Джанет Моррис - The 40-Minute War

“Fine. Thoreau, after you’ve helped Slick, get back up here. And bring my damned coffee this time.”

Touchdown at Dugout, west of Houston, was so surreal that Beck had his hands full shepherding the five remaining diplomats through the decontamination tube and out of the washbay without incident. He couldn’t help wondering what he would have done if the 727 hadn’t gone down and he’d had the entire original complement to deal with.

As it was, with no one on hand to greet them at 0300 hours except security people intent on performing intensive searches that brought to light Chris Patrick’s.25 caliber Colt, Beck’s charges’ feathers were seriously ruffled.

The NATO general, Dugard, demanded to see one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to personally lodge a formal complaint when his uniform was confiscated and he was issued a stiff white contamination suit with wristband dosimeter just like everyone else. Bandar bin Faisal wouldn’t give up his kefiya, despite the fact that his hood didn’t fit well over it and thus his breathing equipment couldn’t pass its final checkout. Nacht from the IMF demanded a personal bodyguard and the UN rep, Najeeb Thabet, insisted that he’d come here to see the UN’s “putatively destroyed” site with his own eyes and he had no interest in Presidential breakfasts or anything else but an overflight of New York, posthaste.

And Zenko Tsutsumi, with consummate politeness, told Beck to fuck off: “All that we see here is a further result,” the pockmarked Japanese declared, “of your nation’s sakoku ishiko ,” looking around him at the pure white arrival lounge where armed guards in respirators were stationed at intervals. “Until this changes, nothing will avail you.”

Sakoku ishiko translated as closed country consciousness and the Japanese minister was telling Beck to expect no help from the Japanese.

The Morse incident had shaken Beck’s five charges more than the shoot-down of the 727: none of them was certain of their security. In fact, Beck admitted glumly, they were scared half to death, and when diplomats are frightened they turn aggressive and hostile and that didn’t bode well for what was to follow.

Even Chris Patrick, usually the bright spot, was so angry and flustered over the discovery of her gun and her subsequent body search by a horse-faced matron that Beck was afraid he’d lost her. So he got her gun back and pulled her aside as they were being herded into a tunnel which came out at what looked like a twenty-first-century subway station.

“Sorry about that, Chris. If you’d have told me about it, we could have avoided—”

She snatched it from his hand, her face flushed: “You can’t expect to treat people this way, Secretary Beck, and get away with it. If you want any kind of neutral press, especially on that Morse story, you’d better do something about it, and fast.”

The dignitaries were close at hand and here, underground where no one needed to wear headgear, they could all hear her.

He backed away, wondering if she realized how much power she had at that juncture, if she was still playing his game or her own, and whether she was cueing the others or taking her cues from them. Then Slick went smoothly into gear, stepping into the ugly pause and possible breach by going up to her, putting an arm around her waist, and whispering in her ear.

Operation or not, Beck didn’t like it when Chris turned in to the embrace of Ashmead’s deputy.

Great. I asked for this . He honestly couldn’t tell at that moment if she was acting or not.

Forty minutes later, with the dignitaries safe in their quarters, an armed guard at each door, he found out.

“Twenty minutes, you two, okay?” said Slick easily when Beck opened his door. “Everybody else is already in the situation room but we’ll cover for you.”

Chris stood uncertainly beside Slick in the doorway, looking like an errant schoolgirl in her baggy white coveralls with her shoulder bag held by its strap in front of her so that it nearly dragged on the floor. She didn’t say a word or look up from her rubber-soled boots.

Beck said, “Thanks, Slick. We’ll be right down.”

“You’re bringing her? There’ll be somebody from DDS&T there, lots of other types—it’s going to get real classified.”

DDS&T was the Agency’s Directorate for Science and Technology.

“Perhaps not, then. We’ll see,” he said, and turned to Chris: “If you’ll come in now?” It sounded too formal, but he didn’t know if Slick was trying to warn him off her, or just playing a part for the sentries stationed in the hallway.

He found that his mouth was dry and although he almost never drank he was wondering what his room’s bar was stocked with. As Slick closed the door he turned and headed toward it, saying over his shoulder: “Chris, I’m terribly sorry about—”

And then she was in his arms, demanding that he hold her tight, and dry sobs were wracking her.

He ran his hands up and down her spine, feeling relief flood over him: he really needed her; she was possibly the only person who could turn this diplomatic disaster into a victory.

“It’s all right,” he told her over and over until she stopped shaking her head when he said it, then risked kissing her gently on the brow and tipping her chin up so that he could see her face.

“Dear Christ, I was so frightened when it came over the intercom…. Morse, the bomb, everything. And you were so calm. How can you be so calm?”

“I wasn’t. I’m not. I’m just good at pretending. You’re not really angry about the strip-search? The gun? If you want a gun, we’ll get you something with real stopping power—”

She was shaking her head again so that her hair flew about her face: “I don’t want anything, I just want you. I want some time alone. I want to forget all this. I haven’t fucked—screwed up, have I? Anything? Slick said it was okay, what I did back there, but… I’m so confused.” This last was a whisper, and he was already unzipping her contamination suit.

Even if he hadn’t felt the same way, though she didn’t realize it, there was nothing she could have asked for that he wouldn’t have given her just then.

Her firm breasts and her honest healthy sweat let him forget everything—the excessive security procedures in effect at Dugout (which, his belt-mounted Geiger counter told him, was cleaner than Jerusalem had been), the silent sentries in the hall, his diplomats and his family, whom he either would or would not be able to find during this trip.

And he really wanted to forget it all.

It was as if she were starving for him; she was frenzied and demanding so that he felt like some prisoner’s last meal and pulled her up by the hair: “Hey, hey, slow down. We’ve got plenty of time. It’s not the end of the world.”

It was the wrong thing to say: she shuddered, crouched over him, and suddenly collapsed on him, weeping. “Oh, Christ,” he heard her say. “I love you. Isn’t that ridiculous? The human spirit, against all logic, finding things to hold onto.” She was talking to his armpit, trying to burrow into it.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he managed, forcing her head up gently so that he could look into her bleary eyes. “But we’ve got a classified briefing in ten minutes and I’d like you to be there,” he said softly, kissing her temples, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, and finally her lips. “So we’d better finish this and get going, or it’ll be all too obvious what we’ve been doing up here.”

Neatly having avoided declaring himself or voicing his own confusion, he let his hands do the rest of his talking for him. At least he had enough confidence in her now to bring her to the briefing; love had motivated more successful agents than money or patriotism.