Day Three

by Patricia Spencer

  In an area the size of the state of Washington, people spoke seven different tongues, used Roman and Cyrillic alphabets, and professed the beliefs of three major religions. A map of ethnic, religious, and cultural identities was a hash. A minority group in one province was the majority in the next. Nothing resembling geopolitical unity existed.

  Three years ago, when the death of the country’s communist dictator left a political vacuum, militants of all stripes began carving up the region, seizing power wherever their own people were most populous.

  Into this chaos came Nationalist General Goran Cavic. Using propaganda to heighten the differences among the factions, he pitted them against each other, stood to one side while their respective militias reduced each other, then moved in to annex them all. Using a chilling combination of ethnic cleansing, wholesale rape, and military savagery, he slowly consolidated power in large sectors of the region.

  Notable pockets of resistance remained.

  Like the city of Kavsak.

  Tonight Brenna planned to plead Kavsak’s case to her father. If that meant brawling with The Magnificent, then so be it. So what, that he could bite? Whatever he threw at her would be a nibble compared to the past few years of her life.

  The taxi driver pulled into the drive and stopped at the entry gates. A Secret Service agent approached his window and bent to look inside the vehicle.

  Brenna peered across the driver. “Brenna Rease,” she said.

  The agent recognized her. “I’ll open the gates.”

  The driver steered up the circular driveway and stopped under the portico. She handed a twenty over the seat and waited for change. Damn. Her hands were shaking. After she tipped the driver, he abandoned her to her father’s realm.

  Graciela opened the door for her, pursing her mouth in disapproval. Her father’s housekeeper for more than twenty years, Graciela thought the Envoy was a god and his daughter, a demon.

  “The Envoy is late,” she said. “He said to tell you he will be here pronto.”

  Graciela excused herself and disappeared into the house, leaving Brenna to roam at will. She grew up in this house but after her mom died she had come to think of it as her father’s, not her own, and it always surprised her that she wasn’t shown to one of the receiving rooms to wait like a guest.

  A late-in-life, thought-we-were-finished-with-this baby, she was the only girl after a string of boys. Brendan, Jr. and Ryan, had left home before she could pronounce their names. Patrick left for university when she was three, then Joseph, Christopher, and James left one by one until she became an only child at the age of ten.

  Which was okay because she and her mom spent all their free time together, talking like best friends, playing word games, lending each other money in Monopoly games—they never played to compete, only to have fun. Her mom sheltered her, made her feel like their cavernous house was a cozy cabin for just the two of them.

  Her fondest memories were of the two of them working in her mom’s garden. They sat on the bare ground under big straw hats, planting tiny seeds, watering the earth that hid them, and plucking weeds. She remembered the luscious tomatoes and brilliant bouquets of multi-colored flowers that came from that garden.

  Her mom died of ovarian cancer when Brenna was twelve, abandoning her to the care of a cold man who had no time for a little girl. She still felt her loss and wished she had a mother to draw her into her arms when the world felt too big.

  Brenna left the foyer and headed down a corridor wide enough to drive a limo through. The house was the same as ever, with her mother’s touch still preserved after all these years. High ceilings, polished hardwood floors, classic American furniture. It was the epitome of enduring, understated good taste, befitting the State Department’s foremost Career Ambassador. Airlifted with pomp or shuttled in secrecy to the world’s summits and war rooms to forge economic alliances and avert military crises, her father had been personally appointed by the President to serve as Special Envoy for Balkan Affairs.

  Her stomach clenched, recalling her last awful night here. The Billiard Ball, the tabloids dubbed it.

  Damn, she needed a drink.

  It wasn’t her usual response to stress—except, apparently, when she was at her father’s.

  She turned into the formal library with its recessed floor-to-ceiling windows, deep leather chairs, and towering bookshelves. The silver knobs on his liquor cabinet clicked quietly as she opened the tall doors. A small fridge, six tiers of liquor bottles, a 22-bottle wine rack, cut crystal wine goblets, martini glasses, old-fashioned glasses, decanters.

