BLAIR paused on the sidewalk after stepping out of the car, as the escorting vehicles slewed in. Her guards muttered into headsets, aiming short rifles at possible ambush points as they trotted toward overwatch positions.
Black SUVs had preceded and followed her through the scruffy, narrow, nearly deserted streets of Southeast DC. After the bombing in Indianapolis, all federal officers Executive Schedule III and above had to be escorted by the Federal Protective Service. But these guards wore black shooting gloves, ballistic helmets, and short jackets embroidered with Velociraptor Systems’ snarling dinosaur head. More and more, it seemed, private security was taking over what had once been basic government functions.
And milking away profit instead of providing services … Anyway. She brushed back her hair, deciding to worry about that later, and handed the documents she’d been reading to her aide. “Stay with the car, Erika. And boil this down to talking points. I’ll try not to be too long.”
Striding forward and lifting her gaze, she marveled at the antique crenellations of the old building. Its central structure rose to a five-story Gothic red-brick tower. So like the Smithsonian … The sun threw dappled shadows through the maples, and a breeze from the direction of the river stirred the sunny drops of light like golden flakes in a vodka martini.
A vodka martini … sounded good, actually. “Really, such a nice day,” she muttered. At the very least, she was getting away from briefings and screens for a few hours.
The Government Hospital for the Insane—later called St. Elizabeths Hospital, without an apostrophe, for some reason—dated from before the Civil War. Midwived by Dorothea Dix, this gloomy brickpile had specialized in treating, or at least confining, patients with mental disorders. During World War II the OSS had tested truth serums and mescaline here. Ezra Pound had been locked up inside. The CIA had conducted experiments here too. The shady, tree-dotted campus still served its dual functions of treating insanity and housing intelligence activities. The eastern half held a high-security facility for the criminally insane. The western hundred acres, including the original building, was owned by the federal government. The Department of Homeland Security and its daughter agencies were being moved here, into the refurbished hospital and other, new buildings. Some of which were still under construction, to judge by the trucks, cranes, and hoardings, the torn-up, muddy street.
“Ms. Titus?” A fresh-faced young woman waved. “The chief of staff’s office is this way. Please follow me. But your people”—she glanced at Blair’s bodyguards—“will have to stay out here.”
SHE’d sought this meeting for weeks. Operation Causeway, the liberation of Taiwan, had succeeded, though at a heavy cost. To judge by the administration’s press releases, and their echo chamber in the controlled media, victory was in the air. But as the undersecretary of defense for strategy, plans, and forces, she’d been privy to disquieting reports. Which she now planned to surface with someone she’d once known well.
Or thought she had. But these days, you could never be completely sure of anyone.
To her surprise, once she got past the nineteenth-century facade the interior was modern. White walls, white tile floors, white overheads, still sour-milk redolent of fresh latex paint. The aide led her past a checkpoint, waving off the guards. Funny, that the DHS, supposedly in charge of security for the whole country, with nearly half a million personnel, didn’t even wand her. But maybe that was a good sign.
Into an elevator. Spotless. Stainless. New. Another corridor, and on into an office with a breathtaking view of what looked like all of the Southeast District. And in the distance, the cupola’d snow-mountain of the Capitol.
“Blair Titus. How great to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, Sol. This looks much more comfortable than Nebraska Avenue.”
Laughing, Solomon Bischoff, chief of staff to the secretary of homeland security, came around his desk. They shook hands warmly, the old-pols’ two-handed grip. “Yeah, six hundred million in congressional funding, another matching six hundred through GSA. We’ll get this done. ICE and CBP, the Coast Guard and everybody else right here. No more chasing around the city. Long overdue.”
She and Bischoff had been lowly GS-9 analysts together at the Congressional Research Service, ages ago. They’d had dinner together a couple of times, gone dancing, but nothing had clicked. They’d stopped seeing each other before she’d gone to work for Senator Talmadge, and then she’d met Dan. Since it had been so long, she’d looked Bischoff up on LinkedIn and Google. Since the CRS, he’d gone from researching hedge funds into setting them up, leveraging a modest family fortune into major holdings in FANGs and defense stocks. His nomination hearing had featured a partisan grilling over the extent of his divestitures, and at last he’d been disapproved for the deputy position. Instead he’d become chief of staff, which didn’t require confirmation, but by all accounts he still made the decisions.
