“The main concern at this point is how long it will take the United States military to admit their culpability in this tragedy. Our sources tell us that most of this expensive search-and-rescue effort is merely a cover, an attempt to shift attention away from inquiries into the actual sequence of events. Apparently the data tapes from the USS Jefferson, the aircraft carrier on the scene, show that there’s a significant probability that the Montego Bay was struck by an American missile, not a Russian one. If so, this could have significant repercussions for America’s maritime interests. The Montego Bay was one of the few ships still flying the American flag. Others have fled to countries with less rigid inspection requirements and lighter tax burdens.” Winston paused, a hard glitter in her eyes.
Her co-anchor chimed in just as he was supposed to. “Give us the bottom line, Cary. Are we talking about a cover-up?” He was as sleekly handsome as she was.
Winston nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mike. There’s no other way to explain the lack of information being released from the American military authorities. The Russians, on the other hand, have issued an open invitation for the press to visit on board their flagship. They have promised to provide full data packages to the media.”
It was her co-anchor’s turn to don a grave, stern look. “What about the media pool on board the aircraft carrier? Why aren’t they involved in this?”
“I can’t answer for everyone, Mike. I do know that several of those reporters have built their careers around cooperation with the military authorities. Maybe we expect too much from them. Do we really expect them to alienate the people who provide most of their stories? Oh, I’m sure there’ll be a major effort to characterize the silence as a matter of national security, but let’s be brutally honest about it. They have simply lost their objectivity.”
The expression on Winston’s face could accurately be described as triumphant, the president thought. He keyed down her volume, catching CNN at the top of its story cycle to hear the details. They were clearly taken directly from Winston’s broadcast earlier.
He turned to Arnot. “Get me the chairman and the national security adviser.”
Wexler surveyed the crowd. It seemed that every nation on earth had at least a small contingent here, with many of them garbed in native costumes. The more junior diplomatic staff sometimes affected Western dress, but she had noted an increasing trend among the very senior diplomats and representatives to celebrate their individuality.
And that was a good thing, wasn’t it? Even though nationalism had raised its ugly head more than once in recent years, in general strong, cohesive cultures were more conducive to peace. She found it especially interesting that the preference for native dress was increasingly evident outside of the United Nations building itself. The trend had started there, of course, with some African nations making a statement by wearing traditional garb to the sessions. Later, the Middle East states followed suit. Now it seemed that Western business suits had been abandoned for social functions as well.
The crowd had already broken into clusters along traditional lines. Despite the best efforts of the hostess to keep everyone circulating, the normal divisions were clearly evident. The Middle Eastern states and their clients were clustered around the buffet table, which had been carefully planned so that no religious preferences were offended. There was even a section of it labeled “kosher.”
The Europeans, on the other hand, had taken up their normal position near the bar. Good wine flowed freely, and there were more than enough discriminating palates to appreciate the hostess’s choices. The Central and South American states were split almost equally between the two groups, although Peru had chosen a corner table with Russia and India.
She turned to T’ing, the ambassador from China. “We can’t even choose a table without making a political statement, can we?”
T’ing smiled. “Some would say you already have,” he murmured.
“How so?”
“You wear white,” T’ing said. “White, the color of mourning.”
“Of purity and virginity,” she offered. T’ing was gentleman enough not to take advantage of the straight line.
“In some places,” he answered instead.
She surveyed the crowd and said, “I was just remembering how dull everyone looked not so long ago. It’s refreshing, isn’t it, to see so many styles?”
“It is,” he said. “And I appreciate the opportunity to have a choice.” He had selected his own native dress for this evening, although she knew full well that he had a number of exquisitely tailored Western suits in his wardrobe.
“And are you making statement?” she asked.
“Perhaps. But only to those who would understand it.” He shot her cryptic look. “And your choice of white — was that a statement?”
“Yes. Of a bold and daring nature. How many women do you know who would willingly choose white with a buffet dinner served? The opportunities for disaster are infinite. Do you know how hard it is to get red wine out of silk?”
He smoothed the fabric of his tunic, a delicately patterned red and gold. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
T’ing led the way to the bar and ordered a glass of wine for each of them. “The usual,” he said, as he passed her the drink.
At a far corner of the room, a small chamber orchestra was quietly tuning up. She recognized a few bars of a violin as Mozart, and nodded appreciatively. Perhaps this evening would be more entertaining than she had thought.
The social obligations of her position were entirely more onerous than her official duties. So many parties and receptions, so many opportunities to inadvertently create an impression or send a message that she had never intended. Like the business of wearing white, for instance. Of course she had known that, but she had elected to wear the suit anyway.
She was just leading the way over to a small table where the British ambassador was chatting with a member of his delegation when she saw her aide, Brad, slip into the room. She tensed. While Brad occasionally attended these functions, this one had not been on his schedule. It was, if she recalled correctly, a reception to welcome the wife of the ambassador from Uruguay. On the scale of social events, it was one that required a brief appearance, a polite greeting, and perhaps one drink before she could plead other engagements. Her staff was not expected to appear at all.
Brad spotted her immediately and made his way across the room. She sighed and said, “Excuse me, will you?” to T’ing.
“How soon can you get loose?” Brad asked quietly. “There’s a problem.”
“I don’t suppose you can give me any hint?”
Just then, there was a small flurry of noise coming from the general vicinity of the Russian ambassador. She turned to look and saw that his aide was whispering urgently in his ear. His face was growing choleric and his eyes were scanning the room. He finally saw her. His thick eyebrows drew down and met, deepening into a scowl.
Brad noticed as well and shrugged. “So they’re not as careful on security as we are.”
“Meet me at the door,” she said.
Wexler circled the room, greeting acquaintances and friends. She thanked the hostess for a stunning party, welcomed the new diplomatic wife, and then, as gracefully as she could, headed back toward the entrance. She veered off for a moment to find T’ing and offer her apologies. He did not bother asking what had happened. Soon enough, he would find out from his own staff. And from the expression on the Russian ambassador’s face and Brad’s urgency, she suspected the whole world would know before long.