"Department of Justice, eh? State, not Federal. You have a nice drive down from New York?"
He handed the case back to her and pulled a chair over so they faced each other over a small lacquer table. Hannah saw him look at the tape recorder she'd placed on the table alongside her purse. "Do you mind?" she asked.
"Yes. But since Mark's asked me to cooperate with you ..." He shrugged. "Can I call you Hannah, by the way? And I'm a lot more comfortable being J. Robert than 'Minister.' I'm from the military; this diplomacy business is still foreign to me. The first thing you need to know is that I'm only a small fish in our group. Ambassador Ngu makes all the decisions, he and President Moonchild back in Saigon."
Hannah had the feeling that Belew was being deliberately casual. She also decided that it didn't matter as long as he was willing to talk. "I understand. Still, I appreciate your seeing me on short notice." Hannah turned on the recorder and noted the date and time. Before she could ask the first question, however, Belew spoke again. "I guess you know Father Squid called Mark Meadows in Saigon yesterday. Mark spoke to President Moonchild, and he's instructed me to make arrangements for you to fly to Vietnam and perform any investigations you need to make there, if -" Belew paused for a long breath. "- I think it's necessary. I understand you believe the Jokertown fire was more than just simple arson."
"It's something I'm checking out."
"Just who is it that you're investigating in Vietnam?"
"A Dr. Etienne Faneuil. Also a nurse with him: Margaret Durand."
Belew frowned, but his eyes never left their appraisal of her face. Hannah had the odd feeling that the man was almost flirting with her. There was nothing overt, but the undertone was there in his intense scrutiny, nonetheless. Hannah had been hit upon enough to know the signs: Belew was interested, if in a distant way. "I don't know either of them," Belew said. "May I ask you why someone half the world away is connected with a fire in New York?"
"It's possible that several people were involved, that's all. It may be that this was a hate crime against jokers."
Belew smiled. He had a dangerous smile, one that Hannah unwillingly found attractive. The man definitely had charm. "That's hardly surprising."
"It is if it's been going on for years. It is if this is just the latest in a long line of incidents caused by one particular group of people."
Something moved behind Belew's eyes. Suddenly he was distant, no longer so intent on Hannah. He'd put himself on guard.
"What?" Hannah asked quickly, trying to get past that reserve before he realized that he'd thrown up the barrier. "I just reminded you of something."
Belew gave a short chuckle. "All of us jokers and aces have seen things like that, Hannah."
Hannah sat back hard against her chair. "You're ... ?"
"... an ace," he finished for her, and laughed. "J. Robert Belew. Also known as the Mechanic. If I'd known it would impress you that much, I'd've mentioned it before."
Hannah ignored the warmth of her cheeks. Damn it, quit acting like a schoolgirl. He's trying to deflect you from something. "Minister ..."
"J. Robert." A beat. "Without-Portfolio."
She ignored that. "Why'd you react when I said this might be just the latest incident?"
"Mind if I ask you something?" Belew looked away for a moment, then back. "I've done a lot of interviewing myself and I know you're supposed to stay in charge of the questioning and all. I promise to be a good boy and let you do your job afterward, but I'm curious about one thing."
His smile forced her to smile in return. "All right," she said. "Since you promise."
And with that, Belew's smile vanished like a conjurer's rabbit. He leaned forward toward her. "Just why's a nat concerned about this? Pardon my blatant sexism, but why's an attractive, young woman getting involved with a bunch of ugly, nasty jokers?"
"It's my job."
Belew shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that won't wash. Your job is to find an arsonist, nothing more. My bet is that you're catching a lot of flack for going about it this way. No, don't answer, I can see that I'm right about that. So I have to ask myself why you're doing this. Maybe you want fame; maybe this is how you're going to climb the ladder, get yourself a promotion."
"No," Hannah answered.
"Then why?"
"Because someone killed far more people than I like to think about - murdered them. And from what I've seen so far, it's possible that the person who set the fire was no more than a match in the hands of someone else. I don't have much interest in a burnt match, Ambassador. I want the hand that dropped it."
Belew didn't say anything for several seconds. Hannah let him wait, patient. The tape recorder hummed on the table. Finally Belew leaned back in his chair, regarding her with caution. "Mine's a long story and a dozen years old. It doesn't have anything to do with fires. It's also one I won't tell at all unless I know that it's also a story that you need to know. I won't tell it unless I know it's going to lead to something." His gaze was a challenge. "How am I going to know?"
Hannah stared back at him. "I'm the only one who can answer that question. And I can't be sure I needed to know your story until I've heard it. You either trust me or you don't, Ambassador. It comes down to that. But you obviously think that there's something to what I'm investigating, or you wouldn't have asked all your questions in the first place." She gave him a short-lived smile.
Belew snorted. "Fair enough. Tell me this, Hannah - when you've got all your facts, what are you going to do with them?"
"Whatever I need to do," she answered. "And whatever I can."
Belew continued to hold the stare for several seconds. Finally, he looked away and laughed. "At least you don't make promises you don't intend to keep. That's more than I can say for most of the people I've worked for. All right," he continued, and something in his posture softened. "My story starts with a call from the Oval Office..."
A Wind from Khorasan
The Narrative ofВ
J. Robert Belew
by Victor Milan
President Carter's head was sticking out of one of those terrible polyester sweaters of his like a turtle's. He looked at me with his sad Eleanor Roosevelt eyes and said, "I want you to lead a mission to rescue the hostages in Tehran."
It was April 16, 1980. The sunshine of a pleasant spring morning spilled in through the French windows of the Oval Office. The roses were in bloom.
I sucked on my moustache. For one of very few times in my life I had nothing to say.
"It has been decided," said National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski, looking as always like a shaved chow dog, "to employ a picked force of aces."
"It's my understanding, sir," I said carefully, "that Delta Force has been preparing a rescue mission for several months."
"How did you know about that?" barked the fourth man in the room. He was a little guy, about my own height, but weedier. He had a moustache even bigger than mine, if not quite as splendid, and a balding head shaped like a doorknob. He was no one I expected to see here, and no one I was happy to. "That's supposed to be classified."
"Mr. Battle," I said, "I'm in the business. I specialized in high-risk operations when I served in Special Forces, and, as you no doubt know, have continued doing so on a contract basis ever since. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to be included in the mission." I thought about it a moment. "If not exactly on these terms."
"You are perfectly correct, Major Belew," the President said, "Zbig and Mr. Battle have proposed an alteration to the plan which had been decided upon. I know that this is kind of an eleventh-hour thing, but I believe in my heart that it's worth doing."