cleared any time soon.” CAG hesitated for a moment, then said, “You’ve been riding his ass some, Bird Dog. I want you to back off for a while. Let things work the way they’re supposed to. The Navy’s got a pretty good system for deciding who flies and who doesn’t.”
“If it puts him back in the cockpit, it doesn’t work,” Bird Dog said bluntly.
“They put
“That was different.”
“How? Dammit, Bird Dog, just get the hell out of here!” CAG exploded. “I can manage to run this air wing just fine without your personal assistance, thank you very much.”
Bird Dog drew himself up straight. “Yes, sir. I just thought you ought to know what happened.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I
“I didn’t know you’d talked to her, sir.”
“You didn’t ask, now, did you? And just for your information, it wasn’t Rat who told me what happened. It was Fastball.”
TWENTY-ONE
Just off of her main office, Ambassador Wexler had a small personal room. In it she kept several changes of clothes, a vanity with a full selection of her cosmetics, and other items, including an emergency evening dress for special occasions. A single bed was in one corner of the room, allowing her to catch a quick nap during times when she simply couldn’t leave the United Nations for her house.
Now, standing in front of the vanity, she contemplated her image. Businesslike, yes. But feminine, the light coral fabric lending a glow to her complexion.
She contemplated her jewelry again, then removed a bracelet. Put on everything that’s necessary, then remove one piece, her mother had always told her.
Funny how many of her mother’s old sayings proved to be a help in the U.N.
She surveyed herself again, then all at once was annoyed with herself. What was the big deal? This was dinner with T’ing, nothing special. Although, she had to admit that the dinners were increasingly becoming part of her regular routine.
T’ing was always a pleasant, cordial dinner partner, a man with a fascinating insight into relationships between nations. She found his insights helpful: On occasion he had even, in his subtle way, made suggestions about how she should approach issues that concerned the United States.
But he was a professional colleague, nothing more. There was no… well… romantic interest.
Was there? She brushed the thought away. Of course not. They were simply two adults who enjoyed each other’s company, no matter that they were almost always on opposite sides of every issue that confronted the United Nations. And given T’ing’s subtlety in conducting his nation’s affairs, she wouldn’t put it past him to cultivate the friendship to satisfy his own agenda.
With a sigh, she took off another piece of her jewelry, then changed the coral suit for a plainer, more businesslike suit. She ditched the high heels, and settled for her flats.
And, after all, it wasn’t like T’ing was the only one with an agenda. The president had become aware of her growing friendship with the ambassador from China, and had openly encouraged her to pursue it. There were, he said, a number of issues on which they would be confronting China, and it would do no harm to have special insight into one of the great minds to emerge from that nation.
There was a rap on the door, and then Brad, her aide, stuck his head inside. “Your car’s here.”
“Thanks. I’m ready, I think. How do I look?” She pirouetted, allowing him to assess her from all angles.
“Perfect,” he reassure her. “Just the right balance between hegemony and democracy.” A sly smile followed.
Wexler laughed out loud. That was one of the things that made Brad so valuable as an aide — his sense of humor. He always seemed to know exactly what to do to lift her spirits, and she never ceased to be amazed at his devotion. When she was worried about something, down in the dumps, or simply boiling over with rage — as seemed to be more often the case than not these days — Brad was always there. With tea just the way she liked it, maybe a snack, or even just an attentive ear to listen while she vented.
At times, she wondered whether Brad was particularly devoted to her or was just exceptionally good at what he did. She’d never asked, and she suspected either explanation could be equally true. Brad was never anything other than the perfect staff officer, and she had no idea of what lay behind his charming demeanor.
Not that it mattered. Brad was also one of the few people who would tell her the truth, point out a loophole she overlooked in pending legislation, or tell her that a color suited her.
“Pacini’s?” he asked, mentioning the name of a quiet Italian restaurant nearby.
She nodded. “We’re getting to be regulars there.”
Brad walked with her down to the main entrance, then handed her off to her chauffeur. “Same thing as usual,” she said. “I don’t think you’ll need me for anything, but if you do, don’t hesitate call.”
“I will.”
T’ing was waiting for her in the foyer. His two bodyguards were seated at the bar, each one holding a glass of clear liquid. Soda water, she expected.
If you didn’t know anything about them, you would think that they were just businessmen getting off work, enjoying happy hour before going home. That is, if you didn’t look at their eyes. That was what gave them away. They were flat and passive, constantly moving over the room, scanning the people coming in, those going out, mentally recording faces and comparing them with their database of threats. There had not been, as far as Wexler knew, any particular threats on T’ing’s life. Then again, she suspected he would not have told her if there had been.
T’ing bowed slightly. “They’re holding a table for us.”
Another advantage of being an ambassador to the United Nations — even the finest restaurants in town always managed to find a table for her, even on short notice. She took the elbow T’ing proffered, and let him lead her to the table. Once they were seated, he opened the wine list and studied it for a moment, then ordered a bottle of Chablis.
She lifted one eyebrow in surprise. It was rare for him to have anything to drink. “Special occasion?”
“It is very difficult to propose a toast without wine,” he said gravely. “I try to follow the customs of your country.”
“A toast, hmmm? Might I know what we’re toasting?”
“In good time. I understand you have been busy today,” he continued, deftly changing the subject. It was something he was an expert at. She considered pressing the point, then let it lie. T’ing normally had his own time schedule, and she had learned by now that it was rarely worthwhile to try to rush him.
Briefly, she recounted her conversation with the ambassador from Iran, leaving out her threat to ask the president to deploy nuclear weapons there. It had been mostly bluster, and she suspected that it would turn out to be interpreted as something else entirely if it ever made the rounds.
Finally, she concluded, “They don’t like dealing with women. But this is one time they’ll have to get used to it.”
T’ing listened patiently, and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “They would be wise not to underestimate you.”
Just then, the wine arrived. T’ing waited while the glasses were filled, then raised his in a toast. “To
