by David Poyer
The staffer nodded, not looking very enlightened, and left.
She sighed, and pressed the heels of her palms to tired eyes. Then returned to her screen, and the contemplation of the final point of the peace treaty.
Which could turn out to be the most dangerous.
Point Four dealt with responsibility for war crimes. Sixteen persons were specified under the Allied indictment. The International Court of Justice at The Hague would carry out the trials, assuring an independent and disinterested process.
At this point, Minister Chen had popped to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, spluttering, near apoplectic. “This,” he protested, “is victor’s justice.” He ticked it all off on his fingers: Allied forces had committed crimes as well. They’d damaged nuclear generating stations, endangering large areas with the release of radioactive materials. Bombed coastal cities, inflicting thousands of civilian casualties. Fomented rebellion by religious extremists. American scientists had unleashed diseases. Medical personnel had withheld knowledge of essential drugs.
If the ICJ was to sit in judgment on Chinese generals, admirals, and statesmen, it had to include those Allied personnel who had brought on the conflict, who’d violated the laws and usages of war and of humanity. He’d held forth for minute after minute, face reddening to violet, until Blair had feared for his heart. But at last he’d stammered to a halt.
And been ignored. Chen had stood astonished, mouth still open, as the Japanese foreign minister spoke next, ignoring his protests. He’d stared around, bewildered. Then finally slumped back into his chair, shaking his head and cursing. Behind him the other members of the delegation—some, like Admiral Lin and General Pei, themselves named in the indictments—had put their heads together in an urgent confab.
And Blair had turned to Salyers, beside her, to exchange horrified looks. Chen had just been publicly humiliated. And all of China, of course, with him.
The Nazis had built a movement on just such a humbling at Versailles.
A new stir at the door jerked her from her thoughts. Another staffer, who called, “DepSec wants you, ma’am.”
Blair and Shira looked at each other, confused. “Me? Or Shira?” Salyers was State; she, Blair, was still Defense. Though of late, her days seemed to be numbered. Denver Barley of the Post was speculating Blair Titus would be the next wartime join to be ejected from the administration. Which, now that hostilities were over and an election in sight, had no need to pretend to make nice with the opposition party.
“Ms. Titus, please. He’s up by the pool.”
* * *
SHE stepped out of the elevator to a truly dizzying view. Nothing but sky above. The calm blue surface of the pool in front of her, and a few teens splashing each other at the deep end. A palm-thatched tiki bar was doing a desultory business. The warm air was scented with chlorine. She dragged her gaze away from the edge of the pool that was just clear glass, separating water from air with a mere inch of transparent plastic … No. Uh-uh. She wasn’t going anywhere near that.
A wave from a deck chair; Ransome Teague smiled as she hesitated a few feet away. “Blair? Come on in. Water’s fine. Bring your suit?”
He was joking, of course. He was wearing gray suit trousers and a white shirt, crisp starched sleeves rolled up. He hooked another pool chair with a foot and pulled it over. “Thanks for supporting us during this conference. And all during the war, of course.”
“I did it for the country,” she said, trying to muster a half smile in return while trying to ignore the abyss that lay to every side. “Who wouldn’t?” But she had to guard her words. Teague was administration through and through. A political appointee. Which meant that very soon now, they’d probably be on opposite sides of an election. So … polite, but wary. “How can I help you, sir? We just about have the final wordsmithing done on Point Four.”
“Good. Excellent. I just wanted to let you know, the loan was approved.” He waved her toward the chair again. “Since you have juice on the Hill. Might be good to let them know in advance what we’re planning there.”
She nodded, keeping her knees together as she eased down into the much-too-low deck chair. The two-trillion-dollar loan would be underwritten by the IMF and Qatar. Ostensibly it was meant for the rebuilding of the Chinese economy. But a confidential codicil specified it could also be used for “settlement of outstanding debt.”
