Never, page 28
He busied himself on the phone, and seemed to be sending messages he had written earlier and stored. Then he hesitated, made a decision, and called up some pictures, and she realized he had surreptitiously photographed Hakim, Tareq, Hamza, and some of the people they had met on the way. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he tapped the screen for a minute or two. He made sure no one could see his hands except Kiah.
She said: “What are you doing?”
He tapped again, then turned off the phone and put it back inside his robes. “I sent some photos to a friend in N’Djamena with a message saying: ‘If I get killed, these men are responsible.’ ”
She whispered: “Aren’t you worried that Hakim and the guards might find out what you sent?”
“On the contrary, it would warn them off.”
She thought he was speaking the truth, but at the same time she felt sure it was not the whole truth. Today she had discovered another surprising fact about him: of all the people on the bus, he was the only one who was not afraid of Tareq and Hamza. Even Hakim obeyed them.
Abdul had a secret, she had no doubt about that, but she could not imagine what it might be.
Soon the town of Faya came within sight. She asked Abdul if he knew how many people lived here—he often knew that kind of thing—and sure enough he did. “About twelve thousand,” he said. “It’s the main town in the north of the country.”
It looked more like a large village. Kiah saw a lot of trees and many irrigated fields. There had to be a good deal of underground water to sustain so much agriculture. The bus passed an airstrip but she saw no planes and no sign of activity.
Abdul said: “We’ve come about six hundred miles in seventeen days. That’s only thirty-five miles a day—even slower than I expected.”
The bus stopped outside a substantial house in the middle of the town. The passengers were shown into a broad courtyard and told this was where they would eat and sleep. The sun was going down now, and there was plenty of shade. Some young women appeared with cold water for them to drink.
Hakim and the guards went off in the bus, presumably to buy a new fan belt—plus a spare, Kiah hoped. She knew from previous stops that they would park somewhere safe, and either Tareq or Hamza would stay in the bus all night. Surely, she thought, no one would want to steal such a rattletrap? But they seemed to regard it as precious. She did not care, as long as it turned up in the morning to continue the journey.
Abdul too left the house. He would go to a bar or café, she guessed, and he might also keep an eye on Hakim and the guards.
In a corner of the courtyard was a hand-pumped shower behind a screen, and the men were able to wash. Kiah asked one of the serving girls if the women and Naji could wash in the house. The girl went inside, then came to the entrance and nodded. Kiah beckoned Esma and Bushra, the only other women on the bus, and they all went inside.
The underground water was very cold, but Kiah was grateful for it, and for the soap and towels generously provided by the invisible owner of the house—or, more likely, his senior wife, she guessed. She washed her underwear and Naji’s clothes. Feeling better, she returned to the courtyard.
When it got dark, torches were lit. Then the serving girls brought out mutton stew with couscous. Hakim would probably try to charge everyone for this in the morning. She did not let that thought spoil her pleasure. She fed Naji the couscous in the salty sauce, with some of the vegetables mashed, and he ate heartily. So did she.
Abdul returned as the torches were being extinguished. He sat a couple of yards from Kiah with his back to the wall. She lay down with Naji, who fell asleep instantly. Another day, she thought, a few miles closer to France, and we’re still alive; and with that thought she went to sleep.
Chapter 17
Pauline said: “Am I the only person who’s worried about what’s happening in Chad?” No one answered the question, of course. “It shows every sign of escalating,” she went on. “Sudan has now asked its ally Egypt to send troops to help combat aggression by Chad.”
It was a formal meeting of the National Security Council, with the national security advisor, the secretary of state, the chief of staff, and other key officials, plus their aides. Pauline had called them all in at seven o’clock in the morning. They were in the Cabinet Room, a long, high-ceilinged space with four large round-arched windows looking onto the West Colonnade. There was an oval mahogany conference table with twenty leather-upholstered chairs on a red carpet with gold stars. Up against both long walls were smaller chairs for aides. At the far end was a fireplace that was never used. A window was open, and Pauline could hear faintly the traffic on Fifteenth Street, a soft sound like a wind in distant trees.
Chester Jackson, the secretary of state, said: “The Egyptians haven’t yet agreed. They’re annoyed with the Sudanese for not supporting them over the building of that dam.”
“They will agree, though,” Pauline said. “The squabble about the dam is minor. Neighbor Sudan is claiming it was invaded. They explain their defeat by saying it was a sneak attack across the border. It’s not true, but that doesn’t matter.”
Gus Blake, the national security advisor, said: “The president is right, Chess. Yesterday in Khartoum there were hysterical nationalist demonstrations against Chad.”
“Demonstrations organized by the government, probably.”
“True, but it tells us where they’re headed.”
“Okay,” said Chess. “You’re right.”
Pauline said: “And Chad has asked France to double its forces there. Don’t tell me France won’t help them. France is committed to protecting the territorial integrity of Chad and other allies in the Sahel. And there are a billion barrels of oil under the sand in Chad, much of which belongs to the French oil company Total. France doesn’t want to quarrel with Egypt, and may not want to send more troops to Chad, but I think they’ll have to.”
