by Doug Raber
• • • • •
My role in initiating negotiations to end the Bosnian war proved effective, and it was not much longer before I was able to turn over the process to the seasoned diplomats who negotiated in a more public setting. In less than a year, those talks were well on the way to their ultimate end, known to most as the Dayton Peace Accords* that effectively ended the Bosnian war after almost four years of fighting.
For the first time in years, I was able to return home and resume my normal life. I spent my working days in my office at Biggers & Hayes, where I assigned young and ambitious members of the firm to the overseas assignments that had consumed me for so long. Evenings at my house off MacArthur Boulevard became a time of peaceful relaxation and enjoyment, and I was able to take in occasional concerts at the Kennedy Center and dramatic performances at several of the local theater companies.
Sometimes I missed some parts of the hectic life I had lived for so long. The travel, the wonderful restaurants in Paris, Vienna, and other old-world cities where I had spent so many months, and the people. I wondered what had become of my old network. Of Josef and Vasili and Reza. And I missed the women who had passed through my life, starting with Angie and then Cynthia, but also including Miss Huffington and Pamela Tremont. And brief as the encounters might have been, I often reminisced about Monika and Valentina. My life had become more peaceful, but it was at times a bit lonely.
It was by no means what some would describe as retirement, yet I was almost entirely free of stress. My income flowed in from the firm, and my investment portfolio soared. No other period of my life had been so idyllic, and it would last for five years. Life was good.
* * *
33
Washington
My experience was much like that of most Americans. On September 11, 2001, everything changed.
At first, it was only the shock. Anyone who had turned on their television that day understood that it would never be the same. I was in my office in downtown Washington that morning when the first reports came in.
Someone came into my office and said that a plane had struck the World Trade Center in New York. We assumed it was a small aircraft with an inexperienced pilot. No other explanation was possible.
Several of us remembered the previous occasion, or in my own case, I remembered others telling me the story as a child. Telling me how a B-25 bomber had struck the Empire State Building in Midtown Manhattan. But that had been fifty years earlier, and improvements in air safety made the recurrence of such an event unimaginable.
We scrambled into an office in the corner of the building, where one of my coworkers had a television, and the scenes of horror that we witnessed held us transfixed for more than an hour. Even as we watched a second airliner hit the Twin Towers, seemingly in slow motion and then replayed endlessly, the entire sequence remained unimaginable. To this day, I cannot reconcile the scene with my own sense of logic.
Before an hour had passed, another attack took place barely a mile from our office. The initial reports were confused, and one report said there had been a bomb at the State Department. We could see a plume of smoke rising from that direction, but its origin was across the river. At the Pentagon.
We stayed in that corner office for what felt like many hours, but it was not that long. I finally emerged from an overwhelming state of incapacitation and realized that no work would be done that day. Not our line of endeavor. Only emergency workers would be plying their trade. The most anyone else could do was to sit or stand in one place, paralyzed by the horror and tragedy. This was no report from some unrecognizable city in a war-torn country across the ocean. It was our home.
I made the decision that we would follow the actions that many other firms and organizations were taking in downtown Washington. The possibility that the morning’s events had been accidental was as incomprehensible as the destruction they had wrought. We had been attacked, and we were witnessing the assault on live television. There were no assurances that further strikes were not already underway, and the center of the nation’s capital was no longer a secure place for us to remain.
“Go home,” I instructed our employees. “Go to your families. Stay with them. Keep them safe. Mourn with them. Don’t come back to work until we know we are free from danger.”
More than five years had passed since my last trip into the heart of Bosnia, but the scene in Washington soon brought back those terrible memories. For several days, I could still see the plume of smoke rising from the destruction at the Pentagon, and the reassuring presence of Metropolitan Police Department vehicles was supplanted by a military presence across the city.
I could never have imagined driving past a camouflage-painted Humvee near my office, and the appearance of strategically located rocket launchers was even more appalling. National Airport was closed, and the annoying roar from the airliners that normally traversed the flight path along the Potomac had disappeared. Instead, we heard long periods of eerie quiet, broken only by the occasional thunder of Air Force jets providing a new layer of protection against an unseen enemy.
• • • • •
For the better part of a year, I did my best to keep my head in the sand, wanting no part of the new war against terrorism. I thought it was time to leave that task to the next generation. I cut back even further on the few overseas trips I had been making, and I certainly was not about to reconsider my prior cessation of visits to Eastern Europe. I kept my life simple and orderly, while making sure it remained profitable.
That paradigm changed quite suddenly for me. It all began when the telephone rang in my office one afternoon.
“Hello, Timothy.”
It had been considerably more than a year since I had heard the voice, but its impact was as great as it had been nearly thirty years earlier.
“Cynthia,” I replied. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Timothy. And you?”
