Private Wars (4 page)

Riess’ immediate superior in the Mission, McColl, as uptight and self-righteous a Europeanist as Riess had ever met in the Foreign Service, consistently referred to Garret as “the Grizzly,” though never while in earshot of the Ambassador. McColl did a poor job of hiding his resentment of Garret, a resentment born, Riess supposed, more of envy than of anything else. Both men shared the same political rank at State, and McColl not only had seniority, but a pedigree, and felt that Garret had robbed him of his rightful ambassadorship. The nickname was meant, therefore, as an insult of the highest order.

But limping after Garret through the Residence, Riess thought it was anything but. Six foot three and easily two hundred and forty pounds, everything on Garret had that ursine sense of scale and restrained power, from the breadth of his chest and the strength in his shoulders down to the thickness of each of his fingers. In all the time Riess had known him, first serving as a junior political officer at the embassy in St. Petersburg where Garret had been posted as Deputy Chief of Mission, and now, six years later, serving as his legman in Tashkent, he’d never once seen Garret exhibit anything but an absolute, controlled calm. No matter what he did, if he laughed, if he despaired, it was all with the same gravitas.

People underestimated the Ambassador to their peril, and while Riess himself had never heard Garret talk about it, it was well known among the Mission staffers just how tall the man could stand. No new arrival to the Chancery in Uzbekistan could make it more than a week before hearing the infamous “Fuck Off, Senator” story.

It went something like this:

Seems that Kenneth Garret had spent a year at CENTCOM as a political adviser after one of his DCM stints. His job had been primarily to offer political insight and counsel to General Anthony Zinni. After CENTCOM, Garret had rotated back to State, and then, the following year, had been nominated as Ambassador to Kuwait by the Clinton White House. It was a done deal as far as the White House was concerned, and even the Senate Foreign Relations Committee had looked to be smooth sailing, a rubber-stamp proceeding.

Except that the Committee in question was chaired by Senator Jesse Helms, and Helms’ history with Zinni was, as one of Riess’ colleagues had described it, “defined by white-hot hatred,” as a result of a particularly harsh facing Zinni had delivered to the Senator following the Gulf War. After the war, Helms had gotten the not-very-bright idea of turning the Iraqi army-in-exile around on Saddam with CIA backing, in an attempt to overthrow the dictator. It was a plan that suffered from a legion of problems, small and large, so many in fact that General Zinni, in a public hearing, had referred to the idea as a “Bay of Goats.”

The Senator was not well pleased.

Garret, so the story went, was approached by one of Helms’ staffers prior to confirmation. The staffer informed the Ambassador-in-waiting that his confirmation would positively sail on through, but that, during the closed hearing, the Chairman would ask Mr. Garret some pointed questions about General Zinni. And if Mr. Garret then took it upon himself to perhaps criticize the General’s judgment and leadership, well, it would be appreciated. Certainly such comments in a closed hearing would be a small price to pay for Mr. Garret to finally achieve a posting of importance and prestige, one he’d been pursuing throughout his professional career.

According to the story, Garret embarked on one of his infamous pauses, lasting—depending on who was recounting the tale—anywhere from fifteen seconds to an ungodly two and a half minutes, before offering his answer.

“Fuck off.”

When the staffer regained his ability to speak, he informed Garret that any confirmation hearing would not occur until the Chairman moved for the nomination to be considered by the Committee, something that Mr. Garret, by his answer, had just guaranteed would never happen. Not just this job lost, no sir. No position requiring a Senate confirmation. Ever.

Nice knowing you, Mr. Garret.

The Clinton White House, on the other hand, upon hearing of what had transpired, rewarded Garret for his loyalty with a position on the National Security Council. And it was on the NSC that Garret remained until Colin Powell came aboard as S and heard the story himself. Didn’t hurt that Powell and Zinni were tight, and so Garret found himself back at the State Department, working in Counterterrorism . . . a position that became the epicenter of the policy universe only a few months later.

Riess liked the story for a number of reasons, but mostly because it had a happy ending. Helms and his winged monkeys on the SFRC left the Hill, and the moment they were gone, Powell pushed for Garret to get the Uzbekistan job. This was pre-Iraq but post-9/11, and the posting was second in importance only to the Mission in Islamabad, given the situation in Afghanistan. More, it was a reward for loyalty, for a job well done that put Garret in line for even greater things. After Uzbekistan, the Ambassador could expect his next posting to be in Turkey, or Australia, or Moscow, wherever he damn well pleased.

This was, in part, why what Garret was undertaking was so potentially dangerous. If it failed, it could end the Ambassador’s career.

And Riess didn’t even want to think about what it would do to his.

“I
want Ruslan in charge,” Garret told Riess. “He’s the best bet we have going to turn this country into something resembling a free society.”

