“Not good, Kurt. I raised your concerns with the Secretary of State, but the feeling, right around the department, is that they just flat-out disagree with your assessment. Don’t get me wrong-everyone really respects what you’ve accomplished, but they just don’t see the situation the way you do.”
“What? Don’t they believe what I’m saying?”
“Not really. But even if they did, no one wants to know. I mean, we’ve made our position clear, as an administration. We’ve picked the horse we’re going to ride and it’s too late to change it now.”
“Well, you picked the wrong one.”
“Maybe, Kurt, but everyone’s happy with the decision-State, the Pentagon, Langley-you’re the odd one out on this. Look… we all know you’ve had a rough time the past couple of years, so why beat your head against the wall on this one issue? No one sees it as a priority going forward. Don’t throw away a reputation you’ve spent decades building up over a bunch of crazies. Trust me, man, they’re not worth it.”
“Thanks for the advice, Frank,” said Vermulen. “Give my regards to Martha.”
He snapped the phone shut, as if that physical act of closure could contain the frustration burning inside him. All his career he’d been an insider, a man whose analysis was respected, whose judgment was trusted. Now he was out in the cold, saying things that no one wanted to hear. Sometimes he felt like one of those movie characters who get shut away in an asylum, even though they’re sane. The more he shouted he wasn’t crazy, the more everyone thought he was. Was this how Winston Churchill had felt, telling his people that the Nazis were a deadly menace when all anyone wanted was peace at any cost?
He shook his head at his own presumption. Comparing himself to Churchill: Maybe he was going nuts. Meanwhile, there was a good-looking lawyer waiting inside the restaurant, expecting him to make some kind of sophisticated, grown-up pass at her. Screw global security-that was the first problem he had to solve.
Vermulen was about to step back inside when a man caught his eye across the far side of the road. He was medium height, skinny build, wearing a brown leather jacket, the gray hoodie underneath it hiding his face. There was nothing unusual about that, not in January. Nothing unreasonable about him walking fast, either, keeping the blood circulating. There was just something about the way he was doing it, pushing past people on the sidewalk. He didn’t look like he had anything good on his mind.
Vermulen saw the glint of steel in the streetlight as the man pulled a knife from his pants. He saw the woman looking at some shoes in a store-window display. He knew at once, with absolute certainty, that she was the reason the man had drawn his knife.
And then he was running across the road, dodging the traffic, praying he could get there in time.
The man had come up to the woman and grabbed her arm and was snarling threats and obscenities in her ear. Vermulen saw the shock take hold, leaving her wide-eyed and paralyzed, unable to obey the mugger’s instructions, her mouth open but no sound emerging.
He shouted out, “Hey!” Just a noise to distract the guy.
The cowled head turned and Vermulen felt the raw, drug-fueled rage in the man’s eyes, then the jittery panic that filled them as the mugger realized he was under threat.
The man slashed with his knife, slicing through the strap of the woman’s handbag and the sleeve of her coat. He grabbed the bag and started running.
There were people all around. They were looking at what was happening, shying away, not wanting to get involved, some scattering as Vermulen burst through them, carried on past the woman, and pursued the man up the street.
He took maybe twenty quick strides down the sidewalk, then pulled up. It would make him feel good to catch the dirtbag and teach him a lesson. But there was a woman standing frightened, alone, and quite possibly wounded. She was the priority now.
He turned back to her, walking slowly, trying not to add to her fear and distress.
“Are you okay? Here, let me look at your arm,” he said, when he reached her.
And that’s when she burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said between sobs, as though it were she who had done something wrong.
Gently, he helped her ease her arm from the sleeve of her coat. Her blouse had been cut right through and there was a little blood on her arm, but it didn’t look too serious.
“You’re lucky-just a scratch,” Vermulen said. “We can get you to an emergency room, to be on the safe side. Or would you rather go straight home?”
“I just want to get back to my hotel,” she said, and started crying again. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Don’t be. You’ve had a shock. It’s natural. Where are you staying?”
“The Georgetown Inn,” she said. “It’s only a couple of blocks. That’s why I thought it would be okay to take a walk, you know? I mean, just around the corner, get some fresh air… Oh, God… My bag, I had everything in there…”
“Here, I’ll walk you back,” he said, taking her good arm.
It took only a couple of minutes. Along the way they exchanged names. The woman was Sandra Marcotti, in town for a meeting with a firm of lobbyists. At the hotel, Vermulen spoke to the front desk, explained what had happened, and left his contact details. Then he gave the woman his business card, and shook her hand, quite formally.
“Good night. You take care now, ma’am. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just call.”
As he left, Sandra Marcotti looked at his card for the first time. At the top it said, VERMULEN STRATEGIC CONSULTANCY and then, below that, LT. GEN. KURT VERMULEN Dsc, PRESIDENT.
My God, she said to herself. He’s a general.
Back on the street, Vermulen got out his phone, intending to call his friends and explain his absence. Before he could dial, he noticed a flashing icon, telling him he had a message waiting.
