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send a message,” Stralen said. “Isn’t that obvious? He claimed he was going to do as much when the State Department issued the sanctions last month.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be the first time he spouted inflammatory rhetoric,” Harper pointed out, “and not once in twenty years has he lifted a finger to do even half of what he threatens. What would make things different this time?” The deputy director shook his head and looked back at the president. “Sir, again, I’m not saying Bashir didn’t have a hand in this. Plain and simple, I’m trying to point out that we need to have all the facts, look into every possibility, before you decide on a course of action.”
    â€œAnd what happens in the meantime?” Stralen asked quietly.
    Harper reluctantly turned his attention back to the air force general.
    â€œYou want us to sit on our hands while Bashir sits in Khartoum, laughing about what he’s done?” Stralen said, not giving an inch. “About what he’s gotten away with? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
    â€œWhat are you suggesting?” Harper asked, meeting the other man’s cold blue eyes. He knew he had crossed a line, but he couldn’t back down. Andrews had already done that, and someone had to stop this conversation before it escalated to a far more dangerous level. “What do you propose we do instead, General?”
    â€œWhat I propose,” Stralen growled, “is that we send in a two- or three-man Delta team to verify his position, and then we drop a JDAM right on top of the bastard’s head. What I suggest is that we take him out, once and for all.”
    There was complete silence in the room. Harper stared at the newly appointed head of the DIA for a long moment and couldn’t help but wonder if the man understood the full gravity of what he was saying. Then he turned to look at the president. “Sir, please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”
    Brenneman had turned to face the window, but his shoulders were tense, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. He did not respond, giving Harper no idea what he was thinking. “Sir,” Harper said, trying again, “I implore you to look at the larger picture. Omar al-Bashir may be a ruthless dictator, but he is still a head of state, the president of the largest country in Africa.”
    â€œHe’s also a wanted man according to the ICC,” Brenneman said.
    â€œAnd we’ve consistently opposed the court’s authority on the basis of its determinations shackling our political and military policies…and creating a global standard of justice that may conflict with our own. It would be hypocritical to use the indictment as an excuse to go after Bashir.” Harper gave that a moment to sink in. “We all need to remember that while Bashir stays within his own sovereign borders, he has practical immunity from any indictment. We can’t legally send forces across those borders to arrest him. And we can’t just assassinate him.”
    â€œSo he gets away with it,” Brenneman murmured. He was still facing the window. “Is that right? Is that what you’re proposing?”
    For a few seconds Harper wasn’t sure how to respond. It was suddenly apparent that the president hadn’t really heard a word he’d said, and for one simple reason—he didn’t want to. He was lost in his own private world of pain and grief, and for the time being, he was looking for one thing alone…a way to lash out. In that respect, Stralen was giving him exactly what he wanted, someone to blame and punish for his niece’s death.
    Harper could see the appeal. Any human being with a beating heart would be tempted by the lure of immediate vengeance. But that didn’t make it sane or right.
    â€œMr. President.” It was Andrews who had spoken now, and Harper turned toward him in mild surprise.