Chess said: “I see what you mean about escalation.”
“Before long we will have French and Egyptian troops nose to nose across the Chad-Sudan border, each daring the other to shoot first.”
“It looks that way.”
“And it could get worse. Sudan and Egypt might ask China for reinforcements, and Beijing might comply—the Chinese are very serious about getting a foothold in Africa. Then France and Chad will ask the US for help. France is our ally in NATO, and we already have troops in Chad, so it becomes difficult for us to stay out of the fighting.”
“That’s a big jump,” said Chess.
“But am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
“And at that point we’re on the brink of a superpower war.”
The room went quiet for a moment.
The memory of Munchkin Country popped into Pauline’s mind. It was like a nightmare that would not go away even after the dreamer woke up. She saw again the ranks of cots in the barracks, the five-million-gallon water tank, and the Situation Room with its lines of phones and screens. She was haunted by the thought that one day she might find herself living in that underground hideout, the only person who could save the human race. And if the apocalypse happened, it would be her fault. She was the American president. There would be no one else to blame.
And she had to make sure James Moore never became the one with that dreadful duty. Aggression was his default mode, and that was what his supporters liked. He pretended that no one could ever stand against America—forgetting Vietnam, Cuba, Nicaragua. He talked tough and it made his fans feel big. But violent talk led to violent action in the world just as it did in the school playground. A fool was just a fool, but a fool in the White House was the most dangerous person in the world.
She said: “Let me see if I can pour oil on the waters before they become too troubled.” She turned to her chief of staff. “Jacqueline, schedule a call with the president of France, as soon as he’s available but in any event before the end of the day.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I must speak to the president of Egypt too, but we need to lay some groundwork first. Chess, talk to the Saudi ambassador here—Prince Faisal, isn’t it?”
“One of several Saudis called Prince Faisal, yes.”
“Ask him to talk to the Egyptians and encourage them to listen to what I have to say to them. The Saudis are allies of Egypt and should have some influence.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maybe we can put a stop to this before they all get too angry.” Pauline stood up, and everyone else followed suit. She said to Gus: “Walk with me as far as the Residence.”
He followed her out.
As they went along the West Colonnade he said: “You know, you were the only person in that room who perceived the extent of the danger. Everyone else was still seeing it as a little local fracas.”
Pauline nodded. He was right. That was why she was the boss. She said: “Thank you for sending me that eyewitness report of the battle at the refugee camp. It made vivid reading.”
“I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“I know the woman who wrote it, Tamara Levit. She’s from Chicago. She volunteered in my congressional campaign.” Pauline conjured a memory. “Dark-haired girl, well-dressed, very attractive; all the boys fell for her. She was good too—we made her an organizer.”
“And now she’s an agent with the CIA station in N’Djamena.”
“And not easily scared. Reading between the lines, Sudanese shells were exploding all around her while she was carrying her unconscious boss over her shoulder.”
“I could have used her in Afghanistan.”
“I’ll call her later.”
They arrived at the Residence. She left Gus and ran up the stairs to the family floor. Gerry was in the Dining Room, eating scrambled eggs and reading The Washington Post. Pauline sat down next to him and unfolded her napkin. She asked the cook for a plain omelet.
Pippa came in. She looked sleepy, but Pauline made no comment: she had read recently that teenagers needed a lot of sleep because they were growing so fast, and they were not just lazy. Pippa was wearing an oversize flannel shirt and distressed jeans. There was no uniform at Foggy Bottom Day School, but students were expected to wear clothes that were clean and reasonably neat. Pippa was clearly on the borderline, but Pauline remembered that she, at that age, had always tried to dress in a way that would offend the teachers without quite breaking the rules.
Pippa poured Lucky Charms into a bowl and added milk. Pauline thought of suggesting that she mix in a few blueberries, for the sake of the vitamins, then decided that that too was better left unsaid. Pippa’s diet was not ideal, but her immune system seemed to be working perfectly anyway.
What she did say was: “How’s school, my darling?”
Pippa looked surly. “I’m not smoking weed, don’t worry.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, but I was thinking more about the lessons.”
“Same shit, different day.”
Pauline thought: Do I really deserve this?
She said: “It’s only three years until you have to start applying to colleges. Do you have any ideas about where you might go and what you might study?”
“I don’t know if I want to go to college. I don’t really see the point.”
Pauline was taken aback but she recovered quickly. “Apart from learning for its own sake, I guess the point is to widen the life choices available to you. I can’t imagine what kind of job you’d get at the age of eighteen with only a high school diploma.”
“I might be a poet. I like poetry.”
“You could study poetry at college.”
“Yeah, but then they want you to have what they call a broad general education, which means I’d have to study, like, chemistry and geography and shit.”
“Which poets do you like?”
