“Well, that process doesn’t interest me as a purveyor or observer,” Hood said. “I prefer to read a newspaper and draw my own conclusions.”
“Then how do you relax?”
“I listen to music or go to a museum,” Hood said. “Until fairly recently I used to hang with my kids.”
“They are grown now?”
“I’m divorced,” Hood said. “I don’t get to see them very much.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I did not mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t. I offered,” Hood said, smiling at her as they continued to walk down the wide street. He was uneasy but willing to spend personal information to keep this conversation going. Besides, Hood knew what her eventual follow-up question would be. That part of the talk would be brief.
“What about nonfiction? A professional memoir?” she asked. “That would not be a lie, and I am certain it would be fascinating.”
“Why are you so sure?” Hood asked.
“A man does not reach your position without a certain level of accomplishment,” she said.
Hood chuckled. “Mr. Hasen’s brother-in-law was a stockbroker and a tennis buddy of the vice president. That was how he got into the diplomatic corps. He lasted about two years. Unlike your father, many Americans in government service are not professional leaders or emissaries.”
“Were you someone’s tennis buddy?”
“No,” Hood said. “I was dumb. I worked my way up the ladder.”
“That is admirable, not foolish. You must have things to write about, stories to tell.”
“I don’t know. Even if there are, I don’t have the narcissism to talk about whatever white whales I’ve hunted.”
“But there must be experiences that deserve to be recorded, passed on to people who have not lived your life, enjoyed your career, who have not even been to Beijing,” Anita said. “There is a long tradition of political memoirs that has nothing to do with vanity. Mao’s thoughts were the foundation for a nation.”
“He was a leader,” Hood replied. “It’s a tradition I will leave for presidents and prime ministers.”
“Not ambassadors or revolutionaries or even men of intrigue?” she pressed. Anita spoke the last words leaning toward Hood, as though they were sharing a secret.
Hood grinned. “There would be no intrigue, would there, if a man walked into a room and said, ‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’ Some things are best kept private.” He thought for a moment. “Though maybe there is one story I would consider telling.”
Anita brightened. “May I ask what that is?” She obviously felt that she had her in.
They had reached the corner. Hood stopped and faced the woman. Her face stood out sharply, remarkably against the misty glow of the streetlamps.
“It’s the story of my own daughter,” he said. “She was taken hostage a few years ago at the United Nations by rogue peacekeepers.”
“I remember that siege,” Anita said. “Your daughter was there?”
“Harleigh was performing music with a youth group,” Hood said. “She came out of it with severe post-traumatic stress and has worked very hard to regain her footing. A son’s accomplishments are invariably measured against those of the father, but a daughter’s courage and devotion stand alone.”
Anita smirked. “That may be a first, Mr. Hood.”
“What is?”
“It’s the first compliment I have heard about a woman’s character that I would consider sexist,” she said.
“It is not meant to be,” Hood said.
“You would have to convince me of that,” she said. The challenging tone from the reception was returning.
“Are you familiar with the American dancer Fred Astaire?” Hood asked.
“From films?”
Hood nodded.
“Yes,” Anita said. “That is an odd question.”
“Not at all. He is considered the finest ballroom dancer of his generation,” Hood told her. “He had a partner, Ginger Rogers. She did everything he did but in high heels and backward. It is not sexist to say that women have to work harder than men, and that they possess — or have developed — a different set of physical, emotional, and psychological skills in order to do that.”
“You make us sound freakish.”
“I’m saying that you are special,” Hood said.
“In context, there is no distinction,” she charged.
“I believe there is,” Hood said. “Most women are a little scary to men. I think your father would agree.”
“You think I frighten him?” she asked with a trace of annoyance.
“Not you, Anita. I meant in general. Your father obviously loves and trusts you a great deal.”
Anita was frowning and silent. Hood could see her trying to determine whether his observation was calculated or innocent. He had meant it as a bit of a dig — perhaps carelessly, in retrospect — and he did not want her going back angry. Her father would not be happy about that.
Hood nodded toward the canopy. “We should go back. Your father is a fascinating man, and I want to hear what he has to say.”
That was not an invitation Anita could resist. The couple turned and walked back in silence. Hood was relatively certain that he had achieved his goal. He had stymied Anita’s mission, and he did not think she would go into detail with the prime minister. Le probably would not approve of his daughter having been distracted by a feminist debate. He might not be surprised, Hood suspected, but the prime minister would not be pleased.
Now that he had a chance to think about it, Hood was not too happy with all of that either. Until he had said it, Hood had never articulated the idea that he found women to be scary. From confronting Nancy Jo way back when to dealing with the romantic workplace tensions with Ann Farris to his talk with General Carrie, he had not been as comfortable as he was saving the world alongside Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert. But that was something he would have to consider another time.
Unlike Anita, Hood did not want to be distracted from his mission. The idea that a nuclear-powered satellite could be blown up was pretty scary, too.
THIRTY-SIX
Loyalty. In the end, that was the one irreducible value of life. It defined one’s sense of honor and priority, of sacrifice and industry. The only question the individual had to decide was to whom — or what — loyalty should be given.
General Carrie spoke with Bob Herbert as she scrolled through her E-mail. The intelligence chief had no new information from China. He was frustrated by that fact and complained that Op-Center had no senior-level executive over there representing their interests.
“Just two former bosses, both of whom have their own agendas,” he said.
“I am working on the problem,” she assured him.
“How?” Herbert said. “We don’t have the money.” He sounded irritable and distracted.
“Let me worry about that,” she replied.
There was nothing in her mailbox that needed immediate attention.
Not yet. Op-Center needed a makeover of personnel and procedures, both of which she would begin today. Since she had the time, Carrie asked Liz to come and see her. Profiling the entire team before contemplating cuts and reassignments was her priority.
The psychologist had just walked in when the phone beeped. The general motioned for her to shut the door behind her, then gestured to an armchair. The call was a surprise. It was from Mike Rodgers. The phone ID said that the general was calling from China.
“It’s a pleasure to speak with you, General Rodgers,” Carrie said.
“Likewise, General Carrie. Congratulations on your promotion and the move to Op-Center.”