This was a euphemism. What it really meant, though it would take considerable research for an outsider to understand, was that the bulk of the loan would actually be going to Russia, in payment for arms and energy deliveries during the war. This quid pro quo had been the price of Moscow’s abandoning claims to Dalian, and setting the military plans to retake that city on hold.
At least until the cash was paid over. She forced obligingness into her tone. “I’ll do that, sir. Informally?”
“Sure, just a heads-up to grease the wheels. Now.” He inclined his head toward a man in dishdasha and ghutra, the long Arab robe and headdress, sitting off to the side. She’d not noticed him, so quiet and motionless had he been. Dark glasses shielded his eyes from the sun, and from her inspection. “I think you know this gentleman,” Teague added.
Blair nodded; yes, she did. But didn’t extend her hand. “Dr. al-Mughrabi.”
Dr. Abir al-Mughrabi inclined his head, and murmured a greeting in return. He was a former Appeals Division judge, International Criminal Court. They’d met in Dublin, during a conference on human rights violations and war crimes. Al-Mughrabi was from Morocco, though Shira said his family was Lebanese. He’d been involved in prosecutions for civil war and genocide in Lebanon, Rwanda, and Syria, and also overseen investigations into alleged Coalition war crimes in Afghanistan.
She smiled, trying not to appear as hostile as she felt. “Doctor, so good to see you again. I’d expected you earlier in the week, to be frank.”
Al-Mughrabi said carefully, “I had expected to be here as well.” His English was precisely enunciated, but French-accented. “Unfortunately I was detained on another matter. But now I would like to see if we can find common ground.”
She nodded, and Teague gestured to a mustached server at the tiki bar. He brought a pitcher of iced coffee, cups, saucers, sugar, cream. The jurist accepted his with a murmured “Shukran.” He touched his beard, stealing a glimpse at her, but not meeting her gaze. At least as far as she could judge through the sunglasses. Two deeply tanned teens in bikinis strolled past, chatting in Chinese. A scent of coconut oil on the breeze … Finally he muttered, “I fear we do not yet have an agreement about these trials. I understand yesterday there was a question raised about that in the plenary session.”
“Point Four will treat that in detail,” Teague said. “It was settled at Djakarta. The Australians and Indians insisted that the ICJ hold the trials, rather than an Allied court.”
“We are aware of that, and have made preparations. We’re still discussing the venue, though it will probably be in either Germany or Holland. But I wanted to raise the issue of our indictments of Allied accused.”
Blair touched her forehead with the back of her hand. The cool water was looking better every minute. She kept her arms held close, hoping she wasn’t sweating through her suit jacket. Or at least that it wasn’t showing.
Teague shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think the Allies will submit to the ICJ. The United States withdrew from compulsory jurisdiction in 1986 over Nicaragua.”
“Unfortunately, neither does China signal an agreement to comply.” Al-Mughrabi sipped his coffee, as if to give all three time to reflect. Finally he added, “But there have been instances whereby major powers managed to cooperate nonetheless. The world these days demands a balanced and transparent process. You may be able, as an occupying power, to force the defeated to appear. But if only Chinese are held to this standard, the proceedings will seem one-sided. Prejudiced. Even vengeful.”
“We can live with that.” Teague half-winked at Blair.
Al-Mugh
rabi seemed not to notice. “I am not thinking of you, but of the Chinese. If these present negotiations are to result in peace, the Party and military have to reintegrate willingly into a democratic polity. If they resist, the result could be continued turbulence. And for you, continued expense.”
A burst of excited screaming echoed from the far end of the pool. Blair glanced over. The teens were chicken-fighting. The girls, perched on the boys’ shoulders, were splashing gouts of water at each other. Both men shifted in their chairs, giving them better angles on the action. “Exactly,” said al-Mughrabi. “A balanced, open judicial process will help the new government begin with some credibility. Placing personnel from both sides on trial will assure that balance.”
Teague tapped his fingertips together. “This might be something we need to kick up to the secretary himself. Whom, precisely, are we talking about here?”
“Actually, very few individuals on the Allied side.” The Arab smiled delicately, and turned back to her. “I do regret, however, to say this: one in particular may be of interest to you, Ms. Titus.”