“Modern ones, who experiment. I don’t care about rhyme and meter and all that stuff.”
Pauline thought: Why am I not surprised?
She was tempted to raise the question of how Pippa would earn a living as an eighteen-year-old experimental poet, but she restrained herself yet again. The point was really too obvious to make. Let Pippa come to that realization on her own.
Pauline’s omelet arrived, giving her an excuse to end the conversation, and she picked up her fork with relief. Soon afterward Pippa finished her cereal, grabbed her bag, said: “Later,” and disappeared.
Pauline waited for Gerry to say something about Pippa’s mood but he remained silent, turning to the business section. There had been a time when he and Pauline would have commiserated with one another, but that had not happened much lately.
They had always talked about having two children. Gerry had been keen. But after Pippa arrived he became less enthusiastic about a second child. Pauline was a congresswoman by then, and Gerry had seemed to resent his share of the child care. Nevertheless they had tried, even though Pauline was by then in her late thirties. She had become pregnant again but miscarried, and after that Gerry did not want to try again. He had said he was worried about Pauline’s health, but she wondered if the real reason was that he did not want any more arguments about who was going to take the baby to the doctor. She had felt this decision like a body blow, but she had not fought him: it was a mistake to have a child that one parent did not want.
She noticed that he was wearing suspenders and a dress shirt, and she asked him: “What’s on your calendar today?”
“A board meeting. Nothing too taxing. You?”
“I have to make sure war doesn’t break out in North Africa. Nothing too taxing.”
He laughed, and for a moment she felt close to him again. Then he folded the newspaper and stood up. “I’d better put on my tie.”
“Enjoy your board meeting.”
He kissed her forehead. “Good luck with North Africa.” He went out.
Pauline returned to the West Wing but instead of going to the Oval Office she made her way to the press office. A dozen or so people, mostly quite young, sat at workstations, reading or keying. There were television screens around the walls, all showing different news shows. Copies of the morning’s papers were scattered everywhere.
Sandip Chakraborty had a desk in the middle of the room, which he preferred to a private office: he liked to be in the thick of things. He stood up as soon as Pauline entered. He was wearing his trademark suit-and-sneakers.
“The trouble in Chad,” she said to him. “Has that story had any traction?”
“Until a few minutes ago, no, Madam President,” Sandip said. “But James Moore just commented on NBC. He said you should not send American troops to intervene.”
“We already have a counterterrorism force of a couple of thousand soldiers there.”
“But he doesn’t know things like that.”
“Anyway, on a scale of one to ten?”
“It just went up from one to two.”
Pauline nodded. “Talk to Chester Jackson, please,” she said. “Agree on a short statement pointing out that we already have troops in Chad and other North African countries combating the Islamic State in the Greater Sahara.”
“Perhaps hinting at Moore’s ignorance? ‘Mr. Moore doesn’t seem to realize . . .’ That sort of thing?”
Pauline thought for a moment. She did not really like that kind of sniping in politics. “No, I don’t want Chess to come on like a smartass. Aim for the tone of one who patiently and kindly explains simple facts.”
“Got it.”
“Thank you, Sandip.”
“Thank you, Madam President.”
She went to the Oval Office.
She met with the Treasury secretary, spent an hour with the visiting Norwegian prime minister, and received a delegation of dairy farmers. She had her lunch on a tray in the study: cold poached salmon with a salad. While eating her lunch she read a briefing note on the water shortage in California.
Next was her phone call with the president of France. Chess came to the Oval Office and sat with her, listening on an earpiece. Gus and several others were listening in remotely. There were also interpreters at each end, in case of need, although Pauline and President Pelletier normally got by without them.
Georges Pelletier had a relaxed, easygoing manner, but when push came to shove he would ask himself what was in France’s interests and do it ruthlessly, so there was no guarantee that Pauline would get her way.
Pauline began by saying: “Bonjour, monsieur le president. Comment ça va, mon ami?”
The French president replied in perfect colloquial English. “Madam President, it’s very kind of you to pretend to speak French, and you know how much we appreciate it, but in the end it’s easier if we both speak English.”
Pauline laughed. Pelletier could be charming even when he was scoring a point. She said: “In any language, it’s a pleasure to talk to you.”
“And for me.”
She pictured him in the Élysée Palace, sitting at the vast president’s desk in the gilded Salon Doré, looking as if he were born there, elegant in a cashmere suit. She said: “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon here in Washington, so it must be seven in the evening in Paris. I guess you’re drinking champagne.”
“My first glass of the day, obviously.”
“Salut, then.”
“Cheers.”
“I’m calling about Chad.”
“I guessed.”
Pauline did not need to go over all that had happened. Georges was always well briefed. She said: “Your army and mine work together in Chad, combating ISGS, but I don’t think we want to get involved in a squabble with Sudan.”
“Correct.”
“The danger is that if there are troops on both sides of the border, sooner or later some fool is going to fire a rifle, and we’ll end up fighting a battle no one wants.”
