Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (56 page)

 
          
Hijazi’s
head was tingling with confusion as he punched the line button on the phone: “I
thought you weren’t coming back, Minister.”

 
          
“How
... how in hell did you know about this, Salaam? Did you order these attacks?
Did you?”

 
          
“No,
I did not—but I know that more attacks are forthcoming, unless Zuwayy or Idris
or whatever he calls himself negotiates with me.”

 
          
“Is
Egypt
involved in the attack on our bases,
Madame?”

 
          
“No.
But I control the ones that are. If you wish the attacks to stop, you must deal
with me right away. I know you have only a few hours left before the deadline.”

 
          
“I’m
listening, Madame.”

 
          
“The
attacks are a retaliation for prisoners your naval forces captured in the
Mediterranean Sea
, meant to force Zuwayy to surrender them. ”

 
          
“Then
tell me where the terrorists and bombers are, Madame Salaam. Turn them over to
the king for justice, and we will withdraw our forces.”

 
          
“I
suggest you withdraw those forces today, Minister, or they’ll be destroyed. And
once we have destroyed your invasion force in both
Libya
and
Sudan
, we’ll destroy your palaces and
headquarters in
Tripoli
. In time, we’ll level every government and military structure in your
entire nation.”

 
          
“With
what air force? I don’t know who has done these attacks, but they are not Egyptian
military forces. Who did you have sex with to get access to such weapons, Mrs.
Salaam? It couldn’t have been the American president, Thomas Thom—everyone
knows he has no balls. What new American comrades have you been sleeping with
lately?”

           
“We’ll see how glib you are after
they’re done bombing Tripoli, Minister.”

 
          
This
was going nowhere, Hijazi thought—better see what she has in mind quickly,
before she hangs up. “So what do you propose, Madame Salaam?” Hijazi asked.

 
          
“You
will announce a cease-fire agreement has been reached in secret negotiations
between the king and myself, acting as a representative of the Egyptian
government.”

 
          
“You
are not the Egyptian government.”

 
          
“For
your sake, you had better hope I will be,” Susan Salaam said. “You will not be
able to negotiate a thing with Prime Minister Kalir or anyone else in our
government after you have attacked us with nuclear weapons. Again, I am your
only hope.”

 
          
“You
have to do better than that, Mrs. Salaam,” Hijazi said sternly. “You are asking
for everything, and are not giving anything in return.”

 
          
“You
have nothing that belongs to you, and you have everything to lose,” Salaam
said. “How many more bases do you think we need to bomb before the people start
losing confidence in their so-called king? Or perhaps all it will take is one
raid on
Tripoli
?”

 
          
“
Libya
wants part of the Salimah oil production
rights,” Hijazi said. “
Libya
has nearly one hundred thousand workers
fully qualified and ready to work, but they will not be hired by your Western
cartel.”

 
          
“
Libya
’s past record in dealing with its neighbors
in coproduction deals has not been very encouraging,” Salaam said. “Usually
such coproduction deals end up being invasions. Besides, your government
insists Libyan oil workers get higher-than-average wages; and in the past
Qadhafi has insisted on sending troops to ‘protect’ the workers.
Egypt
will not allow that.”

 
          
“What
do you give the Central African Petroleum Partners to take your oil? Twenty
percent? Thirty? Forty? More? Much more than Libyan workers ask for, I’m sure.”

 
          
“So
I see—this is all about the oil, is it, Minister?” Susan asked. “Not about the
Muslim Brotherhood, or religion, or faith, or Arab unity—it’s about the damned
oil.”

           
“Your country, and mine, would be
nothing without the ‘damned oil,’ ” Hijazi said. “Don’t pretend that you don’t
realize this. Turn the tables the other way, Salaam—what if it was
Libya
who had the largest oil reserves in
Africa
sitting beneath your feet, and you have
sixty percent unemployment, but your neighbor hires Europeans and Asians and
even Anglos to work the fields? I think you and your husband would be spouting
a lot more about Arab unity and Arab cooperation, instead of back-stabbing and
fucking their neighbors just for more money.”

 
          
“And
don’t try to pretend that you give a rat’s ass about those sixty percent
unemployed souls in Libya or Egypt or anywhere else—all you care about is
yourselves, you and Zuwayy and Fazani,” Susan shot back. “You want the oil
revenues. You’ve been stealing money hand over fist from the Libyan treasury
since the moment you marched into the presidential palace in
Tripoli
. But you’re taking as much as you possibly
can from your own oil fields, so now you want a piece of Salimah. You found
some wealthy partner to finance you. He gives you money to buy weapons. But
Zuwayy is too stupid to hold on to those weapons, and now he’s completely
fucked everything up for you. Now you’re in danger of losing everything—your
cushy little ministry, your private bank accounts, and your fat expense
accounts.”

 
          
“You
think you’re so smart, Salaam? As smart as your husband?” Hijazi asked
derisively. “Tell me what your husband’s legacy will be. He sells the largest
oil fields in
Africa
to a bunch of nonbelievers. Do you think
Egyptians will praise him for that a hundred years from now?

