minister several years ago, one suicide bomber, a young girl whose sari bloused
over an enormous quantity of explosives packed with ball bearings, left her mark
on the island’s history. The prime minister was killed along with more than a
hundred bystanders. And then there were the truck bombings in downtown Caligo.
One destroyed the Anura International Trade Center. Another, packed into an
express courier and freight service truck, had delivered death to a dozen staff
members in the U.S. embassy in Anura.
Among those dozen was Helene. One more victim of the mindless violence. Or was
it two: what of the child they were to have had together?
Almost paralyzed with grief, Janson had demanded access to the NSA intercepts,
including those of the sat-phone transmissions among the guerrilla leaders. The
transcripts, hurriedly translated into English, gave little sense of vocal
intonations and context; rapid dialogue was reduced to black type on white
paper. But there was no mistaking the exultant tones. The embassy bombing was
one of the Caliph’s proudest moments.
Helene, you were my sun.
In the jet, Marta placed a hand on Janson’s wrist. “I’m sorry, Mr. Janson. I
appreciate the anguish this must bring back.”
“Of course you do,” Janson said in a level tone. “It’s part of why you chose
me.”
Marta did not avert her gaze. “Peter Novak is about to die. The conference in
the province of Kenna was nothing less than a trap.”
“It was insanity to begin with,” Janson snapped.
“Was it? Naturally, the rest of the world has given up, save for those who are
furtively promoting the violence. But nothing offends Peter more than
defeatism.”
Janson flushed angrily. “The KLF has called for the destruction of the Republic
of Anura. The KLF says it believes in the inherent nobility of revolutionary
violence. How do you negotiate with such fanatics?”
“The details are banal. They always are. Ultimately, the plan was to move Anura
toward a federated government that would grant more autonomy to the provinces.
Redress Kagama grievances through a meaningful version of self-rule while
offering Anurans genuine civil protections. It was in the interests of both
parties. It represented sanity. And sometimes sanity prevails: Peter has proved
that again and again.”
“I don’t know what to credit you people with—heroism or arrogance.”
“Are the two so easily distinguished?”
Janson was silent for a moment. “Just give the bastards what they want,” he said
at last, his voice muffled.
“They don’t want anything,” Lang said softly. “We’ve invited them to name their
price, as long as Peter is released alive. They’ve refused even to consider it.
I don’t need to tell you how rare that is. These are fanatics. The answer we
keep getting is the same: Peter Novak has been sentenced to death for crimes
against the colonized, and the execution decree is ‘irrevocable.’ Are you
familiar with the traditional Sunni holy day of Id ul-Kebir?”
“It commemorates the sacrifice of Abraham.”
Lang nodded. “The ram in the thistles. The Caliph says that this year it will be
celebrated by the sacrifice of Peter Novak. He will be beheaded on Id ul-Kebir.
That’s this Friday.”
“Why? For God’s sakes, why?”
“Because,” Lang said. “Because he’s a sinister agent of neocolonialism—that’s
what the KLF says. Because doing so will put the KLF on the map, gain them
greater notoriety than they’ve achieved in fifteen years of bombings. Because
the man they call the Caliph was toilet-trained too soon—who the hell knows why?
The question implies a level of rationality that these terrorists do not
possess.”
“Dear Christ,” Janson said. “But if he’s trying to aggrandize himself this way,
whatever the logic, why hasn’t he publicized it yet? Why hasn’t the media got
hold of it?”
“He’s canny. By waiting until the deed is done to publicize it, he staves off
any international pressure to intervene. Meanwhile, he knows we don’t dare
publicize it, because it would foreclose even the possibility of a negotiated
solution, however remote.”
“Why would a major government need any pressure to intervene? The fact is, I
still don’t understand why you’re talking to me. You said it yourself, he’s a
man of all peoples. Accept that America’s the last superpower—why not turn to
Washington to help?”
“It’s the first thing we did. They provided information. And they were profusely
apologetic when they explained that they could offer no official assistance
whatsoever.”
