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“Excellent! Wonderful.” The entire group applauded the arrangements.

Rashid smiled and turned the large diamond ring he wore on his pinky finger, but his smile quickly faded. “Unexpected events
are going to happen in the immediate future. I want each of you to be prepared to respond quickly.”

“What do you foresee ahead of us?” the gray-haired man asked. “Please share specifically with us.”

“If we do not allow anyone or any cause to create separation between any of us,” Rashid said, “We are poised to control the
United States.”

Silence fell over the room.

“
You are serious
?” the president of Egypt gasped.

“Quite.” Hassan Rashid's eye's narrowed. “I believe the American democratic process is the jugular vein to be attacked for
their downfall. While it might not seem so at this moment, I find Americans to be quite vulnerable.”

“But they have the most powerful weapons in the world!” the prime minister of Saudi Arabia protested,“We know they have enormous
military capacity as well as the nuclear deterrents to stop any nation.”

Rashid shook his finger. “No, no.” His sober stare didn't change. “The key word is
control
. We are not planning to engage their military; my plans ate to manipulate the plebiscite. Americans like to think their voters
are intelligent, analytical thinkers.” Rashid leaned over to speak in nearly a whisper. “In fact, they are overindulged, reactionary
children who vote
with their emotions.”

“But how can you change the feeling of a huge population of Yankees?” Ammar Aswad of Iran protested. “Such a thing is not
achievable!”

“Oh?” Hassan Rashid's eyes twinkled and a slight smile broke across his face. “Is this what each of you thinks?”

The national leaders looked at each other, nodding their agreement.

“
Fear!
” Rashid yelled at them. “The Americans and their reactionary journalists as well as fast-talking television reporters have
the emotional core of a six-year-old child. Gentlemen,
fear is the way
that I will shake these fat boys when they enter their voting machines.”

“But… but…”Abd al Bari rubbed his chin nervously. “Making an entire nation afraid is… is… not possible.”

Hassan Rashid sat back in his chair. “If I can create such a result, are you and your countries prepared to stand with me?”
He thrust his finger in the face of each man. “Will you follow me faithfully as I resolutely climb the hill to world conquest?”

Silence settled over the group.

“You see,” Rashid continued, “I am more than capable of sending a wave of fear across that country like none they have ever
known. I already have the ability to do so. My men are poised and ready to strike. But what follows after I have created chaos?”
The gentle smile abruptly returned. “I need your assistance. Will you follow me?”

The white-haired president of Egypt slowly stood, clicking his heels and coming to extreme military attention. “If you can
humble America, I am with you to the death!” He saluted Hassan. “I will follow.”

For a moment no one spoke and then the entire group exploded with their affirmations of loyalty.

For several moments Hassan Jawhar Rashid only listened, waiting for the group to settle again. “Thank you,” he finally said.
“The Americans will soon be in my hands, and I will drown them in their own fear.”

A
N OBLONG
conference table ran down the center of Mayor Frank Bridges's office. Five men were already seated around this mahogany altar
to the gods of progress when Graham Peck walked in Maintaining distance, Peck kept his usual steel look in his eye and only
nodded to the other leaders.

Jake Pemrose and Al Meacham were old acquaintances of his, but Graham usually maintained a distance from the more cold and
aloof Jack Stratton and Bill Marks. Although the city had in decades past outlawed smoking in public buildings, three of the
men were already smoking cigars. Wearing a subdued pair of maroon suspenders, Bridges sat at the head of the table in a business
suit. Since he usually dressed more casually, Peck knew something significant was afloat.

“Graham,” Mayor Bridges said, “thanks for coming right down. We need your input.”

“Sure,” Peck answered.

“Gentlemen, we have a big problem this morning,” Bridges continued. “At around four o'clock west coast time, an oil tanker
was bombed in the Long Beach Naval Yard. You heard the story on the morning news?”