“You look great, Blair, just great. Not a day older.”
“All this gray says differently. You’re married, right? Kids?”
“Daughter and son.” He’d gained weight and lost hair, but still had the same crooked smile. Actually, he kind of looked like Dick Cheney now. “You’re married to that Navy commander, right?”
“He’s an admiral now. In the Pacific.”
“Really? Good on ya both. Yeah, I followed your campaign in the Times. I’d say I was sorry you lost, but really, we needed a fiscal conservative in Maryland. Whatever his … sexual preferences. And all in all, you can do more for us at Defense.” He showed her to a chair. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee. Thanks.”
“Alexa: coffee. Large. Two, please.”
“Coming up, Mr. Bischoff.”
Blair was surprised to hear an active digital assistant in what she hoped was a secure office. But no doubt DHS had anticipated any possible leaks. Sol settled behind the desk. “Usually we don’t do things this way. It’s the old memo, meeting routine. Not that I’m not glad to see you! But I assume this is about defense business.”
“In part. So thanks for the meeting. In my position, I get wind of developments across the country. And some of them lately disquiet me. From the point of view of workforce morale, primarily.”
“Ready,” Alexa said.
Bischoff got up and fetched the brews. “Cream? Sugar?”
She took cream. They sipped and were silent for a moment. Then she murmured, “Shall I continue?”
“If it impacts defense research, production, I need to hear it,” he said. “Absolutely.”
“All right, then. Some of my scientists suspect their offices are being monitored. That some of their assistants even report back to you.”
He sighed. “I’m not privy to the specifics, but I wouldn’t deny it. This is wartime, Blair. The enemy continually probes our cyberdefenses. Tries to intercept communications. You were on that plane that almost hit Los Alamos, correct? Someone slipped that Trojan horse into the flight control software. And they’re still out there. So I shouldn’t have to convince you of the danger.”
“But … are you monitoring their families? Their personal computers?”
Bischoff shrugged. “If they give us reason to. Really, Blair, if we can penetrate their data clouds, the enemy can too. Rest assured, when we find a hole that could be exploited, we notify the agencies concerned.”
She touched her lips lightly with a knuckle. Proceed carefully, Blair. “Um, some of that’s justified, Sol, I’m sure. And maybe we can justify drafting and expropriating anyone found without documents. But I also hear you’re using the Defense of Freedom Act to round up political opponents. Are there really black prisons in Kansas and Indiana?”
Bischoff’s eyebrows went up. He snorted. “Fake news, Blair. There’s nothing like that going on. Rationing’s working perfectly. Okay, scattered riots and minor looting here and there—but isolated, minor issues. This country’s marching forward together.”
Right, in lock-step, she thought. “And the Loyalty League. They aren’t suppressing peaceful dissent?”
“The Leaguers are solid citizens,” Bischoff said. “They accepted our confiscating their private weapons without objection.”
“Which were then returned to them under federal deputization.”
“The Mobilized Militia is constitutional. The Supreme Court says so. What’s your objection?”
“That only League members got the weapons back. No one else.”
“Because we can count on them.” Bischoff shrugged again. “The M&Ms do useful work. Guarding defense plants. Enemy alien and D class ethnicity camps. The Zones of Concentration. And I’ll underline once more that it’s conducted under the president’s war powers as granted by the Constitution. Passed in the DOFA, implemented in consultation with Congress, and approved by the courts.”
“Yes, but—”
“Here’s how it works.” Bischoff sat forward, spread his hands. His tone went earnest. “Our fusion centers at DHS identify persons and organizations that may become inimical to the war effort. Oppositionists. Active seditionists. Hostile ethnic elements. The first step’s the watch list. Once on the list, there’s no employment in sensitive positions, no firearms, computer, or car purchases, no driver’s licenses, and limited access to travel. Second step, the members and their families are taken into custody. They’re assigned to remunerative, productive work in public-private partnerships, in locations that assure their security.”
She tilted her head. “That may become inimical?”
