"When the people contend for their liberty, they seldom get anything for their victory but new masters."
And so it has ever been, and shall be always.
I write this despatch from the balcony of my good friend Omar Suleiman's penthouse apartment, overlooking Tahrir Square. All has gone according to plan.
The prostitutes supplied by the Mukhabarat are sleeping soundly, thanks in no small part to the generous amount of hydrocodone with which I dosed their midnight champagne. I have sent Barnes on a fools errand to conduct a meaningless dead drop (trade manifests and the like) in Bab al-Louq. Thus, I am finally afforded a moment's solitude.
That the plebes rose up in the first place, of course, was neither expected , nor welcomed. But our orchestration of the response; that was a masterstroke.
Langely, displaying an unusual prescience, flew me to Cairo as soon as things started going sour in Tunis. Things were a remarkable mess. To their credit, the GID knew that something was happening. But, had you asked them to describe it, much less respond to it, you would have been met with naught but panicked stares.
They didn't know which way to play it. To do nothing was to invite protests. A large-scale crackdown, however, would require the cooperation of the Generals, who were reluctant to risk alienating themselves from the people, with whom they still enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) a degree of credibility.
The calculus favored the protesters. An insouciant military bore no particular sense of loyalty to the Mubarak regime, specifically. Nor, however, were they particularly sympathetic to the protesters. The credulous dupes in the Western media, ever-ready to wax lyrical over the romantic (imagined) idealism of foreign revolutions, were eager to stamp their approval over the whole sodding mess. The regime was isolated, and out of ideas.
There's a saying in the Intelligence Game: "You gotta know when to hold em, and when to fold em."
Hosni was out. Of course, I still pretended I was onside. I had the interns come up with a proposal for a cabinet reshuffle, and continued to lend my assurances that Washington would remain supportive. Barnes made sandwiches.
Hosni was kept in the dark. While he fiddled with deck chairs on the Titanic, I organized teleconferences with Suleiman and Anan. Meanwhile, I dispatched Doocy to Suez, where he performed quite admirably.
The Army was more than willing to cooperate. The Generals would keep their oligopoly, their budget, and their aid, all in return for their acquiescence. Suleiman was positioned to replace Mubarak.
Now all we must do is wait. Mubarak is hanging on by his fingernails, but he'll eventually be forced out. The people will think they have won a great victory. The Army will step in to establish an interim government, paving the way for either Suleiman, or one of their own to take charge.
The Arab is like a caged dog. Poke him with a stick, and watch as his bollocks grow. Watch the mongrel work himself up into the most immaculate frenzy. Let him out of his cage, and run amok. As soon as he's tired himself out, however, offer him a bone. He'll obligingly accept. Then, after he falls asleep in the corner, that's when you kick him in the ribs and watch him piss himself.
It sounds rather crude, I know, but it's the only way you can deal with these fucking people. This petulant mass of ignorant serfs know one thing, and one thing only; the boot. And if there is going to be a boot on the Arab's neck, I must insist that it be mine.
Barnes has stumbled in. He has a 70 year-old prostitute in one arm, a Kebab in his other hand, and reeks of port and hookah smoke. It's time to wrap things up.
Bellum Omnia Contra Omnes
- MK
