THIRTY-ONE

JACK GRAHAM PRODUCED a device from his pocket and pointed it toward the giant screen behind him. Up came the image of a young, smooth-faced Middle Easterner in combat boots, khaki shorts, a blousy military shirt, and a turban.

He looked to be in his early twenties with dark skin, black eyes, and black hair peeking from under his headdress. The eyes told a story, Rayford thought. Here was one intelligent, thoughtful, knowing man.

“Abdullah Ababneh,” Jack Graham said. “A Jordanian fighter pilot and friend of the United States. An enemy of terrorists. Ababneh is a relative newlywed, married less than three years, father of two—a male toddler and female infant. Muslim.

“He attended Mu’tah University in Karak, the military wing. Expert in munitions and arms. Intelligence off the charts. When I say he is a friend of the U.S., I am vastly understating it. He is a student of America, so enamored with us and committed to us that he insists on speaking English almost all the time. His mates began to call him Smith or Smitty because they said he was more American than Jordanian—despite his thick accent. He loves the moniker and uses it exclusively now.

“Captain Steele, we would like you to meet him. We see value in ties with countries that share our view of terrorist threats and are willing to cooperate in fighting them. We have enough diplomats and contacts from high levels of government and military. What we would like is an informal relationship based on common ground . . . like aviation. Are you willing?”

Rayford didn’t know what to think. Willing to do what? Meet a Jordanian fighter pilot? Sure. Why not? But where? When? And for what purpose? He asked all these questions.

“We would fly you to Jordan. You spend a day or two getting acquainted. Share ideas, strategy, and report back to us for debriefing.”

“Remind me again,” Rayford said. “Why me?”

With the diminutive Jordanian’s visage bearing down on them, Graham sat facing Rayford. “Ababneh—or I should say Smith—has a lot to offer in the way of ideas, according to his superiors. He knows a lot, thinks things through, and is far and away their best pilot. The trouble is, he’s quiet and apparently painfully shy. He’s best in one-on-one situations when he has learned to trust someone. He suddenly becomes a fount of information.

“They have put him in uncomfortable situations with dignitaries, diplomats, and the like. He clams up. We don’t want you to fake or manufacture anything. We just want to see if you can become his friend. And while that may take some time, you understand that terrorism is not on anyone else’s calendar or clock. If this guy has as much to offer as we think he does, we need to start mining it. Are you willing? And if so, when can you go?”

Two days before the Romanian parliamentary elections, Emil Tismaneanu, his wife, his driver, and a bodyguard were killed when their automobile exploded upon ignition.

Nicolae stood in his office, watching the coverage on his wall-mounted TV screen. He thrust his fists before him and shouted, “Yes!” quivering with the thrill of it.

The phones began ringing, so he ran for the shower, then changed into his most sedate, most expensive suit. Within half an hour the press filled his driveway, and he instructed Leon Fortunato to inform them that he would have a statement in ten minutes but would take no questions.

Exactly ten minutes later he emerged alone and strode to a makeshift dais containing nearly a dozen microphones. He looked out into a sea of cameras. With a somber expression and tone, his throat sounding constricted with grief, he leaned toward the microphones.

“I have a message for the people of Romania and specifically the citizens of Bucharest. Our nation has suffered a great loss today, and I have lost a dear friend. Naturally I call upon our government and every appropriate agency to mount a thorough investigation and to bring to justice the cowards who perpetrated this heinous act.

“This has been a most difficult campaign, because though Emil and I—” here Carpathia paused and bit his lip, seemingly struggling to go on—“disagreed over the most trivial political matters, we were like brothers. Many do not know that each had pledged to the other his full support, regardless of who won, and we would have been laboring together for the good of the citizenry—the winner in the House of Parliament, the loser behind the scenes.

“While recent polls showed I was favored, I was quite sincere in my pledge to support my most esteemed opponent” —there it was for the astute—“should he ever run for the presidency.

“And now, while I am in no official capacity with the power to effect this, I am calling upon the government of Romania to postpone this election, to give another representative of Emil’s views the time to mount a campaign. Should this prove impossible, I pledge here and now, in honor of my dear friend, to withdraw from the race and allow the people to select their own representative.

“In my abject grief, I have lost the impetus to remain in the race. So if the election cannot be postponed, I hereby withdraw and urge the populace to write in their own candidates. I promise to support the will of the people.

“I have respectfully requested no questions at this time and ask that the press and the public honor a brief season of solitude and contemplation as I mourn my own loss. Thank you.”

Irene was irate and determined not to let it show, but she was not succeeding. She wanted to scream, to throw things, to demand that Rayford change his mind. “That is the first time you’ve had that many days off in two years, and you were going to take us to Disney World.”

“I know, Irene. But when your country asks you to do something, don’t you think it’s your duty—?”

“Your duty is here, with these kids. We need you, Rafe. We need time with you. Don’t you see the family drifting apart the way you and I have? I need this too. Surely there are other people qualified for this task.”

