Oracle's Diplomacy

by A. Claire Everward

  His words had Council Head Ines Stevenssen, on-screen in the stateroom of IDSD International Unity’s captain, sigh. “I know you can, my friend.” She tried to soothe him. “But we just got you back. Those people meant to kill you, please understand, and we must first make sure that you are protected from them.”

  “So I am to be protected while the people I promised peace die in war? Ines, please, I gave them my word. I told them I would help them. I was going to accept your offer. To remain with them, to be their ambassador. I owe it to them.”

  Stevenssen knew he was right. He had always been the key to stopping the escalation in Bosnia and Srpska, and now, finally, he was here to do it. And he could probably succeed, bring peace, even now. If anyone could untangle the situation and get the two nations talking again, it was him. She had known George Sendor for many years. The kind, patient man had a rare way with people, and it could not be argued that he had been the only one able to get the two nations to talk in the first place.

  And the reality was that she had no real choice. If the ambassador would show he was alive and would speak out, this alone could make the difference between life and death. After all, it was his disappearance that had sent the two nations reeling, and it could only be his return, and the truth as told by him, in his own words, that would calm them again. And not only the two nations that depended on him would gain from his return. Her people, the Internationals, would be vindicated, as would the United States. The alliance would be saved, and the Russian Federation would be stopped.

  This was the only way.

  She turned her eyes to Reynolds, who was standing quietly not far from Sendor. He nodded. “I can have the Air Assault Team that assisted us in the ambassador’s extraction meet us here, ma’am. We’ll get him to our base at Split, he’ll be safe there until we can get him to Brčko. I’ll arrange it, no one will know we have him until we’re there,” he said.

  “Brčko District is not safe,” Stevenssen began, but then paused. “But then, that is the whole point here, isn’t it? Very well, Captain Reynolds. Once you get the ambassador safely to Split and he speaks, I suppose our peacekeepers can be returned to Brčko, if that becomes possible. And only then,” she addressed Sendor, “we will reassess the situation and see if it is safe for you to return there, George.”

  “Yes, yes, I would like that, I would like to speak to them, to the people,” Sendor said eagerly.

  “We will find a way for you to do that, show them and the world you are alive. But George,” the council head reiterated sternly, “you will only return to Brčko District if we see that things settle down there. The riots must not endanger you. And,” she added, frowning, “neither must the Russian military, they are already too close to our remaining people there.”

  Reynolds was already making the necessary plans in his head. “In the meantime, sir,” he said to Sendor, “you must speak to no one. If you want us to fly you to the region, we cannot run the risk of anyone attempting another attack on you on the way.” Reynolds knew from Oracle that the raids on Yahna and its extremists were still ongoing, which potentially left rogue elements still on the loose. Nor was the Sirion copy as yet accounted for, and they could not risk the air transport the ambassador would be in being downed again.

  “I will do whatever it takes,” Sendor answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The carefully worded news was delivered to all media outlets worldwide at the same time. Ambassador George Sendor had been found alive, rescued by the special forces of the Internationals’ IDSD following a joint investigation with the United States that had tracked down his abductors, the same people who had downed his jet using life-saving technology stolen and manipulated to suit their goals and had cold-bloodedly killed his personal assistant, his protective detail and the jet’s aircrew.

  The ambassador himself gave a lengthy statement, in which he confirmed what had happened to him and called for the Bosniaks and the Serbs to rally behind the peace treaty. “I am coming back,” he announced. “I am coming back to you, to finish what I started. And I will stay with you for as long as it takes. You know I will,” he said, his eyes boring into those of the viewers his statement was meant for with the full strength of his conviction, his caring for them. “I promised you and your children peace. I promised you a new future, a future without war. And I stand by my word. Despite this attempt to stop us, you and me, from achieving our common dream, we will not stop, we must not stop. We will do this, together.”

  When the broadcasts were aired, the ambassador was already safe with the abundant defense forces at IDSD-Alliance Jadran Air-Sea Base at Split, Captain Reynolds and the rest of the soldiers of the two Special Mission Unit teams that had rescued him never moving from his side.

  The news only hinted at who was responsible for everything that had happened. But within hours of the broadcasts, the media was discreetly leaked information pointing to the Russian Federation—and specifically to its president and its defense minister—and to the anti-Internationals group it had hired, which had used the opportunity to frame the Internationals and the United States in an attempt to destabilize the alliance that had brought nothing but hope to a broken world since its inception. The implication was clear—neither the Russian Federation nor the anti-internationalists had cared that the price could be, and had in fact come so close to being, war.

  In Brčko District, the safe zone was still flanked by military forces from Bosnia and Srpska. But the soldiers were no longer careful to keep themselves apart, each from the soldiers of their neighboring nation. If they happened to meet, intermix, in the tri-border area, they did not raise their weapons and were once again civil to one another, even friendly, as they had been before the Internationals’ ambassador had been taken.

