authority in Taiwan and the emerging technocracy that was so at odds with tradition. If he were of the right character, Ho could play a key leadership role in Taiwan’s future.
“Look at me,” Chang ordered. Hesitantly, Ho raised his head and met Chang’s gaze.
“Wisdom comes from experience,” Chang said finally. “My report will contain the recommendation that you be ordered to a shore station in the United States for further liaison duties. Perhaps with their army this time.” Chang leaned forward, his voice intense. “Our country’s future will depend on knowing and understanding the United States. You have seen yourself how deadly mistakes can be. Some day, I will retire. It would be of some comfort to me if I knew that there were men such as you, men of pride and honor with the willingness to look beyond the surface to find other men of honor in other cultures. Can I count on you? Are you one of those men?”
Ho shook his head. “Not yet, sir. But I will do my best to follow your example.”
Chang nodded once. “Then go. Return to the ship, make your apologies and prove that my confidence is not mistaken. I shall be watching, Major. I wish to be proud.”
With that, he dismissed the army officer and turned back to the never-ending pile of paperwork on his desk.
Sarah Wexler had never seen the ambassador from China looking quite so — well — what? Embarrassed, perhaps? Chagrined? Or even apologetic? She doubted that anyone who didn’t know him as well as she did wouldn’t even notice it, but there was definitely an undercurrent beneath the smooth, diplomatic facade he always presented to the world.
He stood in her doorway, motionless, his head inclined slightly. How long has he been standing there? Not long, she figured, judging by how Brad, standing directly behind the ambassador, was impatiently shifting his weight.
“Yes?” she said, not really asking a question as much as acknowledging his presence.
T’ing deepened his bow, then said, “May I speak to you privately?”
“Very well.” T’ing’s gaze told her he was not pleased. “China is withdrawing her petition requesting sanctions against America.” He turned abruptly to leave and bumped into Brad.
“Will there be an apology forthcoming?” Wexler asked, her voice still cold.
“No.” He turned back to face her. “You cannot reasonably expect that, can you? Your government will have to be content with what is offered.”
That brought her to her feet. “Oh, really? Is that how you see things?”
He gazed at her for a long moment then said quietly, “I would like to speak to you privately. Please.”
Once they were alone, T’ing slipped into the chair in front of her desk and some of the stiffness in his posture slid away. “I have delivered the message from my government. I cannot elaborate on their position, you know. My orders were quite clear. But privately, I wish to assure you that I have been — perhaps not as well advised as I would like.” He spread his hands out, palms up. “It is no secret that I have many sources of intelligence. And in this instance, they were sufficiently at odds that I was forced to make a choice. Perhaps I made the wrong one. Had I known the truth of the matter, perhaps things might have gone differently.”
His face relaxed. “So you understand, yes?”
“Yes.”
T’ing took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But we’re more than just hired guns, you and I. We do make a difference. For instance, there was some talk of demanding restitution for the attack on our amphibious group. I would like to think that it would have been rejected without my input, but I certainly argued strongly against it.”
“Well, then. Where do we stand now?”
“With Japan and Russia arguing over the position of the Kuriles, I suppose. It will come back to this forum eventually, but for now we can safely ignore it.”
“For now.”
There was a long silence, not an uncompanionable one. Finally, he stood to leave. “Dinner tomorrow?”
She walked him to the door. “Pacini’s, eight o’clock.”
Tombstone fingered the brown official government envelope, knowing what was inside and not wanting to touch it. Somehow, this made his loss seem continually fresh. The monthly arrival of Tomboy’s paychecks, because her military pay continued as long as she was listed as missing and not declared killed, was a constant reminder of his loss.
“Mister Magruder?” a voice said hesitantly over the speaker on his telephone. “Someone is here to see you.”
“Who?” he said, slightly befuddled. No one came to see him here who didn’t already have the security codes to all the doors. And if they didn’t have the codes, they had no business being here.
“He won’t give his name. But he said to tell you it’s about going west.”
The phrase reverberated in his mind. Go west — the last words his father had etched on the walls of a Vietnamese POW camp. Tombstone shot out of his chair and headed for the front office. His uncle was only slightly behind him.
A small, wiry man was seated in the reception area. He was well-dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit and highly polished shoes. He stood, offered his hand, and said, “Thank you for seeing me.”
“I’m not sure we’re to that stage yet,” Tombstone said. “Want to tell me your name, just for starters?”
The man shook his head. “I could give you a name, but it would mean nothing.”
“Then how about telling me what that phrase means to you?” Tombstone shot back, every nerve on edge. He had thought he had finally resolved his father’s fate in the cold woods of Ukraine, but to hear those words again… was there something he’d missed? Had the grave he’d been assured was his father’s been someone else’s?
“The more important question is what those words mean to you. I think,” and Tombstone now noted a slight foreign accent to the man’s voice, “that they will mean hope. Is this room secure?”
Tombstone glanced at his uncle, who shrugged. “The conference room would be better.” His uncle led the way past the receptionist and into a utilitarian conference room furnished with a sturdy if decidedly plain table and chairs.
“This is secure enough for anything that concerns those words,” Tombstone said when they were inside it and the door shut behind them. “Now start talking.”
“A picture is worth a thousand words,” the man said. He opened the large brown envelope he was carrying and withdrew a photo. Without words and with a faint expression of pity, he passed it over to Tombstone.
Tombstone drew in a sharp breath. His world reeled around him, and for a moment he had the crazy idea
