“Jake?” she asked.
“Yes. Who else?”
“I just realized that he’s involved.”
“You still care for him?”
“Not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“He’s married. He’s moved on. I mean I care for him because I still consider him a friend.”
“And you have no time for romance anyway.”
Unsure if he meant his comment to be a jab, she ignored it.
“That sounds risky,” she said. “Aren’t the British good with their submarines?”
“Some would say they are the best, even better than the Americans. But fear not, I have a plan to keep my team safe and protect my investments.”
“You always do. Just try not to let Jake get killed.”
“He is charmed, as I have always said.”
She washed down another bite of potato with a dry Merlot, the wine helping to mollify her hangover.
“What’s the other factor?” she asked.
“You remember how I originally met Jake, do you not?”
“You used him like a puppet. You have a gift for identifying distressed people and using their weakness against them.”
“Provided that I can find someone facing an appropriately difficult circumstance who has access to an asset I need,” he said.
“Who’d you find this time?”
“The executive officer of the HMS Dragon.”
“That’s a British… what? Frigate? Destroyer?”
“It’s the destroyer that will be assigned to protect the Falkland Islands next month.”
“This whole plan sounds like a bunch of high-risk actions with tight dependencies. The slightest failure could make it fall apart.”
“All my plans appear that way at first, but each one has succeeded, although I may need to make minor adjustments from time to time.”
“When will I know that Jake and your executive officer of the Dragon have succeeded?”
“I will tell you immediately, of course, as these are crucial steps in the process. But if you mean to withhold the weapons from me until these steps are complete, I’m afraid that won’t work. I’ll need the aircraft armed and ready to attack while Jake does his part and while my recruited agent takes over the destroyer.”
“That doesn’t give me much protection against committing the weapons to you for a losing cause.”
The waitress returned, cleared plates, and asked about desert. Olivia gulped her wine and asked for a refill.
“The risk is near zero,” Renard said. “The Argentines are already armed. The problem is that many of the weapons have decayed with age and neglect to the point of being unusable. But how many weapons remain unusable is a secret. We only need to explain away the weapons that find their targets and detonate, and the illusion will be that they found enough usable weapons from their own inventory.”
“I can live with that. But you mentioned that you’re not attacking the islands. What’s your criteria for victory?”
“The credible threat of invasion. Once the islands are isolated by mines, submarines, and naval vessels, Argentina will have the air power and maritime forces to land ground troops.”
“A landing would be a lot of bloodshed. Boots on the ground, so to speak. That’s always ugly.”
“Indeed,” he said. “That’s when the negotiations will take place, and a settlement will be reached that will reflect what I feel to be proper ownership of the islands and their surrounding resources.”
She reflected upon the possibility.
“I’m here because I trust you,” she said. “But you’re only human. We need to consider that something could go wrong. Then what?”
“Since you trust me, will you allow that I have a contingency plan for all foreseeable events?”
“It’s a test of my trust, but yes. I’ve seen what you can do, and this is normal for you. I can’t think of a flaw in your plan, either.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me. Do we have an agreement then?”
She nodded and glanced at him. His silver hair and sharp features kept him attractive as he passed his mid-fifties. Before she could let a lewd thought enter her mind, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you, Olivia. I hate to be discourteous, but I must be going now.”
He dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table and crept away.
CHAPTER 4
The reddish brick edifice of Saint Thomas Chaldean Catholic Church rose above Maple Road with power and grace. Jake wondered why he had always ignored the building’s subdued elegance, having raced by it to someplace more important, or having cast angry glances at the stoplight that detained him as it funneled West Bloomfield’s Iraqi-descended faithful to its ceremonies.
Married to an Iraqi Christian, he had learned to appreciate the story of Christ, and he had begun a personal research project to know the truth. After several sessions, he had learned to trust his wife’s priest’s counsel.
He drove around the church and parked at the rectory. As he walked through the door, a bearded man in a robe greeted him with soft brown eyes and a peaceful smile. God’s ordained servant, Francis Kalabat, stood at average height and build.
“How are you, my brother?” Kalabat asked.
His voice carried caring and intelligence.
“I’m okay,” Jake said.
He extended his hand, but Kalabat spread his arms and offered an irresistible hug. After the embrace, the clergyman led him into his office.
A small mess filled the room with books, pamphlets, and trinkets strewn about shelves, chairs, and Kalabat’s desk. Jake crossed his legs as he sat across the table.
“What brings you here, my friend?” Kalabat asked.
Wondering if the luck that had spared him from countless brushes with death would wane during the upcoming assignment in Argentina, he acknowledged his mortality.
“I need advice.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Kalabat leaned back in his chair and cradled a wooden cross that gravitated toward his heart. He radiated an earnest enthusiasm to dig Jake’s soul from its tomb, and wisdom governed his energy. The holy man radiated a divine charisma.
“I’ve done some bad things,” Jake said.
“There’s nothing you can do that is unforgivable.”
“I mean,” Jake said. “I mean, I’ve had to make a lot of life and death calls, and I’m not sure I’ve gotten them all right.”
“It’s stressful playing God. If you try it long enough, you’ll eventually get it wrong.”
“Then why do I keep trying?”
“The last time you were here, you told me you were forced to grow up too fast. It’s possible that you don’t know anything else. People who have to fulfill roles greater than their ability can end up feeling like they need to be God.”
The advisor’s insight made sense, but Jake found it useless.
“I get the point. I’m a classic overachiever by accident. But I don’t know what to do about it. I’m just pissed off all the time.”
“Anger is natural, and so is expressing it. Jesus overturned the tables of merchants because they were desecrating a place of worship. Anger provides strength to fight back against wrongdoing.”
“When I get mad,” Jake said, “I sometimes go overboard.”
“How overboard?”
“Things I’d rather not say, especially recently.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But you can talk to God, even just to test the waters and see if He’s there for you. He understands that you’re not ready to come to Him yet, but you can explore the concept of his existence for yourself.”
“I may be willing to try talking to God, even praying.”
The words surprised Jake as he heard them echo in his head.
“That’s great! Go for it!”