Empire

an hour. Do you know where that is?”

“It’s a big long park, sir.”

“At the statue. The giant. Half an hour.”

Malich clicked off before Cole could say good-bye.

What was the phone call about? A test to see if Cole would tell him what his wife said? Or was Malich really angry at him for leaving? Why the meeting in the park as if they were trying to avoid bugs? And if secrecy was so important, why did they talk over unscrambled cellphones?

If I ever get married, thought Cole, would I have the guts to choose a woman as tough as Mrs. Malich?

And even if I did, am I the sort of man that a woman like that would choose to marry?

Then, as always, Cole shut down the part of his mind that thought about women and marriage and love and children and family. Not till I can be sure I’m not going back into combat again. No kid is going to be an orphan because I’m his dad and I ducked too slow.

Tidal Basin

In war planning, you must anticipate the actions of the enemy. Be careful lest your preventive measures teach the enemy which of his possible actions you most fear.

Reuben saw Captain Coleman approaching, but showed him no sign of recognition. Coleman was supposed to be sharp—let him figure out which of the people near the tip of the island was his superior officer.

Instead, Reuben looked out over the water of the Washington Channel to Fort McNair, headquarters of the U.S. Army Military District of Washington. He knew that the soldiers working there took their job seriously. In the post-9/11 era that meant vigilance, trying to prevent attacks on the two most symbolically important cities in America—Washington and New York. He knew how they monitored the skies, the waterways. He knew about the listening devices, the camera scans, the aerial surveillance.

He also knew what wasn’t being done. Weeks after he had completed his report, and still nothing had been done.

Bureaucracy, he thought.

But that was the easy answer. Chalk it up to bureaucratic maneuvering and red tape, and then nobody had to be called to account.

Reuben was tired of having responsibility without authority. Where was the leader who could get things done?

Truth to tell, this President had changed things. Without ever getting a bit of credit for it, he had transformed the military from the cripple it had been when he took office into the robust force with new doctrines that had the enemies of the United States on the run.

On the run? No, backed into a corner. It was time for them to act if they were to continue to have any credibility. Reuben Malich knew what they needed to do. He even knew how they would probably do it. He had given warning, and so far, it seemed, no one was listening.

“Major Malich, sir.”

Reuben turned to face the young man in uniform. Young? Twenty-eight wasn’t young for a combat officer. But he was nine years younger than Reuben, and in those nine years Reuben had learned a few things. Combat could leave a man with scars; but running errands for players in the mind-numbing game of government aged him far more. At thirty-seven Reuben felt like he was fifty, an age that had long symbolized, to him, the end of his useful life. The age when he should get out of the war business.

Today. I should get out right now.

“Captain Coleman,” he said. “Don’t even think of saluting me.”

“You aren’t in uniform, sir,” said Coleman. “And I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh?”

“You had me meet you here instead of the office we both share because you think people are watching you. I don’t know whether those people are inside or outside the Pentagon or the government, but we’re here because you have things you want to tell me that you don’t want any listening devices to overhear.”

Good boy, thought Reuben. “Then you’ll understand why I want you to face me directly and duck your head slightly downward.”

As Coleman complied, Reuben unfolded a city tourist map and brought one side of it up between their faces and any observer elsewhere in the park.

“I guess this means I don’t get a chance to look at the statue,” said Coleman.

“It’s big enough you can see it on Google Earth,” said Reuben. “Cessy and DeeNee both tell me you’re not an idiot, and now you’ve told me yourself. So I’m taking the chance of telling you what I’m actually doing. I will tell you once, and then we go about our business as if we were doing what I’m officially supposed to be doing, except you’ll help me do the other thing and help me cover up my real assignment.”

“All perfectly clear, sir.”

Oh good. A sense of humor. “Officially I’m working on counter-terrorism in Washington DC, with the particular assignment of trying to think like a terrorist. I suppose that I’m considered appropriate for this because I lived in a Muslim village in a country in which we don’t officially have any soldiers. Never mind that the terrorists I’m supposed to be outthinking were all educated in American or European universities.”

“So your assignment gives you a valid cover for traveling all over the Washington area,” said Coleman.

Since that was what Reuben had been about to explain, he had to pause and skip ahead. “My real assignment is to carry messages to and conduct negotiations with various persons of the anti-American but officially non-terrorist persuasion.”

“Are they non-terrorist?”

“They claim to be helping us counter the terrorists. Some of them might be. Some might not. I believe I’m probably being used to spread disinformation and sow confusion about American plans and motives.”

“Which is why these people haven’t been arrested.”

“Oh, when the time comes, I doubt they’ll be arrested.”

Coleman nodded. “You bring them messages. Who gives them to you and tells you where to go?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”

“So I guess I won’t be picking up your mail.”

“I can tell you this much. My assignments emanate from the White House.”

Coleman whistled softly. “So he negotiates with terrorists after all.”

“Don’t suppose for a second that the President has any idea what I do,” said Reuben. “Or that I exist. But I have verified for myself that my chief contact has complete access to the President and from that I conclude that I am an instrument of his national policy.”

“And yet you hide from lip-readers with telephoto lenses.”

Reuben refolded the map. “Let us look at Fort McNair.”

Together they walked to the railing near the water and looked across the channel at the fort. “There it is, Captain Coleman. The home of the National Defense University and half the Old Guard. You know, the guys who dress up in Colonial Army uniforms to wow tourists and foreign dignitaries.”

“Also where the Joint Force Headquarters of the National Capital Region is.”

“Three weeks ago, I turned in—as part of my official duties—a report on likely targets in the Washington area and how I, if I were a terrorist, would attempt to attack them.”

“I’m betting Fort McNair was not one of those targets.”

“Al Qaeda doesn’t give a rat’s ass about real estate. They did that in zip-one, but all the terrorists who attacked commuter transportation in Europe and plotted to hit buildings and subways in the States are really just wannabes. Al Qaeda trains them and encourages them, but these are not Al Qaeda’s own