“The exact wording of the Freedom Act. Or would you rather we left them at large until disaffection progresses to active treason? Work slowdowns? Sabotage? Bombings, like Indianapolis?” His face was turning red. “You do know there’ve been over three hundred domestic bombings so far this year? More than any year since 1968. If we hadn’t kept the lid hammered down, some parts of this country would be in open revolt.”
Perhaps that was true. But Blair couldn’t help reflecting that this was how other governments, some of them infamous, had explained away their mass clampdowns, their targeting and elimination of anyone who disagreed. “Well, Sol, I’d feel more comfortable with some of these measures, if I really could be sure it was only for the duration.”
“I see.” Bischoff swiveled away to look out his window. The trees were a nearly solid canopy, a speckle of gold and green stretching away down to the Potomac. “Can I share my feelings about that? We’ve known each other a long time. I think you know you can trust me.”
“Of course I can, Sol. I’m just not sure about some others in this administration.”
“Including yourself?” He chuckled, then turned serious. “This country has been heading down the wrong road for a long time. Remember De Bari? His fucking firefighter buddies … his mistresses … it’s been us against them ever since. And nothing ever got done, you know?”
She had to agree, at least in theory. “It’s true, very little ever seemed to happen.”
“And why? Because if any of our many problems actually got solved, there wouldn’t be money flowing in anymore to push the ball this way or that. We were stuck at top dead center for a long time. Until this president.”
“So what are you actually saying?”
He grimaced. “I’m saying, we can’t go back to that kind of … free-for-all after this war. We have to march together, to get anywhere. And if that means snipping off the fringe elements, the nut jobs, the activists, well, so be it. The broad middle path, that’s where this country has to go. All together. Forward as one.”
Forward as One was that month’s slogan. Taught in the schools, postered on billboards, flashed on every computer screen, repeated every five minutes on every talk and news show and government-approved blog. “Forward as one,” she murmured.
“That’s the spirit!” Bischoff beamed. “And seriously, Blair, if you want to keep playing … you need to reconsider your own position.”
She gave him her most polite smile. “What exactly do you mean, Sol?”
He ticked points off on his fingers. “You’re a smart girl, but you’re still rooting for the wrong team. The president sees you as a holdover from the previous administration. Yeah, you’re effective, hardworking. You contribute to victory, I guess. But really you’re only on board because of Ed Szerenci. He brought you in, and he’s the guy keeping you there. Now, this is only to be perfectly frank with you about what I hear. So when Ed goes in the dumpster, you’ll go too.”
“Is he headed there? I hadn’t heard that.”
“Nobody lasts forever, sweetheart. There are those who blame him for this war.”
Blair couldn’t contradict that; she’d been one of them, though she didn’t think so now. Or at least, saw his share of blame as smaller than she once had. “So what are you telling me, really?”
Bischoff rolled his eyes, as if any fool could connect the dots. “Cross the aisle, Blair! You’re pro-defense, right? Move from the right wing of your party to the left wing of ours. There’s only really going to be one left after this war, anyway.”
She said carefully, “But that sounds like what we’re fighting, Sol. In China. Iran. Pakistan. The other one-party states.”
Bischoff smiled. “History, Blair. Remember yours? Someone’s raised the same old alarms in every war we’ve had. They called Lincoln a tyrant. Wilson, a dictator. When Roosevelt ran for a fourth term, they said he was becoming another Caesar. And FDR ran concentration camps too. Remember that.”
Blair had to nod. “I do. Touché.”
“If we’re all rooting for the country, we need to work together. To win this war, then rebuild bigger and better. Forward as one?”
She almost said “As one,” but stopped herself at the last moment. “It’s certainly one philosophy, Sol. But I’ve always believed that the more noise and fuss, the more things are working the way they’re supposed to. That when everything’s quiet and serene, usually it just means someone’s getting away with something.”
The soft voice from the little speaker said, “Time for your call with the secretary, Mr. Bischoff. I’ll dial.”
“I used to believe that too.” Bischoff gazed out the window again. “Back in high school. But seeing the way we can actually get things done now, it’s changed my mind. Come over to us, Blair. Look to the future.”
He cleared his throat. Pushed up, and came around the desk. He was shorter than she now. Had he always been? She couldn’t remember. But the way he put his hand on her arm seemed all too familiar. He murmured, voice husky, “And, you know, we used to be—close. Your husband. You say he’s … away?”
