Oracle's Diplomacy

by A. Claire Everward

  She shook her head slightly, her eyes on the desk, although she made no move toward it. The way she was sitting, the angle didn’t let her see the images. And this suited her just fine. She’d been doing this, studying the region, the past, contemplating the present, possible futures, for long hours now. Some of it was excruciating to take in. Too much of it would be etched in her memory for a long time to come.

  “These aren’t the wars,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at the images again and then turned back to her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. This is intelligence from less than three years ago. About the time Ambassador Sendor began working the region. That’s what their reality was like then.” Her eyes turned back to the satellite feeds, where the militaries of too many nations were waiting, ready for war. “And it’s nothing compared to what will be if we don’t find a way to stop what’s happening now.”

  Donovan had known Oracle was given all necessary information whenever she worked a situation anywhere in the world. But this was the first time he realized what that information might include, the type of things she just might have to know about, to look at in order to understand the circumstances she would have to coordinate a mission in, the kind of people those she would be guiding might have to face, the horrors she might be called on to rescue innocents from. The consequences if she failed. Once again he marveled at how strong she had to be, how strong she was. Thought about all the years she’d had to do this by herself, return home, exhausted and depleted, to deal alone with the consequences to herself of the missions she had guided.

  At least that part of it was behind her. She wasn’t alone now, not anymore. Never would be.

  He hid his concern and changed the subject. Took her elsewhere, far from where she was now. Just to remind her of that new side of her life that was there whenever she needed it. “You know, your brother helped figure out the lead on Bourne.” He’d spoken to Scholes and her after ending the interrogation and signing off with Emero, telling him he’ll update Scholes himself. “He gave me the deciding information. He came by my office today.”

  Lara turned to him. “He came by . . . ?”

  “It makes sense that he would want to check me out, Lara. I’m perfectly fine with that.”

  She looked up at him with unveiled wonder. “You’re pretty great, you know.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said easily. “Which is why you’re coming away with me when this is over. Think of it as an extended first date. I still owe you a first date, remember?”

  “Away? Where to?”

  He just smiled.

  “Come on! Nothing? Not even a hint? A tiny one?”

  His smile widened.

  Her eyes turned away from him to the doorway, where Aiden came to stand. “The Joint Europe Military Command team is asking for you, ma’am.”

  She stood up, passed by Donovan, taking his hand in hers for the fleetest of moments, and walked out. Donovan remained where he was, staring out of the window. Abruptly, he straightened up and strode out.

  IDSD US’s car service garage was empty, the day over for all but Pete Quentin, who reigned over the substantial car fleet. He didn’t mind the hour. Cars were his great love, and this place gave him ample opportunity to immerse himself in them.

  He was busy planning equipping schedules for the three executive cars due to arrive in just over a week. The three were identical but had different designations. Two were designated for Diplomacy—one for the guest pool and one for a newly hired high rank, and the third car was for Missions. He sighed. Pity that the car that one was replacing had met with such a sad fate. It had been a pretty thing, classy, and he had attended to it himself whenever it came in. It was the only car in his fleet in decades that he hadn’t chosen himself. He had initially been indignant when it was bought without his consent, but he had to admit it was a beauty. And its owner had treated it just like he himself would. Yes, she did.

  A car slid into the huge garage, and his eyes followed it with interest. It wasn’t one of his. Strong, robust, quite an engine under that hood. A working car, not one of those toys built for vanity and meant to make some silly impression. He liked a serious car. Yes. Spit clean and not a scratch on it. He bet the car was well maintained inside, too, as it should be. Agency-issued. A US agency. He knew every model they used. Them, their militaries, their diplomats. Them and everyone else.

  Cars were his life.

  The man who came out of the car was about half his age, he guessed. Give or take. Taller than him, but then most people were. Strong, robust, like his car. A working man, too, he bet, like the car. Intelligent eyes that took in everything around him and then locked on Pete. Pete sighed. He didn’t want any disturbances. That was why he had stayed here after his crew had left. Just him and the cars. So much easier to deal this way with those boring administrative tasks that were part of his job. But then the man seemed to respect his car, so he might be worth a moment of Pete’s time.

  “I’m Agent Donovan Pierce, USFID,” the car’s owner introduced himself. Despite the formality of the introduction his demeanor was relaxed, his countenance pleasant. “I’m hoping you can help me with something, Mr. Quentin. The red convertible.”

  Ah, yes. Vice Admiral Scholes, this was the young man he had called about. When was that? Yesterday, at exactly seven-thirty in the evening. Yes. Pete never forgot a detail. Good man, the vice admiral. Took good care of every car Pete had ever prepared for him.

  “Sweet car,” he said. “Dead now.”

  Donovan suppressed a smile. Scholes had said Quentin took his cars seriously. Good, that was the exact reason Donovan thought it worthwhile to talk to him in person. And precisely why he had identified the car, rather than the woman it belonged to.

  “What do we do?” He dove right in, giving Quentin the helm to see what he would do with it. Donovan knew what he intended to achieve, but he had no problem letting Quentin get there his own way.

  “No no. I will not agree to this again. Absolutely not.” Quentin waved a hand in irritated dismissal and turned away.

