THIRTY

VIV WAS SHAKING when she sat down. “Something’s happened to Reiche,” she said. “I know it has. When you came back and went straight in here, what else could I think?”

“You thought correctly, Aunt Viv,” Nicolae said. “He was murdered.”

“Oh no! Oh no, no, no.”

“Do not worry, Viv. We shall exact revenge, and at the highest level.”

“No, no, no!”

“You are not hearing me, Auntie. We will make Tismaneanu regret this, and we will lock up the election.”

Viv scowled at him, tears streaming. “Have you no heart whatsoever? How does whatever you are planning bring back my dear friend, my teacher?”

Nicolae looked at Leon, then back at Viv. “Are you not an adult?” he said. “Bring back your dear friend? When have you ever known of someone coming back from the dead? There will be no returning of Reiche Planchette. The sooner you accept that, the better. Now we must make the best of it, and the best is what will come of that which it gives us license to do.”

“Is that all you ever think of, Nicolae? What will best serve you?”

He was nonplussed. What else was a person to think of? “What is best for me will be best for Romania. And Europe. And the world.”

“Your ego knows no bounds!” she said, sobbing.

“Be careful, Aunt Viv. Remember to whom you are speaking.”

She sat shaking her head.

“Say something, Leon,” Nicolae said. “I cannot console a crazy woman.”

“I’m no crazy woman! I’m grieving! Can’t you see that?”

Leon rose and moved to her side, kneeling and putting a hand on her shoulder. “I am so, so sorry for your loss, Ms. Ivins. Reiche Planchette was a true friend and a loyal employee, and I know how much you thought of each other. Nothing I say or do can make this better, but just know that I am sympathetic and that I care.”

Nicolae was stunned to see the change in Viv. She wiped her face and began to nod. Then she whispered, “Thank you very much, Mr. Fortunato, for those kind words. I will want to be heavily involved in Mr. Planchette’s memorial service, inviting his many friends and relatives, of course.”

“Of course.” Leon turned to Nicolae. “I should think Ms. Ivins would be the perfect choice for that task, Mr. Carpathia. Do you not agree?”

“Hmm?” Nicolae said, looking up from taking notes. “Just a moment. ‘. . . just know that I am sympathetic and that I care.’ That was good, Leon. Very good. Now, what was it?”

“I’m advising that you take Ms. Ivins up on her offer to handle Mr. Planchette’s memorial service.”

“Oh, well, yes, certainly. And, Viv, to show my sympathy and care, I am guessing you will feel a whole lot better once Emil Tismaneanu is dead.”

Viv stood and stared at Nicolae, then left the room.

When she was gone, he shrugged. “Leon, there are some people in the world you simply cannot please.”

The CIA operatives led Rayford to several sculptures and other objects of art in the main building, on the grounds, and on a couple of different floors. Finally they walked him through a tunnel to the dome-shaped auditorium connected to the original building.

“What are the big plaster rings?” Rayford said, looking up and pointing at the inside of the dome.

“Partly for looks, partly for sound,” one said, and Rayford was impressed with the acoustics. “But look at this.”

The operative pushed a button and a projection screen rose from the floor. “We’ll leave that up,” he said, “as the meeting facilitator wants to use it today.”

A side door opened and three men in suits and three more in military uniforms entered. The meeting facilitator introduced himself as Jack Graham and quickly introduced the others, and Rayford was suddenly lost in the sea of names and titles. Only Graham was CIA. Two were from the Defense Department, and the three in uniform were on various task forces under the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

All greeted Rayford formally by name, shaking his hand and thanking him for coming. Graham led everyone to the first two rows of seats, and he faced them, his knees on the lowered seat of a chair in the front row. Rayford realized his initial hosts had disappeared.

“We have a problem,” Graham began, “and, Captain Steele, we’re hoping you might be able to shed a little light. We understand your military experience is limited and that you are not an expert in munitions or antiterrorism.”

“I can confirm that,” Rayford said.

“You are here as a representative of every commercial pilot in this country. We’re looking to you less for technical expertise than for a gut-level reaction of how you think your colleagues might respond to our dilemma. An old problem has resurfaced, and it could be a disaster if we don’t nip it.”

“May I counsel you, Nicolae?” Leon said.

“Do you not always?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to be critical, and I certainly don’t want to offend. I simply want you to be the best leader possible. I have hitched my wagon to your star.”

“You have what?”

“Emerson.”

“Who? The poet?”

“Never mind. I want to serve you long and well, Nicolae. Your attempts at humility are coming along, and I have seen you sway masses with the new approach.”

“It is not easy, Leon. As you know—”

“Yes, you have little to be humble about. But your lack of compassion and empathy is nearly inhuman.”