“There may be, but they chose me, and I’m honored.”

“I’m honored for you, Rayford, but if they really think you’re indispensable to this task, let them work with Pan-Con on giving you the time to do this. You shouldn’t have to use your own vacation days.”

“I told them I’d go, and I told them when.”

Leon was waiting in Nicolae’s office when Nicolae returned. Carpathia was still wearing his mask of grief until he shut the door behind him. Then the two embraced, slapped hands, and giggled.

“That!” Leon said, shaking his head. “That was genius.”

“Did they buy it?”

“Did they? I almost bought it!” And they dissolved into laughter again. “Let’s watch the coverage,” Leon added.

On every channel pundits talked about the tragedy and the poignant response on the part of the favorite in the election. Already veteran newspeople were editorializing that the election should not be postponed, that Carpathia should not withdraw, that the country needed him now as never before.

“Get out a press release immediately, Leon,” Nicolae said. “Reaffirm that I am resolute in my decision to withdraw. Not shirking, just mourning and committed to the will of the people.”

Nicolae sat on the floor, flipping channels, drinking in the accolades while Leon sat at Nicolae’s desk, crafting and transmitting the release to the media. Nicolae was amused when Fortunato finished and came to join him on the floor, his thick body straining to get comfortable in his suit.

They sat watching until interrupted by urgent knocking. “Nicolae?” Viv called through the door. “I must speak with you.”

Nicolae nodded to Leon, who struggled to his feet and opened the door.

Viv looked past him to Nicolae. “Luciana Tismaneanu is on her way over here, insisting on speaking with you.”

“Fine,” Nicolae said. “Leon, this will be the true test. Be sure she is alone, and walk her through the metal detectors hidden in the pillars of the south portico. If she brings her fiancé, make him wait for her. Tell him I am not up to seeing anyone else, especially someone I have not met. Oh, Leon, if I can win her over . . .”

“Have you been looking forward to our vacation, kids?” Rayford said at dinner.

“’Course,” Chloe said. “I haven’t been to Disney World since I was Raymie’s age.”

“Disney!” Raymie shouted. “Mickey!”

When Rayford hit them with the news that they weren’t going, it was clear Raymie didn’t understand. Irene jumped in with an alternative, promising she would take him to the local Kiddieland Park, where he loved to ride the train and the merry-go-round. He was soon crowing about that while Rayford studied Chloe for her true reaction.

She shrugged. “I wanted to go, but this is pretty neat. The government wants you to do this?”

He nodded. “Problem is, it’s classified. So no one can know.”

“I can’t tell my friends? What am I supposed to say about not going to Disney?”

“Blame it on me,” Rayford said. “Just don’t be specific. My schedule changed, I got pressed into duty, it couldn’t be helped.”

Nicolae Carpathia, in the same natty suit he had worn before the cameras, sat at his desk with his face in his hands. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his tie was loose, and his top shirt button was open.

As Luciana Tismaneanu was ushered in, he stood quickly, brushing tears from his face and wiping his hands on his trousers. He staggered toward the young woman. “Oh, Miss Tismaneanu! I am so, so sorry for your loss. You have my deepest—”

Luciana rebuffed his embrace and stiffened. “You can stop with the piesă de teatru,” she said.

“Oh, miss!” Nicolae said, fresh tears streaming. “This is no act. These are not histrionics. I am devastated, and I can only imagine your pain. Such a great man and, I assume, a great father.”

“My parents were not perfect, Mr. Carpathia. But they were my parents, and we loved each other.”

“Please, sit. Please.”

“My fiancé is waiting. I will not take much of your time.”

“Take all you need, dear. I have no higher priority.”

She sat. “Tell me it isn’t true, sir. Tell me you didn’t use me, photograph me, just to get at my father.”

“What?” Nicolae sounded as genuinely at a loss as was possible.

“My father’s people say you lured me here under the pretense of planning my father’s surprise party, only to be able to show him a picture of me visiting you late at night. The implications are abominable, and—”

“Never! Never, never, never. The sad fact is, Miss Tismaneanu—and had you not raised this horrific charge I would never have shared this with you—but it was your father who showed me your picture. The photograph was shot by his people. They were trying to dig dirt on me, claiming that I had lady friends visiting me every night. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but the night they chose to try to document this, they did not realize I had a legitimate visitor and that it was you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Luciana, listen to me. Why would I need to photograph you? My security cameras run twenty-four hours a day. Plus, by the time your father recognized you in the photo, he knew why you had been here. Whoever is planting these suspicions in your mind is not a friend. Why can they not simply let you grieve without making you angry and spurring you to put some blame where it does not belong?

“If I had done this, if I had been behind any of these tragic events, why would I be withdrawing from the race? What is in it for me? I am deeply wounded, first by the loss of my friend, your father, and second that someone has misled you so.”