Just before the news conference was to begin. General Yakolev seized a pistol from an American officer and shot Marshal Mikhailov and Saddam Hussein before he himself was shot by a guard. Hussein was shot three times and died instantly. Mikhailov suffered a severe head wound and died approximately an hour later. Yakolev was dead at the scene.
Jake got out of the chair and switched on more lights.
“I thought you weren’t going to write fiction,” he said to the reporter.
“There isn’t a word in there that isn’t true.”
“Well…”
“Look, you’re doing the best you can with your weapons, I’m using mine.”
“You know, Jack,” Jake Grafton said softly, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, but I don’t know that it’s true. Arranging that little shoot-out was the dirtiest thing I ever did.”
“You were going to shoot Saddam yourself, weren’t you?”
Jake Grafton ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, not at first. After that talk with Yakolev I thought he’d do it, and I felt dirty. I wanted Saddam dead! But if I killed him the political implications would be unpredictable, and perhaps profound. Then in that room listening to him spout bullshit, I thought what the hell, maybe we’ll kill each other.”
“He wouldn’t play, so you let Yakolev shoot him.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not ever going to print this.”
“I know, Jack.”
“But did someone in Washington want Saddam dead?”
“If they did they never said it to me.” Jake met Yocke’s eyes. “I learned a long time ago in the military that you can have all the authority you are willing to use, but God help you if you screw up.”
“Did you know Yakolev was going to shoot Mikhailov?”
“No. I’m sorry he did. That was his decision.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Hell, what is there to do? I’m going to live with it.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
Jake Grafton made a gesture of irritation.
“You did what had to be done.”
Jake Grafton rubbed his face. “I thought so then, and I thought so when I sent Lieutenant Lutkin on to Moscow in a chopper that I suspected was going to be shot down, when I stuffed those damn poison pills into Herb Tenney’s mouth…but!” He gestured helplessly. “When all the preachers have shouted themselves out, the bottom line is that people shouldn’t kill people who aren’t trying to kill them.” His gaze shifted to Yocke’s face. “The easiest lie ever told is that old nugget you tell yourself, I’m doing what has to be done.”
“You’re not feeling sorry for Saddam Hussein and Yakolev and Herb Tenney, are you? They were guilty.”
Jake Grafton laid a hand on Yocke’s arm. “I’m feeling sorry for myself, Jack. They got what they deserved all right, but what do I deserve? I’m not God. I don’t want his job.”
“This is the real world, Admiral, not some class in metaphysics. Herb Tenney murdered people with poison and died of it himself. An absolute despot and two wanta-bes are dead — they did it to each other. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“That’s sophistry, Jack. You should have been a lawyer.”
Jack Yocke exploded. “Goddamnit, Admiral! I’ve had it with all these people who tut-tut over the state of the world and won’t do anything. Mass murder, starvation, tyranny — it’s damn near two thousand years since Christ and…” He gestured helplessly. “Guilt seems to be the in drug of the nineties. Okay, I’ll drink my share. I’m glad Saddam’s dead…and those two Russian gangsters in uniform. Looking back, I wish I had pulled the trigger.”
Yocke swallowed hard. “I killed a man last night with a knife. Honest, there was no other way. I had to do it. It was him or me. Then I panicked and gunned a soldier or militiaman who was banging at me with a bolt-action rifle. I wish I hadn’t shot him. I shouldn’t have shot him.” He wiped the perspiration from his face. “I knew at the time that he was no threat, but you know…I wanted to kill him. Do you understand?”
Jake Grafton nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about those two men all day,” Yocke continued. “Thinking about guilt, about what I should have done, what…” He took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. Now he looked at his hands. “…what I wish I had done. But it’s over. And I have to live with it.”
Jake Grafton cleared his throat. “I can live with it too.” His voice became softer. “Maybe that’s why it worked out the way it did.”
Jack Yocke bobbed his head.
“How’s your arm?”
“Fifteen stitches, but the cut wasn’t deep.”
Grafton stood. “Call your story in. I’m going back to bed.”
“Toad says you always try to do the right thing. I think he’s right.”
“I hope he is,” Jake said. He extended his hand. Yocke took it and squeezed.
Yocke closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway of the makeshift BOQ. He called his story in as it was written, not changing a word.
Then he stood looking out the window at the desert. The sun was overhead and heat mirages distorted the horizon.
After his return to the United States from Saudi Arabia, Jack Yocke threw himself at the word processor. His articles on the upheaval in the former Soviet states were well received and widely reprinted. He called the Graftons and invited them out on two occasions, but the first evening he had to cancel and the second time the admiral got tied up at work.
Yocke understood. Jake was the new director of the Defense Intelligence Agency and was busy trying to stay on top of rapidly changing events in the former Soviet states and the Middle East.
As Jake Grafton had predicted, the CIA problem took care of itself. As September turned into October Jack found the obituary of Harvey Schenler buried on a back page. Although the story didn’t say so, by Yocke’s count Schenler was the fourth high-ranking CIA officer to die since mid-August. According to the press releases, all died of natural causes. In their sleep.
Jack called Admiral Grafton at the office, and got him.
“Congratulations on the new job.”
“Thank you, Jack. How are things going for you?”
“Oh, just sitting here reading the obituaries. Seems that a deputy director of the CIA died in his sleep last night. Guy named Schenler. Heart failure.”
“Well, all things considered, it’s not a bad way to go,” Jake Grafton told him.
“Fourth CIA bigwig in the last six weeks. Must be something in the water over at Langley.”
“It was their choice. Protects their families and the institution.”
“How is the Toad-man?”
“Doing fine.”
“Think I’ll ever get to write anything about Schenler and his pals?”
“I doubt it,” Jake said promptly. “Certainly not anytime soon.” He paused, then continued with a hint of concern in his voice: “You aren’t running out of stuff to write about, are you?”
“We’re managing to keep the paper full — turmoil in the Middle East, a revolution in Iraq, Yeltsin still riding the tiger and trying not to get eaten. Same old song, different verse. How’s Callie and Amy?”
“Doing fine, Jack. Doing fine. I’ll tell them you asked.”
“Well, I’ll let you go, Admiral. But the reason I called — I just wanted to say thanks.”
“For what?”
“For taking me along, for keeping me alive, for making me a part of the team. Thanks.”
“Take care, Jack.”
In October Jack was notified by the Russian embassy that his request for an in-depth interview with Boris Yeltsin had been granted.