Russians will go to a heightened state of readiness as well. This is how it starts, each side making a point, saving face until it all gets out of hand. We can’t risk it, sir. Not until we successfully test the system.”
The president fixed him with a cold glare. “It’s not open for discussion. Now do it.”
Drake was just rounding the corner when she saw Tombstone farther down the passageway. He was facing her, towering over Winston, who was blocking his way. Behind her, Jeff waited, his camera pointed at the deck.
“Why are you here?” Winston pressed as she stepped forward toward the former admiral. “Everyone knows you’re the expert in the naval conflicts, Admiral. Are you here to give Admiral Grant advice? Or to get an expert opinion on the cause of this disaster?”
“No comment,” Tombstone said, and stepped to the right. Winston matched his move, still blocking his way.
Drake could see Tombstone’s face go cold and hard. Even his normally impassive expression was frightening.
“I said, no comment.” Tombstone’s voice held impatience and irritation, although Pamela knew him well enough to know that one of his icy rages was coming on. Even she quailed before those.
Tombstone regarded the two of them with something that looked like amusement. “Thank you, Miss Drake,” he replied formally.
Just then, the door to the admiral’s mess opened and Admiral Coyote Grant and Captain Jack Phillips walked out. Both were in a towering rage. They immediately spotted Pamela, who was still holding Winston against the bulkhead. Phillips nudged Coyote, who sighed. “Let her go, Pamela,” Coyote said wearily. “I wish you’d done that a couple of hours ago.”
“Believe me, so do I.” She released Winston, who started to attack Drake. The cameraman caught the younger reporter by her elbow and shook his head warningly.
“Admiral, Captain — I had no part in this. I didn’t even know she left the room. I tried to head off the report but they’d already run with it. My apologies.”
There was no reaction from either man, and Drake knew the damage was already done. No doubt they had spent the morning fielding calls from their superiors, who would want to know why in the hell someone would make such a stupid comment to a reporter. Winston’s impromptu update would have far more international repercussions than she could ever have guessed.
“There will be a briefing for all media at ten o’clock,” Phillips said finally. “The dirty shirt mess. Which is, by the way, now where all the media will eat.”
“I see.” To be evicted from the flag mess was no great hardship, but it was a precursor of things to come. “And the flag mess?”
“Off limits,” Coyote said immediately. “As is this passageway. As is the bridge, Combat, and the flight deck, unless you’re accompanied by the public affairs officer.”
“You’re gagging us,” Drake said, disbelievingly. She had known it would be bad, but not this bad.
“Of course not,” Coyote said promptly. “We’re simply trying to make more use of your valuable time. After all, there are many areas of the ship you would not normally visit that we’ll arrange access to. The bakery, for instance. What a fascinating story, those bakers working through the night every night to produce all the ship’s baked goods. Cinnamon rolls, bread, pizza crust — it’s really quite impressive. And has there ever been a really good profile on garbage disposal at sea?” He turned to Phillips, as though directing the question at him.
Phillips tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “No, Admiral, I don’t believe there has been. But what an excellent idea.”
“I’ll get her off the ship,” Drake said, desperate to redeem herself and the rest of the media. “We know she was out of line — I’ve never done anything like that to you. Don’t punish all of us for her screw-up.”
The two senior officers regarded her blandly. “Punish? What an absurd idea,” the admiral said fondly.
Both senior officers left, met up with Tombstone farther down the passageway, and then disappeared into the side passageway that housed the ladder leading up to the flight deck. Drake started to follow, but then stopped. It was no use. It would take months, maybe even years, before this could be repaired. She turned on Winston, intending to blast her, but instead of a cowed reporter she saw Winston’s eyes gleaming again.
“Now
FOURTEEN
Wexler noticed the difference the moment she entered the United Nations building. After seven years of service, sometimes it seemed as though her own nervous system was irreversibly hardwired to the mortar and bricks of the structure. It was not something she could define precisely, more a tingling along the periphery of her nerves, warning her of danger. Was it some intuitive deduction from the angle at which the members’ cars were parked, indicating agitation. A sense of a few more guards on duty than normal? Something about the way people moved?
She didn’t know. All she knew was that she could feel trouble brewing.
Her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she entered her suite of offices. The British ambassador was sitting in a chair, having tea and chatting with her receptionist.
After they exchanged their customary greetings, she said, “So what brings you here this early today?” Her British colleague was not known for keeping early hours.
He drained his cup of tea and set it gently on the table before speaking. “Trouble, I’m afraid. From the usual sources.”
“So what else is new,” she said. “The president briefed me last night. I’m afraid the Russian ambassador saw me leaving the party early and drew his own conclusions.”
“Yes, rather.” For once, he seemed at a loss for words.
Wexler and the British ambassador had had an unusual relationship. He had originally been posted to the UN with instructions to get close to her and interrupt her growing friendship with the Chinese. He had played the fool for several months in an attempt to win her friendship. It was only after she had confronted him that he finally dropped his irritating mannerisms. Since then, they had become close friends.
“Out with it,” she said, not unkindly. The British tendency to beat around the bush and cloak matters in polite circumvention she understood. Indeed, on many occasions she appreciated it, but this was not one of those times.
“There is some talk,” he began slowly, “of the role the United States plays in the United Nations.”
“Is it the world police bit again?”
He shook his head. “No, and it’s a bit more than rhetoric this time. The issue is the status of the United States’ payment of dues.”
It was Wexler’s turn to be reluctant to speak. Not because she did not know what to say — but because this issue had haunted her nightmares for longer than she cared to think.
America covered a large portion of the operating costs of the United Nations. Currently, she was eighty million dollars behind on her payments. The amount had been appropriated in Congress, but the necessary funding bill was constantly bogged down with other issues. Additionally, there were constant protests from right-wing
