by Tom Clancy
“So this is the famous Sonia?” asked his aunt.
“Yes,” Miguel said, beaming with pride, and then, as his aunt would expect, his tone grew much more formal. “Sonia, this is my aunt Mariana and my uncle, Mr. Arturo González, the governor of Chihuahua.”
Sonia was a perfect lady and greeted them in a tone equally formal. Her radiant smile and the diamond necklace that fell softly across her neck did not go unnoticed by his uncle. As Miguel watched her speak, he no longer heard anything and saw only her actions and reactions, the joy that swept over her face and kept her smiling, the light so intoxicating in her eyes.
Miguel’s father had introduced them after having worked on some investments with mutual friends. That she was Castilian was very impressive to his father. That she had a great ass and ample cleavage was more impressive to Miguel, at least during the initial stages of their relationship. He’d discovered that she’d attended the Universidad Complutense, one of the biggest universities in all of Europe, and he quickly learned that there was, indeed, a brain behind all that beauty. “Don’t judge me,” she’d told him. “I didn’t go to some expensive private school, but I did graduate magna cum laude.”
The summer after she graduated she spent traveling to New York and Miami and Los Angeles, cities she’d never visited before. She was obsessed with fashion and the movie industry. Her degree was in business management, and she thought she’d like to work in California for a big studio or maybe in New York for a famous designer. Sadly, her father would have none of that. He’d given her a year to find herself, but this fall she would go to work for his company. Miguel, of course, had much bigger plans for her.
“So you’re finally back from Spain,” said his aunt. “How long were you there?”
He grinned at Sonia. “About a month.”
“Your father told me that was a graduation gift,” his aunt said, widening her eyes.
“It was,” Miguel said proudly. Then he turned to his uncle. “How is it going back home?”
Arturo wiped a hand across his bald pate, then nodded. “We still have a lot of work to do. The violence gets worse.”
Mariana waved her hand. “But we’re not talking about that now, are we? Not on a night like this, when there’s so much to celebrate!”
Arturo nodded resignedly and grinned at Sonia. “Very nice to meet you. And now we’ll take you to our table. It’s right over there.”
“Oh, good, we’re sitting with you,” Sonia said.
Before they could cross the length of the pool to reach their dining area, Miguel was accosted by at least four other friends—business associates of his father’s, guys from one of his old soccer teams at USC, and at least one ex-girlfriend who turned thirty seconds into what felt like thirty hours of awkwardness as they spoke in French and Sonia stood there, looking lost.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” she said to him, after he finally escaped from the pushy siren.
“English, French, Spanish, German, and Dutch,” he said. “And sometimes gangsta, you know what I’m sayin’, G?”
She laughed, and they took their seats around the richly appointed table with some of the finest china and flatware available in the world. His father had taught him never to take anything for granted, and while he’d led a life of privilege, he appreciated even the smallest details, like the material of his napkin or the type of leather used to make his belt. When so many had so little, he needed to be thankful and appreciate every luxury of his life.
A microphone-equipped lectern with a laptop computer stood near a large portable projection screen. As was his father’s wish, he’d give his presentation before the guests ate, because “swollen bellies have no ears,” he liked to say.
Arturo rose and went to the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll be seated, we’ll begin in a moment. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Arturo González, governor of Chihuahua. I’d like to introduce my brother-in-law, a man who needs no introduction, but I thought for this particular occasion, I would tell you a little about Jorge growing up, because we went to the same school and we have known each other all our lives.”
Arturo took a quick breath and added suddenly, “Jorge was a crybaby. I kid you not.”
The crowd broke into laughter.
“Whenever we had homework, he would spend hours crying about it. Then he would come over my house, and I would do the homework, and he would give me some Coca-Cola or gum. You see? Even back then he understood good business!”
More laughter.
“But seriously, ladies and gentlemen, Jorge and I both truly appreciated our education and our teachers, and we would not be standing here without them, which is why both of us feel so deeply about giving back to our children. Jorge will explain more about the foundation’s work, so without further ado, I give you Mr. Jorge Rojas!”
Arturo looked toward one of the bars, and from behind it, the man appeared, wearing a suit that matched Miguel’s, save for his tie, which was a gleaming and powerful red with gold stitching along the edges. He wore his freshly cut hair gelled closely to his head, and for the first time Miguel noticed the gray hairs sprouting from his temple and from his long sideburns. Miguel had never before thought of his father as old. Jorge was an athletic man who’d played on the USC soccer team when he’d been a student there. He’d even been a triathlete for a few years before hurting his knee. He still kept in excellent shape and was an imposing six feet, two inches tall, unlike Miguel, who was merely five-ten and didn’t seem to be growing anymore.
While Jorge often had a few days’ growth of stubble on his chin, which he’d explained away by saying he’d been too busy to shave (and that always drew a frown, because one of the richest men in the world couldn’t find the time to shave?), on this evening he was clean-shaven, with the sharp jaw of a movie star. He grinned and waved to the crowd as he literally jogged away from the bar and ran up to the lectern to give Arturo a big hug.