“I agree.”

“Problem is, Ruslan doesn’t have the muscle to take over when his old man kicks it. And right now, everyone back in Washington likes the looks of his sister. They think Sevara’s their girl. She’s made some overtures already, she’s indicated her willingness to play ball. As far as the old guard back at State are concerned, she’s already halfway into power.”

“She’s as corrupt as her father is,” Riess said. “She’s just more subtle about it.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Garret said. “It’s the Kissinger legacy, Chuck. The realists are looking at her as someone who can get the job done, who’ll hold the line against the extremists, and who’ll continue to support the war. And we can’t lose Uzbekistan, we need the conduit into northern Afghanistan.”

“We’d get all those things from Ruslan. If we supported him, we’d get all those things, and it’d be better for the country, to boot.”

Garret studied him thoughtfully, not speaking for several seconds, and Riess wondered if he’d perhaps stepped over some unknown line. If it had been McColl he was speaking to, he’d never say these things, but the Ambassador had always encouraged him to speak his mind. Even so, Riess worried that he’d gone too far.

“You’re going to have those ex-KGB bastards crawling all over you, you know that?” Garret asked, finally. “Even if Dina didn’t give you up, Ruslan’s contact with you today guarantees it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Ambassador gave him a small, paternal smile, then turned to the coffeemaker and proceeded to fill two cups. He handed Riess one, then asked, “You ever meet Ruslan? Before today, I mean?”

“At the Independence Day party—theirs, not ours. That’s it.”

“According to Tower, Malikov wants control of the country to stay in the family when he kicks it. Hasn’t chosen one kid over the other, as far as the CIA can tell. God knows, if he doesn’t designate a clear successor before he kicks it, all hell will break loose. Might break loose anyway, even if he does. The DPMs would eat their own young if they thought it would put them in charge.”

“Sevara’s married to Ganiev—”

“Yeah, the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior, though it’s an open secret that she’s the one running the Ministry.”

“That’s not all she’s doing,” Riess said. “There’ve been reports of her selling girls into the UAE, that she’s formed and armed her own militia. We know she’s got her own secret police force, her own courts. And we’re not even discussing her legitimate—and I use the word in the loosest possible sense—business interests, from her wireless communications company to owning something like three spas and a movie studio.”

“Whereas Ruslan has a two-year-old son and has just become a widower.”

“Ruslan’s the Chairman of the Constitutional Court, which means he’s responsible for writing the laws that his father wants written. He’s got some people, but it’s nothing like what Sevara’s assembled. That’s never been how he does business.”

Garret drained his cup and again looked to the clock, this one hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. He frowned, and Riess knew from the expression on his face that the Ambassador was doing time-zone math, most likely calculating the hour in Washington.

“Have to start with my calls.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing for the time being.”

Riess tried to keep the confusion off his face. “Sir?”

“Nothing. Don’t try to contact Ruslan, don’t go near him. Just do your job, keep McColl happy. He already thinks you spend too much time with me as it is.”

“Ruslan believes his life is in danger, sir. If we don’t do something—”

“Easy, Charles. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do anything, I just told you to steer clear for the time being.” Garret looked at the clock again, frowning. “What’s London, five hours behind us?”

“Uh . . . five or six, I think.”

“He won’t be in yet,” Garret said, more to himself than to Riess, then sighed. “I’ve had enough, Chuck. Thirty years in high diplomacy and not enough time actually spent keeping the people on the ground from being tortured to death. Realpolitik be damned, I’ve had enough. Malikov goes. One way or another, he goes. We’re staging a coup, Chuck. A nice, quiet coup, and when it’s over the White House gets to say we did the right thing, even if they’d rather we hadn’t done it at all.”

“If it works,” Riess murmured.

“If it works.”

They left it at that, neither of them wishing to say what would happen if it didn’t.

CHAPTER 4

London—Spice Quay,
Residence of Poole, Nicholas

12 February, 1748 Hours GMT

“Thought you were bringing Tamsin,” Nicky Poole said
after he’d let Chace inside and taken her coat. “Didn’t leave her on the train, did you?”

Chace smacked her forehead with her palm, just hard enough to make an audible impact.

“Oh, damn,” she said. “I wondered what that bloody racket was.”

She shrugged and grinned, and Poole laughed and asked her if she’d like a glass of wine before dinner, saying that he’d opened a passable French Syrah that he thought she might enjoy. Chace followed him through the flat, past the windows overlooking the Thames, at the rain that was falling hard enough to hide the view of Tower Bridge. She took the glass he offered, raised it to his, and each took a sip to the other’s health, before Poole set his back down and returned his attention to the salad he was preparing as a starter.

“You’re looking good,” Poole remarked. “Thought you’d have gone all dumpy with motherhood by now.”

