The Art of War

He left for a few minutes to go make it.

Finally alone, a new weariness came over her. Brad — CIA, FBI, or what? It would have to be resolved, and immediately. How dare they…?

Is this perhaps your own fault? A small voice asked. Is it so wrong to expect some degree of contact with your office? After all, you’re all after the same thing — protecting U.S. interests, right? And you must admit, there were times when assistance from the CIA would have made your job easier. Like with Wells — some hard data on who and what he is would have made the job of figuring out what he was up to much more simple.

Have I been so blind? she wondered. Have I actually damaged national interests in my efforts to keep a wall up between this office and other U.S. agencies? Their methods are distasteful, the goals and objectives inconsistent with what I believe is important in the world. But we all work for the same man — have I been too hard-headed about this?

Brad came back in, bearing her tea service. He poured her a cup, and slid it across the coffee table to her. Without getting up, she picked it up, and took two sips. The warm, faintly orange-scented fluid had an immediately restorative effect. She let it trickle down her throat, then said, “So tell me everything. From the beginning.”

“There’s not much to tell. The contingency plan was—”

She cut him off with a gesture. “Don’t even try. I mean the real story. Who are you — who do you work for?”

“You have my real name,” he began, and for some reason that didn’t reassure her. “Before coming to your office, I was employed by the FBI.”

“That was after the CIA, was it?” she asked. “Or do they have some sort arrangement that allows you to work for both at the same time?”

A longer silence this time, and she could see conflicting emotions warring on Brad’s face. Finally, he said, “There are some things I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, Madame Ambassador, but I simply can’t. They’re mostly things that would endanger programs now in place, or people in particular situations. But what I can tell you, I will.”

Wexler took another sip of tea, buying herself some time. Exactly how much did she want to know? How much did she need to know? She had already decided that it was partially her fault that the CIA had been pushed to these measures, but she wasn’t going to tell Brad that. No, whatever her sins had been, the agencies’ had been worse.

“Tell me what you can… I’ll decide if it’s enough.”

“For starters, I’ll answer your first question Yes. I have at some point been employed by the CIA. I still have many contacts there, but I don’t report to them anymore. The FBI is my only other master. And as to why — well, I think you can figure that out.” He leaned forward, his voice intent. “Domestic terrorism is becoming an increasingly critical problem. The lines between CIA and FBI responsibilities are more blurred than they have ever been before. And I suspect the boundaries between diplomatic and intelligence office functions are going that way as well.” He splayed his hands in a placating gesture. “I wanted to work for you — I asked to be allowed to apply here. My request was granted. And although you haven’t asked, I’ll tell you that I have tried to do my best for you, and this hasn’t been a comfortable dichotomy for me. But I believe in what I’ve been doing — I want you to know that.”

“And what do we do when my wishes conflict with the FBI’s?” she asked softly. “What have you told them?”

“I have told them what they needed to know in order to do their job. No more.” There was a trace of steel in his voice now that matched her own. “I regret that it has come to this, but I’m profoundly grateful that my connections with the FBI — and yes, those were FBI agents supplementing the UN security force — have kept you safe. I only wish I’d sent more men immediately to the restaurant.”

She shook her head, tired of it all. The job at the Red Cross was looking more appealing by the minute. “We can’t continue like this,” she said slowly. “I should be very sad to lose you, Brad. But I must know that your sole and complete loyalty is to me — to this office.”

“I understand.” He stood, and made as if to leave. She ignored him. “For that reason, I shall require an immediate meeting between the three of us — you, me, and the head of the FBI. If you’re both agreeable, we’ll hammer out a working arrangement. I will insist that he sign documents indicating that my wishes take preference over his.” Seeing his look of protest, she continued, “But I shall also make every effort to develop a close professional working relationship with them. Keep in mind that I do not agree with your assumption that the lines between diplomacy and intelligence are quite so vague. Indeed, I feel it is our obligation to maintain those boundaries. How are our allies and the unaligned nations to deal with us if they suspect that every casual conversation goes immediately into intelligence files?”

“Every other nation operates in that fashion,” he said quietly. “It is the American naivete — and most of them find it very foolish — this dream that men and women of goodwill can find solutions to the world’s problems in an aboveboard and honest fashion. You will not find that feeling shared anywhere else.”

“I serve the president,” she said. “Of course I shall discuss this with him — he knows about it, doesn’t he?” she asked with a sudden flash of insight.

Of course he does. He had to have known — known and approved the arrangement. She felt a wave of disappointment that he felt that was necessary, that he could not have come to her directly. “Don’t answer that — I’ll asked the president myself.”

“The question is, do you wish to continue as my aide? And,” she said, “with a collateral duty as my liaison to the intelligence community.”

“How can you doubt that I would want to stay? It’s taken me years to learn how to brew tea properly — I’m not about to teach someone else how to do it. Besides, it’s not such a transferable skill within the intelligence community — there’s very little call for it.”

“Well, then.” She moved her feet down to the floor, suddenly feeling refreshed. “The question is what do we do now. So tell me — who was behind this afternoon?”

“As near as we can tell, it was Iran,” he said immediately. “Our sources inside the country — and no, I can’t tell you anything about them — indicate that the government is becoming increasingly uncomfortable with having to deal with a woman. They made this point forcefully to the president two weeks ago, and his reaction was about what you’d expect: He rebuffed them completely. Since then, agitators have been stirring things up, calling you, and I quote, an abomination. I’m certain that the government itself will take the same stance on this that they did on the attack on the cruiser if the connection is ever revealed. ‘A violent separatist group, not acting on behalf of the government,’ they’ll say. How much we believe of that is up to us.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?” she asked. He nodded.

“They are especially uneasy because of your relationship with the Chinese ambassador. Inside Iran, within the inner circles, they make jokes about it. Obscene jokes. And yet they are concerned that this signifies a plot between the U.S. and China to force additional economic measures on the Middle East. And they’re not the only ones.” Seeing her look of surprise, he shrugged. “You wouldn’t expect it, but the British are concerned as well. For decades China was her own private preserve, and they have never really gotten over the dissolution of the British Empire.”

“Ambassador Wells?” she asked.

He nodded. “His roots go back decades in China, for generations of his family. It was thought that if anyone could glean insights into your relationship with T’ing, as well as perhaps sabotage it, he would be the one. In fact, at one time, it was suggested that he attempt to replace the Chinese ambassador in your affections.” Seeing her look, he had the decency to blush. He held up one hand in protest. “Don’t shoot the messenger — I’m just telling you what I know.”

Sarah Wexler laughed out loud. “They told the British ambassador to seduce me?”

“In so many words.”

She leaned forward, too amused by the idea to be angry. “Oh, this is just too delicious. Please tell me how he was to accomplish this.” And as Brad continued his story, she felt her spirits growing increasingly light. She had never known that intelligence work could be quite so much fun.

Wexler saw Wells when she was still forty feet away from him. Accompanied by her security man on one side and Brad on the other, she moved quickly to catch up with him.

“Ambassador Wells,” she called out, her voice high and girlish. “Please, wait up.”