  Behind the borders on both sides, the riots had stopped, the protesters shamed into backing off by their own rash judgments, their own lingering intolerance. The realization of how close they themselves had come to starting a war, of how they themselves had to learn to listen, not be quick to let past hate take over, of how the last days might easily have been different had they themselves rallied, stood together, insisted on peace instead of putting the responsibility for it on others, now made all the difference. They had failed the one person who had fought for them and had suffered for it yet was adamant that he would return to help them, and were eager to make it up to him. The future now had a real chance.

  To the east, the Russian forces advancing deeper into Brčko District found themselves facing Bosniaks and Serbs who had gathered to help protect the peacekeeping force and the negotiators, standing side by side as the determined protectors of the flame of hope once again rekindled. Realizing what continuing forward would do, and that the eyes of the world were now expectant on them, the Russian forces retreated. A quiet warning was delivered by the Internationals’ High Council, and the forces moved all the way back across the Brčko-Russia border. A combat-ready IDSD defense force then immediately deployed along the Brčko side of the border in an unmistakable message—no more.

  On the Russian Federation’s border with Srpska, the Russian forces found themselves facing the country’s soldiers. These soldiers would not normally be nearly enough to stop them and did not have nearly enough firepower. But between them stood people, tens of thousands of Serbs, among them Bosniaks who were still crossing the border from Bosnia to join them, to help. The live chain of two nations conveyed to the Russian troops a single message—go back. This is our home. Our choice. Our peace.

  The Russian forces retreated. Above them, alliance jet fighters hovered in warning. And on Bosnia’s and Srpska’s western borders with Croatia and on the Montenegrin borders, the alliance forces finally stood down, and leaders across the region gave a sigh of relief.

  As the region finally calmed, air transports traveled along the border between Bosnia and Srpska to return to Brčko District the Internationals’ peacekeepers evacuated from it. They no longer needed combatan
t air support and were greeted with cheers upon landing. The peacekeepers, those returning and those who had remained with the negotiators throughout the crisis, found themselves in the midst of hectic preparations as the people of both nations prepared the area for the festivities that would mark their ambassador’s return.

  Ambassador Sendor asked to travel all the way along the border between his two protégé nations on the ground, instead of arriving at Brčko District by air. Considering the change in sentiments and the reason for the ambassador’s request, to put his trust in those he was coming to help even as he was asking them to blindly put their trust in him again, his wish was granted. As his convoy traveled on the joint border, the Special Mission Units escorting him found themselves superfluous. Along the way, the convoy was flanked by welcoming people from both nations, who had had, in just a few days, an unwelcome whiff of what their lives would look like without the ambassador.

  The treaty was signed immediately, no one wanting anymore delays, everyone eager to embark on a new path and put the near miss behind them. The Internationals’ peacekeepers remained in Brčko and the alliance was still watching the region, but reason seemed to once again prevail. Ironically, now that they had come so close to war again and to losing their independence to a third country, voices were being heard within both nations that called for the two countries to become one again.

  And they were not the only ones who would not easily forget how wrong things could have gone. The internationals and the alliance had almost had the work of decades destroyed. Within days of the ambassador’s return, the heads of the alliance held a summit to discuss what nearly happened and new ways to protect themselves and the Internationals among them, and, no less important, their efforts to bring peace and unity in the presence of those who benefited from disputes. It would no longer be as easy to put a wedge between the nations of the alliance.

  In Russia, a news broadcaster somberly announced a reshuffling of the administration. The defense minister’s name was excluded from the new government. The president was replaced, too, a statement delivered in his name citing that he was withdrawing from political life for medical reasons. Behind the scenes, the entire upper echelon of the country’s Foreign Intelligence Service was removed. Failure was unacceptable. So were split loyalties. Russia’s new president was no fool.

  Throughout this time, Emero’s agents identified several instances in which men and women turned up in morgues across Europe, people who, thanks to the documents discovered under the mansion overlooking Kolonia in Pohnpei, could now be identified as members of the extremist faction that had originated from Yahna. The information retrieved also indicated that every one of them had been somehow involved in or at least aware of the ambassador’s abduction. They had all died in what looked like accidents or botched muggings, and all deaths were timed within the day before Ambassador Sendor’s planned killing by the man he had identified as his captor.

  One person of interest who remained unaccounted for was the owner of the mansion and the apparent leader of the extremist faction, as the information found and the man’s clout in the Federated States of Micronesia attested. He was absent during the raid on Pohnpei and no clues were found as to his whereabouts. Any attempt to find anything about him other than his identity in Micronesia failed. He simply did not exist outside it.

  It was only when all information from all parts of the Sendor operation came in and was analyzed that the discovery was made that he was, in fact, the man killed by Captain Reynolds in the hideaway under Cres, Ambassador Sendor’s captor.