  Everything a powerful man needed to impress his guests.

  She dropped three ice cubes into a cut-crystal highball glass, poured two fingers of bourbon over them and lifted the liquor to her lips.

  “Brenna Elizabeth Anne.”

  Her father’s icy voice froze her in mid-act.

  The Magnificent stood military-straight in the doorway, coat regally draped across his shoulders. Scowling at her.

  Well, what else was new?

  Brenna declared war on him when she was twelve. After her father found her at her mother’s bedside, begging her not to die, he had had Brenna forcibly removed—kicking and screaming. I hate you! I hate you! Mama, don’t leave me with him! Mama!

  She was taken to the family’s beach home in Delaware and sequestered there until after her mother died. Then she was brought back to round out the photo opportunities of America’s Royal Family at her graveside.

  She never forgave him. He’d denied her closure with the woman who was the center of her universe, her very heart. He also subjected her mother to the trauma of having her child torn from her arms.

  Afterwards, her father made a few awkward attempts at reconciliation.

  She rebuffed him.

  After a time, he gave up trying.

  Which made her hate him even more. If she had been an issue of national importance, he would never have quit until he got what he wanted.

  Now he cleared his throat, glaring intently at the liquor glass in her hand. “There will be no reprise of your last shameful performance in this house.”

  She lifted the glass and toasted him. “I see you haven’t lost your touch, Father. Within seconds of seeing me, you’ve managed both to chastise me and dredge up the past.” She took a deep, defiant gulp. “Conveniently saves me the trouble of opening my mouth.”

  “I’ll have none of your impertinence!” He cast his words at her like lances.

  “Just once, Father,” she said conversationally, “it would be nice if you said you were glad to see me. Even just said it, like it mattered that I survived the fucking week.”

  “I see you’re as crude and intractable as usual.”

  “I was almost killed last Thursday. A Nationalist had a bayonet at my throat.” She tugged at her collar. “Want to see the puncture?”

  If her revelation prompted any emotional response on his part, he didn’t show it. He just stood there.

  Mute.

  She took another slug, feeling the burn sliding down her throat, and set down the empty glass. She’d never been a joy to him, never a celebrated child. She was a reproductive error, pure and simple. “Tch. All these years in the State Department and you haven’t learned to fake concern. Pretend I’m some president’s wife, why don’t you? Mumble a platitude. It doesn’t have to be heartfelt.”

  “I suggest you take a few minutes to collect yourself before dinner,” he said, and walked out.

  She dropped her head in her hand. Good start, Rease. That’ll soften him right up for the little talk about Kavsak.

  Special Envoy Brendan Rease contemplated his daughter across the polished table, with its silver candlesticks, crystal drinking glasses, and gold-rimmed china. She had her mother’s looks, her intelligence, and maybe someplace deep inside, her good heart. How had Anne so effortlessly drawn that once-shining spirit into the open? It seemed all she did was sit with the girl in that big armchair, blather, and p
lay games that neither tried to win. Anne even got Brenna to do garden chores without complaint.

  Brenna had adored her mother.

  Which was proper.

  It was a child’s duty to honor her parents. Even if, like him, they made errors in judgment. He never should have taken Brenna from Anne—much as he knew his wife had hung on by sheer willpower, suffering painfully, because her favorite child still needed her. He’d only intervened to give Anne relief. In the end he had made it worse for both of them.

  But that was neither here nor there. There was principle involved. He was Brenna’s father. As such, she owed him respect. Until she acknowledged that, they had no basis for further negotiation.

  Brenna was one tough adversary. Next to her, diplomatic relations between Arabs and Jews were easy. Serbs and Croats were nothing. She gave ancient enmities a run for their money.

  Despite her defiance, he had stood fast as a father. Stalwart and unwavering, using all his self-discipline to ensure she learned she couldn’t just have her way. He had done so even when he sometimes felt like wrapping her in his arms and asking forgiveness.