  “It was privately owned, the convertible, I understand.”

  “Yes, privately owned. Holsworth, she insisted, although I absolutely did not approve.” Quentin was busying himself with his screen again, shaking his head, not looking at Donovan. “But Vice Admiral Scholes and Head of Security Ericsson overruled my decision. And it was so different from my other cars. So different. She didn’t even let me buy it. No, she bought it herself. Of course, it was registered to us for security. And I maintained it, from cleaning to fueling to periodic service, I insisted. But she was adamant on choosing and buying it herself. Highly irregular. Never seen such a thing in my entire time here. Never. And to be allowed that car.”

  Apparently Quentin had no idea that everything about Lara was highly irregular. “She loved that car,” Donovan pitched in.

  “Yes, she loved it. Treated it properly, too. I can tell you such stories about too many who don’t. There is a colonel at—”

  “She wants to replace it, you know, the convertible,” Donovan interrupted gently, needing Quentin to remain focused and to go where Donovan wanted him to get to.

  “That’s out of the question, she can’t do that now. She can’t just choose anymore.”

  “Security,” Donovan said.

  “Yes. The alert came with the notice removing the convertible from my car pool after it . . . after the incident. Holsworth’s status has been upgraded in my system, too, and she doesn’t get that choice anymore. I’m supplying her cars from now on, and that’s that, that’s the way it should be. And they’ve got to be secure. No convertible. A pity, she loved that last one. It was a good choice for a car, a good choice indeed. Fit Holsworth so well, too.” Quentin was mumbling to himself now.

  Donovan nodded. The man cared. And he understood how much Lara liked her car. Good. “You’re going to assign to her something like these, are you, Mr. Quentin?” Donovan looked at two
new cars currently being retrofitted with security sensors. “Like the temporary one she’s been given, just a newer model, isn’t it?” He contemplated the cars quietly, knowing Quentin was watching him. “She’ll hate it, you know. She hates the one she has now.” He said it straight, the way he knew Quentin would understand. “I get why, I do. You know her. She likes sleeker lines. A car that would fit her, agile, strong, feminine in a way. Something she would enjoy driving. She really drives, I don’t have to tell you. She doesn’t like to use that autodrive like others do. I can understand that, I never took to it either.” He let Quentin hear the feeling behind his words.

  “What’s it to you, anyway? You’re not even IDSD, and here you are, you drive in here, you’ve got this type of access. Doesn’t fit, agent or no agent.” Quentin looked at him with sudden suspicion. “What’s she to you?”

  Donovan turned his gaze to the photo on the desk behind Quentin, one that had caught his eye the moment he got out of the car. Quentin and a woman his age. They looked happy. They looked like they’d been happy together for a long time.

  He kept his eyes on the photo for a long moment, then turned his gaze back to the man before him. Saying nothing.

  Pete fell silent and scrutinized the young man for a little bit longer. Then he nodded, his demeanor softening. That, he could relate to. In his mind, nothing was more important, even more than cars. Yes, the only thing that was more important, his wife of fifty-one years had taught him that. Still did, every single day.

  “The way things are,” the young man was saying, facing him, “she doesn’t get to choose much, my Lara, and it’s even worse now with her new security status. This is one thing at least we can get around, you and I. Something we can give her to make her happy.”

  Pete looked at him with a lot more interest now. He was nice. They both were, Holsworth too. He knew exactly what the young man was talking about, he saw things, heard things, the job did that. And she always took such good care of her car. Yes. He sighed audibly. “I don’t have any leeway on this. Even if I wanted to get her something she’d like. But yes, she treats her cars right. It would be nice if there was something she would like. It would have to be something that could be retrofitted to the proper security standards, of course, not like the convertible. No, I don’t see how that could be. The one I chose for her is the one that will have to do. I don’t see how—”

  “Actually . . .” Donovan walked over to Quentin’s screen and brought up what he had in mind. “How about this?”

  Quentin squinted at the screen. “No. No way. I could never . . . it would have to be ordered with changes to the specs, this would have to be planned in advance. You think I just order cars? There are requirements, changes we work out with the manufacturer. And after it gets here, I would need my crew to complete . . . No. Absolutely not. Interesting, though.” Donovan could see the direction of the man’s thoughts change even as he spoke. Quentin skimmed through the specifications. “Yes. Interesting indeed. Yes, I can do that. Oh, yes I can.” He gave Donovan a sly look. “You sure you can get this through the vice admiral?”

  “You sure you can retrofit it to your security standards?” That was the first consideration.

  “Yes. Yes, young man, I can.” He tapped Donovan heartily on his shoulder and went to make some calls. Donovan remained in front of the screen, a small smile on his face. She’ll like this.

  In the dark of night, a hospital in the Bosnian city of Zenica erupted in flames, the explosion and the ensuing screams of the injured and dying tearing through the surrounding neighborhoods. As people in nightwear streamed out of homes, a middle-aged couple was bumped into by four figures clad in black, their faces masked. The figures pushed them roughly aside and rushed away, shouting to each other. The couple stared at each other in horror. Their assailants had spoken Serbian.