“Nursing is a wonderful thing,” Chace said. “I think I’m back to my fighting weight, so to speak. You look like hell, incidentally.”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Job?”

He shook his head slightly, not so much as an answer, but rather to warn her off as he added a handful of goat cheese to the salad. “You know I can’t talk about it.”

Chace nodded, took another sip of her wine, hoping it would soothe her curiosity. It surprised her how much she wanted to know the details, where he’d been, what he’d done, why he’d done it.

“So,” Poole said, changing the subject, “where is the little precious?”

“I told you, I left her on the train. Should be in Dover by now, I’d think.”

Poole arched an eyebrow at her, then scattered chopped figs on the salad before sprinkling the mixture with a vinaigrette he’d apparently prepared himself. He picked up the salad bowl, snapping his wrist forward, then back, catching the greens as they flipped into the air.

“Very fancy,” Chace said. “Tam’s fine, she’s in Barlick, Val’s watching her. We’re weaning, and it’s easier if I’m not there for it.”

“I was worried.” Poole set the bowl down, began dishing the salad onto plates. “For a moment I was beginning to wonder if you
had
abandoned her.”

“Nice to know you think so very highly of me, Nicky.”

“I do think very highly of you, Tara.” He handed her a plate, then picked up his own, taking his wineglass in his free hand. “To the table, please. We need to eat it before it wilts.”

“Words to live by if ever I’ve heard them,” she said, and followed him to her seat.

They
ate well, Gressingham duck served with rosemary potatoes and freshly minted peas. The conversation was easy at first, and each laughed more often than not. Twice Chace tried to steer the conversation around to SIS and happenings at Vauxhall Cross, and the first time, Poole let it continue, going so far as to share the few pieces of information that were harmless, or at least considered open secrets. He liked their new Deputy Chief; Kate still guarded the door to Crocker’s office; Lankford had gotten himself a girl; Barclay continued to make life miserable. After he’d served the apple crumble and coffee, Chace tried a second time, asking pointedly how her replacement was working out, and Poole set down his utensils and stopped just short of glaring at her.

“I can’t talk about it, and I can’t talk about him, and you know that, Tara. So leave it be, right? Enjoy the meal, tell me about your little girl, talk about religion, sex, and politics, if you like. But please, don’t ask me questions you know I’m not allowed to answer.”

Chastened, Chace nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“You miss it so much, reapply. Crocker would take you back in an instant.”

“Crocker can burn in hell.”

“Fine, then. Shall we talk about the weather?”

Chace shook her head, and let it go, lapsing into silence as she started on her dessert. The dinner marked the third time she and Poole had gotten together since she’d quit SIS eighteen months prior. The first time, he’d come to visit shortly after Tamsin’s birth, while Chace was still in the hospital, with flowers and good wishes from both him and Lankford, saying only that he’d heard there were now two of her, and he had to see it himself before he could believe it. Chace suspected that Crocker had let him know about the birth, though how he’d found out, she couldn’t guess. It wouldn’t have been that hard.

The second visit had been just before Christmas. Poole had come to Barnoldswick bearing gifts for Tamsin and Valerie, and had stayed with them overnight, even going so far as to cook dinner for the three of them. When he’d left in the midafternoon the next day, Valerie had told Chace that, if she was smart, she’d get her grip on that Mr. Poole right quick, before some other lady beat her to the punch, as he’d be a wonderful father to her baby. Chace had smiled and explained that such an arrangement was unlikely to happen, as Mr. Poole preferred the romantic company of other men to that of women. Valerie had digested that, frowning.

“Homosexual?” she’d asked, for clarification.

“Devout.”

“No wonder he’s so good in the kitchen, then,” Valerie had mused, and then gone off to continue wrapping Christmas presents.

They
finished the meal just after eight in the evening, and Chace stayed to help with the dishes, clearing the table. By the time all was dry and back in its proper place, Chace could tell Poole was halfway to sleep. Whatever he’d done, wherever it had been, it had taken a physical toll, she could read it in his movements, in his expression when he thought she was looking away. He was angry, too, and she was certain it was related.

He gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went out the door, saying that he hoped they’d get together again soon, and she echoed the sentiment, slipping into her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck as she went down the hall, catching the lift back to the street. Once outside, though, walking through the rain, she admitted that she probably wouldn’t see him again at all, in fact, that this had most likely been the last time they would ever come together for a social visit.

The gulf was too wide, she realized as she walked toward the tube stop to catch the train back to Camden, and each time they got together, it only made the distance between them that much wider. It had nothing to do with friendship, nothing to do with the respect or fondness that either had for the other.

He lived in another world now, one she’d departed of her own choosing.

Riding the tube, looking with contempt at the other passengers pursuing their minor lives, it struck her that she was just like them now.

She was just like everyone else.