I, Said the Spy. Derek Lambert
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of ammunition that Harsch would direct against her when/if he got the No. 3 job.
When is an enemy of Israel not an enemy? When he’s a Persian, according to U.S. arms dealers assuaging their consciences about the destination of their weaponry in the Middle East.
Few armaments manufacturers would overtly clinch deals with states committed to anti-Israel policies. But for a long time Pentagon officials have succeeded in the not-too-daunting task of persuading them that the pro-West Iran falls into a different category. That by strengthening Western clout in the Middle East they are, in fact, helping the cause of the beleagured Israelis. In 1974 a staggering $3.9 billion of the total $8.3 billion arms sales went to Iran.
Currently facing the dilemma of whether or not to help satisfy the Shah’s insatiable appetite for the most sophisticated arms is Mrs Claire Jerome, 38, head, in all but title, of Marks International, the California-based conglomerate. Mrs Jerome is Jewish and she has in the past proved to be intransigent on her Middle East policy to supply only the Jews. But this time the Shah from his Peacock Throne is dangling a $1.5 billion carrot. Can Mrs Jerome, bearing in mind the interests of stockholders and employees, afford to disregard it?
‘Well,’ Harsch asked, ‘can she?’
Claire Jerome began to brush her shiny hair. ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ she said. ‘And Stephen ….’
Harsch looked up inquiringly.
‘I think I did tell you to get the hell out of it last night. Would you oblige now please?’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘And shower in the other bathroom, would you. This is strictly private.’
Harsch gathered together his crumpled clothes and headed for the door. In the circumstances, Claire thought, he managed to muster a little dignity.
At the door, shielding his nakedness with his clothes, he turned and said: ‘You know you’ll have to make up your mind about that order from Iran pretty damn soon.’
She said: ‘I’m flying to Washington today to discuss it.’
Harsch frowned. ‘Who with?’
Claire Jerome enjoyed her moment. ‘With the President of the United States,’ she told him.
Happier now, she put on a dark-grey, two-piece suit and red cashmere roll-neck sweater, fetched her mink and went down in the elevator to the lobby, where the driver of her Rolls Corniche was waiting for her.
* * *
1.43 pm. The Oval Office of the White House.
Claire Jerome entered nervously. The President rose to greet her. It was odd, she reflected, that a couple of years ago she would have been quite composed in the presence of this man; now because he was President by default she was agitated.
The President, tall and hefty and a little gangling with pale thinning hair, did his best to put her at her ease. He wagged his pipe at her. ‘Do you mind this?’
She managed a smile and shook her head. ‘But I don’t care for cigar smoke.’ He probably smoked them in secret.
‘I wish,’ the President said, ‘that every business tycoon I met looked like you.’
Claire began to relax because he was so relaxed.
‘I want you to meet Bill Danby,’ the President said. He corrected himself. ‘Although I think you two know each other already.’
Danby inclined his head and smiled. ‘We have met.’
The last time had been in Danby’s office on the outskirts of the city, when she had assured him that she intended to continue Marks International’s policy of collaborating with the CIA.
A steward in a red jacket served coffee. Claire declined and the President said: ‘Bill will have your cup. He lives on the stuff. Would you prefer tea?’
Claire, who would have preferred a beer, shook her head. So did the President; perhaps he would have liked a beer too. Danby sipped his coffee – contained and watchful as always but not as omnipotent as he seemed in his own office. The Oval Office did that to people.
As Claire glanced around the room, history enfolded her. Oil-paintings of Lincoln and Washington resurrected the past; so did the furniture – an antique chest of drawers, a grandfather clock loudly ticking away the present into the past.
The President – or his wife – had taste.
The Presidential desk and its environs, however, were an island on which the man’s own personality was stamped. Behind his swivel seat, between desk and the gold-draped windows, was a table on which stood photographs of his family; on the desk was a pennant bearing the name of a College baseball team.
The President relit his pipe and said: ‘It’s been Cambodia day today. Do you think we should cut aid, Mrs Jerome?’ He peered at her through a cloud of smoke.
‘It’s in my interests to say no, I guess. But to be truthful, I don’t think it’s going to do much good. The Government will fall however much we send them.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right. But we can’t reduce our commitment. Never let it be said that the United States has been niggardly.’ He pointed his pipe at Danby. ‘Bill, I think agrees with both of us.’
‘That’s how I keep my job,’ Danby remarked. His spectacles glinted in the light pouring down relentlessly from the ceiling. The only hint of human frailty about him was the suspicion of a quiff in his hair, a relic of innocence. ‘In fact, I do agree with both of you. Yes, we should stick to our commitment, no it won’t do any good.’
The President traversed the Asian continent and said: ‘I hear you’ve been offered the opportunity to provide aid where it might do more good, Mrs Jerome.’
Claire noticed clips from Time, Newsweek and a couple of newspapers on his desk. ‘I’m not so sure about the latter part of your remark, Mr President.’
‘Indeed? Why not, Mrs Jerome?’
‘I believe our commitment’ – their phraseology was infectious – ‘in Iran is becoming gross. The Shah hoards arms like other people hoard gold. He needs advice, not guns.’
‘Well, Bill,’ the President said easily, puffing on his pipe, ‘what do you say to that?’ ‘Simple. No prevarication this time. I think Mrs Jerome is wrong. The Shah needs us, we need the Shah. According to our information, he’s in a strong position and we need to keep him that way. What’s more,’ Danby added, ‘I don’t think Mrs Jerome is being totally honest with herself.’
Claire Jerome understood Danby’s resentment: it was the first time since her father had agreed to sell arms to U.S. Intelligence customers that she had questioned the Agency’s judgement.
She said: ‘I presume you mean the fact that I’m Jewish. Well, of course, you’re correct up to a point. In the Middle East I’ll only sell to Israel. One day Iran could become actively hostile to the Jews.’
‘I rather doubt that,’ Danby remarked, reaching for the cup of coffee intended for Claire.
Claire said: ‘I think you rather underestimate the power of Islam. Come to that, so does the Shah.’
Danby said: ‘The Iranians are not in the same bracket as Libya or Syria.’
‘They worship the same God,’ Claire said. ‘And as you probably know,’ wondering if he did, ‘Persia was conquered by the Arabs in 671 A.D. and their principal language, Farsi, is written in Arabic script.’
The President grinned. ‘I’m learning,’ he said. ‘Does it amount to this, Mrs Jerome, that irrespective of the pros and cons about Iran, you have no intention of doing business with the Shah?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘I