The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

of scholarly study were the fundamental changes in the shape of the political
world. That was what really counted. Historians remembered the ones who shaped
political events – Bismarck, not Edison – treating technical changes in society
as though they were driven by political factors, and not the reverse, which, she
judged, might have been equally likely. But historiography had its own rules and
conventions that had little to do with reality, because reality was too large a
thing to grasp, even for academics working years after events. Politicians
played within those rules, and that suited them because following those rules
meant that when something memorable happened, the historians would remember
them.
'Service to the world?' Elliot responded after a lengthy pause. 'Service to the
world. I like the sound of that. They called Wilson the man who kept us out of
war. You will be remembered as the one who put an end to war.'
Fowler and Elliot both knew that scant months after being reelected on that
platform, Wilson had led America into his first truly foreign war, the war to
end all wars, optimists had called it, well before holocaust and nuclear
nightmares. But this time, both thought, it was more than mere optimism, and
Wilson's transcendent vision of what the world could be was finally within the
grasp of the political figures who made the world into the shape of their own
choosing.
***
The man was a Druse, an unbeliever, but for all that he was respected. He bore
the scars of his own battle with the Zionists. He'd gone into battle, and been
decorated for his courage. He'd lost his mother to their inhuman weapons. And
he'd supported the movement whenever asked. Qati was a man who had never lost
touch with the fundamentals. As a boy he'd read the Little Red Book of Chairman
Mao. That Mao was, of course, an infidel of the worst sort – he'd refused even
to acknowledge the idea of a God and persecuted those who worshipped – was
beside the point. The revolutionary was a fish who swam in a peasant sea, and
maintaining the good will of those peasants – or in this case, a shopkeeper –
was the foundation of whatever success he might enjoy. This Druse had
contributed what money he could, had once sheltered a wounded freedom fighter in
his home. Such debts were not forgotten. Qati rose from his desk to greet the
man with a warm handshake and the perfunctory kisses.
'Welcome, my friend.'
'Thank you for seeing me, Commander.' The shopkeeper seemed very nervous, and
Qati wondered what the problem was.
'Please, take a chair. Abdullah,' he called, 'would you bring coffee for our
guest?'
'You are too kind.'
'Nonsense. You are our comrade. Your friendship has not wavered in – how many
years?'
The shopkeeper shrugged, smiling inwardly that this investment was about to pay
off. He was frightened of Qati and his people – that was why he had never
crossed them. He also kept Syrian authorities informed of what he'd done for
them, because he was wary of those people, too. Mere survival in that part of
the world was an art form, and a game of chance.