“To me?” She straightened as the old hip injury jabbed her. Curse this low chair … “What do you mean?”
“The German government has asked us to indict your husband. For abandoning a civilian ship and crew to the fortunes of war, when he was obligated to render assistance.”
Suddenly, but far too late, she saw the trap. Laid for her not by al-Mughrabi, but by Teague. No doubt, he’d been advised by Ammermann and her other enemies within the administration.
Dan had written her about his being forced to leave the torpedoed tanker. His cruiser had been too valuable to risk so close to a submarine’s known location. Now, if she objected to his indictment, she’d be opposing administration policy. But not for any praiseworthy motive. On the contrary; it would be nepotism, a wife protecting her husband.
But if she agreed with the White House that Americans should not show up for trial, she’d not only be throwing Dan under the bus, she’d be contradicting her own party’s policy on international justice.
And by the gleam in his eye, she saw that Teague saw that she saw. While the jurist glanced from one to the other, looking puzzled.
She mustered herself. “If that’s true, I can’t believe any court would find him guilty. He had no choice. It was operational necessity, under combat conditions.”
The server, a tray under his arm, cleared his throat politely. “Will madame, or the gentlemen, care for more coffee? Something to eat, perhaps?”
Al-Mughrabi dismissed him in Arabic. When the man was gone, he smiled again and spread his hands. “No doubt you are right. But the operative question here is not guilt, but the act of submitting to judgment.”
“That’ll be up to other authorities than me,” she told him, inclining her head toward the deputy. “To the secretary, probably. I’m sure he’ll make the right decision.”
Teague said casually, “Have you talked to Harry Lichtman, by the way?”
“Lichtman … oh, yes. He asked me about, um, stabilizing the yuan?”
“And also about denationalization, I think.”
She nearly grinned now, seeing where this was going. If she went along with selling off Chinese industry to the multinationals, Dan wouldn’t go to trial.
And once again Teague smiled, in recognition of her recognition.
She had to admire it, as a tactic. The most rigorous ethics counsel could hardly point to a definite subornation. But they’d closed the jaws on her. She could really see only one way out. “Well, I’ll have to take that under advisement. And as far as whether any given individual shows up for trial, I’m sure what I think will have very little impact.”
Teague cleared his throat and leaned back, as if content for the moment. At the far end of the pool in the sky, the adolescents screamed in high, keening notes, like seagulls squabbling over some discarded fish head. “Then we’ll just kick it upstairs, all right? And Doctor, we’ll have an answer for you soon, I’m sure.”
* * *
BY late afternoon she was limping. Her hip throbbed. Really, she was going to have to look into replacement surgery. Once this was over, once they were home.
But this was a historic event. So she bit her lip, smoothed the pain lines from her face, and forced her spine straight again.
The garden lay a few hundred yards from the hotel. But not just any garden. Huge artificial “supertrees,” concrete-and-steel mushroom-shapes hundreds of feet high and sheathed with plantings and solar panels, rose above the natural palms, shading the gardens and walks below. A pedestrian skyway webbed the supertrees, and network lenses glittered down. Viewing stands had been set up on a manicured greensward. It wasn’t the teak deck of USS Missouri, but she had to admit, it was a very impressive setting. A long table on a dais covered with an ornate, gold-encrusted tapestry formed the centerpiece.
She, Salyers, Ammermann, and the other staffers and junior officials were ushered to a position a few yards behind the table, cordoned off by velvet ropes. Singaporean cops cradling automatic rifles eyed everyone as the principals filed in, each finding his or her seat as their country’s anthem played. Foreign ministers and senior generals. The president of Australia. DPS and Singaporean security stood at each entrance to the garden in dark suits and smart glasses, scanning the noisy crowd seated below the dais, mainly press and local dignitaries. She spotted a tall, very black man in a dark suit, scanning the throng as he murmured into a lapel microphone. The DPS agent who’d accompanied the mission to Beijing, Chaldroniere.