She took her arm back, out of reach. “Yes. He’s overseas. Fighting.”
He looked away. “Uh-huh. Sure. Well, just thought I’d ask. So, was there anything else?”
“I guess not.” She stood, and suddenly wished for gloves, so she could pull them on. Or some other sweeping gesture, to draw a line. “I guess not. Thanks again for the meeting, Sol. If you can ask someone to see me out, I’ll get off your desk.”
HER aide briefed her on the report as they drove the narrow streets to the Suitland Parkway, then headed back toward center city. She made appropriate noises, but found it hard to concentrate. She tapped her knuckles to her lips as she stared out the green leafiness of the parkway. They tore across town on 695, through a ghostly emptiness where traffic had once roared. Before the refineries burned and the Cloud exploded. Before war had desolated the economy, and chopped the country apart like a cleaver.
She was wrestling with her angels.
In 1860, Secretary Cameron of the War Department had empowered Francis Blair to tender the command of the Union Army to Bobby Lee. His son Montgomery had served Lincoln as postmaster general, and his sons had continued the tradition as lawyers and politicians and generals.
By her generation, the connection was tenuous, but she’d always cherished that history. Public service was a family tradition. She’d hoped to continue it in the House.
Only now, was it still a tradition she should continue? Or would it be better, more honest, to quietly resign?
On the pro side: she’d be out of a government that seemed increasing focused on suppressing dissent. And Bischoff had reiterated a point she’d heard before: that politics were “different” now, that the old checks and balances were obsolete, wasted effort. A unified country … the phrase sounded good. But there was no way to unify a political entity as huge and varied as the United States. That had once been seen as a source of strength: that so many different interests, ethnicities, political viewpoints, could swear allegiance to one flag and Constitution, and, for the most part, get along.
Also on the pro side; spending more time at home, with her cat Jimbo and maybe, one of these days, with Dan. If everything worked out, if he made it home … this war had to end sometime. Didn’t it?
Against resigning: now and again, she might serve as a moderating voice in a Pentagon that seemed increasingly hawkish as the tide of war turned. And how long would she actually feel fulfilled, at home with the cat, a cup of tea, and Jane Austen on audiobook?
She made a face. If she knew Blair Titus, not very long.
Her little motorcade turned off 395. Pros, and cons. Should she stay, in hopes of moderating Szerenci and the generals? Or resign, and try to salvage her reputation for a postwar run for Congress?
She touched the damaged ear, winced, shifted on her seat. Her bad hip flamed, as it always did when she spent too much time sitting. A reminder that America still had enemies other than China. That someone had to fight back. Defend the country, whether its enemies were without, or within.
“Be realistic, Blair,” she whispered to her reflection in the window. It was too late for a postwar run. The antiwa wing of her party had tarred her unmercifully for participating at all. They’d never support her candidacy; she’d be slaughtered in the primary.
She didn’t want to stay. But if she left, she’d be out in the cold.
There were no black-and-white answers. Not at her level.
“Also, Blair,” the aide said, softly, as if unwilling to interrupt her brown study, “you got a call from overseas. From Ireland. No name given.” She passed over a slip of paper.
Blair recognized the number. Liz McManus, from the previous year’s UN meeting in Dublin. But she couldn’t call back right now. And probably, if she replied at all, ought not to do so from an official phone.
She sighed as the car coasted to a halt for the security check at Lafayette Square. And put off the decision for one more day.
THE West Wing portico, once again. The same Walmart-style concrete planters, so cheaply and badly made she shuddered every time she saw them. She bent to a reader for a retina scan as the Marine guards patted down her aide. Then, surprising her, turned to her. “You too, ma’am.”
She lifted her arms, staring at the ceiling as hands ran up and down her sides, felt the small of her back, and investigated, briefly, between her legs. Well, well. This was unexpected. Had some new threat been detected? Was the president becoming even more paranoid? Or had Sol passed along some kind of warning about her? She checked her watch, worried she’d be late. But at last she and the aide were shown through.
The Roosevelt Conference Room. She’d been here so often, during so many crises. This was the second meeting of the Szerenci-named Hostilities Termination Working Group. Today she would present the results of her DoD/State joint working group, and maybe, just maybe, some way forward might emerge. She got coffee, looked at a tray of pastries, but made a deliberate turn away. More and more often, rich, heavy foods made her feel ill.