“Maybe I am not human. Have you ever considered that?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. But the truth is you were the product of sperm and egg, born of a woman fertilized by a man.”

“Two men.”

“Very well. At the very most you were the first but will not be the last of a hybrid generation. A case can be made that you are wholly human.”

“And so?”

“And so you must act like it. Telling your aunt that one of her dearest friends died a horrible death, just as she had dreaded, and then acting surprised at her shock and grief . . . that is simply not normal human behavior. Did you feel nothing for her?”

“No.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Or at least straightforward. You asked.”

“I did. And now I am saying that you must at least affect an attitude of empathy, the ability to put yourself in another’s shoes.”

“You saw me taking notes; did you not?”

“Yes, what was that about, Nicolae?”

“I am not totally unaware, Leon. I recognized that you scored with that little act of yours, and I do not mind telling you I plan to appropriate it next time.”

“It wasn’t an act.”

“It was not? You genuinely care about a woman you barely know? a woman who would just as soon you were not here with such a high level of access to me?”

“Yes, and I can even empathize with her on that score. At first I was jealous of and resented Reiche. Then it became clear you were less than enamored with him and his contribution, so I was put at ease.”

“You do not feel the same about Aunt Viv?”

“Jealous of her? Threatened? No. She is a woman. You clearly relegate women to secondary status, a rare proclivity I happen to admire in this day and age. She brings to the table unique strengths and gifts, and I for one am glad I don’t have to contribute in the same ways.”

“You like being my top adviser.”

“Exactly.”

“See?” Nicolae said. “As I said, I am not totally unaware. Now are we finished with this little life lesson? Can we get to planning the demise of my opponent?”

“You’re here, Captain Steele, because some of us have been impressed with how you carry out your job, including when you’re under pressure, in crisis, or dealing with the press. Correct us if we’re wrong, but we’d like to think you have the ability to remain confidential and discreet.”

“I’d like to think so too.”

“Our problem is a resurfacing of shoulder-fired missiles on the black market.”

“Capable of taking down commercial aircraft,” Rayford said, “particularly on takeoff or landing.”

“Exactly. You responded to that as if you’ve given it some thought.”

“It’s discussed among pilots, sure. We’re all jumpy. Even with the occasional air marshal on board and the increased security—double-thick doors, sophisticated locking systems, new secret procedures—we all know there are no guarantees anymore.”

One of the military men said, “Would you say a personally fired missile, ground to air, is highest on a pilot’s anxiety list?”

Rayford cocked his head. “Well, on the one hand, there’s never been—to our knowledge—such an attack in our airspace. Unless you know something I don’t.”

“We have suspected some, but without hard evidence, there has been no sense alarming the public.”

“Or the pilots,” Rayford said.

“Precisely. The problem, Captain, is that there have been more of these types of weapons turning up in the usually suspected black-market centers around the world. A few have been sold to undercover buyers, and a limited number more have been confiscated in raids and stings. But we’re worried about further proliferation. The sheer numbers we’re hearing about make full containment unlikely and an attack or attacks almost inevitable.”

Rayford shook his head. “Wasn’t expecting to hear that today. I daresay I’ll feel different in the cockpit on the way home. If you’re wondering whether this will impact the thinking of pilots, yes. But I don’t guess you brought me here to have me confirm the obvious.”

“No,” Graham said. “What we’d really like is to bounce some of our strategic initiatives off you, ways we would hope to counteract these weapons. See what you think of the cost and complexity and give us your best guess as to the response of your colleagues.”

“Yes,” another military man said. “We’d prefer to tell the rank-and-file pilots the problem and our solution at the same time. The fix is not cheap. Not that it would cost the pilot a cent.”

“Except that if passenger fares go up strictly to offset this cost—which I imagine will be in the billions—my colleagues and I are unlikely to get appropriate raises for a while.”

The men nodded.

“Not to mention,” Rayford continued, “that if your proposed cure has anything to do with somehow arming commercial aircraft, then we’re no longer commercial, are we? We’re military pilots again. Flying fighters that are heavy, sluggish, and slow.”

“You’ve read our minds, Captain. But we frankly see no alternative. You know Israel has long equipped certain civilian planes with missile-warning systems. And Jordan is now the leader in that technology.”

Rayford nodded. “And don’t some of those pilots also have the capability of firing flares or other incendiary devices to try to lead a heat-seeking missile off target?”

The men looked at each other, and Rayford hoped he detected their favor at his knowing something about this. “The bigger problem,” one said, “is that we would have to arm all of this country’s more than eight thousand aircraft. That would run us in the neighborhood of nearly 15 billion dollars, plus more than 2 billion a year to maintain a system we’ve proved with B-52s will work, but . . .”

Rayford pressed his lips together. “And you wonder what I think my pilot brothers and sisters will think of the ethics and safety related to that?”