But then he pulled back and began to wring his brother-in-law’s neck, drawing more laughter from the crowd. He released Arturo and went to the microphone.
“I asked him to never talk about me crying over the homework, but it’s true, ladies and gentlemen, it’s true. I guess I’ve always been passionate about school—in one way or another!”
Miguel glanced over at Sonia, who sat there, rapt. Jorge had that effect on everyone, and while it sometimes made Miguel jealous, he couldn’t have been more proud of his father, and he knew Sonia would find him utterly amazing, as most people did.
For the next fifteen minutes they sat, listened, and watched the guided tour of the work the foundation had done to build new schools, to equip classrooms with state-of-the-art technology, to hire the best teachers available from both Mexico and neighboring countries. Jorge even provided statistics and test scores to validate the work they were doing. But the most convincing argument came from the students themselves.
Jorge shifted aside and allowed an entire fourth-grade class to line up behind the lectern, and three of the students, two boys and a girl, spoke articulately about the improvements at their school. They were the cutest kids Miguel had ever seen, and they no doubt tugged heavily on the heartstrings of everyone present.
And when they were finished, Jorge concluded by urging everyone to make further donations before they left. He gestured to the kids. “We must invest in our future,” he told them, lifting his voice. “And that continues tonight. Enjoy your dinner, everyone! And thank you!”
As he left the lectern, Jorge was joined by his girlfriend, Alexsi, a stunning blonde who’d been standing by at the bar with him. He’d met her while on a business trip to Uzbekistan, and it was clear to all why he’d been so attracted to her. She had eyes as bright and green as Gula, the Afghan girl who’d famously appeared on the cover of National Geographic magazine. Her father was a Supreme Court judge who’d been nominated by the president of the country, and she was an attorney herself who didn’t look a day over thirty. Mig
uel knew his father could not abide a woman with whom he could not have an intelligent conversation. She spoke English, Spanish, and Russian quite proficiently, and she was a student of world affairs. Most surprisingly, she had outlasted all of his father’s other female friends. They’d been dating for nearly a year now.
Miguel had been wondering about a collection of seats on the far left-hand side of the yard, and when he looked again, those seats had been filled by a live orchestra, which began to play a subtle Jobim bossa nova.
Alexsi glided over to her chair, which was drawn from the table by Jorge, and she took her seat and grinned at everyone.
“Well, I see the world travelers are finally back from Spain,” said Rojas, beaming at Sonia. “And it’s very good to see you again, Ms. Batista.”
“And good to see you, too, sir. Thank you for the presentation. That was incredible.”
“We can’t do enough for those kids, can we?” He drifted into a thought. “Oh, forgive my terrible manners,” he added quickly, turning to Alexsi. “This is my friend Alexsi Gorbotova. Alexsi, this is my son’s friend Sonia Batista.”
As the pleasantries were exchanged, Miguel recoiled a bit while waiters came around and filled their wineglasses. He stole a glance at the label: Château Mouton Rothschild Pauillac, bottled in 1986. Miguel loved the wine and knew each bottle sold for more than five hundred dollars. Again, he wouldn’t share the price with Sonia, but she lifted the glass to her nose and her eyes grew wide.
Jorge lifted his glass. “A toast to the future of our great country, Mexico! Viva México!”
Later, Miguel and Sonia slipped away from the table before dessert was served. His father was in an intense conversation with both his uncle and several other local politicians from the area. They had lit up their cigars, and Sonia had found the stench too powerful, the smoke burning her eyes. They retreated to an empty table not far from the orchestra and listened to a surprisingly good rendition of “Samba de Uma Nota Só.” She was impressed that he knew the title of the song. His music education classes weren’t just electives; they were intense. She put her hand over his and said, “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He laughed. “Do you want the grand tour?”
“Not now, if that’s okay. I’d just like to sit here and talk.”
In the distance a siren blared, followed by more sirens. A car accident, perhaps, but not the violence that his uncle had mentioned, the violence that had settled on the city of Juárez like a fog clouding men’s vision and driving them to kill one another. No, it was just a car accident …
Sonia lifted her chin and stared across the deck. “Alexsi seems nice.”
“She’s good for my father, but he’ll never marry her.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s never stopped loving my mother. These girls can never compete with her.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer, but you still haven’t told me how she died.”
He frowned. “I thought I did.”
“That was your other girlfriend.”
He grinned and pretended to punch her arm; then his expression turned serious. “She died of breast cancer. All the money in the world couldn’t save her.”
“I’m so sorry. How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
She nudged in closer, draped her arm over his shoulder. “I’m sure that was very difficult, especially at that age.”
“Yes. I just wish my father had …I don’t know …learned how to deal with it better. He assumed I would freak out. He thought if I hung around I wouldn’t be able to deal with the pain. So he rushed me off to Le Rosey.”
“But you told me you liked it there.”
“I did. But it didn’t have him.”
