“Zachary Merriman!” a deep voice boomed from the doorway. “You come out from behind that sofa immediately! I told you no waterguns inside. And, Duncan, apologize to Miss Delacroix. You, too, Zach. Now!”
Duke Merriman strode into the room. He was lanky, six-five, and elegantly attired in an English bespoke navy three-piece with a dark tie. He had the same white-blond hair and bright blue eyes as his two sons. Born and bred Boston Brahmin from Beacon Hill and no mistaking it. “Zachary, you’ve got two seconds to come out from behind that sofa!”
“Oui, Papa,” the boy said, and edged his way out.
“Now, both of you, apologize,” Merriman said.
“Sorry, Mademoiselle Delacroix,” the boys said in unison, with a singsong cadence devoid of sincerity.
Duke scowled at his two boys.
“Now, both of you upstairs to your rooms and get dressed. Blazers and ties. White shirts. Hair combed. Nanny will help you. Daddy is giving a press conference in fifteen minutes and you two are going to be standing right beside me looking, hopefully, like proper little gentlemen. And you’re not going to say a single word, comprenezvous? Sans un mot.”
“Oui, Papa,” the boys said, and ran shouting and laughing from the room. “Sans un mot! Sans un mot!”
“Sorry about that, Miss Delacroix,” Merriman said, as he and McIntosh watched her twisting around and bending from the waist, trying to dry off her soaking wet derriere with a small linen handkerchief clearly unsuited to the purpose.
McIntosh, trying to hide a smile, got to his feet. “Boys will be boys, Mr. Ambassador, it’s only water,” he said. “We used to mix it with India ink when I was a kid. Now that would be a problem for Miss Delacroix here.”
He cast a quick glance at the pertinent posterior and earned himself a look from Delacroix. He ignored it. “Mr. Ambassador, at the risk of getting my ass kicked the hell out of here, I really wish there was some way I could convince you to reconsider this press conference. It’s not too late. We have some remarks prepared by Madame Secretary’s own staff that make your point but stop just short of—” He saw the look in Merriman’s eyes and gave up. “Anyway, sir, the Secretary herself called me early this morning and said—”
“With all due respect, McIntosh,” Merriman interrupted, “I know exactly what she said. God knows, she’s said it often enough to me. And I understand your position, and I actually sympathize with it. Your department has an outstanding record, and you are clearly just doing your jobs. However, I have deep convictions about this current situation and I feel it is my duty to our country to express them publicly. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Ambassador Merriman strode from the room on his long legs, not waiting for any reply. McIntosh sat back down in his chair.
Monique Delacroix grabbed the remote and flipped on the large-screen television mounted within the bookcase. She then collapsed into the armchair, crossing her long legs and facing the security man. They regarded each other in silence for a few moments.
McIntosh let out a long breath of air. “You know something, Miss Delacroix? I took a bullet for Secretary Albright in Uzbekistan back in 2000. I was attached to the SD then, the Secretary’s Detail. I’ve been around the planet fifteen times, foiled an attempt by Moroccan terrorists to dump cyanide in the water supply of our embassy in Rome, pulled smoking bodies out of three embassy bombings, and helped prevent about two hundred more.”
“The great American hero.”
“Yeah? Well. First time in the line of duty I ever got caught in a firefight by two American kids with friggin’ waterguns.”
“I am the one who got caught, not you.”
“Ironic, ain’t it? You being so neutral and all.”
They stared at each other in silence a moment, and then McIntosh, looking at his watch, said, “It’s almost noon. Turn on CNN and let’s watch this goddamn press conference.”
The camera went from a wide shot of the ambassador and his two well-scrubbed children to a tight shot of Merriman as he took the podium emblazoned with the Great Seal of the United States. The sun was shining and the red rhododendron bushes in the background made the embassy gardens a colorful backdrop.
“Bonjour et bienvenue,” Merriman said into the microphone and smiled, acknowledging a smattering of applause. He’d long been popular with the French press corps, primarily because of his unwavering candor and reputation for never ducking the issues.
“Freedom and fear are at war. And fear will not win. I’ve invited my two sons, Zachary and Duncan, to join me here in the garden this morning,” he began, “for a very specific reason. It’s the first time they’ve been allowed out in the sunshine in over two weeks.”
He paused here, looked back, smiled at his beaming sons, and then continued.
“The reason? Fear. As you all know, American diplomats and their families around the world are under attack. Five colleagues have died tragically in the last month alone. As a result of this unprecedented attack on America’s diplomatic corps, embassy and consulate personnel and their families have been forced to retreat behind closed doors. There is a wholly justifiable sense of fear among many. I have enormous sympathy for them. But I believe such fears are in direct conflict with all America stands for. Freedom. Autonomy. Free will. Independence. The simple everyday pursuit of happiness. The very people who represent those precious notions around the world have been forced to take cover. I find this unacceptable. I lost my wife on September 11th. My boys lost their mother. That is war. But, when American diplomats go into hiding, freedom has lost and fear has won this war. This American ambassador, for one, refuses to live in fear of the terrorists. I believe that it is the raison d’etre of every ambassador to walk freely among the people of the host country, hear their concerns and understand them firsthand. My family and I will pursue our lives normally, we will not be cowed, and we will let the world see that the heart and spirit of the American diplomatic community remains unbroken. That terrorism shall not prevail. That we will walk in sunshine every day of our lives, and may God have mercy on those who would try to prevent us from doing so. Thank you all very much. Look up there, boys. Here comes the sun. Let’s go for a walk along the river.”
“Holy Christ,” McIntosh said, hitting the mute button on the remote.
Delacroix said, “Show me the American diplomat who hides behind his walls and his guards after this speech, and I show you cowards. It was brilliant.”
“No,” the DSS man replied, rubbing his face in his hands. “It was suicidal.” The secretary should have recalled the man to Washington. Now how the hell were he and his men scattered around the planet supposed to do their jobs? The task had just grown exponentially more difficult. McIntosh was suddenly tired beyond exhaustion.
“Suicide, Agent McIntosh?” she said, reaching into her purse and fishing around for her cigarettes. “Why do you say something so ridiculous?”
“Look, he’s taking questions. The press is going to have a field day.”
McIntosh grimaced, hit the mute button again and the sound resumed. The press was clearly excited, smelling blood here.
“Mr. Ambassador,” a Fox News reporter at the rear of the crowd shouted, “Your remarks are clearly a departure from what we’ve been hearing out of Washington. Does the secretary of state approve of your position? We are hearing, sir, that she definitely does not.”
“I have expressed my personal views to the secretary. I am sure—Excuse me. Something is—Jesus Christ!”
Merriman staggered back from the podium, bending as if to untie his shoes. There was thick white smoke around his feet, seeming to come from the sole of one of his shoes, his right shoe.
“Holy God!” McIntosh screamed at the television, jumping to his feet. “Willie Pete!”
“What?” Delacroix said.
“White phosphorus!” the man yelled over his shoulder as he crashed, shattering wood and glass, through the French doors leading to the garden. Delacroix remained seated, her eyes glued to the television. Like her own eyes, the screen was filled with madness.
Merriman rolled on the ground in agony. The DSS agents were screaming at the press and embassy staff to get back. Every agent knew white phosphorus, colloquially referred to as Willie Pete, when he saw it, knew it had a
