point,” she said finally, and let her silence speak more than words could ever have done.
And what was this unpleasant turning of affairs, she wondered. That Britain, America’s oldest and staunchest ally, would question building additional aircraft carriers? This was an argument one heard from Russia, from China, even from India, that aircraft carriers would destabilize the current balance of power.
Yes, and those countries had reason to worry — although each had made some forays into the field of carrier aviation, not one could match the capabilities of the United States. Britain was even only a distant second.
And Britain had always been a strong supporter of American military building programs, ever since the days of Lend-Lease. They had had reason to be profoundly grateful for America’s industrial capabilities then, had they not?
“Aircraft carriers are not built overnight,” she pointed out. “This construction has been in the works for almost ten years now. If Britain had concerns, this is certainly the first that we’re hearing of them. And I wonder at this late hour — surely it would be completely unreasonable to suggest that we cancel construction now. The keel is laid, the hull completed and most of the systems equipment in place. To fail to complete it would represent more of an economic waste in terms of cancelled contracts, guaranteed performances, and liquidated damages.”
He leaned back, a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes. “But there are costs other than monetary,” he pointed out. “A peaceful world is economically desirable, is it not?”
“Are you telling me that Britain objects to this project?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “Not in those terms.”
“But you’re under orders to convey to me the prime minister’s displeasure, is that it?”
He smiled again, that enigmatic expression she’d seen for the first time just moments before. “And now I have evidently irritated you. My apologies, madam.” The genial buffoon was back, replacing the harder, more manipulative man she’d seen before. “Please, I hope you will attribute my rudeness to inexperience on my part rather than any agenda by my government. After all, this current conversation began with my plea for your assistance. I hope you do not believe I would abuse the privilege of your friendship.”
They finished the meal with polite chitchat, Wells actively resisting any attempts to delve into deeper meaning of his comments. Afterwards, Wexler was not entirely certain what they discussed during the rest of the brief meal. She had cut it short just after the main course, pleading a full schedule as well as a full stomach. Wells had graciously been understanding.
Had this simply been naive chitchat between long-standing allies? Or had there been a message in his question, one she was intended to relate to the president himself?
She had, she realized, been foolish to suspect that the British ambassador was any less capable than his predecessor. Certainly, he had a different style of approaching matters, and she suspected they would never developed the warm friendship and personal respect for one another that she had had with his predecessor.
But that was not the main point in international relationships, though diplomacy turned on personal friendships and passions more often than anyone would like to admit. No, if she could establish a good working relationship with the new ambassador and count on him to support her country’s policies, that would have to be enough. That he might be personally distasteful did not matter.
Still, she wondered whether this represented a major change in the British government’s policy. Certainly, Britain had been long occupied with the Irish problem, and had had to devote more of its resources and attention to their internal problems than before. And, although it looked like there might be a resolution, or at least the semblance of peace, sometime in the near future, she had no doubt that the conflict drained it’s resources.
Additionally, she had seen reports that the Socialist party was gaining increasing influence in both the House of Lords and House of Commons, particularly in the latter. Despite the staunch core of royalists inside the United Kingdom, would that signal a major change in Britain’s alignment? And if so, how would American cope with the defection of her most trusted ally?
As she made her way back to her office pondering the implications, she resolved to call the president immediately. It might be nothing — but then again, it might already be too late.
The president had just finished a short meeting with representatives of the American Wheat Society when the ambassador’s call was put through to him. His chief of staff had put her on hold for a moment, and the president had been sorry to terminate his meeting with the farmers, although the farmers were quite understanding, and not a little awed at being ringside observers to the highest level of politics.
As the farmers filed out of the office, the President reflected that whoever had selected the delegation had been particularly astute. The men and women he met with were not corporate managers of agribusiness, the ones who never felt sweet dirt between their toes, had no understanding of the rhythms of nature, and depended on salaries rather than the vagaries of nature for their income. No, whoever had selected the delegation had sent him real farmers, and he had enjoyed talking to them and letting himself slip back into his childhood.
The president’s roots ran deep in the heartland of the country. Although he was a political creature, one shaped by the expediencies and deals necessary to maneuver in Washington, there were times, more often than he would like, that he realized how alienated he was from real people. These were the people he needed to see more of, the ones that he really represented. The ones who had voted, given him their electoral delegates, and who, in countless small houses around the United States, were depending on him to oversee the good of the nation.
At his most cynical, he sometimes wondered what he had become, why he was here, and whether he really had a chance to make any difference in anything at all. But talking to these men, these farmers who knew the reality of everyday life, who wrested their living from the soil by supplying the rest of the nation with food, he knew why he had been put in this office by whatever higher power oversaw the affairs of nations. It was to remember them, to guard their interests — against people just like himself.
So it was with some reluctance that he picked up the phone, gave up the moment he savored with them, and turned his attention back to the realities of being the leader of the most powerful country in the world.
He listened to the ambassador’s observations of her meeting with the British ambassador, and understood immediately why she’d called. It was no secret that commitment to build up American military forces was a bedrock cornerstone of the president’s platform. He had kept those promises, he thought, at least as well as he was able to do in the rarefied air of Washington. The carrier
When she finished, the president asked, “Okay, so you told me what happened. Now give me your take on it.”
There was a pause, and he could almost see Ambassador Wexler collecting her thoughts. One of the things he appreciated most about her was her ability to cut through the bullshit, her keen insight into the personalities that made up the international community. She didn’t shoot from the hip — he had a feeling that Sarah Wexler knew much more than she said about most things — but when she did voice an opinion that was based on intuition rather than objective facts, he listened.
“I need to know more about Wells,” she said finally. “He’s a funny creature — almost a clown in a way, a caricature of British royalty. But there something about him — he doesn’t let it show often — that bothers me. Perhaps it’s because he tries so hard to appear harmless. I was,” she admitted ruefully, “taken in at first. After dealing with his predecessor for so long, I had certain expectations. Wells comes nowhere near those.”
“I think we can both rule out the possibility that Britain has made a mistake in appointing him,” the president said. “We know what is public record about him, of course. Let me check with some sources and see if I can get you more background information. Perhaps somebody knows something that can give some context to his words.”
“That would certainly be helpful,” she acknowledged. The president knew that, while she admitted the necessity of it, Sarah Wexler always thought the connection between the nation’s intelligence services and its diplomatic corps to be slightly distasteful. It was something they shared, an almost reflexive belief that men and women of good will could solve national and international problems and issues in an aboveboard, straightforward sort of way. A pipe dream, as they both knew all too well from their time in D.C. and in the U.N., but a basic guiding principle that they clung to nonetheless. For that reason, although Wexler knew exactly where he would get the information, he made it a point not to mention the CIA. He would make sure the information got to her, but the source of it would be disguised to allow them both to maintain the illusion.
“I do feel that there is something to this,” Wexler said. “He made such a point of mentioning it to me — and if
