'Mr. President,' the secretary of state began, 'perhaps we could alert the Japanese. Make it clear to them that this is a maverick action.'
Absolutely worthless, Maddox thought. How did Waters ever manage with such a hopeless bunch?
'Mr. Secretary,' Maddox began, stretching out the syllables as though he were speaking on the hottest of summer afternoons, 'you might talk me into a lot of things. But you are
'Court-martial?' the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said meekly.
Maddox glared at him. 'General' — he pronounced the title with only two syllables—'I had something a bit more immediate in mind.'
The chairman shook his head. 'Too late, sir. We couldn't even begin to intercept them. And I know Colonel Taylor. He'll have everybody restricted to one net, and he'll hide that with skip frequencies. From a military standpoint… I'm afraid there's nothing we can do but watch. And hope for the best.'
Maddox was appalled. 'Hellfire,' he said. 'You-all just tell me one thing, and I want a straight answer. Has this sonofabitch got a chance in hell of pulling this caper off?'
'Oh, he's got a chance,' the chairman said. 'About one chance in hell, exactly. Maybe two chances in hell, considering that it's George Taylor.'
President Maddox was unhappy. This did not strike him as an auspicious start to his presidency, and even if that presidency was only going to last until the swearing in of the other party's candidate in January, he did not intend to smear himself with any avoidable shame.
'You boys,' he said disgustedly. 'I swear to God, I just don't know.' He faced the secretary of state, but he spoke to the room at large. 'I'll tell you what we're going to do. If this fellow screws it all up and lives to tell about it, we're going to court-martial him and everybody in uniform who can so much as spell his name.' Maddox sat back. For the first time all day, he felt as though he were actually in charge. 'On the other hand, if the sonofabitch pulls it off and kicks him some ass, everyone in this room is going to forget that this conversation took place.' He looked methodically from face to face. 'You-all understand me?'
Valya entered the hotel bar alone. Clutching her purse to steady her hands, she scanned the musty interior as she made her way through the clutter of early drinkers and women for sale. The Americans were in uniform now, and they stood a bit straighter. Sudden laughter splashed out of the gloom, but it sounded formal and forced to her ears. She saw no one whom she recognized.
It was impossible. She could not do it.
She settled herself on a barstool, trying to project a graceful sexuality. But it was terribly difficult. Her buttocks ached where she had been kicked by her interrogator, and there was no comfort left in the small saddle of flesh beneath her dress.
She tried to adjust her eyes to the brown air, still searching the profiles grouped around back tables. The Russian women smoked heavily, and the dreary lighting barely penetrated the depths of the room. But that was all right. Valya touched her face anxiously. She had layered herself with far more makeup than was her custom in an attempt to disguise her bruises. Thankfully, most of the swelling had gone down. Only the discoloration remained.
She had kept herself on course with the faint hope that her American boy would be here after all, her lover of a single night, and that he would smile and wave, coming anxiously toward her, wondering only why she had been unable to meet him as promised the night before, offering salvation.
But her boy was not there. No one was going to magically rescue her. Ignored by the bartender, she leaned onto the counter, struggling to see. Her boy was not there. And neither was the man to whom her tormentors had consigned her.
Then she saw him. With his back three-quarters to her. He swung his jaw back over a heavy shoulder to bark at a waiter in English. A silver ornament and colored device decorated his shoulder strap.
She could not do it. She did not have the strength.
She rose carefully from her barstool, avoiding as much of the pain in her rump as she could. It was hard to imagine bearing the weight of a man on top of her now. She felt bruised to the bone. But, she reminded herself, there were worse things in the world, as the security officers had been glad to point out.
There were no women at the man's table. It was still early, and the man and his comrades were drinking brown bottles of beer and talking. Valya hunted her way between the tables, catching an already-sore hip on the jut of a chair. She tried to walk with dignity, while her insides sickened. The big man turned and called to the waiter again, with less patience this time.
She could not do it. She had no idea where the words would come from.
She paused for a moment, aching for an excuse not to continue. She would have been glad of an incontestable physical illness, one so fierce it would give her tormentors pause. She thought again of the darkened room, the single lamp, of questions and irresistible blows. She remembered the threats, and how it felt to lie soaking on a concrete floor.
One foot in front of the other, she told herself. Just like a soldier. It won't be anything. You've been through far worse.
She stopped behind the man's chair, waiting for him to notice her. But he was speaking rapidly to the two other men at the table. Finally one of his listeners looked up in Valya's direction. A moment later, the big man's head turned to seek out the new attraction, twisting coils of fat over his collar.
'Hello,' Valya said.
The big man looked up at her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He said nothing.
'We have met,' Valya went on.
The big man nodded. 'I know that.'
'The other night,' Valya said, fighting to remain calm. She wanted to cry and run away. Instead, she tried to outfit her voice with the easy sexuality of a woman in a film. 'I was with my friend. Her name is Tanya.'
'I know,' the big man said. 'I never forget a woman who walks away from me with a full drink on the table.' Their eyes met fully for the first time. Valya saw hatred in the dark pupils.
I cannot do this, she told herself.
She laid a hand on the man's shoulder, resting her fingers over a cold colored shield. She felt as though she had been forced to touch a snake. But she kept her hand in place.
She smiled as richly as she could manage. 'Oh,' she said, laughing, 'this is such a misunderstanding. But I thought you did not find me to be attractive. I thought you wanted me to go away. I believed you to be in love with Tanya.'
The big American's eyes softened just a little. Then his face widened with a smile full of big white American teeth. Meant to devour their American steaks, Valya thought.
'Me?' the man laughed.
'You hurt my feelings,' Valya lied. 'I thought you wanted for me to go away.' She tried to remember a few colloquial English phrases of the sort not taught in the Soviet school system. 'You made such eyes for Tanya.'
'I didn't know you had the hots for old Tanya, Bill,' one of the other drinkers said. 'Didn't know she was your type.'
The big man laughed again, but less forcefully this time. 'Old Tanyer,' he said. 'Now that gal's been drove hard and put away wet. Wouldn't nobody but Jimbo take that mare for a ride.'
The third man shook his head as if he had tasted something foul. 'Old Jim's blind as a bat.'
'I think Jimbo just likes a lot of bacon on his gals,' the big man said. His accent made it hard to catch all of his words. He still had not moved to shake off Valya's hand, and she warmed it back and forth on the heavy shoulder. 'Christ,' the big man said, 'I remember him way back when at Huachuca. Sonofabitch was always over in Naco or Agua Prieta jumping some big Mex gal. Almost lost his clearance.'
'Those were the days,' the third man agreed. 'At least them Mex gals had sense enough to wash every so often.' He looked up at Valya, then down along the trace of her figure, then back into her eyes. His face bore an expression of incomparable insolence.
The big man turned out from under Valya's hand. She thought he was going to send her away. She nearly
