Tehran Decree (11 page)

He had decided that he would traverse the
presidential motorcade route until he had a workable plan
--
checking out each feature of the surroundings, and delving into the
flaws of the US security schedule. Nothing was perfect and the best
security arrangements in the world always had weaknesses -- these
would be ruthlessly exploited.

It didn’t matter how long the US secret service spent
checking the layout of the suburbs, they would still lack the
subtleties of the street wise individual, who actually lived in the
city, and knew the peculiarities of Sydney milieu.

Most important of all was the terrorists escape route
which had to stretch all the way from the Sydney suburbs to the
Iranian capital of Iran -- daunting though it seemed, they had a
trump card on their side -- it would be the life of the president
of the United States. He would see them through or they would all
die in the attempt.

Kazeni took one last look around Rushcutters Bay Park
and uncovered his lap top on the passenger seat.

He smiled appreciatively as the computer booted up
and went automatically into fast Internet broad band. Surfing the
private aircraft charter listings he picking out three fast
helicopter machines, which seemed suitable for a fast trip across
the country to Darwin. Then checked the private Lear jet companies
for a long range aircraft suitable for a small group of people.

He went over the specifications of each aircraft
keying in weights, and passenger numbers in relation to fuel
capacity, placing the figures in the computer’s calculator. Then he
estimated speeds and distances covered with possible fuel stops. He
crunched the numbers in his head several times making absolutely
sure they were accurate and reliable, even though the computer
supposedly supplied accurate data; from past experience he knew
that the computer was only as good as the operator and wasn’t
always totally reliable.

One thing he liked to do was organise and improvise
on the spot; it was a very necessary skill for a successful
terrorist. Thinking on ones feet would commence from the word go
and continue until the mission was well and truly over.

Tentatively he made two bookings, one for a Lear jet,
and the other for a helicopter. In the back pages of his diary he
also penciled in two other companies which supplied similar
aircraft -- these he would access if the current firm failed him
for some unforeseen reasons. Back-ups were essential and well
illustrated by the Iranian hostage situation fiasco code named
Eagle Claw. The operation resulted in eight American deaths and
total humiliation on the world stage. This was largely due to
equipment failure, inclement weather and most important of all,
lack of efficient back-up. Had a second independent stand by team
been available the operation could well have been a great success
for the US. Kazeni was determined to learn not only from their own
mistakes, but those of the enemy as well.

He had considered tendering the companies between
each other for the best offers, but eventually discarded the idea.
Time was short and money was not a problem in the devious world of
the BIB.

Chapter Twenty-one

White House, Washington

David Bourne dropped a heavy brown envelope in the
vice presidents ‘IN’ tray, smiled slightly at his superior, and
left the room without a word.

Jenkins finished his coffee, peered around the office
area, then carefully slit open the envelope with his silver letter
opener. He browsed slowly through the photocopied material stopping
at a recent communiqué. He cursed, openly repeating the ‘F’ word
several times, the bastards were still cutting him out of the loop.
He wasn’t sure if this was the ingrained treatment most vice
presidents got when placed in charge during a presidential absence
or not. It was akin to a locum doctors position, where people
always avoided making an appointment with a locum MD whenever their
favourite doctor was on leave.

The only other option was almost certainly personal
and he didn’t really care about the reasons, he had his own way of
dealing with such things. Contempt was best stemmed by an equal and
opposite dose of the same thing and when combined with Fabian like
tactics, it was devastatingly successful, the only problem with
this approach was that it became addictive, and was the quickest
way to a life of self corruption.

In any case, he much preferred being treated with
contempt, it tended to clear the air of bullshit and gave him a
reason to be irascible. He shrugged off this latest dose of human
nature and continued his monitoring.

Most of the info was outdated and run-of-the-mill
stuff, but occasionally a gem would be found among the rubble. He
stared at the penultimate page from the end. It was an update of
the presidential motorcade route in Sydney. A thoughtful Australian
commissioner of police had added an extra notation to the security
listing.

Apparently, one security barrier at the airport exit
end of the cross city tunnel would be briefly removed to allow a
group of US and Australian service veterans to cheer and wave
farewell to their president in a more personal way. A hasty apology
was given by an inspector Jarvis, who pointed out that the vets
would be fronted by a row of federal police right up until the
moment the presidential motorcade passed by, then the police line
would break allowing a gap of several metres to allow both
president and veterans to wave to each other. A fifteen second
window would be allowed before the police line closed again, thus
quickly sealing any possible breach of security.

Jenkins chuckled inwardly, if there was a weakness in
security it was always a human one, and humans were wonderfully
predictive in their behaviour patterns. He thought about president
Garner and his policy of consultation and appeasement with allies
-- such sentiments often lead to a similar policy with enemies, and
a president with a conscience, was indeed a president with a
liability.

Not everyone in the world had a politically correct
conscience which bothered them, such exotic sentiments were a
rarity in the Islamic militia. In a US president -- it could be
fatal.

Chapter Twenty-two

The motorcade passed along Circular Key with the US
president smiling profusely at his chief of staff, Jack Magnus, and
national security advisor, Ellen Monard, sitting along side him in
the back seat of the second car. The conference had hammered out
several crucial agreements, the main one being the use of nuclear
force against Iran. In the event of nuclear hostilities by Iranian
government all parties had agreed after concerted lobbying that the
United States would have total carte blanche in the use of nuclear
weapons and would be supported by the heads of all governments
present.

‘Well I must say that went particularly well Mr.
president...total agreement between heads of state...must surely be
a first in the history of the civilised world.’

‘You’re damned right it did Jack...they know we’re
right. If we don’t all pull together and stand up to these bastards
the free world is lost.’