To her surprise, Teague walked up the ramp to the dais. The secretary of state must not have been able to make it, even for the ceremony. Which was strange …
She shifted on her feet, wishing she could just sit down. Salyers leaned in. “You okay, Blair?”
“Just my fucking hip. I’ll live.”
“And … there he is. I wondered if he’d show up personally.” Her petite co-worker nodded to where Chen, in a dark blue suit and red tie, was striding in, comet-trailed by his ministers and generals. Looking grim, he headed for the table. Then did a double take as an Indonesian usher in a military uniform touched his elbow, steering him to a smaller, desk-sized one, off to the side. Chen wavered. Then, seeing there was no room for him at the head table, reluctantly took his seat there.
The ceremony began as dusk fell. The giant trees began to light up in coruscating, lambent tones of lavender, peach, turquoise, and violet. Brighter lights, spots, came on from the skyway. The effect was fairylike, ethereal, like a glowing universe suspended above their heads.
In turn, each of the Allied representatives stood to deliver remarks. The Japanese, Indonesian, Vietnamese, and Russians spoke in their native tongues. Teague spoke in English, but briefly. It seemed to be left to the president of Australia to give the keynote. She covered the run-up to the war, its history, and explained the treaty being signed, in exhaustive detail.
It wasn’t the specificity but the length that was getting to Blair. She staggered at a sudden wave of vertigo and clutched Salyers’s arm. Whispered, “Um … I’m not feeling so hot.”
“Blair? You haven’t looked good all day.”
“The long hours. Too much fucking work.”
“If you need to, step back. There’s a planter behind us you can perch on … You know, there’s one man I wish was here too.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dewei Chagatai. The Butcher of Hong Kong. They didn’t bring him, I guess. And I know why.”
Blair glanced back. Yeah, a planter, with a wide lip that would make a great perch. But if she sat there, she’d miss the climactic moment, screened from it by the standees. “I’m going to try to gut it out. But if I go down, break my fall, okay?”
A smile and a squeeze of the arm were her answer.
The Australian came to the end of her peroration and bent to the microphone. “We will now proceed to the signing.”
Four uniformed troops brought out a fol
io-sized folder on a separate table. They placed it square in the center of the amphitheater.
The Australian said, speaking slowly, “Signing for the Russian Federation.”
Marshal Sharkov stood from the table, strode to it, and bent stiffly in his bemedaled tunic to inscribe his name.
“The People’s Republic of Vietnam.”
They were being called up in reverse order of when the country in question had joined the Allies. One by one the signers stood, walked to the document, and inscribed their names and titles. Some used several pens to sign, pocketing the extras.
The deputy secretary of state stood when “the United States” was called. Blair frowned. Teague was going to sign? While Justin Yangerhans, the Allied commander who’d actually won the war, was roped off with the observers? Oh, yes, it was obvious why. She glanced over, caught Yangerhans’s eye, and got a poker-faced wink back.
Teague straightened from signing and looked proudly around, flourishing a gold Montblanc, beaming for the cameras.
The presiding officer bent to the mic again. “The representatives of the People’s Republic of China.”
Chen sat immobile, hands pressed down flat on his desk. He’d flushed again; his face was beet red. Once more, Blair feared for his heart. Or a stroke. If the guy had any aneurysms lurking, now was when they would probably blow.
But the seconds ticked past. He didn’t sag in his chair, or grab at his chest.
But neither did he rise, or look like he was going to.
The younger man, Xie Yunlong, bent to whisper urgently in his ear. Still Chen sat immobile, hands splayed out in front of him, lips clamped in a pale line.
Then, at last, he rose. Slowly, with reluctance in each studied movement. Chen circled his desk and paced the length of the high table, studying each face. The Allied representatives stared back expressionlessly as more lights came on high above, illuminating them all like actors on a stage.
At the signing table, the generals and Admiral Lin joined Chen. The senior minister bent to sign, flicking the pen angrily across the paper, then threw it into the bushes with a violent heave.
