Джанет Моррис - The 40-Minute War

Ashmead’s deputy, whom Beck knew only by dossier, nodded from where he leaned insolently in a corner, arms folded across his chest.

“And I lost a man better than any of you,” Ashmead continued, “at the airport—my electronics specialist, Zaki. And the last thing I want to hear is that that kid’s relatives aren’t going to get suitable compensation because of some fucking internecine squabble or glitch in the chain of command or—worse—that you gutless wonders have decided to put new meaning into the term ‘total deniability.’ We got our orders and we followed them. That’s what we’re paid to do, folks,” Ashmead flashed a look of fond commiseration at Beck.

The Ambassador turned away from Ashmead with a shake of his huge head and said, patting his white mane, to Beck: “Marc, it seems we have a bit of a problem, as you may have gathered. Langley says you sent them a priority override, a go order on your authority. Did you? Without consult ing anyone, not me or Chief Dickson or anyone whomsoever?”

“ What? ” Beck was astonished. “Jesus.” He looked around for a vacant chair, realized that there were none because the three extras in the room were taken by others he didn’t know—a honey-haired girl, a lanky pilot in a baseball cap, and a tall Semite with shooter’s eyes, all of whom were watching him as he went to Dickson’s desk and stood before it.

Beck’s chief wouldn’t meet his eyes, but it was the fond look Ashmead had shot him which made him understand exactly what was happening.

He considered for a moment trying to avoid the consequences, keeping up a protest that there had been an error though it was clear enough that someone, somewhere, had decided that the buck was going to stop with him.

Then he stopped trying to get Dickson, who was heroically suppressing a smirk, to meet his eyes and turned to the Ambassador.

“Mister Ambassador, I think we ought to consider what the consequences would have been if that nuke had gone off in Washington, don’t you? And get started with a damage assessment so that we can do whatever is possible to minimize repercussions? Containment has to be our top priority. I’m sure Ashmead’s contacts in Riyadh are security-minded. No one else has to know that American intelligence officers were involved. If we can leak this as an Islamic Jihad-sponsored terrorist action against the Arab moderates, we ought to be able to turn it to our advantage.”

Dickson snorted.

Beck ignored him: Beck could always go into the private sector, if this didn’t work. Muffy had been after him to do that for years.

“So you don’t deny taking matters into your own hands, Marc?” the Ambassador said slowly, his face reddening.

“How can I, Ambassador?”

Behind him, Beck heard the fellow with the baseball cap on backwards whisper to the woman beside him: “Told you. Rafic’s never wrong.”

From the window, Ashmead gave Beck a thumb’s up.

Chris Patrick was still waiting outside the Jerusalem US Consulate when Mercedes 600 limousines with privacy glass began to pull up out front.

Beside her was a sandy-haired BBC correspondent with whom she’d shared a passionate night under fire in Samaria and who, because he’d been a standup correspondent in the Middle East for five years and, some said, a stringer for British Intelligence, knew who was whom among the players of the various diplomatic corps.

When the Ambassador and his entourage began to file out of the mission to duck into the waiting limos, she was carried forward with the Brit and his cameraman and had just enough time to point out the impeccably-attired diplomat she’d accosted at the gatepost and ask her sometimes-lover, “Who’s that?”

“That? That’s sodding Marc Beck, State’s won der boy. Don’t bother with him, he won’t give you the time of day—he’s INR as well as an Assistant Secretary in charge of no-one-knows-what.”

Then the Brit was shoving his mike in the Ambassador’s face and the cameraman muscled her aside with a muttered, “Sorry, then, but you’ll excuse me,” and the shove moved her up one step to where Beck was drifting sideways through the security men, briefcase in hand, toward a second limousine whose door was already open.

“Secretary Beck!” she called as she charged toward him, stumbling on a step.

A strong hand caught her by the elbow, before her knees hit the stone, and helped her to her feet.

Then Marc Beck was staring at her quizzically, and electricity shot through her as if her cassette deck had shorted.

“You must be more careful, Ms. Patrick,” he said in an amused, but not taunting, voice.

His hand was still on her arm; it was his left hand and there was no wedding band on it.

Then he let her go and she looked back at his face. “A statement?” she asked hopefully. “From an unidentified State Department source?”

He chuckled briefly: “Sorry, Ms. Patrick. Your sources are too good as it is. Now, you’ll have to excuse me….”

And he ducked into his limousine along with a heavy-set, rough-featured man who wore a rumpled suit, and the car drew away with the purr of German automotive excellence.

She stood watching it, thinking that at least he hadn’t given her a brusque “No comment,” and that, in a town as small as Jerusalem, she was sure to run into him again.