She nodded. “I have to be honest. After you told me you went there, I looked it up online. It’s one of the most expensive boarding schools …I mean, anywhere. And you got to go to school in Switzerland. That’s fantastic.”
“I guess so. I just …I really missed my father, and we were never the same after that. He didn’t know how to deal with losing her or with raising me, so off I went. I saw him only three or four times a year, and it wasn’t like meeting your dad, more like meeting your boss. I don’t resent him for it. He only wanted the best for me. I just wish, sometimes, I don’t know what I’m saying …Sometimes I think he’s trying to help all these schoolkids because he feels guilty for what happened to me …”
“Maybe you need to talk to him. I mean, really talk. You keep traveling everywhere. Maybe you need to stay home and get to know each other again.”
“You’re right. But I don’t know if he’d want to do that. He’s all over the place, too. When you own most of Mexico, you need to keep an eye on things, I guess.”
“Your father seems like an honest man. I think he’d be honest with you. You just have to talk.”
“I’m a little apprehensive about that. He’s already got my life planned out for me, and if we get into a conversation, he’s going to hand me a road map. Really, I’m hoping to take off at least the rest of this summer before he puts me to work. Then in the fall it’s off to graduate school.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I haven’t told you a lot of things. Remember how you said you wanted to move to California?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in the fall, we can move there together. I’ll be going to school, and you can be with me, maybe find a job at one of the studios, like you said.”
She gasped. “That would be amazing! Oh, wow, I could really find something that—”
She broke off suddenly, and her expression soured.
“What’s wrong?”
“You know my father will never let me do any of this.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“That won’t work.” She lowered her voice to mimic her dad. “His ‘stubborn dedication to quality’ is what made him successful—at least that’s the way he phrases it. And his stubborn dedication to his daughter is the same.”
“Then I’ll have my father talk to him.”
“What are you saying, Miguel?” She hoisted her perfectly tweezed eyebrows.
“I’m saying that your father wants to make you happy. And trust me—I can do that. I can make you very happy. Well, at least I’ll try my best.”
“You already have…” She leaned toward him, and their kiss was deep and passionate, and it quickened Miguel’s pulse.
When they finished, he turned away and found his father staring at them from across the deck. Jorge waved them over.
“Here we go,” Miguel said with a sigh. “He’s going to ask my opinion on every global crisis—and God help me if I don’t have one …”
“No worries,” said Sonia. “I’ll offer mine if you don’t.”
He grinned and took Sonia’s hand. “Excellent.”
VERSE OF THE SWORD
Shawal Area
North Waziristan
THE CHIEF of the Shawal tribes had called an important meeting to be held at his mud-brick fort down in the Mana Valley, but Mullah Abdul Samad had no intentions of attending. Instead, while the chief’s misharans began to gather outside the fort, he remained on the hilltop, crouched beside a stand of trees, along with his two most trusted lieutenants, Atif Talwar and Wajid Niazi.
Samad had detected movement on the opposite hillside, and on closer inspection with his binoculars, he marked two men, one dark-haired and bearded, the other much younger and leaner, his beard thin and short. They were dressed like tribesmen, but one consulted a satellite phone and what Samad assumed was a portable GPS unit.
Talwar and Niazi studied the men themselves, and while both were still in their twenties, nearly half Samad’s age, he’d spent the last two years training them, and they both offered the same assessment of their visitors: They were advance scouts for American intelligence, for the Pakistan Army, or even for an American Special Forces unit. The chief’s foolish and poorly trained men
had not picked up these two, and so his forces would pay the price for their ineptitude.
The chief liked to throw the tribal code of conduct into the faces of government officials. He liked to threaten the Army and point out its losses in South Waziristan as an example of what would happen if they attacked him. He said the government should know that his people would use the tribal codes and councils like the jirgas to find answers to their problems and needed the government’s help with only the basic necessities of life, not with how to rule their people. He assured them that his people would never harbor criminals, that there were no “foreigners” in Shawal, and that bringing harm to his people and their land was the farthest thing from his mind. But the chief wasn’t a very good liar, and Samad would make sure he died for that …perhaps not today …or tomorrow …but soon.
The scouts did not move as they surveyed the surrounding valleys with their own binoculars. They seemed particularly interested in the long lines of apple trees that curved down the hill, toward more rows of apricots. Fields had been hewn into some of the steepest hills overlooking the village, and the trees did make for good cover. These men had indeed spotted a few of the chief’s guards posted on the perimeter. But they were hardly paying attention to the spies behind them, and once more Samad could only shake his head in disgust.
The American and Pakistani governments had good reason to believe that the tribes here were sheltering Taliban and Al-Qaeda fighters; the Datta Khail and Zakka Khail tribesmen had been known for hundreds of years for their deep bonds of loyalty and for their land being a natural sanctuary for rebels. The current chief was no exception, except that he’d been receiving a lot of pressure from the Americans now, and Samad thought it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to their force and betrayed him and the forty other men training here on the Pakistan side of Shawal and about ten kilometers away, within the Afghan side of the area.