  One of the things a father gave to his child was his willingness to be hated. There were rules to be obeyed. Respect for one’s parents, sobriety, and sexual propriety chief among them. She had broken them all.

  That had never been clearer than the last time she was home. After graduating from the San Francisco Art Institute—not Vassar as he wished—she had continued her college habit of drunkenness, sexual adventuring, and public criticism of his politics. The paparazzi followed her everywhere, sure of headlines.

  And she obliged.

  She culminated her debauchery at a diplomatic reception he hosted in this very home. She appeared barefoot at the foot of the stairs wearing a provocative red silk dress, clutching the neck of a magnum of champagne, and loudly announced that she would, that night, seduce the man of her choice.

  Not an hour later, a buzz spread through the press corps. She was downstairs sprawled on the billiard table in mid-intercourse with the evening’s guest of honor—an Arab emir, one of his most-loathed political adversaries, with whom he had been conducting delicate negotiations. He hastened downstairs and ordered the press to surrender their film to the Secret Service and leave. One photographer, however, escaped with a fuzzy but unmistakable photo.

  Then he gazed at his shoes while his daughter rearranged her dress.

  On his way upstairs as he closed his pants, the Emir told him: “No need to apologize for the interruption. I was already finished.”

  Brendan believed unwaveringly in the diplomatic process. A lifetime in international service had trained him to be in command of himself at all times. Nobody—but nobody—could make him lose his composure.

  Except Brenna.

  That night he had nearly struck her. But he controlled the impulse and cut her verbally instead, using his most powerful weapon. Your mother would be ashamed.

  There had been headlines, and lots of them. The one blurry photo that leaked out was reprinted in every newspaper he couldn’t badger into withholding it. Eventually, it ended up on the internet.

  The political backlash left him reeling. Brenna had compromised his work, his critics said. If he couldn’t control his daughter how could he be expected to handle the affairs of a nation? He recused himself from the negotiations with the Emir. It took every bit of political skill he possessed to save his career.

  Brenna fled the country, wandered across Europe and eventually settled in Israel.

  “The Washington Post says you aren’t going to address human rights violations in Vienna,” Brenna said, interrupting his thoughts.

  He watched her put her knife and fork together in the middle of her empty plate. Apparently, a few good manners had stuck.

  “Is that true?”

  “It’s a war, Brenna. Atrocities always occur.”

  “It’s systematic. General Cavic’s at the root of it.”

  “There’s no proof of that.”

  “He’s targeting civilians. Nine civilians die for every soldier. In World War II, it was three soldiers to one civilian. Twenty percent of the civilian population has been wounded. The hospital is shelled daily during visiting hours. Civilian targets, not military. The city’s under siege, closed off from the world without food, water, heat, health care.”

  He dabbed his mouth with his linen napkin, folded it, and set it on the table beside his dinner plate. His plate still had food on it but he was finished eating. She hadn’t returned to apologize as he hoped. She had come to peddle influence.

  “It’s a humanitarian issue,” she persisted.

  “And to that end,” he said, “we are holding peace talks. You’re aware of that.”

  “Talks? The international community has done nothing but talk for three years.”

  “There have also been United Nations sanctions—”

  She snorted dismissively.

  “—And the partition agreement I’m taking to Vienna.”

  “You can’t partition Kavsak. Everyone’s intermarried. Families aren’t just Christian or Orthodox or Muslim, they’re everything, mixed up together. Where the hell are they going to go?”

  “Don’t say ‘hell.’”

  “What shall I say, Father? ‘Heck?’ ‘Tarnation?’ Shall we convene talks to negotiate acceptable curse words?” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “But wait! We’ll have to hold talks, first, to determine where we’ll hold the talks on talking. Who cares if people die while we’re booking the hotels?”

  He pushed away from the table. She despised everything he stood for. He’d been in the foreign service for longer than she’d been alive, and she had the nerve to challenge him!

