For this occasion, he had put on his dress blues, an uncomfortable uniform he had been wearing all too often in the last three years. A flight suit would have been infinitely preferable.
“Welcome aboard. We’re glad to have you here. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable or convenient, please do not hesitate to let me know personally.”
Tombstone slipped the card back in his pocket and prepared to depart.
“Your uncle?he is in the Navy also?” the gentleman from Ukraine asked quickly. “Thomas Magruder, yes?”
Surprised, Tombstone could only nod. “Yes, Admiral Magruder is my uncle.”
The man nodded, satisfied. He shot a knowing look at the man seated behind him.
“Why?” Tombstone asked. “Do you know him?”
He resisted slightly as Tiltfelt gently tried to hustle him away from the podium.
The Ukrainian shook his head in the negative. “Only by reputation,” he answered, enunciating each word carefully. “A product of the Cold War, is he not? As is your father. Another fine man.”
The Ukrainian’s eyes gleamed, secrets dancing behind them. “I met him once. More than once, perhaps.”
Rage and fear in equal proportions coursed through Tombstone’s body.
The mention of his father, who had been shot in a bombing run over Vietnam, in so incongruent a place at so entirely inappropriate a time, stunned him.
He took two steps toward the man, the import of their current location lost on him.
Tiltfelt finally asserted himself, grabbing the admiral firmly by the elbow. “Not now,” he whispered sharply into Tombstone’s ear. “Admiral, this is neither the time nor the place.”
Tombstone shook free of the smaller man and continued his advance on the Ukrainian. “Why did you ask that question? And make that comment?” Tombstone’s voice was low and deadly.
The Ukrainian shrugged. “It was simply a question, Admiral. I wished to make sure that I had my facts right.”
Tombstone regained control of himself, unsure of how to proceed, but shaken to his very core. There had to be a purpose behind the questions?had to be. But as much as he hated to admit it, Tiltfelt was right. Tombstone nodded, and stepped back toward his seat. As he settled back down into the hard-backed chair, he silently let out a deep, wavering breath. Whatever Tiltfelt had intended to accomplish at this conference, Tombstone had a feeling that the results were going to be quite different from what the State Department representative expected.
After almost an hour of preliminary maneuvering and polite assurances of eternal friendship, the meeting adjourned to the rear of the room for refreshments. Donuts and coffee, along with more delicate pastries provided by the flag mess cooks, disappeared at an alarming rate.
“It’s a hazard of the profession,” Tiltfelt said to Tombstone casually, delicately biting into a croissant. “Too many diplomatic events and you gain weight every day.”
He nodded toward the rest of the representatives. “Not a skinny one amongst them.”
Tiltfelt’s confiding and congenial manner was almost as confusing to him as the Ukrainian’s earlier question. Tombstone stared down at him, is arms planted firmly on his hips. “What happened in there?”
Tiltfelt shrugged. “You were there. What do you think?”
“I think nothing happened. Nothing at all?except for that crack about my father.”
Tiltfelt smiled. “An accurate assessment. This is the way these things always go. It’s almost an art form?the ability to plant the little seeds and casual comments that later grow into major issues.”
He then cited a couple of examples from the members’ opening comments, and speculated on how those seemingly innocent remarks would later turn into intransigent demands. “And as for the question about your father?I’m not entirely certain.”
Tiltfelt regarded Tombstone as though he were a specimen under a microscope. “Do you have any idea?”
Tombstone shook his head. “It was a long time ago?I was very young.”
Briefly, unemotionally, he sketched in the details of how his father had been lost over Vietnam, the fact that his wingman had seen his parachute.
His father had been carried as MIA?missing in action?for almost twenty years. Finally, despite the lack of a body, with his name never appearing on a POW list, he had been declared killed in action.
“Well.” Tiltfelt deposited his coffee cup on a credenza and brushed his hands together lightly. “I don’t know what it was about. Not really. But you can bet it will come up later on. It’s either an opening ploy, or perhaps just a validation of their own in-country intelligence processes. You’d be surprised at what a complete dossier they keep on every senior American military official.”
“But Ukraine?of what possible interest could it be to them?” Tombstone asked. While he neither believed nor trusted Tiltfelt’s change in attitude, he would use it for what it was worth.
Tiltfelt gazed at him gravely. “I have no information, you understand?none at all. And I insist that you keep this completely between the two of us. Off the record, if you will.”
“Understood. Now tell me.” Tombstone was beginning to lose patience with the delicate circumlocutions that seemed an integral part of Tiltfelt.
“During the Cold War, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union. You’ve heard the rumors. There’s always been speculation?speculation with no basis in fact so far?that American POWs from Vietnam were transported to the Soviet Union for interrogation. That question might have been intended to get you thinking about that possibility, for some reason that we don’t yet know about. Or, it could have been what I think it was?an attempt to throw us off balance, to drive a wedge into the integrity of the U.S. negotiating team. That would be entirely reasonable and certainly in keeping with Ukraine’s style. I wouldn’t give it much more thought than that.”
“He’s trying to make me think that my father might have been alive after all?” Tombstone felt the blood drain from his face as understanding dawned. “He couldn’t have been.”
Tiltfelt shrugged again. “Who knows?”
He abruptly turned back to the delegates crowding the room, leaving Tombstone to try to interpret his last remark.
Tombstone watched Tiltfelt move about the room, glad-handing representatives with careful impartiality. Five minutes with this one, five minutes with that one, remembering each aide’s name long enough to greet them and then ignore them. While it looked random, Tombstone recognized the real skill that lay behind the man’s progress through the room. Recognized it, appreciated it, and had no use for it.
“Thank you for having us aboard, Admiral,” a voice said just behind his left shoulder. Tombstone turned and saw the representative from Turkey.
“If your pilots came any closer to my ship, I was going to wave them in for a trap,” Tombstone said. His face was pointedly neutral. Let the Turk try to decide how to take it, as a poor joke or blatant provocation.
Suddenly, Tombstone didn’t particularly care which.
The Turk’s smile wavered for a moment, then settled firmly on his face. “This is international airspace.”
Tombstone took a step closer to the man, and pitched his voice low.
“We lost an aviator the other day following an encounter with one of your freedom-of-navigation flights,” he said carefully. Suddenly, he wished he could retract his earlier remark. If this man could help, if he knew anything about their downed aviator, then it would be sheer folly to alienate him. Coming so soon on the heels of Tiltfelt’s speculation on his own father, the possibility that he’d done anything to jeopardize another aviator’s safety was unbearable. “Have you heard anything about him, by any chance? Perhaps one of your fishing vessels has seen him?”
The Turkish representative took a sip of coffee before answering him.
“No, I’m quite sorry. We have heard nothing.”
“Would you tell me if you did?” Tombstone asked, unable to keep a trace of bitterness out of his voice.
The Turkish representative drew away from him. “We abide by all international laws of armed conflict,” he answered. “These matters that we are here to discuss?they are between nations, between states. Not between individuals. If your lost airman is found, he will be treated appropriately.”
“Appropriately according to whose standards?” Tombstone asked, his voice slightly louder.
“Admiral,” he heard Tiltfelt say. “Perhaps we could-“
“Answer the question,” Tombstone said.
“According to international law,” the Turkish representative said firmly. He put his coffee cup down on the