  But that wasn’t all that was found. The abduction and the way it was done had been the most important act yet in advancing the extremist faction’s agenda, so it was no surprise that one of its prominent members had actively taken part in it. However, there seemed to be someone else behind the faction, someone only obscure references were made to in the information found in Pohnpei and who had been in contact only with its presumed leader, someone whose existence was supported by the ambassador who, when debriefed, indicated that his captor had mentioned having acted under orders. Someone who was apparently powerful enough to set in motion the chain of events that had almost brought the alliance to its knees and destabilized Europe. And who was still out there, free.

  This was not over.

  Lara entered her house from the garage and stood at the door, deep in thought. The ambassador was safe, the crisis over. Normally she would feel the past days in her body and mind, but the adrenaline was still there, fueled by the near miss, and ultimate success, of the days’ events.

  And her worry for Donovan. When she came out of Mission Command, she found Aiden waiting, and not moving from her side. He was always there, but this time he had specifically been asked by Donovan to watch her, make sure the lack of sleep and the exertion of what she was doing didn’t harm her. But Donovan himself wasn’t there.

  At the sound of a car turning into her driveway, she went to the front door. Donovan walked up to her and buried his face in the side of her neck as he returned her embrace. He breathed her in, let the feel of her take the day away.

  “I’m sorry about the agents,” she said softly.

  “Yeah.” He walked with her inside and sat on the sofa with a sigh, leaned back, rubbing his face, then turned to her with a furrow in his brow as she sat down beside him. “Wait, how did you find out?” He hadn’t had a chance yet to update Scholes on how Bourne died, with the events both at IDSD and at USFID taking precedence.

  She shrugged. “We had satellites tasked to us already, so . . .”

  “You put a satellite on location.”

  “Easy to intercept the USFID chatter, it wasn’t hidden.”

  He shook his head. “Bourne told me they would kill him. I should have listened to him. Damn it, three people. Three good agents. These people simply . . . a missile. They used a drone to hit a federal agency car with a missile right here in DC.”

  “And just weeks ago another group destroyed a high security data center here and then tried to—” She didn’t finish the sentence. The eyes that turned to her were intense, the memory too strong. He remembered very well what they had done, felt it still. She moved closer and kissed him, wanting to give him what he had been giving her almost from the first day they had met.

  He answered her kiss readily, drawing strength from her, and rested his forehead against hers. “They knew. That we arrested him, when and where we’d be handing him over to IDSD, how we’d get there and the route we’d take. Despite all we did to keep it quiet, they knew.”

  “We’re only beginning to understand just how far these groups have infiltrated the alliance,” she said quietly. “We’ll get them all, eventually. They can’t win, we won’t allow them to. The price would be unbearable.”

  He leaned back again and looked at her. “You have a different view of this, don’t you?” He’d spent his entire professional life so far striving to identify and deal with threats to his home country. He was finding that with Lara he was learning what it was like to have a view of the threats to the entire world. It was, to say the least, enlightening.

  “I’m an International.”

  “The ultimate International,” he said to himself, closing his eyes.

  “You’re tired,” she said softly.

  “Look who’s talking.” He smiled, his eyes still closed.

  “It’s been a difficult week.”

  “I can think of some pretty great things that happened in it.” He put his arm around her and drew her to him.

  In the middle of the night, with darkness mandating silence and gentle rain tapping on the bedroom window, the woman who was Oracle lay awake. Her eyes were open, her thoughts on what the world she had a unique insight into would have looked like if things had turned out differently that day, on what they would look like in the future if those who would try to stand in peace’s way would win.

  She had been with the ambassador in the moment that nearly led to his death
, had felt it all. It had almost been too late. She was almost too late. It had taken her too long to find him. Next time it might not be enough. True, in that time she had also dealt with missions, prevented the loss of other lives. But this would not do, she could not, would not allow herself to settle for just enough. Oracle’s abilities had grown since she had begun, since she had first discovered what she could do. She could now go deeper, wider than ever in the play of space and time that was her mind’s extended reality. But she needed more.

  If they were to win this, if those who valued life were to prevail, Oracle would need to be more.

  She turned in bed and looked at the man being who she was had brought to her life. He was deeply asleep, his arm draped over her as if he was reluctant to let her go even in exhausted slumber. He, them, what they had, were already doing to her what she had thought impossible, already healing wounds that had kept so much of who she was subdued, already freeing her from the debilitating confines of pain.

  Allowing Oracle to grow stronger unhindered.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Donovan didn’t like this.

  Four days had passed since the events related to Ambassador Sendor’s abduction had ended, and the activity level in IDSD Mission’s war room was back to normal, although relief was still evident in many of the conversations that dominated the main floor’s enclosed workspaces. Donovan was in Vice Admiral Scholes’s office, asked here to meet with him and with US Global Intelligence Director Paul Evans. He didn’t know what he had expected, but this certainly was not it.

  “Because you looked beyond Major Berman’s obvious guilt and made the connection to Bourne, and we got what we needed to solve the major’s murder and the Sirion theft, and to finally bring Yahna and its extremists down,” Evans was saying, “your role in the resolution of this crisis—crises, I should say—was critical.”