War of Eagles

THIRTY-FIVE

Paul Hood stepped into the warm, damp night. There was a clinging mist in the air, and it caused his cell phone to crackle. He could only imagine what kind of pollutants were in the air.

He stepped away from the canopy to call Rodgers. Hood stood with his back to the reception hall, a finger in his ear to block out the sounds of traffic. The general was in his hotel room having dinner.

“Chinese food isn’t Chinese food,” Rodgers said. “I’m sitting here eating chicken kidneys and shark fins. What are you doing?”

“I’m standing outside a reception where I’ve already missed the hors d’oeuvres,” Hood said.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Rodgers said.

The repartee was strained. Neither man was very good at this with one another. Hood got to the point. “I spoke with the prime minister. He said that one of us could attend the launch.”

“You should be the one to go,” Rodgers said.

“Why?” He had not expected Rodgers to come all this way and surrender that privilege.

“I’m looking into other aspects of the situation,” Rodgers told him.

“Is it anything you can talk about?” Hood asked. “Not over this line, I realize, but maybe later—”

“Maybe later,” Rodgers said with finality.

That was also unexpected. Rodgers had delivered a clean, unapologetic kick in the teeth.

“All right then,” Hood said. “I’ll make the arrangements for my visit. I’ll let you know how things progress.”

“Thanks.”

“Will you give me a call when you can talk?”

“Sure,” Rodgers promised.

Hood flipped the cell phone shut. He stood looking ahead at the oncoming traffic. He could not see the faces of the drivers, but he felt as though every eye was looking at him, laughing at him. He knew they were not, yet he had never felt as exposed and vulnerable as he did at that moment. He had never felt so adrift.

Since the night that his fiancée Nancy Jo Bosworth had left him standing alone on a street corner, waiting for a movie date that never materialized, he had never felt so alone.

“The man without a country,” he muttered.

“Edward Everett Hale,” came a soft voice from behind him.

Hood snapped around. Anita was standing there. She was holding a Coke and smiling. At least one of them was for him.

“Thank you,” Hood said as he took the glass.

“Philip Nolan, an American exiled for treason,” the woman went on. “Is that why you are here? Are you in exile?”

“Are you referring to here being outside or here being Beijing?” Hood asked. He took a sip of cola. There was no ice.

“Let’s take outside first.” She smiled.

There was no ice in Anita now, either. Hood was suspicious, though he liked it better on her than he did in the warm beverage.

“I came out to make a call,” he said, holding up the phone.

“Professional?”

He nodded.

“So you feel exiled in Beijing, then,” Anita said.

“Not really,” Hood told her.

Anita’s big, open forehead crinkled. “I’m confused.”

Hood smiled. “Me, too.”

“But you said—”

“It was just a reverie,” Hood said.

“Not a lament?”

Hood smiled. She was perceptive. But then, an interpreter would have to be. Many translations depended upon nuance, not just the literal words.

“Whatever it was, it’s passed,” Hood lied. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Accept my apology,” she said.

“For what?”

“For coming on a little strong earlier,” Anita said. “I am sure you are under a great deal of pressure here. I should not have added to it.”

“You did not upset me,” Hood assured her. “To the contrary. I was sorry the Asian stereotypes upset you. There is no defending them.”

“Time and perception change, and culture changes with them,” she said. “It is both fortunate and unfortunate that the works themselves survive. Unfortunate in that the stereotypes survive. Fortunate in that we can measure how much more enlightened we have become.”

“That is true,” Hood said. He glanced back at the canopy. “We should go back. We are probably missing your father’s toast.”

“Do you really want to hear it?”

“That’s a loaded question,” Hood said.

“Answer it truthfully.” She smiled.

“I want to show respect for the man and his position.”

“A perfect diplomatic response.” She laughed. “You do your president honor.”

“Thank you,” Hood said. “But before we go back, I would like to ask you something.”

“Certainly.”

“You don’t have to answer, if you think the question is out of line.”

“Lao-tzu once said, ‘There is no such thing as a stupid question. Only stupid answers.’ ”

“True enough.” Hood smiled. “I’m wondering what caused your attitude toward me to change.”

“May I answer freely?”

“Of course,” Hood said.

“You spoke to my father with great deference,” she replied. “You did not fawn or bluster the way other ambassadors do. In fact, you did not even act like someone from an embassy.”

“Diplomats have a job to do.”

“As I said, you do it differently.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Hood’s radar had picked up the blip. He had only sensed it a moment before, when she first complimented his manner, but now it was big and green and closing in. Anita had come out here to find out what exactly he was doing in China.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we go back inside?”

“I was thinking a walk might be nice.”

“All right,” Hood agreed. He continued to offer his arm. She took it with a smile. Now he knew Anita was playing him.

The woman was obviously inexperienced at this. But Hood would play along. He was certain that her father had sent her to talk with him. The prime minister might be angry or insulted if Hood brought her back too quickly. Even though it could hurt the launch, he might withdraw permission for someone to attend. However, if Hood and Anita stayed out for a short while, the prime minister might shift the failure of this maneuver from Hood to his daughter’s inexperience.

“I wonder. Did you ever think of writing a novel?” Anita asked.

“No.” Hood laughed. “I would be too self-conscious.”

“Why?”

“When I was a kid, I read Tom Sawyer and Treasure Island,” Hood told her. “When my parents weren’t looking, I read the James Bond stories. I loved them. Then I found out that Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson and Ian Fleming made them up. They didn’t happen. There was no Huck Finn or Long John Silver. That really upset me. Not because they weren’t real, but because someone sat down and spent all that time to lie to me.”

“You felt betrayed?” Anita asked.

“Betrayed, cheated, and stupid,” Hood said. “Assuming I had the time and patience to write a novel, I think I would be distracted by the fact that I was lying to thousands and thousands of people.”

Anita laughed. “You are aligned with Confucius.”

“How so?”

“He did not like novels or novelists,” Anita replied. “He felt they were on the low end of society, the opposite of truth and honor. Fiction writers started with a lie and went from there. I maintain that fiction is an internal search for truth that the artist shares.”

“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.