“I need to make sure you’ve got your passport,” the driver said.
Ransom gave the driver a curious look. That was the second time he’d asked about the passport.
“I told you before. I’ve got it.”
“I should probably hold on to it up here.”
“Why?”
“We’ve had some civil unrest these last few weeks. We’ll be passing through some checkpoints the government’s put up, and I’ll need to show the soldiers your passport.” The bearded man held out his hand, palm up.
Ransom wondered why the driver hadn’t asked for it back at the airport as he dipped into his breast pocket for his passport and handed it to the driver. The bearded man scrutinized the little blue booklet. Ransom felt his heart rate speed up slightly, felt a tickle of concern in the back of his neck.
“This civil unrest . . . how serious is it?” Ransom asked.
The bearded man lowered the passport and looked up at Ransom. “Ever hear of the terrorist Abu Nasir?”
Ransom frowned and shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”
“Now you have.”
Gideon's War and Hard Target
Ransom saw the big black circle pointing at him before he...
CHAPTER ONE
UNTIL HE TRIED PUTTING on his tuxedo, Gideon Davis didn’t realize how much weight he’d gained. The extra pounds were hardly noticeable on his muscular six-foot-one frame, but Gideon had felt the tug across his shoulders when he buttoned his jacket earlier that afternoon. Now, it felt even tighter, and he tried to keep himself from squirming in his chair as the president of the United States addressed the General Assembly of the United Nations.
“. . . ten thousand lives have been lost in the bloody civil war between the Guaviare militia and the armed forces of the Colombian government, most of them innocent civilians. For years, both sides repeately rejected calls for a cease-fire, until the prospect of a peaceful resoluti bune fron to the conflict seemed unattainable to everyone in the international community. Everyone . . . except for one man.” President Alton Diggs nodded toward Gideon, who smiled a smile that felt as tight as his tuxedo. Being in the spotlight was something he still hadn’t grown accustomed to.
Seventeen hours earlier, Gideon had been sitting in a jungle hut in Colombia, while armed men prowled around, waiting for an excuse to start shooting one another. The cease-fire he’d negotiated was the culmination of a three-month-long series of marathon sessions during which he’d spent day and night shuttling between government and rebel forces, usually eating the same meal twice—once with each faction—which accounted for the extra ten pounds he’d put on. In order to keep the warring sides at the table, he’d partaken of huge heaping portions of ajiaco, the traditional stew made of chicken, corn, potatoes, avocado, and guascas, a local herb, and chunchullo, fried cow intestines. As effective a diplomatic strategy as it was, Gideon knew that no amount of food would make the cease-fire hold. Chances were slim that it would last through the month. But the president had told him the best way to maintain the cease-fire was to get the international community invested, and the best way to get them invested was through a major media event. And the media loved Gideon Davis.
President Diggs continued reciting for the audience some highlights of Gideon’s career as a Special Presidential Envoy. He credited Gideon with defusing crises from the Balkans to Waziristan, and for being among the first public figures with the courage to argue that the United States needed to rethink its approach to the war on terror. To his detractors, Gideon was dangerous—a pie-in-the-sky slave to political correctness who thought the enemies of Western civilization could be jawboned into holding hands and singing “Kumbaya.” But anyone who’d ever spent any time with Gideon knew how far from the truth that was. They knew he was a straight talker with zero tolerance for bullshit. They knew he listened to people. Simple enough virtues, but ones rarely found in Washington—which was why some insiders had tagged Gideon as the fastest rising star in American politics. Before Gideon had left for Colombia, President Diggs had let slip that some party bigwigs were considering him for one of several upcoming races. One rumor even had Gideon on the president’s short list of potential running mates. This caught Gideon by surprise, since he’d never had any real political ambitions. Exposing his private life to that kind of scrutiny, and having to make the inevitable compromises that come with holding public office, had no interest for him. But the prospect of wielding enough power to make a real difference in world affairs had caused Gideon to rethink his position. It was one of the reasons he’d agreed to squeeze into his tuxedo to accept this award from the president, who was now winding up his introduction.
“. . . more than simply building bridges, this man has dedicated himself to that ancient and most sacred cornerstone of our moral code: Thou Shalt Not Kill. And so, it is my great privilege to present the United Nations Medal of Peace to one of the great peacemakers of our time, Gideon Davis.”
Gideon approached the podium to a generous stream of applause. He shook the president’s hand, then bowed his head to allow him to place the ribboned medallion around his neck.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Gideon said, before acknowledging several other heads of state whom protocol deemed worthy of acknowledgment. “This is a great honor, and I accept it wite U¡cept it wh gratitude and humility. All of us in this room know that peace is more than just the absence of war . . . it’s also the absence of poverty and injustice. The real work still lies ahead of us, and its ultimate success depends on the diplomatic and economic support of every country represented in this room tonight.” As Gideon continued to talk about the necessity of international solidarity, he saw a woman in a red dress stifle a yawn. He was losing them. But that didn’t stop him from making the point he wanted to make—that the real heroes were the men and women in Colombia who had found the courage to compromise and to break the cycle of violence that had claimed the lives of so many of their countrymen. “With your support, their goodwill and hard work might actually make this a just and lasting peace. They’re the ones we should be honoring tonight. And so I share this award with them.” He took off the medal, held it in the air over his head.
But his gesture was met with silence.
I blew it, Gideon thought to himself. These people hadn’t come here to be reminded of their moral and economic obligations. They’d come to feel good. They’d come expecting Gideon to shovel out the kind of self-congratulatory rhetoric that keeps the United Nations in business. Gideon scolded himself for ever thinking otherwise and wished he’d found an excuse to stay home and get some sleep.
But then the applause started. Sudden and decisive, like a thunderclap followed by a great rain that just kept going until it flooded the room with the collective approval of every person in the audience. Even the woman in the red dress was clapping. And for a moment, Gideon allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope that the cease-fire he’d worked so hard to make happen just might last. At least for a little while.
A few minutes later, Gideon was ushered into a large adjoining room. As successful as his speech had been, he had no illusions that it would have any real impact on the cease-fire. Making speeches was the easy part. Turning the enthusiasm of politicians and diplomats into real action was a much taller order. Most of the people here couldn’t be counted on to follow through on any of the wine-inspired promises they’d made. Some of them were powerless; others were simply full of shit.
An embassy official from the Netherlands introduced himself to Gideon, who remembered that the man had been his country’s foreign minister before being sidelined to an embassy post because of an ongoing relationship with a call girl. “You are a visionary,” the embassy official said, his small hand clamping around Gideon’s bicep.