  Diplomacy was the antidote to war. It took time to broker accords between people who detested each other. It took patience. Threats. Doggedness. You didn’t just wave your hand and conjure up an ideal world. And, yes. Treaties contained injustice. That was the price paid to thugs like General Cavic so the most people possible could enjoy peace.

  “See yourself out,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  Sam Chisolm stood at the window of his office, watching the evening traffic inching forward like cattle in a jammed chute. The folder Daniel had prepared for Brenna Rease lay open on his desk, with the summary sheet of expenses atop a formidable pile of legal documents. Sam had whistled at the cost and ignored the rest.

  It would be like Daniel.

  Proper. Well-considered. Beyond reproach.

  He liked Daniel—always had. From the day he interviewed him for the job, fresh out of Columbia graduate school, still glowing from his then-recent marriage to Aya Tanaka. Even at twenty-five, he’d had an air of success about him. Sam knew immediately that he wouldn’t regret hiring him. And time had proven him right.

  Hard-working, intelligent, and personable, Daniel advanced steadily through the ranks at EBS, learning his profession and enlisting the loyalty of a talented production team. He led by example, and the employees liked him for it. He had a quiet way of eliciting the best from people. Soon, he’d attained the highest possible post, short of a vice-presidency.

  Unlike so many executives at his level, Daniel didn’t succeed by being a hard-ass. He made it because he was principled. He never signed a contract he didn’t believe was fair. Consequently he never balked at enforcing one. Like anyone, he had needed room to learn, and made his share of mistakes. But his errors had come from inexperience or incomplete information—never from negligence or an unwillingness to complete a difficult task.

  Until recently, everyone assumed Daniel would be promoted when Sam retired. Now that wasn’t so certain.

  When Aya and their unborn baby died, Daniel came undone. He stumbled through the funerals, insisted on returning to work right away, then crashed and burned emotionally.

  Sam, concerned when Daniel didn’t call or show up for work one Monday, called his home repeatedly. By evening, with still no answer, Sam drove to Daniel
’s home and found him sitting despondently in the dark, surrounded by the boxes he had packed of Aya’s things, wearing the same clothes he had worn the prior Friday. Sam picked up the phone and booked Daniel a one-way plane ticket to Maine. Then he called Margaret and Alden Ellsworth and told them the time of their son’s arrival.

  Sending Daniel home to their loving support—and to the grief counseling provided by his mother, who was a clinical psychologist—had saved his life.

  But getting Daniel back on his feet had not restored his spark. Daniel put in his hours and delivered his work. His productions came in on time and within budget. At his worst, Daniel could still beat many of the best in the field. That made him a valuable asset. It did not, however, make him the unequivocal choice for the next Senior Vice-President of Documentary Programming. And that’s what Sam wanted him to be—his successor.

  However, the job demanded a dynamic man, a spirited leader capable of inspiring sponsors and shaping the corporate course, and Daniel had lost his gloss.

  The change in him had not gone unnoticed.

  Though it wasn’t yet common knowledge, Sam recently had given the Board of Directors notification of his retirement. Now, despite Sam’s still championing Daniel, the Board—thinking Daniel wasn’t up to the task—was discreetly wining and dining prospective candidates from outside the network. Mercifully, Daniel remained unaware of the development.

  The Board, in its infinite idiocy, was leaning in favor of Hugh Driscoll.

  Aya’s old boss.

  Daniel’s long-time adversary.

  Sam snorted. Driscoll thought the sun came up just to hear him crow.

  Daniel and Hugh Driscoll’s productions competed directly against each other at awards time, but Sam didn’t believe professional competition was the root of the antagonism between the two men. After all, Daniel stayed on good terms with other competitors in his category. More likely, it was connected to Aya—to how her career had never progressed as it should have, to how her face fell at the mention of Driscoll’s name, or to the near-fiasco at the National Capital Broadcasters Association a few years back.