John Scalzi - The Gentle Art of Cracking Heads

“This is a very interesting theory you have, about conspiracy,” said Gustavo Vinicius, the undersecretary for administration for the Brazilian consulate in New York City.

Danielle Lowen frowned. She was supposed to be having this meeting with the consul general, but when she arrived at the consulate she was shunted to Vinicius instead. The undersecretary was very handsome, very cocksure and, Lowen suspected, not in the least bright. He was very much the sort of person who exuded the entitled air of nepotism, probably the less than useful nephew of a Brazilian senator or ambassador, assigned someplace where his personal flaws would be covered by diplomatic immunity.

There was only so much Lowen could stew about the nepotism. Her father, after all, was the United States secretary of state. But the genial, handsome stupidity of this Vinicius fellow was getting on her nerves.

“Are you suggesting that Luiza Carvalho acted alone?” she asked. “That a career politician, with no record whatsoever of criminal or illegal activity, much less any noticeable political affiliations, suddenly took it into her head to murder Liu Cong, another diplomat? In a manner designed to undermine relations between the Earth and the Colonial Union?”

“It is not impossible,” Vinicius said. “People see conspiracies because they believe that one person could not do so much damage. Here in the United States, people are still convinced that the men who shot Presidents Kennedy and Stephenson were part of a conspiracy, when all the evidence pointed to single men, working alone.”

“In both cases, however, there was evidence presented,” Lowen said. “Which is why I am here now. Your government, Mr. Vinicius, asked the State Department to use this discreet back channel in order to deal with this problem, rather than go through your embassy in Washington. We’re happy to do that. But not if you’re going to give us the runaround.”

“I am not giving you a runaround, I promise,” Vinicius said.

“Then why am I meeting with you and not Consul Nascimento?” Lowen asked. “This was supposed to be a high-level, confidential meeting. I flew up from Washington yesterday specifically to take this meeting.”

“Consul Nascimento has been at the United Nations all day long,” Vinicius said. “There were emergency meetings there. She sends her regrets.”

“I was at the United Nations before I came here,” Lowen said.

“It is a large institution,” Vinicius said. “It’s entirely possible that you would not have crossed paths.”

“I was assured that I would be given information pertaining to Ms. Carvalho’s actions,” Lowen said.

“I regret I have nothing to give you at this time,” Vinicius said. “It’s possible that we may have misunderstood each other in our previous communications.”

“Really, Mr. Vinicius?” Lowen said. “Our mutual State Departments, who have been in constant contact since your nation brought its first legation to Washington in 1824, are suddenly having communication difficulties?”

“It is not impossible,” Vinicius said, for the second time in their conversation. “There are always subtleties which might go misread.”

“I am certain things are going misread at the moment, Mr. Vinicius,” Lowen said. “I don’t know how subtle they are.”

“And if I may say so, Ms. Lowen, in the case of this particular issue, there is so much disinformation going on about the event,” Vinicius said. “All sorts of different stories about what happened on this ship where the events took place.”

“Is that so,” Lowen said.

“Yes,” Vinicius. “The eyewitness reports aren’t especially credible.”

Lowen smiled at Vinicius. “Is this your personal opinion, Mr. Vinicius, or the opinion of the Brazilian Ministry of External Relations?”

Vinicius smiled back and supplied a little hand movement, as if to suggest the answer was, A little of both .

“So you’re saying that I am not a credible eyewitness,” Lowen said.

Vinicius’s smile vanished. “Excuse me?” he said.

“You’re saying I am not a credible eyewitness,” Lowen repeated. “Because I was part of that diplomatic mission, Mr. Vinicius. In fact, not only was I there, I also conducted the autopsy that established that Liu Cong’s death was murder, and also helped identify how it was the murder was accomplished. When you say that the eyewitness reports are not credible, you’re talking about me, specifically and directly. If what you’re saying actually reflects the opinion of the Ministry of External Relations, then we have a problem. A very large problem.”

“Ms. Lowen, I-,” Vinicius began.

“Mr. Vinicius, it’s clear we got off on the wrong foot here, because I was assured there would be actual information for me, and because you are clearly an unprepared idiot,” Lowen said, standing. Vinicius rushed to stand as well. “So I suggest we start again. Here’s how we’re going to do that. I am going to go downstairs and across the street to get a cup of coffee and perhaps a bagel. I will take my time enjoying them. Let’s say a half hour. When I return, in half an hour, Consul General Nascimento will be here to give me a full and confidential briefing on everything the Brazilian government knows about Luiza Carvalho, which I will then report back to the secretary of state, who, just in case you didn’t know, as it’s clear you don’t know much of anything, is also my father, which if nothing else assures that he will take my call. If, when I return, Consul Nascimento is here and you are nowhere nearby, I might not suggest that you be fired by the end of the day. If, when I return, she is not here, and I have to see your smug face again, then I would suggest you take a long lunch break to book your trip back to Brasilia, because you’re going to be there by this time tomorrow. Are we clear on these details?”

“Uh,” Vinicius said.

“Good,” Lowen said. “Then I expect to see Consul Nascimento in half an hour.” She walked out of Vinicius’s office and was at the consulate’s elevator before Vinicius could blink.

Across the street at the doughnut shop, Lowen pulled out her PDA and called her father’s office, getting James Prescott, his chief of staff. “How did it go?” Prescott asked, without preamble, as he opened up the connection.

“Pretty much exactly as we anticipated,” Lowen said. “Nascimento wasn’t there and pawned me off on an egregiously stupid underling.”

“Let me guess,” Prescott said. “A guy named Vinicius.”

“Bing,” Lowen said.

“He’s got a reputation for stupidity,” Prescott said. “His mother is the minister of education.”

“I knew it,” Lowen said. “Mommy’s boy made a particularly dumb remark, and that allowed me to tell him to produce Nascimento or I would start a major diplomatic incident.”

“Ah, the gentle art of cracking heads,” Prescott said.

“Subtle wasn’t going to work on this guy,” Lowen said, and then the windows of the doughnut shop shattered from the pressure wave created by the exploding building across the street.

Lowen and everyone else in the shop ducked and yelled, and then there was the sound of glass and falling debris outside, all over Sixth Avenue. She opened her eyes cautiously and saw that the glass of the doughnut shop windows, while shattered, had stayed in their frames, and that everyone in the doughnut shop, at least, was alive and unharmed.

Prescott was yelling out of the speaker of her PDA; she put the thing back to her ear. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

“What just happened?” Prescott asked.