The usual suspects were assembling, this time without the deputies who lined the walls in the meetings across the river, in the more capacious Tank. Heavyset, slow-moving Helmut Glee, the Army chief of staff. Gray, birdlike Absalom Lipsey, Joint Chiefs Operations. Rolling in in her wheelchair, Dr. Oberfoell, from the Office of Cyber Security. Admiral Nick Niles gave a terse wave from across the room. Beside him was Jim Yangerhans, in command in the Pacific, Ricardo Vincenzo, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the bent back of Leif Strohm, the sickly, often absent secretary of defense. Blair crossed to shake Strohm’s hand and ask about his health. That courtesy accomplished—she worked for him, after all, though Szerenci seemed to think otherwise—she nodded to the CIA rep, Tony Provanzano.
Then, as if attracted by some magnetic force, heads turned toward the door. Where a tall, gaunt, dark-skinned woman in a dark blue suit, red bow, white shirt, and dark skirt had appeared.
Dr. Swethambari Madhurika—“Swethi,” as the mainstream media called her, or “Sweaty” to Mother Jones and the Daily Kos, before they’d been shut down—was a rarity in American politics, a first-generation immigrant. Her upswept hair was a dark, flat black. She carried through the forbidding look with one concession to femininity, large pearls at her ears. Arriving from India as a child, then practicing as a neurosurgeon, she’d built a biotech company that had IPO’d at two billion dollars. She’d entered politics in Florida, to become the first Hindu governor in the country. She’d built a reputation for ruthless pruning at HUD, cutting the staff by twenty percent while actually reducing homelessness, at least before the war wrecked everyone’s plans. Her predecessor as White House chief of staff had self-destructed in a sexting scandal.
“The president asked me to sit in,” she said in a husky timbre. She took a seat at the side of the table. “I won’t be chairing. That will be the national security advisor. But we’re hoping for concrete options. To move forward, together, and get this war behind us.” She glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table. “And where is he?”
Szerenci appeared in the doorway just then, looking rumpled. “Helicopter was delayed,” he muttered, and took his seat. He greeted everyone, then turned to Blair. “The war termination study. Ms. Titus, d’you want to kick off?”
She flipped open her folder. “The heads of state meeting in Jakarta outlined what the Allies would consider a satisfactory settlement of hostilities. That may or may not include what we typically think of as victory. A lot will depend on how far the enemy leadership’s willing to go before admitting they can’t continue the conflict.
“To reach that goal, while bearing in mind the necessity to avoid massive civilian casualties, and set the stage for a durable peace, the heads of state approved plans for the final military phase. With China and North Korea weakening, a decapitation strike was approved for Korea, with the possibility of a follow-on invasion should conditions warrant. The Indian army has taken Gwadar. Operation Rupture, the invasion of Hainan, will be under way shortly.
“Thus, a military solution may be in sight, if two of the opposed Powers—Korea and Pakistan—can be knocked out or persuaded to surrender. Iran can be dealt with later; we think they’ll ask for terms once China capitulates. In the Gulf, we would lift the blockade and ease sanctions in exchange for cessation of hostilities and admission of UN or NPT teams to inspect for WMDs.”
She took a breath. “That is, a military end is in sight. But that brings up new questions, that did not apply in any previous conflict. For what insight history and theory can bring to that issue, Professor Kevin Glancey, of Stanford.”
She’d warned the historian to keep it to three minutes, and he nearly made that deadline. The thorniest problem, he said, remained. “There’s no protocol for war termination between nuclear powers. Much less, for the goals the administration has set forth—regime change, stabilization, and regeneration under a democratic government. As Blair pointed out, what we used to regard as ‘victory’ may no longer be possible. And even if we achieve it, the results could be catastrophic.”
He flicked a finger, and a graph appeared on the wall. “Note the steep, nearly asymptotic rise of risk as territory and allies are lost on one side. As that side is more seriously threatened, the possibility of escalation increases.
“The limited number of Chinese strategic missile submarines have already been sunk or bombed to uselessness in port. Our air defenses hem in their bomber force, which was never designed for penetration of robust defenses. The stumbling block remains: his land-based missile force. A cornered Zhang will be tempted to employ them to set red lines, to demolish Allied forces or US cities, or to essentially freeze the Allied advance in place.”
