and understanding, but even her resources — not so extensive as she believed — were being tested to the limit by the intransigence of certain nations. Pakistan, for one. India, for another. The squabbling over the borders, cultures, and atrocities each claimed the other had committed was a constant refrain in the United Nations. No matter that the Middle East was set to erupt again at any moment and that some dissident group had committed an act of war against an American carrier. No matter that North Korea was ranting about reunification again, that Russia’s fledgling economy was failing and dragging the rest of the former Soviet Union down in turn, and that China had a large number of military assets circling the Spratley Islands. Any one of those situations could mean a serious worldwide crisis, and it wouldn’t take much to set off any of those tinderboxes. And yet Pakistan and India aired their dirty laundry in public as thought it were the only issue into world. Hell, she was even more concerned about Chinese atrocities in Tibet that she was about India and Pakistan, and that was saying a lot.
It was getting worse every day, and today in particular had seen a spate of demands, requests, and accusations that had escalated to a feeding frenzy. Was there something about the alignment of the planets with a full moon or something? She was starting to believe that the entire world had chosen that particular morning to go completely insane.
There seemed to be no getting away from it. The ambassador from Pakistan was at her side now, long brown fingers plucking gently at her sleeve, his singsong voice grating on her ears in soft, confidential tones. “We would like to know where America stands,” he said, obviously finishing up whatever argument she’d been ignoring. “I think there is some basis for claiming your attention on this matter.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “There are many matters on the calendar this month, though. And pressing problems around the world.”
He drew back slightly. “The United States did not think Pakistan so inconsequential when it wished to invade Afghanistan.”
“We did not invade Afghanistan.”
He gazed at her steadily. “So many bombs, so many troops — and you did not invade?”
“As you well know,” she said, her voice icy now, “we supported the Northern Alliance in retaking their country from a corrupt and repressive regime. I believe Pakistan has also benefited from the establishment of a more stable government in Afghanistan, has it not?”
The Pakistani shrugged. “To some extent. Less than your government has benefited from our support, I believe.”
“You believe wrong.”
He studied her for moment, then his face turned ugly. “You will regret this, Madame Ambassador. You will regret it.” He turned and stomped off, his back rigid with rage.
Wexler sighed as he went, and then turned to Brad, her aide. “That sounded like a threat to me.”
“Me, too.” Brad’s gaze was still fixed on the Pakistani as he watched the other man make his way across the main assembly room. “Can we do anything about it?”
Wexler grimaced. “Not more security, if that’s what you mean. I can barely go to the john by myself now as it is.”
“So what you do think he meant?”
Wexler turned back to watch the Pakistani, who was gathering a loud, vocal crowd around him. They were speaking in a number of languages, but the gazes were all directed at her. “I don’t know, but I expect we’ll find out shortly.” She paused for a moment, then, only half-kidding, asked, “Do you know anything about astrology?”
TWELVE
Greenfield slumped back in his chair and rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. His eyes felt dry and dusty. It was an all too familiar feeling, one he’d felt so often during Desert Storm. It was the result of too many hours substituting coffee for sleep. He leaned back in his chair and let the muscles relax, or at least tried to.
If he wanted to look like a tough guy, one of the ones who wanted to go for hours and days and years without ever sleeping, he would have to dip into the top right drawer of his desk. There he kept two essential items for any FBI field agent: Tums and Visine.
But what was the point? After this debacle, he wasn’t even sure how much longer he had left at the FBI. It had been a total fiasco from beginning to end, and nobody was going to stop and remember that he’d been the voice of caution, that he’d questioned the plans and the information and the intelligence, that he’d argued against a nighttime surprise raid on the Smart residence.
No, what they’d remember was that he’d been the man on the ground, the man in command of a takedown that was starting to look an awful lot like Ruby Ridge. Somebody was going to have to pay for the failure, and Greenfield was pretty sure he knew who it would be.
Shame rushed through him. How could he think about his own future right now? Four people were dead, two of them children. And from the information that was coming out now, information they should have had before the raid, it was looking an awful lot like Kyle Smart, father of two and husband of Betsy, longtime resident of Bull Run, Idaho, hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.
Hell of a way to make an example. At least they ought to find somebody who actually was a crook, even if you overlooked the fact that they died like that. At least you’d have a cold comfort of knowing in your heart of hearts that the son of a bitch was absolutely beyond the shadow of a doubt guilty, no matter what the courts and the lawyers said. A scumbag, one that the earth was better off without.
More and more, it was starting to look like Mr. Kyle Smart was nothing more than a bitter, disillusioned farm boy. Sure, he might have turned into a serious threat, given time. He was heading in that direction. Maybe somewhere down the road he would have joined one of the vicious little hate circles springing up around the isolated parts of the country, taking comfort in finding other people like himself. And maybe he would’ve gone further than that, but probably never beyond the planning stage. Few of the groups were, by their very nature, capable of carrying out any coordinated plan of action. Under the slightest difference of opinion, they disintegrated into warring factions, like a drop of mercury under pressure.
Kyle Smart would never get to that point. Not now. Not him, not his two sons, not his wife. All because someone somewhere in the Bureau had screwed up royally by letting the Homeland Security folks in on the deal. If it had been a Bureau decision alone, this never would have happened.
There was a short ring on the phone, signaling an internal call. He picked up the receiver and glanced at the status bar to make sure that the line was secure. “Greenfield.”
“Come up and see me.” The line went dead.
Greenfield hauled his bulk out of the chair, silently vowing for perhaps the thousandth time he would get his butt to the gym more often.
The problem was that everyone did recognize that particular voice. No one mistook the voice of Carl Chassen, director of operations for the FBI, newly appointed to that post only six months ago and already making his mark on history as one of the most despotic ops directors ever.
Greenfield made his way up to the top floor, noting that the shabby government green paint on the walls was just ever so slightly less shabby at these levels. The carpet was cleaner, and might even have been laid within the last two Administrations.
He entered the director’s reception area and offered Chassen’s secretary a tired smile. She gazed at him
