Day of Wrath

He welcomed the chance to compare the reports he’d studied with the flesh-and-blood man. Holcomb was the Deputy Director of the CIA — and reputedly the real mover and shaker inside the American spy agency.

The current Director was rumored to be more interested in editing position papers than in actively pursuing operations. Left to his own devices, Holcomb had apparently jumped into the leadership vacuum with gusto. His presence at this meeting was a good indication that the administration valued its “special relationship” with Caraco and its founder.

Ibrahim also noted with some amusement the absence of several other men who would have been there just months before.

None of the President’s political fund-raisers were anywhere in sight.

Evidently America’s current chief executive and his advisers had learned to be more cautious — though they were clearly still just as interested in amassing campaign and legal defense funds.

He strode forward to shake hands with the President and the other men, then took the offered seat and cup of coffee. He sipped without pleasure. A weak, thin brew — as always.

After several minutes of polite and meaningless chitchat — shared memories of student days at Oxford and Harvard and the like — Ibrahim leaned forward. “I know that your time is limited, Mr. President, so I will try not to waste any of it.”

The President’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, Your Highness. Don’t you worry about that, though.

I’ve got an army of bright-eyed aides who keep me running on schedule.”

Ibrahim allowed the polite fiction to pass unchallenged. This American president had a long and well-deserved reputation for tardiness.

Choosing his words carefully, he continued. “Very well, then. I’m sure you know how much my companies and I support your administration — in all its endeavors, both domestic and international.”

The President nodded seriously. “Naturally. And we’re very grateful for your corporation’s assistance, Highness.”

The CIA Deputy Director, Holcomb, nodded just as seriously.

Much of Caraco’s support was financial. Although present American law made direct political contributions from foreignowned businesses illegal, the President and his party organizations had received hundreds of thousands of dollars of “soft money” donations — all ostensibly made by American-born executives of Caraco and its subsidiaries. The fact that Ibrahim made those contributions possible by paying his subordinates special bonuses was left carefully unstated.

Other corporations offered larger sums, but few made their contributions so freely and so discreetly.

And campaign finance reforms that would plug the loopholes Ibrahim was exploiting were still bottlenecked in the Congress by partisan infighting.

There was another side to Caraco’s relationship with the administration, however — one that Holcomb and the President were both clearly aware of. From time to time, Caraco or its subsidiaries provided quiet assistance to the CIA and other U.S. intelligence organizations. Useful items of economic intelligence gathered in the course of its business operations flowed occasionally into U.S. databases. At other times, Caraco’s various enterprises provided convenient cover for covert CIA activities in the Middle East and Eastern Europe.

Enjoying this little dance of deliberate ambiguity, Ibrahim smiled.

Bargaining had its own long-established traditions — both in his own country and in the President’s native South.

Chief among them was that gifts were never true gifts. They always carried a hidden price tag. From the expectant looks on the faces of the President and his advisers, they were waiting for him to name Caraco’s price. So was his own man in this room, Richard Garrett.

Idly, he wondered whether any of these American politicians would really care if they knew they had already repaid his modest cash investment in their goodwill a hundred times over.

Washington, D.C was a city that lived on rumor, gossip, and influence.

Just the fact that he’d been invited to this private meeting with the nation’s top leaders would enhance Ibrahim’s reputation and smooth his way in any future dealings with American bureaucrats, regulators, and law enforcement officials.

Shifting slightly in his seat, the Saudi prince decided to move directly to his stated reason for seeking this meeting. He looked firmly into the eyes of the American leader. “Much as it saddens me to say so, Mr. President, I am concerned that the new congressional free trade bill with Russia is not being endorsed by your administration as strongly as it might be. I earnestly hope you will reconsider this position.”

The legislation, designed to lower trade barriers with Russia and Eastern Europe, had been sponsored by a bipartisan coalition, but administration support had been lukewarm — at best.

The President and the others in the room nodded gravely.