The president smiled profusely and lit up a cigar,
even though he didn’t smoke, which immediately provoked a severe
coughing fit. He looked through watery, bloodshot eyes, at Ellen
Monard.

‘You know Ell’ I kept this cigar especially for this
sort of occasion, the First Lady gave it to me for Christmas last
year...it was a purely symbolic gesture for my success as
president,’ Ellen gazed at it with a mixture of wonder and horror
-- it was the biggest gold banded Cuban cigar she’d ever seen.

‘I’m determined to smoke it if it kills me,’ Ellen
shook her head in unison with Jack Magnus and immediately saw it as
a possible threat to the presidents health and security.

‘Excuse me sir, but you should have kept it in it’s
display box, that is definitely a museum piece,' Garner tried to
laugh through a choking fit.

‘I hate to say it sir, but it probably will kill
you,’ Ellen had often considered that presidents had too much
personal power for their own good, and needed a firm hand to guide
them from time to time. She was pleased to see Garner dressed in
his finest blue suite, with gray ultrafine pinstripe, of all the
suites in his vast wardrobe this one suited him the best. A stellar
performance could be expected from the president simply because he
was wearing his favourite attire.

It was true, over many years of experience in the
public gaze, she had learned that clothing was critical, one had to
feel the part, and this could only be achieved if clothing and
personality complimented each other perfectly -- it was interactive
psychology at its best.

In spite of this Garner looked tired and laid his
head back, gazing out the window, taking in all the high barriers
and lines of yellow fluorescent jacketed police. Occasionally he
glimpsed curious pink faced members of the public gawking through
restrictive barriers.

The motorcade continued on the scheduled route to the
Maritime Museum at Darling Harbour, passing a multitude of wine
bars, a plethora of crowded restaurants, and several up market
clothing boutiques. Aroma’s of all kinds flashed past his olfactory
senses but unfortunately were lost on the over powering cigar
stench pervading the car space. The president continued with the
monstrous cheroot, taking short puffs and blowing smoke out of the
half opened window, dispute polite rebuffs from his impatient
security advisor. He finally turned to his chief of staff with a
wistful expression.

‘You know...one day, I’m going to come here in
cognitio, and give this place the tourist thrashing of its life.
When you’re president you get to see nothing but police barriers,
security staff and blurred faces. I just want to see the place for
what it is...warts and all.’ The driver pushed a clean air button
on the fascia panel and a near silent fan started to extract the
remnants of the cigar smoke. The president looked askance at the
driver as if the very action of cleaning his cigar smoke from the
car amounted to the wanton destruction of a sacred substance. He
was about to chastise the man, then thought better of it --
president Garner had taken a course in personal paranoia, and how
to control such vexations in the face of annoyance. He turned away
from the driver and induced a smile which spread across his face
like butter on hot toast. The great trick with motorcades and the
ever ogling public, was to actively enjoy it, regardless of how
your actual feelings were.

The crowds and cheering increased as the motorcade
pulled onto the Darling Harbour concourse and slowly made its way
to the Museum. American flags abounded with blotches of Australian
flags thrown in, providing a glitzy, polka-dot background. A sense
of excitement pervaded the president’s limousine and the president
continued to smile behind an increasing feeling of sickness in his
stomach.
‘Why did stomach disorders have to be so bloody
debilitating,’
he mouthed under his breath -- which immediately
made him think of his other great affliction the common toothache
?

He instantly brushed it off for the second time, it
was the very last thing the USA’s top statesman needed at such an
important occasion. He pointed at one of the main museum buildings;
he remembered the steel and stone edifice from brochures he’d
studied back in the States. The car stopped and Garner alighted,
swaying slightly, as the cigar smoking incident took its toll on
his brain cells. Determined to make a good impression, he strode up
to the Museum entrance, surrounded by a bevy of security men. He
felt secure, cocooned with his own human shield, who helped to prop
him up, even though his guttural senses were now riding him
ragged.

He clung discreetly to his two lateral security
agents just in case his visceral reactions got the better of him. A
vomiting spree in public was a dreaded faux pas to any politician,
especially a US President, and to be avoided at all costs. A
discrete water proof vomit bag, carefully folded, had been placed
in his side pocket for easy retrieval; but only to be used as an
absolute last resort.

Ellen Monard along with a handful of agents brought
up the rear keeping close to the president’s back, shielding him
from possible assault from behind. Monard pushed her head forward
whispering discreetly in the president’s ear.

‘Breath in deeply sir, the air is fresher around the
harbour area, it’ll clear the cigar smoke from your lungs,’ Garner
did as he was told and breathed in heavily sticking out his chest
in the process. His face took on a gray pallor and slowly began to
turn white. Garner continued putting on a brave front but realised
the damage was done and an incident wasn’t too far away. The horror
of the occasion was that he couldn’t turn back without creating a
media incident; he had to go on.

The only option left to him was self control. Garner
knew it was possible to prevent regurgitation of the stomach
content, but it needed intense control via self suggestion, which
was the basis of all hypnosis; but in spite of this, sooner or
later, the body would probably have its way.

If he could control himself until he managed to get
back to the reinforced presidential vehicle; he could throw up for
all he was worth. Many underlings would be all too please to clean
up after the president; it would be a memory worth saving for the
grand kids... ‘
Believe it or not
...
I cleaned up after the
president of the United States!’

Chapter Twenty-three

Police Security HQ

Commissioner Clement Chester sat watching the CCTV
coverage dressed in his serge blue uniform with rank insignia and
ribbon medals, adding a bit of class and a splash of colour to an
other wise drab control HQ. The room had been stripped of a swag
personnel for the presidential visit in order to give maximum
control and coverage at street level. President Garner had picked a
bad time to visit Sydney, but he wasn’t to know, that several
hundred police had resigned in the last six months over unfair work
loads and pay disputes.