Tehran Decree (9 page)

It could also be a diversion for something far bigger
and nastier. But the information could not be ignored
--
9/11 was a gross example of what happens when crucial information
was systematically ignored. It also revealed some of the hidden
limitations of the human species. Situations were becoming too
complex for mere humans to handle effectively. The human anatomy
actually needed an additional brain to cope with the worlds ever
increasing Information Technology (IT). Massive resources costing
billions of dollars and involving millions of people were employed
in the security of the country. The lives of whole of the US
population were based on this massive technological infrastructure,
and yet, in the end, it all boiled down to the whims of one very
vulnerable man.

Jenkins sat back in his chair and continued to think
about the implications of the information he had just received.
Uncannily one of the first things to come to mind, was the British
SAS motto.

At one point in his young career he had met a young
SAS service man on holiday in the UK. During payment for a round of
beers the man had flashed his wallet full of English pound notes.
It was his army pay and he wanted to spend as much as possible
before he went back to Belize, where money was extraneous to ones
needs. But his wallet had something far more interesting to the
young Jenkins. It was embellished with a polished SAS cap badge.
The simple design and motto imprinted on the metal stuck in his
mind. It had remained there throughout his political career and now
it had resurfaced.
‘He Who Dares Wins’
it boldly proclaimed,
it equated with phrases like: Grasping The Nettle, Taking The Bull
By the Horns, Having The Courage Of Ones Convictions etc. Decisive
action was what history was all about. It was a role of honour of
those who dared to grab power and use it to the full without
compunction. Perhaps somehow he could use one of these compelling
quotations to further his ends. The whole concept seemed to go with
ego and the all American hero, it was the sort of stuff John Wayne
movies were made of.

But clearly times had changed rather drastically and
new methods of delivery were needed. The six guns had been replaced
with the mobile phone and the simplistic reasoning with the
computer. Even the dress had changed the cowboy leather jacket and
trousers had given way to the clean cut continental suit and the
boots and spurs to the latest Italian fashion shoes.

Above all else, Jenkins was a man of the modern age,
he was slim and topped the six foot mark with high cheek bones, and
a slick of graying hair combed to one side. At fifty-one he
considered himself ideally placed to take over the presidency; not
too young, not too old, he could easily manage two terms before
retiring in comfort as an elder statesman -- unlike some of the
70’s brigade who would be eligible for a pension years before they
gained such high office.

Modern clothing attire fitted him like a dream,
almost anything looked good on his athletic frame. He was highly
aware of this and played it to the core. Dressing well was a hobby
with him and he had taken to wearing Giorgione, an Italian label.
The name was a new kid on the Washington block -- not that it was
new, the clothing firm had existed for over fifty years as a top
notch male fashion house in Italy and on the continent.

He liked the supreme slick cut and first class
accessories which went with every delectable suit they turned out.
No suit was complete without necktie, shirt, and shoes, which were
custom matched to all the maestros creations.

A dynamic president abreast with the times was what
most people wanted, and this is what they would get.

Chapter Sixteen

David Bourne was a White House steward and busied
himself with clearing up coffee cups and other unwanted scraps from
the main offices. Part of his training was to be as inconspicuous
as possible and not disturb any of the working staff particularly
those of high office. He scooped up Jenkin’s paper cup from his
desk and was half way out of the room before the vice president
looked up from his notes.

‘Just before you go David...I would like a word with
you.’

‘Yes sir,’ Bourne stood at a casual attention, his
slim, youthful form, blocking the doorway. He turned and smiled
slightly, in line with White House courtesy code behaviour, his
jet-black hair highlights glinting in the light of the desk
lamp.

‘How long have you been with us David?’ said Jenkins
patronisingly.

‘Three years sir.’

‘And before that?’Jenkins politely demanded.

‘Before that I was a house waiter at San Brachen
School of etiquette.’

‘Really, I know it well...just off 49th street isn’t
it?’

