Vince Flynn - Executive Power

"There is a school of thought"-Kennedy couched her words carefully-"that Israel no longer cares what the UN thinks."

The President had not heard this before and asked, "How so?"

"To be sure, there are elements within Israel that believe engagement is the only way to lasting peace and security, but there is a growing lobby that thinks every time Israel trusts her concerns and security to another country or organization, she gets burned."

Secretary of State Berg concurred.

"They see the UN at a bare minimum as being unsympathetic and at worst, as blatantly anti-Semitic."

Kennedy agreed.

"So by killing the Palestinian Ambassador in New York, they're telling the UN what they really think of them, while at the same time sending a message to the Palestinians that they can be every bit as brutal as they are."

Culbertson started to see their point.

"UN resolutions go un-enforced all the time, so why bother trying to appease them."

"Exactly," replied Berg.

The armor-plated Mercedes limousine came to a stop in front of the north entrance to the West Wing. Two spit-polished marines stood at attention in their dress blues, one on each side of the door, like sentries to an ancient palace. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz stepped from the black limousine and buttoned his suit coat, while ignoring the reporters who were shouting questions at him from the lawn on the other side of the driveway. The cousin to the Crown Prince had left his keffiyeh back at the embassy. In fact, the only time he wore the traditional garb of his people was when he returned home or was forced to do so because of ceremony.

Over the last fifty-four years the Ambassador had spent more time in America than Saudi Arabia, which was fitting, since he'd been born at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. His early schooling had been handled by tutors and then at the age of fourteen he was shipped off to Philips Exeter Academy, the ultra-exclusive prep school in New Hampshire. After Philips Exeter it was on to Harvard for both his undergraduate and graduate degrees.

Abdul Bin Aziz had a great affinity for America. More than anything, though, he admired his host country's secular approach to governance.

He had seen the true evil that could be perpetrated by men with deep religious conviction and it scared him. This was why he owned three homes in America and rarely allowed his children to return to Saudi Arabia. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz believed that in his lifetime the House of Saud would fall. It would be trampled by the very fanatics his relatives had supported over the years.

The ultra-orthodox Wahhabi sect of Islam had spread like an unruly weed across his country and beyond, choking out all forward and rational thinking, silencing all dissenters within and without the faith, and damning millions of people to a belief system that had more in common with the Stone Age than the twenty-first century.

And now, in this dangerous time, he was once again sent to the White House by his cousin, the Crown Prince, to try to appease the fanatics without slitting their own throats.

The entire security team was tense. Twenty or so protestors stood on the other side of the heavy black steel gate, but that's not what concerned Uri Doran, the man charged with protecting Israel's Ambassador to the United States of America. It was the camera crews, two of them to be precise. Doran had been with Shin Bet, Israel's internal security service, for eighteen years. The organization was the rough equivalent of the Secret Service and the State Department's Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He'd learned over the years that cameras were far more dangerous than any bullhorn, sign or brick.

Through simple editing, he and his people could be made to look like jackbooted thugs.

The Metropolitan Police had dispatched two squads to help deal with the crowd, but their presence did little to abate Doran's worries.

He'd watched Washington's finest in action before, and with a record number of law suits for police brutality in the past few years, the men and women in blue were not about to forcibly subdue unruly protestors and put their careers in jeopardy. To make matters even worse, Washington was a town filled with professional protestors who knew exactly when and how to provoke a confrontation. When forced to move, they were prone to pratfalls and overly dramatic wails of pain as if their limbs were being twisted to the point of breaking. All of this was done, of course, right in front of the cameras to elicit maximum drama for the nightly news audience.

Doran clutched his tiny digital two-way in his hand and looked out across the embassy grounds at the protestors. For now they were acting somewhat civilly, but as soon as the Ambassador's armored limousine began to move they would go nuts and rush the gate. For a moment he longed for his days in Argentina when the police would simply turn the water cannons on the crowd and be done with it. This was America, however, and he could hope all he wanted, but such a thing would never happen.

Sitting out the storm would be the best course of action, but the Ambassador had told him this was not possible. His presence was requested at the White House, and given the current state of affairs, it was a request he could not ignore. One of Doran's men had suggested sneaking the Ambassador out the back way, in one of the security sedans, but the head of the detail had dismissed it for two reasons. The first was that the Ambassador was too vain to show up at the White House in a mere sedan, and the second was that none of the sedans were as safe as the Ambassador's armor-plated gas guzzler. They would just have to gently inch their way through the crowd and fix the dents and scratches later.

Doran stepped back into the embassy to find Ambassador Eitan nervously pointing at his watch. The Shin Bet officer reluctantly nodded and brought his radio to his mouth. He alerted his team that the Ambassador was coming out and then after waiting a moment he escorted the Ambassador out the door and quickly into the backseat of the black Cadillac.

The random course to the White House had been chosen and the lead and chase sedans were in place. The heavy vehicle rolled slowly toward the gate. From his position in the front seat Doran could see the protestors begin their surge. Doran resisted the urge to grab the Uzi submachine gun from under the dash. They were simple protestors and nothing more, he told himself. He radioed his team, reminding them to stay calm. They'd been through it before.

The gates slowly started to open and the group immediately pressed past the four police officers trying to hold the line. Doran's orders were specific in one regard; if any protestor was foolish enough to try to run through the open gate they were to be immediately brought to the ground. Having witnessed the efficiency of Doran's men before, all of the protestors stopped short of the curb. The lead sedan nudged its way through the crowd, creating a path for the limousine, which stayed right on the sedan's bumper.

The protestors collapsed in around the limousine and began acting like berserk chimpanzees on some safari tour gone bad. They were hammering the limo with their signs, and although Doran couldn't see it, they would also be scratching the paint job with car keys. Out of nowhere came an object that caused Doran to freeze. He could do nothing but watch. It was against all standard security procedures to open the door. The metal cylinder was hoisted over the shoulder of one of the police officers and then a mist of bright orange paint began to coat the front windshield and the side of the car as the limousine kept moving.

As the three-car motorcade broke free, Doran swore to himself and pressed the transmit button on his two-way, telling his people back at the gate to make sure the culprit was arrested. He would press charges this time and make sure the idiot received the maximum penalty allowed by the American courts.