Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

“We do work for the President, Dan,” Shaw pointed out. “And the order

came directly from him, not even through the AG. Since when did you care

about Kealty, anyway?” It was, in fact, the same line Shaw had used on

President Durling. Bastard or not, rapist or not, he was entitled to due pro-

cess of law and a fair crack at defending himself. The FBI was somewhat

maniacal on that, but the real reason for their veneration of judicial fair-play

was that when you convicted a guy after following all the rules, you knew

that you’d nailed the right bastard. It also made the appeals process a lot

easier to swallow.

“This accident thing, right?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t want two big stories jockeying on the front page. This

trade flap is a pretty big deal, and he says Kealty can wait a week or two.

Dan, our Ms. Linders has waited several years, will another couple of

weeks-”

“Yes, and you know it,” Murray snapped back. Then he paused. “Sorry,

Bill. You know what I mean.” What he meant was simple: he had a case

ready to go, and it was time to run with it. On the other hand, you didn’t say

no to the President.

“He’s already talked to the people on the Hill. They’ll sit on it.”

“But their staffers won’t.”

10

Seduction

“I agree it’s not good,” Chris Cook said.

Nagumo was looking down at the rug in the sitting room. He was too

stunned at the events of the previous few days even to be angry. It was like

discovering that the world was about to end, and that there was nothing he

could do about it. Supposedly, he was a middle-level foreign-ministry offi-

cial who didn’t “play” in the high-level negotiations. But that was window-

dressing. His task was to set the framework for his country’s negotiating

positions and, moreover, to gather intelligence information on what America

really thought, so that his titular seniors would know exactly what opening

positions to take and how far they could press. Nagumo was an intelligence

officer in fact if not in name. In that role, his interest in the process was

personal and surprisingly emotional. Seiji saw himself as a defender and

protector of his country and its people, and also as an honest bridge between

his country and America. He wanted Americans to appreciate his people and

his culture. He wanted them to partake of its products. He wanted America

to see Japan as an equal, a good and wise friend from whom to learn. Ameri-

cans were a passionate people, so often ignorant of their real needs-as the

overly proud and pampered often are. The current American stance on trade,

if that was what it seemed to be, was like being slapped by one’s own child.

Didn’t they know they needed Japan and its products? Hadn’t he personally

trained American trade officials for years?

Cook squirmed in his seat. He, too, was an experienced foreign-service

officer, and he could read faces as well as anyone. They were friends, after

all, and, more than that, Seiji was his personal passport to a remunerative life

after government service.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s the thirteenth.”

“Hmph?” Nagumo looked up.

“That’s the day they blow up the last missiles. The thing you asked

about? Remember?”

Nagumo blinked, slow to recall the question he’d posed earlier. “Why

then?”

“The President will be in Moscow. They’re down to a handful of missiles

now. I don’t know the exact number, but it’s less than twenty on each side.

They’re saving the last one for next Friday. Kind of an odd coincidence, but

that’s how the scheduling worked out. The TV boys have been prepped, but

they’re keeping it quiet. There’ll be cameras at both places, and they’re

going to simulcast the last two-blowing them up, I mean.” Cook paused.

“So that ceremony you talked about, the one for your grandfather, that’s the

day.”

“Thank you, Chris.” Nagumo stood and walked to the bar to pour him-

self another drink. He didn’t know why the Ministry wanted that informa-

tion, but it was an order, and he’d pass it along. “Now, my friend, what can

we do about this?”

“Not much, Seiji, at least not right away. I told you about the damned gas

tanks, remember? I told you Trent was not a guy to tangle with. He’s been

waiting for an opportunity like this for years. Look, I was on the Hill this

afternoon, talking to people. You’ve never seen mail and telegrams like this

one, and goddamned CNN won’t let the story go.”

“I know.” Nagumo nodded. It was like some sort of horror movie.

Today’s lead story was Jessica Denton. The whole country-along with a lot

of the world-was following her recovery. She’d just come off the “grave”

list, with her medical condition upgraded to “critical.” There were enough

flowers outside her laminar room to give the impression of a lavish personal

garden. But the second story of the day had been the burial of her parents and

siblings, delayed by medical and legal necessities. Hundreds had attended,

including every member of Congress from Tennessee. The chairman of the

auto company had wanted to attend as well, to pay personal respects and

apologize in person to the family, but been warned off for security reasons.

He’d offered a sincere apology on behalf of his corporation on TV instead

and promised to cover all medical expenses and provide for Jessica’s contin-

uing education, pointing out that he also had daughters. Somehow it just

hadn’t worked. A sincere apology went a long way in Japan, a fact that Boe-

ing had cashed in on when one of their 7475 had killed several hundred Japa-

nese citizens, but it wasn’t the same in America, a fact Nagumo had vainly

communicated to his government. The attorney for the Denton family, a fa-

mous and effective litigator, had thanked the chairman for his apology, and

noted dryly that responsibility for the deaths was now on the public record,

simplifying his case preparation. It was only a question of amount now. It

was already whispered that he’d demand a billion dollars.

Dcerfield Aulo Parts was in negotiation with every Japanese auto assem-

bler, and Nagumo knew that the terms to be offered the Massachusetts com-

pany would be generous in the extreme, but he’d also told the foreign

Ministry the American adage about closing the barn door alter the horse had

escaped. It would not be damage control at all, but merely a further admis-

sion of fault, which was the wrong thing to do in the American legal environ-

ment.

The news had taken a while to sink in at home. As horrid as the auto acci-

dent had been, it seemed a small thing, and TV commentators on NHK had

used the 747 incident to illustrate that accidents did happen, and that Amer-

ica had once inflicted something similar in type but far more ghastly in mag-

nitude on the citizens of that country. But to American eyes the Japanese

story had appeared to be justification rather than comparison, and the Ameri-

can citizens who’d backed it up were people known to be on the Japanese

payroll. It was all coming apart. Newspapers were printing lists of former

government officials who had entered such employment, noting their job ex-

perience and former salaries and comparing them with what they were doing

now, and for how much. “Mercenary” was the kindest term applied to

them. “Traitor” was one more commonly used epithet, especially by orga-

nized labor and every member of Congress who faced election.

There was no reasoning with these people.

“What will happen, Chris?”

Cook set his drink down on the table, evaluating his own position and

lamenting his remarkably bad timing. He had already begun cutting his

strings. Waiting the extra few years for full retirement benefits-he’d done

the calculations a few months earlier. Seiji had made it known to him the

previous summer that his actual net income would quadruple to start with,

and that his employers were great believers in pension planning, and that he

wouldn’t lose his federal retirement investments, would he? And so Cook

had started the process. Speaking sharply to the next-higher career official to

whom he reported, letting others know that he thought his country’s trade

policy was being formulated by idiots, in the knowledge that his views

would work their way upward. A series of internal memoranda that said the

same thing in measured bureaucratese. He had to set things up so that his

departure would not be a surprise, and would seem to be based on principle

rather than crass lucre. The problem was, in doing so he’d effectively ended

his career. He would never be promoted again, and if he remained at State, at

best he might find himself posted to an ambassadorship to … maybe Sierra

Leone, unless they could find a bleaker spot. Equatorial Guinea, perhaps.