 
          
“Your
husband was a traitor to his people, and you know it. Ask your pal General
Baris. Ask any Egyptian who fought over a lifetime to try to repel the
outsiders, the Jews and the British and the Americans. The Arabs in north
Africa have been struggling for three generations to benefit from the natural
wealth of their own homelands, like the Persian Gulf Arabs have done, and your
husband negates it all with one stroke of a pen. He made a deal with Qadhafi
and then Zuwayy to coproduce those oil fields, and then he backed out and
signed with a fat cat Western oil cartel. He spat on his fellow Arabs. He
should have gone through with the deal—”

 
          
“Why?
So you could have marched your troops in to try to take over?”

 
          
“So
he could have led a new generation of Arabs, a new generation that is hungering
for a leader,” Hijazi said. “Instead, he did what all the other scum-sucking
Western-loving traitors do—he sold out, sold out his own people. He’ll be hated
for a century. Your husband created clowns like Zuwayy, Salaam.”

 
          
“What
in hell are you talking about?”

 
          
“You
know exactly what I’m talking about,” Hijazi retorted. “Kamal Ismail Salaam was
hailed for years as the new Nasser, the new leader of the pan-Arab world. But
he did what Sadat and Mubarak did—they sold out to the Jews and the Westerners
for cash. The Arab world was begging for a leader, and Salaam abdicated. When
Zuwayy became Idris the Second, everyone knew he wasn’t a king—but they
accepted him anyway. Why the hell do you think that is, Madame?” No response.

 
          
“Do
you think Libyans are stupid? Do you think we’re that gullible?” Hijazi went
on. “We’re not stupid, and we’re not gullible—not any more than the Germans
were before the rise of Adolf Hitler. Libyans were searching for a leader. We
would have gladly accepted Kamal Salaam—yes, even an Egyptian, just as many of
us accepted Gamal Abdel Nasser. Instead, Salaam turned his back on us. We
embraced the first figure that showed any sort of leadership, who showed any
amount of sympathy to the plight of the Arabs—Jadallah Zuwayy. He may be a
psychopath, but he’s also smart—he did his homework. He knew that
Libya
was thirsting for a leader, even a monarch,
after the mess Muammar Qadhafi left. He adopted the whole Sanusi king thing
because he knew
Libya
needed a king, a leader. He could have called himself Jesus Christ, and
Libya
would’ve followed him.

 
          
“So
you want to hide behind the Americans and their high-tech toys?” Hijazi went
on. “I’ve got a prediction for you, Madame President—you’ll end up with a
suicide bomber in your face too, just like your husband. And you know what’s
even more ironic? The most moronic, the most comical, the stupidest one of us
all, Jadallah Zuwayy, will still be in power, calling himself a king. We’ll be
dead, and he’ll still be sodomizing his country—and the people will gladly bend
over and let him do it, because he chose to be an
Arab.
You know it, and I know it.”

 
          
There
was silence on the phone. Hijazi was going to ask if Salaam had hung up, when
she said, “If you try to touch Salimah with your army or with any of your
Nubian goons, I’ll blow you and your pretender king into the
Red Sea
.”

           
“Tough words—from an Arab hiding
behind American bombs and missiles.”

           
“You will withdraw those forces from
the border areas immediately,” Salaam demanded, “and you will deactivate all
remaining rockets, artillery, and aircraft stationed within two hundred
kilometers of the border. Otherwise, I will destroy them all.”

 
          
“You
dare to try to negotiate with a gun pointed to my head, woman? Who the hell do
you think you are?”

 
          
“I
will be the new president of
Egypt
, sir, thanks to Zuwayy’s lunacy,” Susan
Bailey Salaam said. “I also will be the instrument of your destruction if you
do not comply— and then I will still become president, and I will crush
whatever is left of your so-called king and his corrupt, morally bankrupt
partners. Think carefully, Minister—but not too long. My warriors have itchy
trigger fingers.”

 
          
This
time, Hijazi hesitated. This was an opportunity to get out of this whole mess
intact—and perhaps come out a little ahead, if Salaam was willing to discuss
the Salimah coproduction deal again.

 
          
“I
will speak with His Highness about this, Madame,” Hijazi replied. “But I need some
assurance to take to him. You will agree not to stage any more attacks on our
bases, and you will agree to open negotiations with the Central African
Petroleum Partners to hire more Libyan workers. Otherwise, Madame, we are still
at war—and we will use the last of our military might to destroy Salimah and
render it useless to anyone for fifty years. It is you who have forced us into
this desperate situation, Madame—but you can end it too.”

 
          
“We
will not fly any more missions over
Libya
unless we are attacked,” Salaam said, “if
you promise, in writing, to withdraw all your artillery, rockets, and aircraft
beyond two hundred kilometers from the border.”

 
          
“While
your forces stand ready right at the border? Unacceptable.”

 
          
“We
will pull our forces back as well.”

 
          
“And
the Americans?” Hijazi had no idea that it was the Americans actually
performing the bombing raids on Samah, Jaghbub, and now Zillah and Al-Jawf, but
it was a logical guess.