there.” Ryan hadn’t troubled himself to find out.
“That’s tantamount to murder.”
“It’s not my fault his peers don’t like him, Mr. Secretary. He’s also responsible for the deaths of American soldiers. Had we decided to eliminate him ourselves, even that would not be murder. It would have been a straightforward national-security exercise. Well, in another age it would have been,” Ryan allowed. Times had changed, and Ryan had to adapt himself to a new reality as well. “Instead, we are acting as good world-citizens by apprehending a dangerous international criminal and turning him over to the government of his country, which will put him on trial for drug-running, which is a felony in every legal jurisdiction of which I am aware. What happens next is up to the criminal-justice system of his country. That is a country with which we have diplomatic relations and other informal agreements of assistance, and whose laws, therefore, we must respect.”
Hanson didn’t like it. That was clear from the way he leaned back in his chair. But he would support it in public because he had no choice. The State Department had announced official American support for that government half a dozen times in the previous year. What stung worse for Hanson was being outmaneuvered by this young upstart in front of him.
“They might even have a chance to make it now, Brett,” Durling observed gently, putting his own seal of approval on Operation WALKMAN. “And it never happened.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Jack, you were evidently right about this Clark fellow. What do we do about him?”
“I’ll leave that to the DCI, sir. Maybe another Intelligence Star for him,” Ryan suggested, hoping that Durling would forward it to Langley. If not, maybe a discreet call of his own to Mary Pat. Then it was time for fence-mending, a new skill for Ryan. “Mr. Secretary, in case you didn’t know, our people were under orders to use nonlethal force if possible. Beyond that, my only concern is the lives of our people.”
“I wish you’d cleared it through my people first,” Hanson grumped.
Deep breath, Ryan commanded himself. The mess was of State’s making, along with that of Ryan’s predecessor. Having entered the country to restore order after it had been destroyed by local warlords—another term used by the media to give a label to common thugs—the powers-that-be had later decided, after the entire mission had gone to hell, that the “warlords” in question had to be part of the “political solution” to the problem. That the problem had been created by the warlords in the first place was conveniently forgotten. It was the circularity of the logic that offended Ryan most of all, who wondered if they taught a logic course at Yale. Probably an elective, he decided. At Boston College it had been mandatory.
“It’s done, Brett,” Durling said quietly, “and nobody will mourn the passing of Mr. Corp. What’s next?” the President asked Ryan.
“The Indians are getting rather frisky. They’ve increased the operating tempo of their navy, and they’re conducting operations around Sri Lanka—”
“They’ve done that before,” SecState cut in.
“Not in this strength, and I don’t like the way they’ve continued their talks with the ‘Tamil Tigers,’ or whatever the hell those maniacs call themselves now. Conducting extended negotiations with a guerrilla group operating on the soil of a neighbor is not an act of friendship.”
This was a new concern for the U.S. government. The two former British colonies had lived as friendly neighbors for a long time, but for years the Tamil people on the island of Sri Lanka had maintained a nasty little insurgency. The Sri Lankans, with relatives on the Indian mainland, had asked for foreign troops to maintain a peace-keeping presence. India had obliged, but what had started in an honorable fashion was now changing. There were rumbles that the Sri Lankan government
“That’s tantamount to murder.”
“It’s not my fault his peers don’t like him, Mr. Secretary. He’s also responsible for the deaths of American soldiers. Had we decided to eliminate him ourselves, even that would not be murder. It would have been a straightforward national-security exercise. Well, in another age it would have been,” Ryan allowed. Times had changed, and Ryan had to adapt himself to a new reality as well. “Instead, we are acting as good world-citizens by apprehending a dangerous international criminal and turning him over to the government of his country, which will put him on trial for drug-running, which is a felony in every legal jurisdiction of which I am aware. What happens next is up to the criminal-justice system of his country. That is a country with which we have diplomatic relations and other informal agreements of assistance, and whose laws, therefore, we must respect.”
Hanson didn’t like it. That was clear from the way he leaned back in his chair. But he would support it in public because he had no choice. The State Department had announced official American support for that government half a dozen times in the previous year. What stung worse for Hanson was being outmaneuvered by this young upstart in front of him.
“They might even have a chance to make it now, Brett,” Durling observed gently, putting his own seal of approval on Operation WALKMAN. “And it never happened.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Jack, you were evidently right about this Clark fellow. What do we do about him?”
“I’ll leave that to the DCI, sir. Maybe another Intelligence Star for him,” Ryan suggested, hoping that Durling would forward it to Langley. If not, maybe a discreet call of his own to Mary Pat. Then it was time for fence-mending, a new skill for Ryan. “Mr. Secretary, in case you didn’t know, our people were under orders to use nonlethal force if possible. Beyond that, my only concern is the lives of our people.”
“I wish you’d cleared it through my people first,” Hanson grumped.
Deep breath, Ryan commanded himself. The mess was of State’s making, along with that of Ryan’s predecessor. Having entered the country to restore order after it had been destroyed by local warlords—another term used by the media to give a label to common thugs—the powers-that-be had later decided, after the entire mission had gone to hell, that the “warlords” in question had to be part of the “political solution” to the problem. That the problem had been created by the warlords in the first place was conveniently forgotten. It was the circularity of the logic that offended Ryan most of all, who wondered if they taught a logic course at Yale. Probably an elective, he decided. At Boston College it had been mandatory.
“It’s done, Brett,” Durling said quietly, “and nobody will mourn the passing of Mr. Corp. What’s next?” the President asked Ryan.
“The Indians are getting rather frisky. They’ve increased the operating tempo of their navy, and they’re conducting operations around Sri Lanka—”
“They’ve done that before,” SecState cut in.
“Not in this strength, and I don’t like the way they’ve continued their talks with the ‘Tamil Tigers,’ or whatever the hell those maniacs call themselves now. Conducting extended negotiations with a guerrilla group operating on the soil of a neighbor is not an act of friendship.”
This was a new concern for the U.S. government. The two former British colonies had lived as friendly neighbors for a long time, but for years the Tamil people on the island of Sri Lanka had maintained a nasty little insurgency. The Sri Lankans, with relatives on the Indian mainland, had asked for foreign troops to maintain a peace-keeping presence. India had obliged, but what had started in an honorable fashion was now changing. There were rumbles that the Sri Lankan government
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