fools everywhere. The French, of course, can be counted on to go their own way every time. But the Germans have stabbed us in the back; that red-and-green government is more worried about what the liberal press will say than about keeping its commitments."
"We can always count on the UK," Dick Garby put in.
"Yeah, but it's not enough," Bush's adviser replied. "We have the Italians too, and the Spaniards, Portuguese, Poles, and several other countries, but what are they worth? A hundred soldiers each? Even the Mexicans are waffling now, and the Russians and Chinese are rubbing their hands together, watching us twist in the wind."
"When do we invade?" Robert Brown asked straight out.
"As soon as the boys from the Pentagon tell us they're ready. We'll soften up the country with aerial raids first. I figure five or six months at the outside. This is September, so figure March, sometime in early spring. I'll let you know."
"We need to start getting the Committee for the Reconstruction of Iraq up and running," Edward Fox said.
"Yeah, we've thought about that. I'll call you in three or four days. It's a big pie, but you've got to be in line early to get the best pieces of it. Tell me which parts you want and we'll start working on it."
Almost all of them ordered bacalao al pil-pil, a specialty of the Basque: cod cooked with olive oil, garlic, and a chili pepper for spici-ness in a pan rotated over the fire constantly to bring out the delicious juices of the fish. As they ate, the men laid the foundation of their future business dealings in Iraq. There was so much that was going to be destroyed, and so much that would have to be rebuilt. . . .
Lunch was profitable for everyone. They agreed to meet again, over the weekend, at the Millers' picnic. They could continue their talks then—if their wives would let them.
The office of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation was located in a steel-and-glass building not far from the White House. The views were wonderful, but Robert had never really been able to bring himself to like Washington. He preferred New York, where a branch of the foundation conducted its business in a large brownstone in the Village that dated from the eighteenth century. It had been the foundation's first headquarters, and despite the fact that it no longer was of the slightest practical use—though Ralph Barry, too, preferred to work there—none of the directors had ever had the heart to dispose of it. When he was in New York, Robert held his most important meetings there, or sometimes in the private office he maintained on the lower floor of his own home, a splendid duplex overlooking Central Park.
"Smith, I need to talk to Paul Dukais. Right away, please," Robert said as he returned to the office after lunch.
Dukais' hoarse voice came on the line less than a minute later.
"Paul, my friend, I was calling to see if we could have dinner together."
"Sure, Robert, of course. I'd be delighted. When?" "How about tonight?"
"Tonight? I can't," Dukais said, his voice apologetic. "My wife is dragging me to the opera. It'll have to be tomorrow night."
"There's not much time left, Paul. Fuck the opera—we're about to start a war."
"If I'm going to war, I've got to be sure the domestic front is at peace, my friend, and Doris is always complaining that I never go with her to these social events—which she claims give us what little respectability we have." Dukais laughed. "I promised, Robert—promised Doris and my daughter both. So even if we declare the Third World War, I'm going to the opera tonight. We can have dinner tomorrow."
"No, let's make it breakfast. We need to get moving. Come to my house; it's best to meet there, anyway. Is seven all right?"
"Jesus, Robert, take it easy. I'll be there at eight."
Brown closed himself up in his office. At seven-thirty Smith knocked softly at the door.
"Do you need me, Mr. Brown?"
"No, Smith, thanks. Go home. I'll see you in a day or two."
He worked for a while longer.
"We can always count on the UK," Dick Garby put in.
"Yeah, but it's not enough," Bush's adviser replied. "We have the Italians too, and the Spaniards, Portuguese, Poles, and several other countries, but what are they worth? A hundred soldiers each? Even the Mexicans are waffling now, and the Russians and Chinese are rubbing their hands together, watching us twist in the wind."
"When do we invade?" Robert Brown asked straight out.
"As soon as the boys from the Pentagon tell us they're ready. We'll soften up the country with aerial raids first. I figure five or six months at the outside. This is September, so figure March, sometime in early spring. I'll let you know."
"We need to start getting the Committee for the Reconstruction of Iraq up and running," Edward Fox said.
"Yeah, we've thought about that. I'll call you in three or four days. It's a big pie, but you've got to be in line early to get the best pieces of it. Tell me which parts you want and we'll start working on it."
Almost all of them ordered bacalao al pil-pil, a specialty of the Basque: cod cooked with olive oil, garlic, and a chili pepper for spici-ness in a pan rotated over the fire constantly to bring out the delicious juices of the fish. As they ate, the men laid the foundation of their future business dealings in Iraq. There was so much that was going to be destroyed, and so much that would have to be rebuilt. . . .
Lunch was profitable for everyone. They agreed to meet again, over the weekend, at the Millers' picnic. They could continue their talks then—if their wives would let them.
The office of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation was located in a steel-and-glass building not far from the White House. The views were wonderful, but Robert had never really been able to bring himself to like Washington. He preferred New York, where a branch of the foundation conducted its business in a large brownstone in the Village that dated from the eighteenth century. It had been the foundation's first headquarters, and despite the fact that it no longer was of the slightest practical use—though Ralph Barry, too, preferred to work there—none of the directors had ever had the heart to dispose of it. When he was in New York, Robert held his most important meetings there, or sometimes in the private office he maintained on the lower floor of his own home, a splendid duplex overlooking Central Park.
"Smith, I need to talk to Paul Dukais. Right away, please," Robert said as he returned to the office after lunch.
Dukais' hoarse voice came on the line less than a minute later.
"Paul, my friend, I was calling to see if we could have dinner together."
"Sure, Robert, of course. I'd be delighted. When?" "How about tonight?"
"Tonight? I can't," Dukais said, his voice apologetic. "My wife is dragging me to the opera. It'll have to be tomorrow night."
"There's not much time left, Paul. Fuck the opera—we're about to start a war."
"If I'm going to war, I've got to be sure the domestic front is at peace, my friend, and Doris is always complaining that I never go with her to these social events—which she claims give us what little respectability we have." Dukais laughed. "I promised, Robert—promised Doris and my daughter both. So even if we declare the Third World War, I'm going to the opera tonight. We can have dinner tomorrow."
"No, let's make it breakfast. We need to get moving. Come to my house; it's best to meet there, anyway. Is seven all right?"
"Jesus, Robert, take it easy. I'll be there at eight."
Brown closed himself up in his office. At seven-thirty Smith knocked softly at the door.
"Do you need me, Mr. Brown?"
"No, Smith, thanks. Go home. I'll see you in a day or two."
He worked for a while longer.
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