‘Yes sir,’ quipped Bourne, trying to conceal a
growing disenchantment with the prolonged questioning routine.
Jenkins fixed him with a cold stare.

‘Don’t misunderstand my motivation David, but I
always thought that hospitality people lacked a certain kind of
motivation in the real world.’ Bourne inwardly cringed...was this a
personal insult or just a passing observation? He decided to accept
the latter lest he sullied the conversation.

‘That’s understandable sir, but our basic driving
force is to serve others directly, and of course there are
compensations and promotions along the way, just like any other
profession.’

‘I see, and what sort of advancement do you envisage
in the future David?’

‘I would like to complete my studies at the San
Brachen School just as soon as I have sufficient funding sir.’

‘I imagine fees would be rather high at such a
prestigious school.’

‘They are sir, in spite of my remuneration here, I
still find it hard going.’

‘I suppose you could do with an extra job.’

‘That would be nice sir but all my working hours are
taken up.’

‘That’s no problem David, I was thinking of
incorporating a few more simple jobs here in the offices
--
there would be no additional hours involved,’ Bourne produced a
genuine smile for the first time.

‘It’s nothing too demanding, I just want you to
discretely retrieve a few files and gather information on your
rounds of the offices. You may not be aware of it but a man in your
position has far more freedom than a vice president...you have
certain privileges we power brokers lack,’ Bourne smiled a little
more over a doubtful grimace.

‘But sir, you are the most powerful man in the world.
I would have thought nothing was beyond your reach,’Jenkins laughed
veraciously.

‘My dear boy, that is a preposterous myth, the person
in the street has more power than the president. Virtually
everything I do is monitored, and the slightest error is blown out
of all proportion. If I were to commit the slightest criminal
offence it would almost certainly cost me my job. But you could
metaphorically get away with murder and non would be the
wiser.’

‘I can see that sir, but how does this apply in our
present circumstances?’

‘Simple really, you can pass almost unnoticed
throughout the offices as a steward
--
whereas my presence
would immediately invoke attention. It would be like the Queen
shopping at the local grocery store for her veggies,' Bourne gazed
warily at his superior.

‘I would not be able to do anything dishonest
sir.’

‘Of course not, you’ll just be carrying out
politically expedient requests by the acting president, that's
all...I merely want you to be my ears and eyes in areas I can’t
readily access myself without being noticed.’

‘It would have to be consistent with my duties
sir.’

‘And so it will be, we’re all here to serve David,
you’d just be looking after the interests of the vice president, or
rather acting president, for the good of the country
--
it’s
as simple as that. Just as matter of interest...I presume you are
computer literate?’

‘Yes sir, all students at the etiquette school have
to be able to use a computer.’

‘Good...do you know what proxy means?

‘Why yes sir, I believe it refers to assisting
someone else in their endeavors.’

‘Very good answer David. However, you would be
assisting the vice president of the United States in the
performance of his duties,’ Bourne repressed a feeling of
conceit.

‘For your first assignment David, I want you to
surreptitiously access a few of the main computers in the White
House offices,’ Bourne’s eyes lit up in alarm.

‘This is no big deal, such information is not
classified, particularly as far as the president is concerned. Do
this as covertly as possible, so as not upset the general run of
the system...I don’t want you to antagonise any of the senior staff
you understand.’

‘Yes sir, I will be as discrete as possible.’

‘That’s my boy, now I have a list of files I’d like
you to print out,’ Jenkins handed him a scrap of paper listing
several file names.

‘Just bring up those files on screen, print them out,
and deliver them to my desk each morning. These files are personal
and therefore private, they are White House property and therefore
subject to presidential scrutiny, they are not to be shown to
anyone else under any circumstances ...understood?’

‘Yes sir...’

‘Also, whatever you do, don’t loose that scrap of
paper
--
memorise the file numbers then destroy it
--
and remember, you are directly serving your country via your
president.’

‘Right sir.’

