would have wanted, and I know that’s what Dr. Kalir
and Ulama al-Khan want too.

 
          
“Yes,
with the help and support of my friends in the National Democratic Party and
the people of Egypt, I am a candidate for president of Egypt. Of course, my
doctors will have to give their blessing as well—I am strong and determined,
but I’m not foolish enough to think I know more than my doctors.

 
          
“I
suffered some damage in my left eye and some burns, but I’m feeling all right,
kwaysa ilhamdu lillah, shukran.
Thank
you.

 
          
“Yes,
I believe I can work with Ulama al-Khan in a National Democratic Party-led
government. The Ulama and I share many of the same beliefs: that Egypt can and
must be the spiritual, moral, and philosophical leader of the Arab world and
show by example the power and courage of the Arab people. My husband believed
strongly in this, and I shall continue to work to make this idea a reality.

 
          
“No,
I have absolutely no intentions of leaving Egypt except for brief visits abroad
or in some capacity with the government.

 
          
“Yes,
I still hold dual nationalities—I can’t change my place of birth. But out of
respect for my husband and to his countrymen, and reflecting the love I have
for all Egyptians, I’m staying. I have no plans to reside in the United States or
anywhere else but
Misr, insha’allah.
Sabah el kher. Shukran.
Thank you all.”

 
          
General
Baris and Captain Shafik escorted Susan out of the National Assembly building
into a waiting car. “I think it went pretty well, don’t you, Ahmad?” she asked.

 
          
“The
interview was fine,” Baris replied. “But this is a dangerous game you’re
playing, Sekhmet. Men like Khan do little all day but dream up ways to defeat,
humiliate, or eliminate their political opponents. Unless you want to reduce
yourself to their scum-sucking level, stay away from political intrigue.”

 
          
“I
have no illusions of this—Khan wants to see me dead,” Susan said. “Khan failed
to do the job before, so he will ensure it’s done now.”

           
“And you somehow believe these
American commandos will help you?” Baris asked. “I must tell you, Sekhmet, I
think it is dangerous to have those men in Egypt. We know nothing about them.
The American government obviously knew nothing about them except to tell us
that they are not part of the American government whatsoever. They are
privateers, former military men who now work for whoever pays them.”

 
          
“Then
they can work for us,” Susan said. “We have no military behind us now. These
men are skilled enough to take one of our warships—they can do a lot of harm to
al-Khan’s men, possibly even to the Libyans as well.”

 
          
“To
what end? Do you expect them to kill al-Khan or invade Libya for you?” Baris
asked. “That’s a fantasy, Sekhmet. They have obviously been paid by a very
wealthy individual, company, or conglomerate to perform a task. If they don’t
do the assigned task, they won’t get paid. As soon as they’ve rested and
gathered some intelligence information, they’ll be gone—leaving you with
whatever chaos they’ve created. I don’t think you want that.”

 
          
“What
I want, General, is for Egypt to be free from murdering scum like al-Khan or
terrorists like Zuwayy,” Susan said bitterly. “I sense something in McLanahan.
He is in great pain, yes—losing both his brother and his wife in so short a
time must be devastating for him. If he has a child, it must make the pain even
greater. But there is something else about him. I sense another conflict within
him.”

 
          
“He
is certainly not like the others,” Baris agreed. “I would guess he is a trained
soldier, but not necessarily a commando. And he knew of your
background—specifically, he mentioned your Air Force background, with definite
pride in his voice. If I had to guess, I would say he is a former American air
force officer, perhaps even a high- ranking officer.”

 
          
“So
if he is not a commando, perhaps he’s out of his element,” Susan surmised.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be where he is, fighting for money instead of for his
country.” Susan turned to Amina Shafik. “Any information on McLanahan’s
background, Amina?”

 
          
“No,
Madame,” Shafik responded. “It’s very unusual. My contact in the American Air
Attache’s office at the American embassy in Cairo has no record of a Patrick
McLanahan in the American military. Their records go back about five years.”

 
          
“Can
we search any farther back?”

 
          
“Not
from the Air Attache’s office,” Shafik replied. “For that, we would need help
from the Mukharbarat el-Aama.”

           
“The General Intelligence Staff is
still loyal to me—I can get that information,” General Baris said. “But it may
take some time. Should we trust this McLanahan and his men until we find out
who and what they are?”

           
“Should we? No—I should trust no
one,” Susan said. “But will we trust them? Yes—for now. Be sure they have all
the information they need—every map, every photograph, every piece of data.
Make sure they have access to any base, every unit, and every weapon system.”

 
          
Baris
shook his head, then half-turned in his seat to look directly into Susan’s
eyes. “Listen to me, Sekhmet: Your life is in incredible danger here,” he said.
“I know you want to carry on your husband’s work and avenge his death, but is
running for president worth risking your life?”

