Tired, so tiredfinally, he reached the door to his office and shoved it open. Stacks of messages spilled over on his desk. He considered taking a shot at clearing the paperwork, and finally gave up. He could hear his rack calling him.
The representatives from the various countries filed in in a flurry of aides, position papers, and protocol. Tombstone had been briefed on their relative seniority, on how essential it was that each took exactly the correct position around the long rectangular conference room, with precisely the correct number of chairs positioned behind each for aides and assistants. Tombstone had tried to explain that there simply was not enough space in his conference room to comply with all of Tiltfelt’s demands. The State Department representative had acted as though Tombstone were intentionally interposing difficulties into the negotiation process, and it was only after Tiltfelt had actually seen the arrangement of chairs crammed into the room that he’d finally subsided. Tombstone had suggested moving the proceeding into a portion of the flag mess, and Tiltfelt had reluctantly agreed.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
Tiltfelt had an expression of grave sincerity on his face, thoughtful yet concerned, open and willing to talk. Tombstone tried to believe that he meant it.
“Welcome to the USS Jefferson. We are honored that you have chosen to participate in this process.”
And just as happy when you get the hell off my boat. Tombstone watched each of the representatives carefully mirror Tiltfelt’s expression.
Was it something that they taught in diplomacy school?
Or merely a quality of dissimulation that permitted one to rise in diplomatic circles in any country?
No matterhis own poker face had served him well in the Navy. He wouldn’t begrudge another department their peculiarities of custom.
“And our thanks to our host, Admiral Matthew Magruder. Admiral?”
Tiltfelt yielded his place at the podium.
Tombstone rose and walked slowly to the forward part of the room. His carefully prepared remarks, already vetted by Tiltfelt and his minions, were laid out on a three-by-five card he carried in his right-hand pocket.
For this occasion, he had put on his dress blues, an uncomfortable uniform he had been wearing all too often in the last three years. A flight suit would have been infinitely preferable.
“Welcome aboard. We’re glad to have you here. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable or convenient, please do not hesitate to let me know personally.”
Tombstone slipped the card back in his pocket and prepared to depart.
“Your unclehe is in the Navy also?” the gentleman from Ukraine asked quickly. “Thomas Magruder, yes?”
Surprised, Tombstone could only nod. “Yes, Admiral Magruder is my uncle.”
The man nodded, satisfied. He shot a knowing look at the man seated behind him.
“Why?” Tombstone asked. “Do you know him?”
He resisted slightly as Tiltfelt gently tried to hustle him away from the podium.
The Ukrainian shook his head in the negative. “Only by reputation,” he answered, enunciating each word carefully. “A product of the Cold War, is he not? As is your father. Another fine man.”
The Ukrainian’s eyes gleamed, secrets dancing behind them. “I met him once. More than once, perhaps.”
Rage and fear in equal proportions coursed through Tombstone’s body.
The mention of his father, who had been shot in a bombing run over Vietnam, in so incongruent a place at so entirely inappropriate a time, stunned him.
He took two steps toward the man, the import of their current location lost on him.
Tiltfelt finally asserted himself, grabbing the admiral firmly by the elbow. “Not now,” he whispered sharply into Tombstone’s ear. “Admiral, this is neither the time nor the place.”
Tombstone shook free of the smaller man and continued his advance on the Ukrainian. “Why did you ask that question? And make that comment?” Tombstone’s voice was low and deadly.
The Ukrainian shrugged. “It was simply a question, Admiral. I wished to make sure that I had my facts right.”
Tombstone regained control of himself, unsure of how to proceed, but shaken to his very core. There had to be a purpose behind the questionshad to be. But as much as he hated to admit it, Tiltfelt was right. Tombstone nodded, and stepped back toward his seat. As he settled back down into the hard-backed chair, he silently let out a deep, wavering breath. Whatever Tiltfelt had intended to accomplish at this conference, Tombstone had a feeling that the results were going to be quite different from what the State Department representative expected.
After almost an hour of preliminary maneuvering and polite assurances of eternal friendship, the meeting adjourned to the rear of the room for refreshments. Donuts and coffee, along with more delicate pastries provided by the flag mess cooks, disappeared at an alarming rate.
“It’s a hazard of the profession,” Tiltfelt said to Tombstone casually, delicately biting into a croissant. “Too many diplomatic events and you gain weight every day.”
He nodded toward the rest of the representatives. “Not a skinny one amongst them.”
Tiltfelt’s confiding and congenial manner was almost as confusing to him as the Ukrainian’s earlier question. Tombstone stared down at him, is arms planted firmly on his hips. “What happened in there?”
Tiltfelt shrugged. “You were there. What do you think?”
“I think nothing happened. Nothing at allexcept for that crack about my father.”
Tiltfelt smiled. “An accurate assessment. This is the way these things always go. It’s almost an art formthe ability to plant the little seeds and casual comments that later grow into major issues.”
He then cited a couple of examples from the members’ opening comments, and speculated on how those seemingly innocent remarks would later turn into intransigent demands. “And as for the question about your fatherI’m not entirely certain.”
Tiltfelt regarded Tombstone as though he were a specimen under a microscope. “Do you have any idea?”
Tombstone shook his head. “It was a long time agoI was very young.”
Briefly, unemotionally, he sketched in the details of how his father had been lost over Vietnam, the fact that his wingman had seen his parachute.
His father had been carried as MIAmissing in actionfor almost twenty years. Finally, despite the lack of a body, with his name never appearing on a POW list, he had been declared killed in action.
“Well.” Tiltfelt deposited his coffee cup on a credenza and brushed his hands together lightly. “I don’t know what it was about. Not really. But you can bet it will come up later on. It’s either an opening ploy, or perhaps just a validation of their own in-country intelligence processes. You’d be surprised at what a complete dossier they keep on every senior American military official.”
“But Ukraineof what possible interest could it be to them?” Tombstone asked. While he neither believed nor trusted Tiltfelt’s change in attitude, he would use it for what it was worth.
Tiltfelt gazed at him gravely. “I have no information, you understandnone at all. And I insist that you keep this completely between the two of us. Off the record, if you will.”
“Understood. Now tell me.” Tombstone was beginning to lose patience with the delicate circumlocutions that seemed an integral part of Tiltfelt.