Enemies

THIRTEEN

“Damn them to hell,” Wexler swore, throwing the message board down on the floor. “T’ing — he knows something about this. He knew and didn’t tell me — not in so many words, nothing I could use.”

Jack picked the clipboard up and studied the top sheet. He’d already heard the general story on CNN, but the details were even more chilling.

The commander of the UN Forces, General Dimitri Arkady, was demanding that the United States withdraw its special advisor, Admiral Tombstone Magruder. The body of the message was filled the vitriol and hate, posing as a complaint about Tombstone’s performance while embarking on a ranting diatribe against America’s foreign policy and political systems. It ended with an appeal to all member nations — and with dismay, Wexler noted that every nation was an info addee to the message — band together to force the Americans to stop using the UN as their own private rubber stamp for the American agenda overseas. It concluded with thanks to the General Assembly for taking the opportunity to achieve a lasting peace in the area, and expressed every confidence that the rest of the nations would understand the deep, grave, and sincerely held objections that Arkady had to Tombstone’s continuing presence in the region.

“What are you going to do?” Jack asked after he’d read the message twice, more to be polite and give Sarah Wexler the illusion that he didn’t already know what she’d say.

She sighed. “I’m going to see the president. I argued against this whole idea when he proposed it, but he wasn’t listening. Maybe now he’ll understand why foreign command of American troops is a pipe dream.” She stabbed on finger at the offending message. “This is just one of the things that can go wrong.”

Tombstone Magruder. Jack had met him several times, traveling in the surprisingly small circle of people whose opinions mattered, who actually had some well-thought-out views on international affairs. Smart man, for a naval officer. He didn’t pretend to have all the answers, nor did he try to fake understanding the details of how the UN and its member nations worked. That took years, and Jack was just starting to get proficient at the standard fare of back-door deals and negotiated compromises that were the UN’s stock in trade.

Even apart from his relative naivete, though, Tombstone had managed to impress both Jack and his boss with his understanding of how they worked, even if the actual details eluded him. That Tombstone had understood immediately made Jack consider the possibility that perhaps the Navy had more going on inside its senior ranks than Jack had thought before. He’d always had the impression that all senior military men and women were idealistic and ethical, a perception that had not changed since the days that his own father was a senior enlisted man in the Army. Power plays, rice bowls, personal power — he’d thought them all a little too good for the sort of down and nasty horse-trading that international politics required. You did the dirty with the other nations and called in the forces when everything else failed.

But with Tombstone, it had been different. Even back in the Spratley’s conflict, when Tombstone had forged together an alliance of unlikely allies to defeat the Chinese surge into the oil-rich islands. In Cuba, when he’d faced down the island nation supplied with nuclear warheads from Libya.

It had been Hong Kong that had made the difference, Jack decided. In tacking down the source of advanced technology used against the American forces during a period of infighting in the Hong Kong administration, Tombstone had been exposed to international intrigue on a level that few active duty military officers experienced. Coming on the heels of the admiral’s search for his father in Vietnam and Russia, it had obviously seasoned him from a superb war fighter to a potent force with a frightening insight into the realities of everyday international politics.

“What do you think the president will do?” Jack asked, aware that he’d been silent for some time as he sorted out the pieces to this particular puzzle himself.

“I’m hoping he refuses,” Wexler said. “I’m not certain he will, though.”

“You actually think he’d recall Admiral Magruder?”

She nodded. “There are too many secrets being kept around here, Jack. T’ing knows something and the president knows something that they’re not telling me. I’m not sure how the president thinks I can do my job without knowing, but he does. We’ve got to find out what’s going on. And do it on our own… at least until they decide to be on the up and up with us. I’m counting on you to pull this one off.”

Jack thought about it for a moment, about the explosive combination of Tombstone Magruder and General Arkady, the equally uneasy relationship between T’ing and Sarah Wexler. The dinner Jack wrote off with a cynical check mark. T’ing was after something big, and if he thought a few dinners might make Wexler more receptive, then Jack was certain that T’ing would be the most entertaining dinner partner around. No matter how Sarah perceived the overtures, Jack would never believe them. The Chinese had allies, not friends.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said slowly, wondering as he did whether his mouth was writing a check that his butt couldn’t cash. “Might be nothing,” he added, trying to prepare her for that possibility.

“No.” There was not a trace of doubt in Sarah Wexler’s voice. “T’ing’s up to something. The president doesn’t know exactly what it is, or he would have told me. Not that he tells me everything”—an understatement, Jack thought—“but he would about this.”

Maybe, Jack thought. And maybe not. He’s got his own problems these days.