“None of this is new,” Szerenci observed. “You said the same thing at our last meeting. Unless you’re telling us something useful, we’re wasting our time here, Kevin.”
Blair brushed her hair back over her damaged ear and hardened her voice. “The net here is perfectly clear, Ed. Unless and until we can disable those heavy missiles, the best we can hope for is stalemate. Not victory. Not peace. But the American public doesn’t do stalemate. No matter how many people DHS puts behind barbed wire, we can expect the antiwa movement to grow.”
The White House chief of staff lifted a hand. “Then … Blair … how do we end this war? Because to me, it sounds like you’re saying we actually can’t?”
No one stirred. Until Szerenci sighed. “Blair’s put her finger on it, Swethi. Unless we can take those heavy missiles off the table there’s no viable path to termination of hostilities with the central antagonist.”
“And if we don’t, or can’t, disable them? Then what?”
Blair said, “Either a full-scale invasion of the Asian mainland, or return to the status quo ante bellum via an armistice.”
“And renewed war in ten years, when the enemy recovers. Both impossible choices,” Szerenci said. “Are we agreed on that?”
A hesitation, then nods and murmurs of agreement around the table.
Madhurika inclined her head as well. “All right. Both alternatives are unacceptable. So how do you plan to disable these missiles? Without bringing on central nuclear war?”
Dr. Oberfoell stirred in her wheelchair. “We discussed this at the last meeting. War Eagle may be able to disable command and control, now that Jade Emperor’s toast. At least, we can slow their reaction time.”
CIA said, “We’re exploring an alternative with one of the senior generals. But to be frank, we doubt this will resemble the scenario in Iraq, where the regime largely crumbled from within.”
Blair exchanged glances with Szerenci. She’d briefed him on her meeting in Dublin, just to be safe. He’d grumbled, but hadn’t taken action against her. But neither, apparently, had he mentioned the other side’s feeler to anyone else. She tensed, though, as he tapped a pencil on the table.
He said, “We’ve fought this entire war from a position of escalation inferiority. Which is why I’ve always advised the president against use of nuclear weapons. Even when they were used against us. Cost and danger rises with each rung up the ladder. And since Zhang had dominance, goosing the counterescalatory spiral meant we lost. Until now.”
Szerenci turned his head, speaking now across the table directly to the White House chief of staff. “The president knows about the EP Heavy. Bigger than any previous ICBM, with four hardened earth-penetrating warheads of twenty megatons each. Accelerated on the way down with a Trident engine, the penetrators will punch through two hundred meters of granite. The harder the rock they encounter, the more destructive the shock wave they generate.”
Madhurika said dryly, “So you can destroy China’s strategic missiles in a first strike. You think. STRATFOR thinks. So the operative word is maybe. And we still have to be ready for an all-out nuclear exchange after that.
“So if they’ve squirreled anything away, mobile launchers we don’t know about, or have a missile sub lying low we missed somehow—”
“There’ll be risks,” Szerenci said. “Of course. As I’ve said before, let’s rid ourselves of illusion. That’s how this war will end. With a nuclear exchange. The professor’s told us, more than once: it’s the only way it can end.
“But that’s still my recommendation, and the recommendation of this working group.”
He started to get up, and Madhurika’s brow furrowed. She nodded to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, to the secretary of defense. “Ricardo. Leif. You agreed to this?”
“I see no alternative,” General Vincenzo said softly. “Unless we want to go into Asia, and fight it out there. With casualties possibly in the millions.”
Beside him the secretary of defense coughed into a handkerchief. He nodded silently, suffering clear in his eyes.
Blair shuddered. Was about to object when the chief of staff said, “Assuming we do as you say, Ed. Then what happens?” She leaned in, looking at an Air Force general halfway down the table. The head of Strategic Forces. “Can you shed some light on that?”
The four-star cleared his throat. “Well … we used to play that scenario, in the old Global Thunder wargame. Back when we did have escalation dominance.”
“The results?” Madhurika asked, sounding skeptical.
The general said soberly, “Every scenario we played went full central nuclear exchange.”