“I’m surviving. Sometimes, I think it isn’t much more than that.”
“I’ve been worried about you. I’m in town until tomorrow. Can we get together at the end of the day?”
It was inconceivable that I would say no to that request, and I’m certain she knew that before asking.
“I would love to see you, Cynthia. When? And where would you like to meet?”
“I’m staying at the Fairmont in the West End, and I have a lovely room. A suite, actually. Why don’t you come by at six? Call from the lobby just to be sure I’m back from my meeting.”
When the phone call ended, I recalled the last time I had seen Cynthia. It was at a family dinner with Uncle Christopher. At first, I thought it had only been a year earlier, but I quickly realized that it was before everything had changed. So, it was two years. She had been there with Dave but not her son. Initially, I was surprised, but I quickly realized he would have been in his mid-twenties by then. An age when young men begin to separate from their parents and chart independent pathways through life.
The dinner had been merry and boisterous, following the tradition of so many family gatherings. It had been a wonderful day, filled with shared memories, but also characterized by desultory conversations that allowed no chance to share secrets. Certainly, there were no opportunities for intimate discussions, and before I could even hint of my desire to talk privately about the progression of our lives, I discovered that she was gone. One more chance at making a connection that ended before it began.
I could only hope that the privacy of the Fairmont would be conducive to extended conversation. That she might have some suggestion to help me escape my melancholy.
• • • • •
The door opened before my knuckles could tap a second time, and I was certain she had been standing there for the few minutes since I had phoned from the lobby. I entered the suite and turned to see her facing me, dressed in a long, silk robe, the fabric an iridescent mix of gold and blue that paled only in comparison to the beauty of Cynthia herself. This was the most exquisite w
oman I had ever seen, fully as ravishing as she had been at the time of our first meeting.
“Hi, Tim.”
No other words were needed. She extended her arms, and I took her in mine. She kissed me, gently at first, but with steadily growing intensity. By the time the kiss ended, we were both breathing hard, and I had ascertained that she was wearing nothing beyond the elegant silk robe.
“May I offer you a drink?” she asked. “I asked them to set up the bar.”
I wasn’t certain I could speak, so I nodded.
She poured us each a scotch and soda, and we sat on the sofa in the living area. It was a small sofa, and Cynthia was turned toward me so that her knee pressed against mine. In another circumstance, it might have been an innocent or accidental touch, but this was neither. And we both knew it. I could not recall feeling this level of passion, at least not for a very long time.
She sensed my hunger, and I could see that she felt the same. But she seemed less impatient than I.
“Take your time, Tim. We have the whole evening, so there’s no need to rush. Let’s enjoy our drinks. We can catch up a little.”
I forced a smile, one that was tinged with embarrassment.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Cynthia. You look wonderful.”
I allowed my eyes to trace a path from her face, to her shoulders, across her breasts, down to her hips, and finally along her legs.
“Not just wonderful, absolutely enchanting. And seductive.”
“I know,” she said, adjusting the robe to more fully cover her legs. “It’s a pretty nice robe, don’t you think?”
Once more, I smiled self-consciously, but I had regained much of my composure.
“You look lovely, but that would be true even without the robe.”
“We’ll find out about that in a few minutes. But right now, you should tell me how things are going at Biggers & Hayes. Are you still putting together some good international trade contracts?”
I gave her a rough account of my activities for the last year or so, emphasizing the positive aspects of my work, but I had difficulty hiding the underlying sadness. It was inescapable that we each had known victims of the attacks, both in New York and at the Pentagon. However, each time I drifted toward that abyss, she managed to steer me away.
As we were finishing our second drink, she suddenly brightened.
“They have an excellent restaurant here, and I’ve made arrangements.”
“What time is the reservation?” I asked.
“I asked them to arrange a private dining experience for us, and they were happy to oblige. Dinner will be at eight, but not in the restaurant. They will serve us here. And you’re going to like this. The chef is a friend, and he agreed to prepare some of the things you’ve told me you liked so much when you were in Paris.”
“Thank you. It sounds wonderful.”
I glanced at my watch.
“We have an hour,” I said.
“Then we should put it to good use.”
She reached for my hand as she stood, and she led me to the bedroom. Then she turned and kissed me again. This time, we didn’t stop with the kiss. Even before the first kiss was over, I had untied the sash of her robe, and I broke our embrace to open it and let it fall from her shoulders.
She stood motionless, allowing me to study her. She was every bit as alluring without the robe as she had been when it only provided hints of what was beneath.
“You are truly beautiful.”
It was her turn to exhibit an embarrassed smile.
“I’m glad you think so, Tim.”
I was wearing more clothing, so it took her more time to undress me, and she did so in a way that was both excruciatingly slow and intensely pleasurable. When she finished, we held each other close for a short time, but our level of excitement overwhelmed us. We fell into the bed, where she guided me inside her, and we moved with each other until a wave of ecstasy consumed us.