 
          
“What
do you suggest I do, General? Run?”

 
          
“In
the United States, we have a chance to rebuild our power. We can wait for
al-Khan’s government to implode. The people will welcome you as a conquering
hero then. You would be proclaimed president.”

 
          
“But
what about the people that I would be leaving behind?” Susan asked. “They’d be
at the mercy of al-Khan and through him, Jadallah Zuwayy. I won’t abandon the
people of Egypt to save myself.”

 
          
“The
people of Egypt will survive—we have for thousands of years,” Baris said. “I
can trace my own ancestry back seventeen hundred years, Sekhmet. A dozen
different empires, dictators, and religious oligarchies have occupied our
nation. We Egyptians have an annoying way of surviving men like al-Khan.”

           
“That doesn’t mean the innocent
should suffer because the next despot or conqueror feels it’s time to move in,”
Susan said.

 
          
“The
Egyptian people won’t be entirely innocent,” Baris said. “Khan will be voted in
by an overwhelming majority, even if Prime Minister Kalir decides to run again.
Should not the people be allowed to choose their own government, their own
fate?”

 
          
“No
one should be permitted to rule by force, intimidation, fear—or murder,” Susan
said bitterly.

 
          
“Even
if al-Khan is a murderer, the people of Egypt will still choose by whom they
will be ruled. Whether Khan is the president or not, people will follow him
because they choose to do so.” Baris lowered his head sadly. “You may hate me
for saying so, Sekhmet, but the reason al-Khan survives—and your husband, my
friend, did not—is because the people
want
a man like him as president.”

 
          
“Wha
... what did you say, General?”

 
          
“I
said, the people get the leaders they want, my friend,” Baris said. “Your
husband was a great man, a great statesman, a hero to Egypt. He helped put this
nation back in touch with the rest of the world and ended the isolation and
ostracism we have been facing for fifty years. But men like al-Khan survive,
and many say he has more power,
much
more
power, than Kamal Ismail Salaam ever had. Khan preaches power, Sekhmet, not
cooperation. He preaches leadership. Kamal wanted Egypt to join the community
of nations, especially the Western nations. Khan survives, and will become
president, because people like what he says.”

 
          
“Even
if he gets his power by murder, death, and betrayal?”

 
          
“Betrayal
to you is another man’s patriotism, Sekhmet,” Baris said. “Murder and death to
you is justice, vengeance, action, and destiny to another. Which is right?
Which is wrong? I suppose it depends on your point of view.”

 
          
“I
can’t believe you’re saying this, Ahmad,” Susan retorted, her eyes wide in
surprise. “Killing my husband, the president of Egypt, was not justice.
Conspiring to align Egypt with a bunch of murderous anarchists like Zuwayy and
the Muslim Brotherhood is not patriotism.”

 
          
“Not
to you, it isn’t,” Baris said. “Not to me. But to twenty million Egyptians,
fifteen million Libyans, five million Sudanese—yes. To over half the Egyptian
military forces, al-Khan is a hero for killing your husband. To half of the
Saudi royal family, to three-quarters of the Lebanese, to most of the Syrians,
Zuwayy is a liberator, the sword of Allah.”

 
          
“How
is that possible?” Susan asked incredulously. “How can that be true? Don’t all
those people realize how dangerous he is? Can’t they see Zuwayy’s crazy? He
thinks he’s descended from an ancient Libyan king. He’s nothing but a
goofball—a murdering, thieving goofball!”

           
“You’re not listening, Sekhmet!”
Baris said with a smile, like a patient teacher who is watching realization
dawning on a promising student. “You’re not paying attention. It
doesn't matter
what you think or what
you
know
— it’s what the people
believe.
Look back through your own
country’s history, Susan. Everyone believed John Kennedy was the so-called
prince of Camelot, and then were disillusioned because you later found out he
was a womanizing adolescent privileged politician who knew little except what
his brother Robert and his ‘Kitchen Cabinet’ told him. You know much of
Egyptian and Middle East history—do you truly believe the western European
kings organized the Crusades to liberate the Holy Land from the infidels? Do
you believe Alexander the Great sought to unify the kingdoms of eastern
Europe?”

 
          
“So
it’s all propaganda? It’s all illusion?”

 
          
“Of
course it’s all illusion,” Baris said. “The only thing that is real is the
law—but there are many, many things more powerful that the law. Image.
Perception. Emotion. Fear. Anger. Hate. Love. Control these things, and you
control all.”

 
          
Susan
shook her head in confusion. “Why are you telling me this, General?” she asked
in a low, strained voice. “Why? Are you telling me that my husband died for
nothing more than a dream, an illusion?”