security of the peninsula in exchange for guarantees that the Russian soldiers would be repatriated.
Livadia was a village less than two miles west of Yalta where the czars had begun building summer palaces in the 1860s and where Nicholas II had erected his summer residence in 1912. That sprawling, luxurious building, known as the White Palace, had been the site of the famous ? the infamous, rather ? Yalta Conference of February, 1945, where Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin had carved up postwar Europe and unwittingly launched the Cold War that followed. It was here that yet another era of Russian history was to be inaugurated, as General Boychenko turned over the Crimean Military District to UN control.
A stage had been erected in the broad, level park in front of the White Palace, with plenty of chairs for the various UN and Russian officials and a massive wooden podium already arrayed with dozens of microphones of various types, their cables snaking off through the grass. A large number of people were in attendance, standing in front of the stage in a large, milling throng; though most were civilians from Yalta, the crowd included a generous number of reporters as well. As Tombstone climbed the three wooden steps to take his seat on the stage, he caught sight of Pamela and her cameraman there. He felt a pang as he caught her eye and saw the coldness there, but he pretended not to notice and kept walking. His helmet, the regulation helmet painted baby blue to identify him as a member of the UN contingent, chafed uncomfortably where the canvas circle inside rubbed against his head.
He still felt stunned by Pamela’s change of heart. Not for it suddenness; now that he looked back on it, he realized he should have seen this coming since last summer, or even before. But he’d been so delighted at the chance to see her here… and it seemed a kind of betrayal that a romantic dinner in an exotic setting should turn into the end of their relationship.
In a way, he supposed, it was amusing. Aboard the Jefferson, one of the most common problems among the enlisted personnel, especially the younger kids, was the Dear John letter, the dread correspondence from home explaining that the Stateside partner couldn’t continue this way, that she’d found someone else, that “it” ? whether marriage, relationship, or affair ? was over. Revelations like that could be deadly when the guy was far away from home, alone, vulnerable, unable even to make a phone call to straighten things out. It was, Tombstone knew, one of the problems most frequently encountered by the ship chaplain’s department, as well as by the XOS of both the Jefferson and of the various squadrons.
As he found his seat, a folding metal chair in a line behind the podium, he thought of Brewer, the new XO of the Vipers, and wondered how she coped with the kids who must be coming to her with problems like his every day. Or … He frowned, puzzled. Were they? Admitting that your girlfriend or wife thought you were a jerk and was leaving you didn’t exactly match up with the calculated macho image that most guys tried to present to the women stationed with them aboard ship. He made a mental note to talk with Brewer about that, to see if she needed a hand.
One common way of helping sailors who’d been blind-sided that way ? a technique first employed at the two Navy recruit training centers where new sailors were first separated from the outside world ? was the Dear John board, a large bulletin board in some prominent, public place where those who’d received such letters could post them if they wished. Jefferson kept one in the enlisted recreation lounge aft; there was, Tombstone thought, no better way to find out that you were not alone, that you weren’t the only one who’d had to face this particular problem, as you found space to pin up your own letter amid the forest of similar letters already there.
The other participants in the morning’s UN ceremony were assembling, both on the stage, in the area roped off for the crowd, and beyond, where both Russian and UN troops patrolled the park’s perimeter. Admiral Tarrant and some more members of his staff had flown in from the Jefferson early that morning, and he’d already briefed the admiral on what he’d seen so far in Yalta… especially the crime. UN peacekeepers, whatever their nationality, were going to have their hands full when Boychenko’s people relinquished control.
Tombstone could hear a faint, far-off thunder ? aircraft. Jefferson had put up a CAP of Tomcats, just in case the Ukrainians or anyone else decided to try to break up the proceedings.
“Captain Magruder?”
Tombstone turned and was surprised to see Abdulhalik, his guide and driver from the day before. He was wearing a conservative dark suit this morning. The jacket was open and there was an obvious bulge beneath his left arm.
“Abdulhalik!” Tombstone said. “How’s the spy business?”
“Dangerous,” the man said, not bothering to contradict Tombstone’s assumption. “Especially when the general gives his little speech in a few minutes.”
It was also interesting, Tombstone thought, how the man’s broken English had mended quite a bit overnight. No more “A-okay” slang or dropped articles.
“I need to ask you, Captain, how long the helicopter flight to your carrier will take.
Tombstone looked at the man curiously. “Didn’t the general’s staff cover all of this after their briefing?”
Abdulhalik gave Tombstone a narrow, inscrutable look. “I feel safer sometimes if I can… confirm information I have been given.”
Though he hadn’t been in on the original planning, Tombstone had seen the day’s schedule, worked out item by item by UN and Russian personnel several days earlier, and approved by both him and Captain Whitehead yesterday. Boychenko would make his speech, followed by a speech from Special Envoy Sandoval on behalf of the UN, and another by Admiral Tarrant. There would be a brief opportunity for questions from the press, and immediately afterward, Boychenko and his senior staff officers, along with Tarrant and his staff, would be taken to a CH-53 Sea Stallion waiting on the east side of the White Palace grounds. The group would be flown out to the Jefferson, where Boychenko would officially request asylum.
As CAG, Tombstone had been consulted on the aircraft timetables, especially in regard to the CAP that would cover the helo on its flight back to the Jefferson. Tombstone had assumed that the necessary information had been passed on to Boychenko’s security personnel. Apparently, though, Abdulhalik wanted to make sure that the information he’d heard was the same as what Tombstone had provided.
Which suggested the possibility of informants or worse within Boychenko’s own planning staff. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect.
“Well,” he said, “the Jefferson’s about one hundred nautical miles out right now. If the helo pilot goes flat out? Call it thirty-five, maybe forty minutes. You sound like the general’s going to need a quick getaway after his speech. You’re afraid of critics?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but Abdulhalik nodded gravely. “Just so. We have word that a large part of the navy does not approve of the general’s plans. They might try something to block them.”
“I know. I was making a joke.”
Abdulhalik did not look amused… but after a moment he cracked a thin smile. “I see. You will forgive me if my sense of humor is lacking this morning. It has been a long night.”
“Just who are you working for, anyway? The FBS?”
Abdulhalik considered the question for a few seconds before answering.
“Actually, I am on the general’s personal staff. Security. At the moment, the Federal Bureau of Security is the opposition.”
“I see. Why were you keeping an eye on me last night, then?”
A shrug. “If the general is to have his ‘quick getaway,’ as you call it, it is important that nothing happens to you. Yes?”
Tombstone considered telling him about the knife-wielding mugger in the stairwell, then thought better of it. Abdulhalik looked like he had enough on his mind already without having Tombstone bother him with irrelevant might-have-beens.
A stir in the crowd and a rising murmur of conversation marked the appearance of General Boychenko, Admiral Tarrant, and Special Envoy Sandoval at the front of the White Palace. Boychenko was tall and silver-haired, with a beaklike nose that gave him the look of a bird of prey. Sandoval was shorter and dark-haired, with a sketch of a mustache and a self-important air. Tarrant looked businesslike and matter-of-fact, even a little bored. Accompanied by several aides and a small army of security troops, the three made their way up the steps and onto the stage. Captain Whitehead stood to greet Boychenko and shake his hand. The others stood until the VIPS took their places behind the podium, then sat down with a creak and scrape of chairs on wood.
The speech was in Russian, and Tombstone understood not a single word.
Not that he was particularly interested in the content. Had he wanted one, there were translations available