• • • • •
After dinner, we talked for a while longer about my work, and she was very encouraging. Eventually, she changed the subject.
“There’s something I have to talk to you about, Timothy. Something that may be a difficult subject.”
“Yes?” I asked cautiously.
“We need you. We need to have you back in the game.”
She didn’t have to elaborate. I knew what the words meant.
“I don’t know if I can. I thought I’d gotten past all the horrors of my experiences in Bosnia. Guns … bombs … women … children. I was traveling more for Biggers & Hayes, at least to Western Europe. But after September 11 …”
“I understand, Timothy. We all do. This time there would be no travel. It would all be in D.C.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“What you’re good at. What you’ve always been good at. Talking, smiling, conversing, negotiating. You know people, and they know you. They’ll listen to you. And we need you to do that. Your country needs you. The world needs you.”
“I never thought …”
“You’ve always been too modest, Timothy. But this won’t be difficult. In fact, I think you’ll like it.”
“What precisely?”
“Mostly, it would be talking. And, of course, listening. There are always parties and receptions at the various embassies. You’ll be invited, and you’ll have a good time. All the while talking. And listening. There will be information.”
“And how would I convey this information?”
“Discreetly. Messages. Brush passes, dead drops. Again, things that you’re good at.”
I winced.
“It’s too much like the days in the East. I could be caught. It would be a disaster.”
“I don’t think so. First of all, you’re too good. But even if something went wrong, this is the United States. Someone might get embarrassed. A diplomat might get sent back to his home country. But you would be okay. This isn’t like the Stasi when you were in Berlin. Or the KGB, when a misstep might have made them take you to the Lubyanka and put a bullet in the back of your head. It’s different here. This is America.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“And don’t forget the most important part. Secrets. There would be lots of secrets. It’s what you like best.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“It’s the right thing, Timothy. It’s right for you. It’s right for everyone.”
I paused for a few moments, and then I spoke slowly.
“Yes, I could help. I’ll do it.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“That’s wonderful. Everyone is going to be very happy with you. Everyone.”
Then she leaned over and kissed me again, and this time it wasn’t a peck on the cheek.
“We still have some unfinished business, Tim.”
She walked toward the bedroom, and I followed. I knew what was coming, and it excited me.
• • • • •
The week after I saw Cynthia, an engraved invitation arrived in the mail. My first reaction was that someone I knew was about to be married, but that was not the case.
On the occasion of the National Day of the Republic of Bulgaria …
The invitation had come on behalf of the Bulgarian Ambassador. I didn’t know him, nor did I recognize his name, and I had never been to his country. I could not even recall meeting any of his country’s diplomats or negotiators from my work in previous years. However, I quickly realized that this was part of what Cynthia had asked me to do. International receptions always arose from formal interactions between countries, and it was a near certainty that the Bulgarian Embassy had asked someone at our State Department for the names of prospective invitees. And my name had been included on the resulting list.
I dutifully called the local Washington number to RSVP, and I soon found myself looking forward to the event with surprising enthusiasm. The invitation specified business attire, so I made a point of t
aking several of my dark suits to the cleaners. I also stopped at Brooks Brothers during my lunch hour the next day to purchase several new ties. Rather flashy ones, I thought, in order to make the right impression.
When I arrived at the embassy, a minor functionary politely showed me to the receiving line and whispered something to one of the other members of their diplomatic staff. When I reached the Ambassador, I was quite astonished to have him begin speaking before I could introduce myself.
“Mr. O’Connor. It is indeed kind of you to join us this evening. We remain grateful for your efforts in Bosnia.”
I was completely nonplussed. Moreover, I knew enough of the history between the United States and Bulgaria to realize that I was standing at the edge of a figurative mine field. A firm member of the Soviet Bloc during the Cold War, Bulgaria reestablished diplomatic ties with the West when the USSR collapsed, and it had even provided military support to fighting the Taliban after the September 11 attacks. But Bosnia was a different question.
Bulgaria shares a border with Serbia, and there was considerable debate during the Bosnian War over which side should be supported. I had no way of knowing whether the Ambassador was congratulating me for efforts on behalf of the Bosniaks or the Serbs, and I dared not voice either possibility. I decided I had to keep it simple.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” I replied. “Our goal was to minimize suffering in those terrible times.”
He nodded sagely and then smiled.
“I hope we will talk more this evening, Mr. O’Connor. Please enjoy the reception.”
He turned his attention to the next person in line, and I looked around to find the bar. Servers were mixing with the guests, some carrying trays of appetizers, others offering glasses of Bulgarian wine or Champagne. I managed to minimize my consumption of the delicious canapes as I turned to scan the room while holding a scotch that was slightly diluted with soda.