“That’s baffling. Novak’s death could be profoundly destabilizing for dozens of
regions, and one thing Washington does like is stability.”
“It also likes to keep American nationals alive. The State Department believes
that any U.S.-identified intervention right now would endanger the lives of
dozens of American citizens who are now in rebel-occupied territory.”
Janson was silent. He knew how such calculations were arrived at; he had been
part of the process often enough.
“As they explained, there are also other … complications.” Marta spoke the word
with obvious distaste. “America’s Saudi allies, for example, have been quiet
supporters of the KLF over the years. They’re not particularly enthusiastic
about their approach, but if they don’t support oppressed Muslims in that Muslim
lake called the Indian Ocean, they lose face with the rest of the Islamic world.
And then there’s the matter of Donna Hedderman.”
Janson nodded. “A Columbia grad student in anthropology. Doing fieldwork in
northeast Anura. Which was both foolish and brave. Captured by the Kagama
rebels, who accused her of being a CIA agent. Which was both foolish and evil.”
“She’s been held by them for two months, incommunicado. Lip service aside, the
United States hasn’t done a damn thing. Didn’t want to ‘complicate an already
complicated situation.’ ”
“I’m getting the picture. If the United States refuses to intervene on behalf of
an American national—”
“—how will it look if it turns around and sends a rescue team for the Hungarian
billionaire? Yes. They didn’t put it so bluntly, but that’s the point they made.
The phrase ‘politically untenable’ got a real workout.”
“And then you made all the obvious counterarguments … ”
“And some not-so-obvious ones. We pulled out all the stops. At the risk of
sounding arrogant, I have to say that we usually get our way. Not this time.
Then the other shoe dropped.”
“Let me guess. You had what they call the ‘terribly quiet chat,’ ” Janson said.
“And my name came up.”
“Repeatedly. Several highly placed officials in State and Central Intelligence
all strongly recommended you. You’re not part of the government anymore. You’re
a free agent with international connections to others in your line of work, or
what used to be your line of work. According to your former colleagues at
Consular Operations, Paul Janson is ‘the best there is at what he does.’ I
believe those were the exact words.”
“The present tense is misleading. They told you I retired. I wonder whether they
told you why.”
“The point is, you’re a free agent now,” she said. “You parted ways with
Consular Operations five years ago.”
Janson tilted his head. “With the awkwardness of saying good-bye to somebody on
the street and then discovering you’re walking in the same direction.”
Disengaging from Consular Operations had involved more than a dozen exit
interviews, some decorous, some frankly uncomfortable, and some outright stormy.
The one he remembered best was with Undersecretary Derek Collins. On paper, he
was the director of the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research;
in reality, he was the director of its covert branch, Consular Operations. Even
now, he could see Collins wearily removing his black-framed glasses and
massaging the bridge of his nose. “I think I pity you, Janson,” Collins had
said. “Never thought I’d hear myself say it. You were ‘the machine,’ Janson. You
were the guy with a slab of granite where your heart’s supposed to be. Now you
say you’re repulsed by the thing you’re best at. What goddamn sense does that
make? You’re like a master pastry chef announcing he’s lost his sweet tooth.
You’re a pianist who’s decided he can’t stand the sound of music. Janson,
violence is something you’re very, very, very good at. Now you’re telling me
you’ve lost the stomach for it.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Collins,” he had replied. “Let’s just say
I’ve had a change of heart.”
“You don’t have a heart, Janson.” The undersecretary’s eyes were like ice. “It’s
why you do what you do. Goddammit, it’s why you are who you are.”
“Maybe. And maybe I’m not who you think I am.”
A short, bark-like laugh. “I can’t climb a hawser, Janson. I can’t pilot a
blessed PBR, and looking through an infrared scope makes me seasick. But I know
people, Janson. That’s what I do. You tell me you’re sickened by the killing.
I’m going to tell you what you’ll discover one day for yourself: that’s the only
way you’ll ever feel alive.”
Janson shook his head. The implication made him shudder and reminded him why he