‘Now there is some other information I’d like you to
backup and protect,’ Jenkins gave him a printed sheet of A4
paper.

‘That is a schedule of the president Garner’s
movements during his tour of Australia. I want you to scan that
into the state secretary’s computer, he will be needing it, and
while you’re there, just insert the phone number at the bottom of
the sheet in his telephone address book. Do you think you can
manage all that David?’

‘No problem sir,’ Jenkins slipped a plain envelope
into his top pocket.

‘That's your first weeks salary tax free...there’ll
be one of those each week, just as long as our little arrangement
remains viable,’ Bourne smiled enthusiastically, this was almost
like taking candy from a baby. Obviously Jenkins was the rookie
president and was simply learning the ropes via a trusted aid. He
pushed his chin up a little higher in the air as he strode off,
knowing that the most powerful men in the land, was now relying on
him.

Chapter Seventeen

The White House lawn was an intense green from its
computerised watering and fertilising schedule. It stretched right
up to the perimeter gates with Pennsylvania Avenue beyond.

Acting president Jenkins always liked to scan this
area before starting work. The view was relaxing, and it removed
any anxiety, as well as being an unconscious check on the public
who were just beyond the fence line. The potential threat of
interlopers was a destabilising force which he preferred to avoid.
Political machinations often demanded their own special kind of
privacy, and the higher you were on the ladder the more insistent
it was.

He stood, pushing his chair aside, and made his way
to his office door, stopping just short of the threshold. The vista
to his left gave an uninterrupted view of secretary of state
Steadman’s office and desk. It was untidy as usual, but homely, and
was the sort of room Steadman might have had as a child. In many
ways the man had never really grown up and the clutter was an open
expression of this. The most recent copy of the Times was a regular
artifact on his desk and could often be seen open at the page he
had been reading before he rushed off somewhere else to spend his
time.

Steadman was a portly, gregarious man, with receding
hairline, and large hairy hands. His laid back appearance belied
his intellectual acumen, and his main claim to fame was his ability
to liaise with virtually anyone in the US political sphere, as well
as most foreigners. He spoke four languages and was sometimes used
as an ad hoc interpreter.

Unfortunately, he had a number of down sides
--
untidiness, carelessness and a tendency for short term
memory loss, which had often caused him some embarrassing moments
-- he was also known to be a secret drinker. Loosing his spectacles
and mobile phone were a common activity and he periodically left
his mobile phone in his desk drawer; in spite of being berated by
president Garner himself for leaving it laying around.

Jenkins had learned over many years to cultivate a
persons good points and to tolerate the bad ones
--
especially if the bad ones might be of political value. He had also
learned that ones personal politics was neither bad nor good, but
merely a means of expediting ones own wishes.

Steadmans office was empty and Jenkins walked the
short distance to his desk and opened the side drawer. As expected
the Times lay open on his desk top at an article on the State Of
Iran. The secretary of state’s phone sat on top of some papers in
full view to anyone who cared to look in the drawer.

His IN and OUT trays were bulging and as usual the
desk was messy, which was in line with Steadman’s habit of leaving
things to the very last moment, then rushing things through.

Jenkins slumped into the plush swivel chair, slipped
a thin latex glove on his right hand and picked up the mobile, then
keyed in the number of insurgent leader Farid Kazeni which he had
memorised from the confessional data sheet. He placed a sheet of
tissue over the mouthpiece. It was several minutes before a deep
male voice answered.

‘Hello,’ Jenkins held the receiver closer to his
mouth and spoke strongly into it.

‘Do not terminate this call...I have vital
information...do not interrupt, I will only say this once. Listen
very carefully...the US president will leave government house on
Tuesday 15th, at 2.30pm precisely and enter circular quay, from
there he will go to Darling Harbour, stay for fifteen minutes, then
proceed to the Western distributor cross city tunnel, he will stop
in the tunnel for a three minute inspection, then exit at the south
airport turn off.