At his most cynical, he sometimes wondered what he had become, why he was here, and whether he really had a chance to make any difference in anything at all. But talking to these men, these farmers who knew the reality of everyday life, who wrested their living from the soil by supplying the rest of the nation with food, he knew why he had been put in this office by whatever higher power oversaw the affairs of nations. It was to remember them, to guard their interests — against people just like himself.
So it was with some reluctance that he picked up the phone, gave up the moment he savored with them, and turned his attention back to the realities of being the leader of the most powerful country in the world.
He listened to the ambassador’s observations of her meeting with the British ambassador, and understood immediately why she’d called. It was no secret that commitment to build up American military forces was a bedrock cornerstone of the president’s platform. He had kept those promises, he thought, at least as well as he was able to do in the rarefied air of Washington. The carrier United States was particularly important to him, and he’d fought hard and long to insure that the project remain funded at optimum levels.
When she finished, the president asked, “Okay, so you told me what happened. Now give me your take on it.”
There was a pause, and he could almost see Ambassador Wexler collecting her thoughts. One of the things he appreciated most about her was her ability to cut through the bullshit, her keen insight into the personalities that made up the international community. She didn’t shoot from the hip — he had a feeling that Sarah Wexler knew much more than she said about most things — but when she did voice an opinion that was based on intuition rather than objective facts, he listened.
“I need to know more about Wells,” she said finally. “He’s a funny creature — almost a clown in a way, a caricature of British royalty. But there something about him — he doesn’t let it show often — that bothers me. Perhaps it’s because he tries so hard to appear harmless. I was,” she admitted ruefully, “taken in at first. After dealing with his predecessor for so long, I had certain expectations. Wells comes nowhere near those.”
“I think we can both rule out the possibility that Britain has made a mistake in appointing him,” the president said. “We know what is public record about him, of course. Let me check with some sources and see if I can get you more background information. Perhaps somebody knows something that can give some context to his words.”
“That would certainly be helpful,” she acknowledged. The president knew that, while she admitted the necessity of it, Sarah Wexler always thought the connection between the nation’s intelligence services and its diplomatic corps to be slightly distasteful. It was something they shared, an almost reflexive belief that men and women of good will could solve national and international problems and issues in an aboveboard, straightforward sort of way. A pipe dream, as they both knew all too well from their time in D.C. and in the U.N., but a basic guiding principle that they clung to nonetheless. For that reason, although Wexler knew exactly where he would get the information, he made it a point not to mention the CIA. He would make sure the information got to her, but the source of it would be disguised to allow them both to maintain the illusion.
“I do feel that there is something to this,” Wexler said. “He made such a point of mentioning it to me — and if we operate on the assumption that he’s not a fool, then there was a reason for it. In their way, the British are just as devious as the Chinese.”
“So what do we do?” the president asked.
“Nothing. We file information away, and look for some later relevance. But I would never recommend slowing down or even canceling the project based on Britain’s position, either official or unofficial.”
“Of course not,” the president said. “Are they after something else, though? A quid pro quo for not making an issue of the carrier?”
“If they are, we’ll hear about it soon enough,” Wexler said. “I’ll keep you posted, sir.”
“Do that.” And with that, the ambassador rang off.
The president glanced down at his schedule, and saw that he had an unexpected free fifteen minutes. And just how had that happened?
No matter — he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He shut his eyes for moment, and thought about the wheat farmers.
In her office, Ambassador Wexler was doing much the same, but in her case it involved kicking off her high heels, putting her feet up on a small, embroidered stool, and having a freshly brewed cup of orange oolong tea. Just as she was thinking how nice a cup might be, it had materialized at her elbow, brought in by Brad, her aide, so quietly that she had almost missed his entrance. She murmured her thanks, and cradled the hot cup in her hands, letting the warmth sink into her bones. Outside, it might be a sultry, humid day, but in here the air-conditioning was working overtime.
“Anything I can help with?” Brad asked.
She shook her head. “This is enough,” she said, raising the cup in salute. “There are those days…” She let her voice trail off.
“There are, indeed.” Brad stood in the doorway for moment, and she had the feeling there was something on his mind. It wasn’t like him to wait to be asked, though; things that he thought she needed to know, he brought to her attention — even if she didn’t know at the moment she would need the information.
“What is it?” she asked, smiling a bit as he had the good grace to look abashed. “You don’t hang on my doorjamb like that unless something is on your mind.”
“Every day, there are new security notices coming out,” he began. He paused, waiting for her protest. They had had this conversation many times before.
Wexler sighed. “What this time?”
“Just a feeling,” he said, surprising her. Normally during these discussions of her personal security, Brad would brandish a specific memo warning U.N. personnel to be careful. This time, however, he looked more serious than ever. “I want your permission to put together some contingency plans, Ambassador,” he said, a note of formality in his voice. “You’ve made clear your personal preferences, and I respect that. God knows we could do with more people with your personal courage. But, if you would allow me, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t ask for this. Nothing that will affect you on a day-to-day basis, you understand. But in case we ever needed certain arrangements, it would be too late to put them in place when we needed them.”
Wexler leaned back in her chair and tried to will the tension out of her shoulders. “Seriously, now… do you really think the threat has changed any over the last several years?”
“Yes, I do,” he answered immediately. “Look at what we’re seeing now — terrorist acts inside the United States, including acts of violence by domestic terrorist groups. We can’t ignore the fact that this is no longer the Bastion America, that no one would dare to act on our soil for fear of bringing down the full force of our military might on them. I know what you would like to believe,” he said, his voice gentler now, “but it simply isn’t true. The fact that you refuse all personal security has operated in your favor until now, as your colleagues have taken it as a mark of personal courage. But it’s time to start being realistic.”
“Oh, bosh. I simply don’t like being followed around, that’s all.” In truth, she had never felt in danger as ambassador. Perhaps it was because she never took herself as seriously as other people seemed to.