friendship.” He clicked his glass lightly against hers as she repeated toast, and took a delicate sip.
“That’s it? Friendship?” she asked.
“Isn’t that enough?”
This time she did laughed. “All right, have it your way.”
T’ing shook his head. “We know each other too well.” He took another sip of his wine and his expression turned grave. “I have heard about your encounter with the Iranians. And what I have heard worries me greatly. I know you travel around the city unaccompanied. I wish for you to reassess that practice. Should you lack for suitable security, I will be glad to loan you a couple of my men.”
Wexler sat back, surprised. Was this what this was about? Concerns about her safety? And just exactly what had he heard about her encounter with the Iranian ambassador? She took a deep breath before replying, aware that there were always circles within circles to any offer from T’ing. “Is there a reason for me to be concerned?” She waited.
“Yes. Without a doubt. And if you value our friendship, I would ask that you take this warning seriously.” He leaned forward, reaching out and covering her hand with his. “Please, Sarah. The friendship cannot continue in this life if one of the parties to it is dead.”
“And you have specific reasons for believing there may be a threat?” she pressed. “Not just vague concerns?”
He nodded. “Very specific. From sources I trust.”
Was this another one of T’ing’s games? No, the look of concern on his face was real. Although she was quite certain he wouldn’t tell her exactly what or how he learned of the threat, she thought she had better take it seriously. She gave his hand a squeeze, then withdrew it. “I shall. Starting right now.” She withdrew the cell phone from her pocket and flipped it opened. She speeded dialed Brad’s number, and quickly filled him in.
“They will be there in fifteen minutes,” Brad promised. “Are you in immediate danger?”
She glanced across at T’ing. “I doubt it. The ambassador’s men are here.”
“Very well. Do not leave the restaurant until my men have identified themselves to you, understand?” There was a hard note in Brad’s voice now, one she had not heard before. Gone was the pleasant, smiling aide she had always known, and her questions about his background surfaced again.
“Agreed.” She snapped her phone shut and asked, “Will that do it?”
He nodded. “Your Brad, he is a very competent man, isn’t he? In more ways than one.”
And just what the hell did that mean? Did he know more about Brad than she did? She wouldn’t be surprised. Of course, everyone on her staff had passed a rigorous security investigation, but there was always a chance they’d missed something.
T’ing leaned back in his seat. “And now let us enjoy our dinner. The fish for you?”
For a moment, she thought about the offer she had received from the Red Cross. To take over as its executive director sounded particularly tempting at this moment. Oh, sure, there would be political intrigues, competitions for money, all the sort of stuff you would expect in any large organization. But a threat to her life — she doubted it.
She raised her glass. “To friendship.” They clinked, then she said, “And yes, the grouper sounds particularly good.”
TWENTY-TWO
Tombstone pulled up to the parking lot surrounding the Pentagon and felt the familiar sensation of dread and distaste. He understood the need for the Pentagon, and admired men such as Batman who could easily shift between the operational world and the world of politics but it wasn’t for him. Never had been, never would be. He had dodged assignments to the Pentagon from his very earliest days.
But what part of his career would he have given up for a tour in the Pentagon? So many conflicts in so many parts of the world — each one the same, in that deadly force met deadly force, but each one different. And he’d been there in every one of them, right on the front lines. If not flying himself, then commanding those who were.
No, he wouldn’t trade a single moment of combat for a tour in the Pentagon, not even if it would save his career now.
Tombstone parked in the visiting flag officer’s spot near the east entrance. It was a typical, sticky August day in the city. The humidity was around 90 percent, the temperature even higher. He broke into a sweat before he reached the entrance. There, he showed his identification card to the guards, and made his way through the world’s largest office building to his uncle’s office.
The flag corridor was a marked contrast to the rest of the Pentagon, which had taken on a peculiarly tacky institutional look over the decades. Here, thick carpet and paneled walls were the norm.
A Navy captain, his uncle’s chief of staff, greeted him. “Go right in, Admiral. He’s waiting for you.”
His uncle came around from his desk as Tombstone entered. A broad smile split his face, coupled with a look of relief. “I knew I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you here,” his uncle said, slapping him on the back. “Believe me, I halfway thought you might go UA rather than retire.”
Tombstone and his uncle exchange pleasantries for a few moments before they got down to business. Their relationship was closer than that of most uncles and nephews. The CNO’s brother, Tombstone’s father, had been shot down over Vietnam. Tombstone had been very young at the time, and his uncle had naturally stepped into the role as a father figure. Although he had not been in the home full-time, he had made a concerted effort to stay up on what was going on in the life of his only nephew. Tombstone had been included in his uncle’s family outings, along with his uncle’s two boys and one girl, and began increasingly to count on his uncle for advice and guidance.
When Tombstone had announced his decision to apply for admission to Annapolis, his uncle, then a relatively junior lieutenant commander in Navy, had been deeply gratified.
Over the years, as they’d each grown older, the nature of the relationship changed. His uncle had accepted Tombstone as a man, as a naval officer, and as a valued colleague. He dispensed invaluable advice when he could, and sometimes said the hard words that no one else would say to Tombstone as he grew more senior.
Events had taken a serious turn on Tombstone’s mission into Russia to find his father’s final resting place. Tombstone had managed to step on a number of sensitive political toes. That had spelled the end of his aspirations to higher rank. It had been his uncle who had laid the consequences out for him — Tombstone was simply not political enough to survive and be promoted to chief of naval operations. Initially, however, Tombstone was not nearly as disappointed as he had expected to be. He had come to know what was involved in very senior flag positions, and he’d found himself increasingly impatient with the amount of protocol, political, and general ennui associated with higher rank.
Sure, he might be named as one of the fleet commanders, and that of course involved enormous control over fighting forces. But it also brought with it insidious new dangers, in that the slightest politically incorrect statement could immediately torpedo a career. And Tombstone, if he had been anything, had never been politically correct.
So it was with a sense of relief that he heard his uncle toll the death knell on further advancement. Not in a peacetime Navy, he decided. Not for me.
The forced retirement was simply the next logical step after that, although the idea had taken some getting used to. But now, as he felt the years of his naval service start to peel away, Tombstone found that he was eagerly anticipating whatever this new assignment was his uncle couldn’t talk about. He felt the thrill of excitement that he rarely experienced outside of flying, and that perhaps had been due to his uncle’s emphasis that he would be back in the cockpit.