  Just before dawn, several masked figures entered a small agricultural village in Republika Srpska, just miles away from the IDSD peacekeeping force’s camp on the Brčko District side of the border. They broke down the doors of houses at the edge of the village and swarmed in, killing everyone inside. Only when the alarm was raised, and other residents appeared at the scene, did the figures begin calling to one another to hurry up and leave before disappearing into the fields beyond. They spoke Bosnian.

  Hours later, people began assembling in front of the government buildings in each of the two countries, angrily demanding retaliation against the other. At the same time, riots erupted on the tri-border where Bosnia and Srpska each bordered with the Brčko demilitarized district, close to the IDSD peacekeeping camp. The rioters demanded that the Internationals be banished, calling for them to be brought to justice before the international court for their betrayal. The respective militaries, Bosnia’s and Srpska’s alike, flanked the camp, denying the rioters access to the peacekeepers and to the negotiators, even if halfheartedly so.

  Unlike the people, both prime ministers had been contacted by their counterpart in the Internationals’ High Council and had been given the entire picture. They also had the unwavering insistence of both the Bosnian and Srpskan representatives to the negotiations that everything they had seen and heard in the course of the talks had shown them that the Internationals were honest in their intentions, that they had supported the ambassador, giving him all he had asked for. And they had, after all, placed in Brčko, virtually on the border between the two countries in crisis, a force that for a long time had kept the peace at its own peril, and had just recently began to prepare for its anticipated role in assisting in the implementation of the treaty. In fact, with the risk of violence gone, preparations had already been made for the Internationals to land there teams of experts, professionals who would be given anything needed to assist in rebuilding the broken countries. Funds had already been committed. The ambassador himself had been asked by the Internationals to remain there. Surely they would not have done all that if they had no intention of proceeding with the treaty.

  And unlike the people, the prime ministers knew exactly what their Russian neighbor was doing, the truth about its intentions and its role in initiating the potentially catastrophic events, and exactly the kind of forces it had been amassing at the borders.

  Unfortunately, anger and fear, distrust and disbelief, all borne of a too long, too violent past, dictated the actions of the people. Gruesome images on the news, of rescue forces desperately searching the rubble of the hospital and of the bodies of entire families being taken out of the raided homes, only fed fear and hate. And so the people would not listen. When their prime ministers tried to caution, explain, they found themselves facing their rage. Rumors ruled. That the Internationals planned to take over both countries. That they were collaborating with Russia, helping it conquer them. Bosniaks claimed that the Internationals had betrayed them and were preparing to help the Serbs in Srpska and those who, seeing the ambassador’s success, had returned to live in Bosnia, take over, even as the Serbs thought the same about Bosniaks, and neighbor turned on neighbor. They blamed the Russians, the Internationals, each other. Those few with a voice of reason quickly retreated under angry threats. The prime ministers spoke, but the people raged, would not listen.

  By the end of the day, military transports had landed on the Croatian border’s intersection with the border between Srpska and Bosnia, ready to enter both countries to bring out any Internationals and US citizens living there, after many had had to take refuge in the only recently established consulates. A plan was already in place to open a venue to the peacekeeping force in Brčko District on the opposite side of the long border between Bosnia and Srpska, to get them out if it came to that.

  At the same time, the Russian Federation’s president appeared in a rare interview, explaining that he would ultimately have no choice but to send his country’s troops across the borders to assist in keeping the peace in both Republika Srpska and Bosnia, and to keep any Russian citizens residing in the two countries, and mainly in its neighboring Republ
ika Srpska, out of harm. Already, he added, these citizens had begged him to help keep them safe. He further offered, quite generously, to replace with his own the Internationals’ peacekeepers in Brčko who were obviously bringing upon them the wrath of the people. Through no fault of their own, of course, it was not their fault that their nation’s leaders had felt it necessary to join forces with the United States to destroy any hope of a true peace. And the replacement would only be a temporary one, he assured. After all, the Internationals would do well to distance themselves from the region, at least for a while. Perhaps, he suggested, the alliance should concentrate on clarifying what had happened, focus on resolving their internal issues. And in the meantime, Russia would gladly assist in keeping the peace in the disputed region, he offered, as he carefully avoided any question about the fate of the Internationals’ ambassador.

  Immediately after the interview, Srpskan forces began deploying on Srpska’s border with the Russian Federation, ready to fight for their country’s independence, and Bosnian forces deployed on Bosnia’s border with Srpska, in case the Russians succeeded in reaching it. Opposite them, on the Srpska side of the joint border, additional Srpskan troops amassed, nervous at their presence. And with too much experience in their past, the disillusioned and more than a little subdued residents of both countries began stocking up on food, water and medications, in preparation for war the likes of which even they had never seen. Soon, desperate silence descended on dread-filled streets.

  The leader stopped the car inside the warehouse, got out, and closed the driver’s door behind him. The place was empty, abandoned, pitch dark except for the headlights of his car, but he had no doubt he was being watched. There were many ways, too many, to watch someone nowadays.

  Many ways to kill someone, too, without ever being seen, but he wasn’t worried. He was too valuable. And he had done his part in this elaborate scheme, and quite well at that.