“And your opinion of a first strike? Can we really take out those heavies?”
“It will be risky.”
“Agreed. But, possible?”
“No one can answer that,” the general said. “Ma’am. Too many unknown unknowns.”
Madhurika pushed back from the table. She looked down it at Strohm. “Leif, you and I need to go in and see the president.” She rose, and after a moment the secretary of defense, coughing, haggard, obviously near death, rose to follow her out.
AT home that night, in the house in Arlington, Blair carried her tea into the library and sank into the leather recliner. Dan’s easy chair. Which he’d occupied all too seldom since they’d bought the house, though he’d built bookshelves … bought these books … she sipped and contemplated them. By now she knew what he liked. Every birthday and Christmas, the shelf grew a few volumes. Nonfiction, mostly, about history and faraway places, science and archaeology. But here and there, a novel too. Plus a whole shelf of stories of the sea. Marryat. Cooper. Melville. Conrad. De Hartog. Wouk. Reeman. Beach. Searls. Cornwell.
Would they really retire someday? Slippers, a crackling fire … It was hard to imagine. Neither of them were the type to sit around and relax. They’d both been made in some queer way, that forced them to hammer their heads against an obdurate world. Over and over again.
But now and then, maybe, they could make a dent in it.
There was the matter of her debt, too. Rampant inflation was softening its impact, but she still owed nearly a million dollars on her House campaign. Perhaps Archipelago or Zuza would offer her a board position. Or she could go into university administration …
The cat came in while she was fretting. “Jimbo, c’mere,” she muttered, scratching the arm of the chair. Black and white, very fat, he seemed to think about climbing up to her lap for a moment, but gave up the effort and curled at her feet.
Forcing her to bend and lift him up. She stroked his back absently, sipping the tea now and then as it cooled. Contemplating, once again, her dilemma.
Stay, or go?
As if unwilling to confront it once again her mind gave her: Dublin. She’d never returned McManus’s call. She sighed and reached for the phone. Then hesitated, hand hovering in midair.
Are you monitoring their families?
If they give us reason to.
But Szerenci knew the Chinese had contacted her. If this was what she thought it might be. He would back her up, if questions were raised. At least, she hoped so.
She glanced at the wall clock, then decided.
“Yes?” A sleepy voice.
“Hello. Ms. McManus? I’m returning your call.”
Liz McManus, the Irish rapporteur and chairperson at the UN conference the year before. A former teachta dála, a congresswoman in American parlance, she’d led the Labour Party before retiring. “Blair … oh yes. It’s … six AM here, you know.”
“I’m really sorry, Liz. I just couldn’t call before now.”
“I understand how it can be. Believe me.” A silvery chuckle, and her voice became more alert. “You recall our conference in Dublin.”
“I do.”
“We’ve evolved the monitoring team arrangement we set up last year. It will now be the the International Commission Against War Crimes and Genocide in Asia. Our next meeting will be in Zurich. On the tenth. Do you think you could make room on your schedule?”
“Um, let me check my calendar.” She called it up. Yes, two days free. Well, not free, but she could reschedule. “Yes. It might be possible.”
“The handsome young man you met before may be there. And I understand he’s still interested in you.”
A misdirection, of course. The “young man” had been a member of the Chinese delegation. Their chat in a Dublin pastry shop had been inconclusive and off the record, but it had been a contact. A reaching out.
And if a back channel could be opened, it might offer a way forward. A way other than the full-scale nuclear attack that Szerenci, and now apparently Madhurika, were no longer just contemplating, but being driven to. Not by any excess of aggressive instinct, but by the inexorable logic of war.
Of course, it might also expose her to accusations of treason.
But given the stakes, a personal risk was worth taking.
“Are you interested? I can set it up. With him. Can you get to Zurich? If so, leave the rest to me. I know your friend Miss Salyers will be there, from your State Department. Perhaps you could attach to her mission?”
Ensconced in the comfortable chair, she lifted her hand from petting the cat. And was unsurprised to see her fingers trembling. Jimbo pushed his head into her palm, wanting more. Eyes closed, purring. Her palms were sweating. A hinge of history? Or the biggest mistake she would ever make? She had to force herself to say, “Um, I think so, Liz. I’ll call Shira tomorrow. And see what can be done.”