Peck abruptly realized he hadn't tuned in a television station anywhere. He generally started the day with a television report
or at the least an e-mail briefing on his computer, but he hadn't done so today.

“The explosion was enormous,” Bridges began. “Get ready. People all over the Chicago metroplex will scream.”

“How did it happen?” Jake Pemrose asked.

Graham knew Pemrose well. The councilman had been a political force on the southside for years and Bridges listened to him.
Pemrose usually asked the first question.

Bridges shook his head. “How do these monsters always get in? Some collaborator sneaked them or their bomb on to the tanker.
I don't know, Jake. The important thing is that this attack provides a new opportunity for our campaign. We've got to address
this problem immediately.”

“we can hit the noon news if we come out of this meeting with a statement,” Graham interjected. “Let's do it.”

Bridges stood up with a laser pen in his hand. His suspenders did little to hide his protruding stomach. Bridges lived through
his earlier years as a man with great political promise. While his “great hope” had not yet turned into a presidency, at fifty-five
he had developed a broad and powerful constituency in Illinois. They years had proved significant, but his body slid downhill.
He couldn't do much about the belly, but Bridges was desperately looking for a new, broader power base.

Graham looked around the room once more. Nothing had changed in how these men looked, acted, or thought since the night multitudes
of people disappeared. Life went on like any other day, but the truth was they were terrified to look at the subject in anything
more than a passing way. Keeping the upper lip stiff was the style of people like Pemrose and Bridges.

“I've already give this problem some thought while coming down here this morning.” Bridges started transmitting an electronic
message to the board with his laser pen.

“Terrorist attacks aren't new,” Graham said. “Are you sure an explosion on the Pacific coast will affect Chicagoans?”

“We may not be a big time port city, but Lake Michigan has plenty of shipping,” Bridges answered. “Our city is also a major
rail and transportation hub.”

Graham nodded. “But I keep thinking about the poverty problems floating around this very building,”

“Don't stop with thought, Graham. We're simply making hay out of today's big explosion in California. It's momentary, but
an opportunity.”

Graham smiled. He wasn't going to make any points on his favorite issues. Drop it

“Here's my plan! Open a twenty-four-hour center in downtown Chicago to receive reports on possible terrorist activity. Tie
the telephone into the 911 lines and it wouldn't cost the city an additional cent, but it would give people a point of contact.
The entire metroplex will be wired People would think they're getting something, but it's really nothing Slick, huh?”

The men around the table gave their approval.

“We've had surveillance for a long time, but I'd propose to increase the number of cameras. Sort of like sticking ‘The Eye’
in everything from the kitchen to the garage. At the least, people would think we had them covered.”

“This will at least create the illusion espionage control,” Jack Stratton said. “Who knows? Someone call in a tip that could
make a difference.”

“We're still going to need some federal funding,” Graham argued.

“Good point.” Bridged kept flashing the laser pen images on the board without turning around. “Makes my point number three.
We need to request federal funding for the acquisition of new protective gear.”

Graham leaned back in his chair. Bridges was the master of reaction, like a fox watching a hen house and then attacking after
the last chicken waddled out into the barnyard. Many of his ideas didn't amount to much, but they sounded good in the newspapers.
He was a man who created images, and what people voted for these days was illusions, not substance.

Bridges bounced his pen up and down in his hand. “I've got one final point. People need assurances that we won't allow a runway
epidemic to sweep the city.” The mayor looked straight at Graham. “What do you think, Peck?”

“I thought our health agencies already provided such services.” Graham's voice was flat and without enthusiasm.

“You got it!” Bridges almost laughed. “We'll give them something they already have.”

The men around the table broke into applause. Graham watched, but didn't move. Were many of the citizens really this dump?
Yeah. They were.

“Graham's already figured this one out,” Bridges said. “We're blowing a lot of smoke. The point is we don't have to spent
a dime, and we sound like we're saving civilization.” Bridges winked. “That's called good politics.”

