Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

“You look all grown up,” Mehmut said. It was the kind of thing he would not have said to an American officer if they were speaking English. The Kyrgyz language broke down the barriers of formality and rank, however, and all that was left was a sense of family.

“Not yet,” Kate assured him. “But I’m working on it, I promise.”

Mehmut touched a button inside the guardhouse and the gate slid open on oiled hinges.

“The ambassador is waiting for you.”

“I’m sure he is.”

The gravel on the driveway crunched agreeably under her boots as she walked up to the stone stairs at the front of the house. The grounds were lit and Kate could see the clearing where the admin staff would set up the volleyball court for the embassy’s Fourth of July parties and the flagstone patio that was used for more formal outdoor gatherings. There was the oak tree that her father liked to stand under during receptions, out of the sun, with a gin and tonic in his hand, holding court with a rotating cast of friends, colleagues, and contacts. His loss had left a hole in her life that she knew she could never fill.

The portico with its thick marble balustrade led around to the side of the house. The door opened as she approached. Meryem, the house manager, was there to take her coat, but only after giving Kate a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s so lovely to have you back with us,” she said. “And I am so sorry about your parents. They were wonderful people.”

“Yes, they were. Thank you for thinking of them.”

“Always.”

Meryem showed Kate into the sitting room, with its familiar overstuffed furniture.

“The ambassador will be here shortly,” she said. “Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

“A glass of wine would be nice, thanks.”

Kate sipped the wine and flipped through a coffee-table book of photographs of Kyrgyzstan. It was a beautiful country, and Kate was unreasonably proud that she had been to most of the places featured in the book. There were still a few things she had not seen. Nothing a few months in the country wouldn’t allow her to fix, however.

“Good god, you look absolutely lovely.”

The ambassador of the United States of America strode into the room like Caesar stepping onto the floor of the Roman Senate. Confident and in command.

He was a big man with silver-white hair streaked with a few traces of black. His tortoiseshell glasses made him look scholarly, like an art history professor or a documentary filmmaker. His blue suit was freshly pressed, and the gray-and-red-striped tie he wore announced to those in a position to know that the ambassador was a graduate of the National War College. Her father had had one just like it, and there was enough of a family resemblance between the two brothers to make her wistful.

Kate smiled. She was happy to see him. Her uncle had reasons for bringing her here, she knew, reasons that had nothing to do with family ties. He was ambitious and subtle, and he never did anything without a reason. He had moved awfully fast to snatch her out of Havana, as though he had been waiting for the opportunity. But Kate knew that he would not simply tell her what it was. She would have to earn it.

She rose from the couch and let the ambassador fold her into a massive bear hug. He kissed her cheek in a manner that was both affectionate and possessive.

“How’s my favorite niece?”

“Uncle Harry, did my father have any other children I should know about? If not, I believe I am your only niece, which makes that kind of a low bar.”

“You always did set the bar high, Kate. Just one of the many things I admire about you.”

Horace “Harry” Hollister was a charming man. He was like her father in that way as well, and it was a quality he both cultivated and appreciated in others.

“What happened to your head?”

Kate was wearing her hair loose and she had tried to style it to hide the bandage, but it was still hard to miss.

“It’s nothing. You should see the other guy.”

“We Hollisters give as good as we get,” her uncle agreed.

Kate patted him on the arm affectionately.

“Thank you for having me to dinner.”

“I’m sorry to impose on you on your first night in country, and I’m equally sorry that I couldn’t make it to the airport to pick you up. I had to spend the afternoon at the interior minister’s hunting lodge. Frightfully boring man. That’s the way he hunts, I think. He tells stories to the animals until they shoot themselves to make it stop. I came dangerously close to mounting my head on the wall of his trophy room today. God, the things I do for my country.”

“I’m glad you dodged that bullet,” Kate said with a laugh. “I hate eating alone.”

“And I will feed you well, I promise. But you’re going to have to play for me first.”

“Now?”

“Absolutely. I’m serving an excellent wine with dinner, and if we wait you’ll be too blotto to play and I’ll be in no position to appreciate your skills. Come. It’s been too long.”

Meryem appeared at the ambassador’s elbow with a tumbler of scotch and ice balanced on a small silver tray. He took it, nodding his appreciation.

The living room was dominated by a jet black Steinway grand piano. It was an older model, but it looked to have been beautifully maintained.

“Is that beast in tune?” Kate asked.

“It should be. Although it’s been a while since the ivories have been tickled by someone of your talent.”

Kate sat at the bench and considered what to play. Music had been one of the few constants of her peripatetic youth. She had started playing at five, and at every post she had auditioned successfully for the state-run music academy that was a staple institution across Eastern Europe and the former Soviet space. Kate had been good, at her best better than good, entering and scoring well at international competitions. At one point, she had considered a career in music, but she had chosen a different path and was now more a recreational player than the serious concert musician she had been. Even so, thousands of hours of practice had helped her build a sizable repertoire. And she could still play.

After a moment’s thought, she launched into the opening bars of Schubert’s Sonata in A Major. Schubert was Kate’s favorite composer, and this was one of the first competition pieces she had mastered as a girl. Playing it elicited strong memories of Madame Raisa in St. Petersburg, who would rap her knuckles sharply with a ruler if her tempo ever faltered. It also reminded her of her father, who had loved to sit in his leather chair by the fire sipping cognac and listening to Kate practice. Schubert had been his favorite as well.

When she had finished, Kate transitioned seamlessly to Estar Enamorado by the Cuban great Adolfo Guzmán. She glanced at the ambassador, who raised a quizzical eyebrow. This was not the typical music of a pianist trained in the Russian classical tradition. Kate had fallen in love with Cuban music in Havana. It was free and spontaneous, the opposite of what Cuban society had become but also a promise of hope for what it could be again. Culture was stronger than any political system, no matter how repressive.

The last notes of Estar Enamorado fluttered lightly from her fingers and she thought about Reuben. Had he made it off the island? Was he sipping rum on the beach in Dominica? Or hiding in a dark basement in Las Tunas waiting for the agents of the G2 to find him?

At the final flourish, her uncle drained the last dram of scotch in his glass as though toasting her performance.