Give Mom a kiss for me, and stop feeding scraps of food to Snickers under the table. Twelve years is getting up there for a pug, and they’re prone to heart problems at that age. Scratch him behind the ears instead, and tell him it’s from me.
Love,
Kat
CDR Katherine E. Silva
USS Towers (DDG-103)
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CHAPTER 35
Gregory Brenthoven found an open table near the rear of the café. He chose a seat facing away from the entrance, so he could enjoy the brightly-colored Joel Bergner mural that enlivened the entire back wall.
Brenthoven pulled the lid from his cappuccino, and emptied two packets of raw sugar onto the thick layer of steamed milk at the top. The heavy brown crystals sank quickly through the foam, leaving an irregular tunnel down to the dark liquid below. He gave the mixture a few quick turns with a wooden stir stick and replaced the cover.
The aroma rising from the cup was heavenly. There were plenty of fancier coffee shops in the District, but his long career in Washington had not revealed a single place that served up a finer cup of cappuccino.
He’d bought a sandwich too, grilled chicken and avocado on a brioche roll, but he left that untouched on the table while his eyes feasted on the mural.
Bergner’s whimsical rendering of the historic U Street corridor was framed on the left by portraits of jazz legends Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington, and on the right by a throng of revelers, celebrating in the streets on the night of the 2008 election, when the race barrier of the American Presidency had finally been shattered. Between the two ends of the painting lay a curving section of road, with a 1920s era convertible cruising past the façade of the old Roosevelt Theater.
The color pallet of the mural was weighted heavily toward oranges and yellows, giving it a false impression of antiquity, counterbalanced by the strange mingling of resignation and optimism on the faces of the people depicted.
Brenthoven lifted his cup and took a sip of cappuccino. Still a bit too hot, but damn it was good.
His eyes danced back and forth across the mural, not focusing on any particular section. He’d seen that painting at least a hundred times since Bergner had created it in 2009, and he still wasn’t quite sure why it affected him so profoundly. There was something there, below the surface, some subtly encrypted message of hope and despair. A subliminal acknowledgement that the world could be a much better place… should be a much better place… but even in the midst of oppression and injustice, there was still reason to look forward to a brighter tomorrow.
Brenthoven took another swallow of his cappuccino, and started to think about unwrapping the sandwich.
Of course, he could be completely wrong about the intended message of the mural. He had never met with Joel Bergner, and he had never bothered to research the deliberate symbolism (if any) that the artist had attempted to convey. But that was what the painting said to Brenthoven, and — from his perspective — that was the only symbolism that really mattered.
“Good evening, Mr. Brenthoven,” said a voice behind him.
Brenthoven glanced over his shoulder. He was surprised to be addressed by name, but even more surprised when he saw who had spoken. It was Gita Shankar, the Ambassador for India.
She held up a paper cup with the café’s logo. “May I join you?”
Still a bit put off by the unexpected encounter, Brenthoven took a couple of seconds to respond. “Of course. Yes, please do.”
The ambassador took the chair opposite his own, and pulled the lid from her cup.
Brenthoven nodded toward it. “Coffee?”
“Tea, actually,” the Ambassador said. “With milk. Apparently it is the closest thing to chai that this establishment can make, unless I want to try something called a smoothie.”
“If you’re not familiar with smoothies, you’re probably safer with the tea,” Brenthoven said.
He tipped his cup slightly in the ambassador’s direction in a toasting gesture, and then took a drink. When he set the cup down, he looked the Indian woman in the eyes. “I have a strong hunch that you are not a frequent customer of this café.”
Ambassador Shankar toyed with the lid of her cup. “You are quite correct, of course. I have never been here before.”
Brenthoven nodded. “Then, may I ask what brings you here this evening?”
“Surely, you must know the answer to that,” the ambassador said. “I am here because you are here.”
Brenthoven nodded again. “You had me followed?”
The ambassador grimaced. “Only with the best of intentions, I assure you.”
Brenthoven met her grimace with a frown of his own. Apparently he was becoming careless. He’d never needed Secret Service protection before, but if his movements were that easy to track, it might be time to think about better options for his personal security.
He looked at his unexpected visitor. “You’ve obviously found me, and I can promise that you have my undivided attention, Madam Ambassador.”
“Please,” she said. “Call me Gita.”
“And you can call me Gregory,” he said. “But I’d still like to know why you took the trouble to have me followed here. I assume you want to discuss something outside of the traditional channels. As I said, you have my attention.”
The Indian ambassador raised her cup, and then lowered it without drinking. “You’re quite correct, of course. I wish to speak to you informally, and outside of normal channels.”
Brenthoven took another swallow of cappuccino. “About what?”
“About the hydroelectric site that we have been discussing. And my country’s possible intentions regarding the disposition of that site in the near future.”
“I see,” Brenthoven said. The ambassador obviously didn’t want to name the Three Gorges Dam in this public setting, and any discussion about India’s plan to destroy it would apparently be couched in indirect terms. That was okay. Brenthoven knew how to talk around a subject as well as any government official.
“Is there something specific you wanted to tell me about your country’s intentions regarding the hydroelectric facility in question?”
“Yes,” the ambassador said. “Unofficially, I have been authorized to tell you that our planned actions will occur in two days.”
She looked at her watch. “Approximately forty-eight hours from now.”
Brenthoven sat up. “Forty-eight hours? Are you serious?”
“I am quite serious,” said Ambassador Shankar. “That timeline is given to you in strict confidence. We expect you to protect this information as you would defend the military secrets of a close ally. If it should leak to the wrong people, any trust between my government and yours would be irreparably damaged.”
“I understand,” Brenthoven said. “But I don’t understand why you are sharing this with us. If this information is so sensitive, and I agree that it is, why not restrict the knowledge to your own inner circles?”
“Because there is still time for your government to convince my leaders to divert from the plan,” the ambassador said.
Brenthoven stared at her. “How? What do we have to do to convince your government not to go through with this plan?”