“Besides,” Wexler continued, “If it’s important enough to T’ing to try to make friends with me with all these nice little dinners, then it’s important enough for us to go digging for.” Jack was gratified to see a hard smile creep across her face. “My new best friend, the one with so much advice for our country. Just giving us the benefit of his centuries of experience, you understand.”

So she’s not fooled. Jack experienced a mild rush of relief then looked at his boss with new respect in his eyes. “But that was your line, the one about a more experienced culture.”

Wexler’s smile broadened. “Yeah. And he bought it hook, line and sinker.”

Jack stared at her for a moment in amazement, and then started laughing. If T’ing thought he was winning this war, he was in for a rude awakening.

A rude awakening. Now what does that… oh. Yes, that would do. Jack felt a slow smile spread across his face.

Wexler noticed it immediately. She leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“It’s not much,” Jack said slowly, “but it might be enough to tip the balance with T’ing. And it’s a long shot. But here’s how it’d work.” He outlined the idea, filling in the details as he went. After the first few moments, Wexler started nodding. It would have been unkind, Jack thought, to call her smile slightly evil.

“Oh, yes,” she said finally. “Yes, that would do quite nicely. I’ll set it up later today.”

For a moment, Jack almost pitied the ambassador from China. He had no idea what he’d started.

The Macedonian commander decreed that it was too dangerous to return to base. Oddly enough, he commented sardonically, they’d managed to prepare for that contingency. “We’re a small force,” he said. “We can’t afford to risk them all in one location.”

The secondary camp was proving to be farther away than Xerxes had let on. They’d tramped through open hills and forest for most of the day, stopping only for two skimpy meals.

Pamela led the way, with Xerxes bringing up the rear as they headed back toward the camp. Murphy had started off berating her, accusing her of everything from treason to aggravated cruelty and had finally settled into a frigid silence broken only occasionally by quiet groans of pain. Though he curtly denied being injured in the ejection, it was clear from the way that he moved that that was at least partially untrue. He brusquely rejected her attempts to at least ascertain the extent of his injuries, and had settled into what Pamela privately characterized as traditional male bullheadedness.

So let him sulk. It’s not like I could do anything about it. Xerxes wasn’t going to let him go — he’d have shot him first. I’m a reporter, dammit, not a player in all this.

Or was she? Hadn’t she intervened, pleading with Xerxes not to shoot down the American aircraft? For all the good it had done. And what had it gotten her?

Nothing. The only thing it had done was shatter her credibility with the Macedonians. So much for getting this particular story out.

She glanced back over her shoulder and saw two faces that mirrored each other. Cold, grim determination in the eyes belied the granite expressions carved into the two faces. One dark, Mediterranean, with the classic features and curly black hair of this region; the other corn-fed blond hair and blue eyes that would have looked more natural wearing the open, easy-going expression of a farm boy. But not now — boiling oil wouldn’t have tortured out a single expression of emotion from either face.

“Turn left at the fork,” Xerxes ordered.

She obliged, following the narrow trail that broke off the main path. After years of reporting on conflicts all over the world, she’d come to recognize the normal signs that one was at the outskirts of a military camp. Guards, maybe scouts, well-concealed yet inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. The smell of cooking, wood smoke or gasoline camp stove, the necessary sanitary arrangements, and the odor of men under pressure living in close quarters without regular baths. She glanced around the woods, pristine and quiet. If the base camp were located anywhere near here, they’d done an excellent job of disguising it.

“Are we almost there?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Silence from behind her, then Xerxes said, “We’re not there yet. We’re stopping here for the night.”

“Why?” A longer silence this time, as though he were debating exactly how much to tell her.

That tears it, then. Whatever little trust we had is gone. I should have known it would come to this — these people are all alike. They can’t understand what it is to be impartial, to have a responsibility to the rest of the world. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tie me up for the night, much less tell me what’s going on.

“It’s too far to the camp tonight,” Xerxes said finally. “We’ll make it in the morning.”

“If it’s still there, you mean.” Pamela shocked herself with the small note of vindictive glee in her voice.

“It’s still there.”

“How do you know? I mean, if it’s not nearby, then you can’t possibly know whether or not it survived the bombing runs, can you?” she asked, her voice louder now and strident. Behind her, she heard what she thought was a grunt of approval from Murphy.

“I saw where the aircraft went,” Xerxes said.

“Where this strike went, you mean. How do you know there weren’t others?” This is insane. Stop taunting him, you idiot! What about the story?

“I will know shortly,” Xerxes said, a sad note of triumph in his voice. She heard a noise and turned in time to catch Murphy as he stumbled and fell forward against her, his hands still tied behind him. She caught him and controlled his descent to the ground. The Macedonian was holding his weapon by the barrel, pulling back from jabbing Murphy in the back with it. “Because he’s going to tell me. One way or the other.”