“Let’s begin,” McDaniel said. “You all know the issue at hand: that our friend Mr. Hussein has been alleged to be misusing funds from the taxpayers of the United States. Dr. Millikan, would you like to give us the perspective from the White House?”
“Thank you, Larry,” Millikan said. “Good morning, everyone. Glad our representative from the illustrious Department of Transportation could make it today: Mr.—” Millikan stopped, knitted his brow, and turned his head toward Howard King, squinting at his name tag, unable to quite make it out.
A look of flabbergasted horror spread slowly across King’s face. “King,” he rasped. “Howard King. Uh, pardon me, Dr. Millikan, but I’m from the Agency.”
Millikan had seemed brusque and hurried when he had started, but now he leaned back in his chair and slowly poured himself a tumbler of water, seeming to derive some enjoyment from letting Howard King twist. “Arms Control and Disarmament?”
“No, Doctor—”
“United States Information?”
“No, Doctor, Central Intelligence.”
“Oh, that Agency. I knew something was missing. Yes, of course. Forgive me, Mr. Howard King,” Millikan said. Having finished keelhauling Betsy’s boss, he sat up straight and turned away to address the center of the table. “I will get straight to the point. There is a lot of nonsense being reported in the press about Saddam Hussein and his ambitions. Some of it is being presented by our Israeli friends, who are understandably concerned by Saddam’s regrettable, though culturally typical, rhetoric. Some of it is being spread by the administration’s political enemies, who are talking their customary nonsense about the President’s lack of vision. I am here to tell you that Saddam Hussein is still a keystone in our Middle-Eastern foreign policy. Two administrations supported him in his struggle against the Iranians, who have nothing but ill will toward us. Senator Dole took a personal letter from President Bush to Saddam Hussein expressing our concerns about perceptions of his actions and statements that may or may not be accurate. Mr. Hussein has promised to get back to us on our concerns.
“Now, the reason I am here today is to try to get all of us reading from the same page. You are tasked,” he said, patting a stack of envelopes, “to provide, in three days, input to anticipate criticism of USG export-import credits to Iraq; to provide plans expanding and diversifying the agricultural and commercial credits presently extended to Baghdad; and to establish your implementation plans.”
Millikan’s assistant, White House Staff badge dangling like a gaudy fishing lure as he walked around the table, picked up the stack of envelopes and passed them around. Each was marked “Secret” and contained a freshly minted NSC Decision Directive. “Now,” Millikan said, “I have a meeting with the President in thirty minutes. Are there any questions or comments?”
The knowledgeable players of the game knew that Millikan wanted questions and comments as much as he wanted to get dog shit on his Duckers Wingtips, but custom dictated that he make the request. McDaniels began to close the meeting when King, who had been stunned into a coma, said, “You can be sure that we’ll be team players on this.” At which point he turned and glared meaningfully at Betsy.
Millikan mumbled, “I’m sure we can count on you,” sounding almost as if he were clearing his throat. His assistant sprang to the door and hauled it open for him, and then Millikan was gone, headed for the President’s office, leaving behind nothing but an indefinable aura of Greatness that was like pure oxygen to most of the people in the room.
McDaniel looked around the room and said, “Thank you for coming. We look forward to your contributions.”
“I’d give anything to read your report on this,” Hennessey said to Betsy as the meeting broke up. “Tell old Spector I give him my best.”
Chapter Eight
Desiree was fixing a bit of breakfast. Clyde was perusing the sports section of the Des Moines Register. Maggie sucked on a pacifier and dozed in her baby chair.