Riess had taken a walk through the memorial after dinner, stretching his legs and trying to clear his head. Ostensibly, the purpose of the meal had been part social, part an opportunity to discuss changes in the irrigation system around the Aral. But like Riess, the Reps knew a lost cause when they saw one, and so most of the talk had centered on other things: concerns about Islamic extremists infiltrating the country, deteriorating relations with Turkmenistan, and finally, the rumors surrounding President Malikov’s illness. Consensus at the table had been that Sevara would succeed her father.
“Not Ruslan?” Riess had asked.
“Not unless you know something we don’t,” one of the Reps had responded, laughing.
So he’d walked the memorial, thinking about his last conversation with the Ambassador, thinking about Tracy Carlisle. Wondering why it was that she hadn’t lifted Ruslan and his son as yet. He didn’t know what to make of her, and he still didn’t know what to make of his night with her, and the visit from Tower that had come in its wake had only served to cloud the matter further.
The fact was, Riess felt out of his depth.
McColl had come into the office grumpier than usual that morning, about twenty minutes after Tower’s departure, and peeved at something the Ambassador had apparently said to S. Whatever it was, it had made its way back to McColl, and McColl, having no recourse, took it out on Riess in the form of busywork. That kept Riess chained to his desk, and it was almost noon before he could manufacture a reason to speak to the Ambassador.
“I can give you three minutes,” Garret told him when Riess entered the office.
“Then I’ll make it fast. Tower knows something is going on. He knows I was at the InterContinental, that I met with Carlisle.”
Riess expected surprise, or at least concern, but Garret exhibited neither. “I figured he might. What’d you tell him?”
“That she was an old friend.” Riess hesitated, then added, “I was with her for about four hours.”
“In her room?”
Riess nodded.
“Chuck,” Garret said. “You dog.”
Riess actually thought he might blush, tried to think of something to say, and realized that everything he was coming up with would sound like a double entendre. Finally, he managed, “It wasn’t planned.”
“No, it wouldn’t have been.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“About Tower? Not much you can do. There was always a risk of this, Charles. He’ll check your story, and when he finds the holes in it—and he will find the holes in it—he’ll want to talk to you again.”
“What do I tell him?”
Garret looked out the window of his office into the garden, not speaking for a very long time, so long that Riess began to wonder if the Ambassador had heard him or not.
“That’s your choice, Charles,” Garret said at length, softly. “This thing with Ruslan—if it doesn’t work, my career is shot. I knew that going into it. I’ve got thirty years in, and there are worse ways to leave than being forced into a quiet retirement.”
“I’m not going to betray you, sir. I won’t do that.”
Garret turned from the window, then pulled out the paternal smile. “If Tower already knows, it’s not a betrayal, Charles. And if he already knows, you’ll have to decide what’s best for yourself. I’m not going to hold that decision against you.”
Riess shook his head, confused. “Has something happened?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you’ll forgive me for saying that I think this discussion is premature, sir. Carlisle hasn’t even had a chance to lift them yet.”
“Lifting them is only half the battle. Getting Ruslan back into play, with support, that’s the other half.”
“You said there was British support.”
Garret nodded. “But that doesn’t mean there is British support.”
“Why else would Carlisle be here?”
“Hell if I know.” The Ambassador stared at him a moment longer, then moved to his chair, settling himself behind his desk. “Go back to McColl before he finds more ways to make your life miserable.”
The confusion he was feeling became more acute, and for a second Riess didn’t move. Then, almost resigned, he left the office, making his way back through the Embassy to his desk, wondering what was best for himself, and just how long it would take Aaron Tower to find all of the holes in his story about his night with Tracy Carlisle.
As it turned out, it didn’t take Tower long at all.
Riess had been home for twenty minutes, long enough to change out of his suit and into jeans and a Virginia Tech sweatshirt, and to brew up a cup of coffee from the beans a friend at home had sent in his last care package. He made the coffee a cup at a time, rationing the beans, and he’d just poured when there was a knock at the door.
He wasn’t surprised to find Aaron Tower waiting outside when he opened it.
“Mind if I come in?” Tower asked.
Riess shrugged, turned away, heading back into the kitchen. “You want a cup of coffee? It’s good stuff. A friend in California sends the beans to me every so often. Better than the local brew or that nightmare we get at the Embassy.”
He heard the door close. “Can’t,” Tower said. “Blood pressure, remember?”
“Right, sorry.” Riess stuck his head back out of the kitchen, saw that Tower was standing in the open living room, taking in the space. “Tea, then? I think I’ve got a peppermint.”
“Sure.”
Riess turned to the stove, set up the kettle. He was pulling a mug down when Tower entered and propped himself just inside the doorway, leaning against the side of the refrigerator, watching as Riess went about preparing the cup.
“I’ve got some cookies,” Riess said.
Tower shook his head.
Riess shrugged a second time, set the mug beside the stovetop. “So what can I do for you, sir?”
Tower didn’t speak and didn’t move, fixing him with a vaguely expectant stare. Riess understood the reason for it, and that, more than anything, made the purpose of Tower’s visit crystal clear. He turned away, putting his attention back on the kettle, waiting for it to boil.
The water took a very long time to come to a boil.
Tower didn’t say a word.
Riess took the kettle off the heat, filled the mug, watching as the steam rippled off the water, rising toward him, and thinking about the Ambassador, what he had said. He understood now more than he had then, and the feeling of betrayal, of guilt that now settled in his breast was achingly heavy. He hadn’t said anything, and he knew that by staying silent, he’d already said far too much. Standing in the kitchen, six and a half thousand miles from home, he felt very much alone.
He handed the mug to Tower, who took it, then said, “She didn’t go to Virginia Tech.”
Riess picked up his coffee, tasted it. It had gone tepid.
“She’s not a friend from college. She’s not here working for some agro firm interested in cotton production. She’s not a tourist. And her name isn’t Tracy Carlisle.” Tower toyed with the tea bag, feigning interest in its buoyancy. “You remember who you work for, don’t you, Chuck?”
“Of course I remember who I fucking work for.” Riess dumped the remainder of his coffee into the sink, suddenly angry. The liquid splashed against the side, slopped out onto the counter. He put his cup down hard, hard enough that he was afraid it might shatter. It didn’t.