“Good politics, indeed!” Al Meacham said. “I don't think we ought to underestimate our opponent. The other side is working
hard to provide an alternative. They'll respond to us and might get more than a tad ugly about some of these items.”

“Which means we're the ones keeping the initiative going,” Bridges said. “Initiative, boys That's how the game is won.”

Graham believed in Bridges's campaign and definitely thought he was the better qualified of the two candidates. However, he
didn't like these back-room planning sessions. They always sounded like the legendray “smoke-filled rooms” that once made
politics pop. Bridges was aiming at the media, not the issues.

The lack of ethical concern also bothered Graham. He wasn't sure why, but somewhere along the way he had picked up a sensitivity
to these issues. His mother had made him go to church as a boy. Not much of it stuck, but he remembered the discussions about
doing the right things— that part of their message stayed with him. Graham's mother had always been big on moral issues. She
encouraged him to think about what was lasting and true. His father taught him to work hard and instilled an enduring drive
in the boy. Graham knew politicians ought to pay attention to these things, but that wasn't where Bridges and his inner circle
lived.

“We're with you, Frank, but I want to know what you now consider to be the real issues. What are we truly fighting for?” Graham
crossed his arms over his chest and didn't blink.

Bridges pursed his lips and ran his hands through his hair. “Nothing has changed, Graham. Same game as always.” He pulled
at his chin, thinking about the question. “I don't know what these terrorists are trying to prove or where they came from,
but the basic issue is still the same. We need more oil than we can currently obtain. The whole world is locked into this
question and people in a city as large as Chicago can't forget it. This country's war in the middle of those Muslim oil fields
affected supply. The world's oil supply has slowed down ever since and the prices keep going up. Sure. Many cars run on batteries
or hydrogen, but they still need petroleum to produce energy. Everyone remains afraid of nuclear power plants. I need to get
a large percentage of the vote to enable me to make the long-range negotiations we need for this city.” He stopped for a moment
and then looked straight at Graham. “I don't want to talk about this problem in public, but I believe that Borden Camber Carson
may be our only hope. We need more production from his Royal Arab Petroleum empire coming our way. Do you disagree?”

Graham knew the mayor enjoyed putting his attackers on the defensive. He didn't want to say so in this meeting, but Graham
wasn't a big fan of Carson and his far-flung oil empire. Who knew what this egomaniac was actually about? No one had ever
actually seen the recluse. The only clear evidence was that he was good at bringing oil production under his control.

“Do you disagree?” Bridges asked again.

“I don't disagree that energy is our big problem.”

“There you have it, boys.” Frank Bridges tossed his hands up in the air. “We're all on the same page.”

“However,” Graham continued, “my contention is that most citizens are terrified of criminal elements in our society and they
can't do anything about it. Low income is killing the average Chicagoan right now.”

The room broke into an uproar and Bridges lost control of the conversation. Graham watched the verbal melee, knowing he was
right; the feverish exchanges guaranteed it.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” The mayor held up his hand. “You're getting off the track. I can't fix the fact we've got many low-income
people living in our town. Sorry. I don't control the medical system either or fight the thieves down there on the street.
We've got to focus on what I can do. Okay?”

The roar subsided. “We understand,” Graham said. “Let's work out what you've proposed.” He smiled, recognizing he still had
the capacity to turn these conferences in his own direction.

“Let's go back out there and figure how to get this story on television by noon today and then in the headlines tonight.”
The mayor shrugged in relief. “Thank you, Graham. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Graham watched the company disband and disappear. He pushed his notes together and stood up. Bridges walked toward him.

“What'd you think of the meeting?” the mayor said.

“I think we've framed new issues for you to chew on,” Graham said. “Ought to make good copy.”

“But not the copy you'd like to write?”

Graham smiled wryly. “I like to write what you want me to say.”

“What a master politician you are, Graham. Great answer, but the truth is that you'd rather push poverty issues.”

“I think they're the bread and butter issues, Frank.”