by James Bruno
Goldman sat down and put on the best sympathetic face he could muster, the kind of face Ambassador Goldman would don when he had to inform an African dictator that the United States was terminating all aid to his country because Washington didn’t approve of disemboweling schoolchildren of an enemy tribe.
“Win. You’re under stress. I can appreciate that. Especially when two bad apples turn up among our protection cases. But, we didn’t keep out Al Capone or Sheikh Abdel Rahman or Mohammad Atta either. The bottom line is this: we’ve got Americans in uniform over in Bosnia. We lose one occasionally to a mine, a traffic accident, we can tolerate that. But the day we start losing a whole bunch to sniper fire or mortar rounds from fanatics like the Brankos, next thing you know, the New York Times is screaming for us to quit, get out. The pressure builds on Congress, then the White House. Our whole peace effort, which we brokered, goes down the toilet. We’ve only seen a preview of the kind of bloodshed that’ll occur if this whole thing falls apart.”
“You missed one point.”
“What’s that?” Goldman asked skeptically.
“The Merriman Administration goes down the same toilet. And everybody who ever had anything to do with this program is finished.”
Goldman let out a long, deep breath, his patience having run out. He placed a hand on Ferret’s shoulder.
“Win. Do your job. Please. Think about what I said. Go home to your wonderful family. Then take it easy. Go with the wife and kids to the mountains or the beach, away from D.C. I’ll approve the leave.”
Ferret rubbed both temples and stared wide-eyed. “My family.”
“Right. This career may end, but they’re with you forever.”
Goldman opened the door. Ferret shuffled out and returned to his cubicle.
Ferret sat at his desk, replaying over and over in his mind his encounter with Goldman. Memos, cables and notices piled up unread in his in-box. Unread emails likewise stacked up like slices of bacon one atop the other in his computer screen.
Gallatin’s call broke him out of his introspective trance. He asked to see Ferret immediately, upon the advice of NSC staffer Lisa Valko. Ferret tried to brush him off. Gallatin should see people in the Office of Refugee Affairs, he said. Gallatin said that he had. Homeland Security? Hopeless, per Gallatin. The visitor pressed until an exasperated Ferret had no choice but to agree to see him.
Ferret cleared Gallatin into Main State, receiving him outside the ultra-secure CHASM suite of offices in a small conference room used for meeting persons not briefed into the program.
“Mr. Gallatin, let me first explain to you that I don’t really track refugee cases…individually, I mean. That is, our job basically is to ensure interagency policy coordination—”
“I thought the NSC did that.”
“Well, yes. They do. On the macro level, that is. We focus on the more detailed aspects…budget, resources—”
“Funny. Mrs. Fitzhugh at the Office of Refugee Affairs told me that’s what they do.”
“Right,” Ferret answered with a delay. “You see, in the broader parameters—”
“You are the Office of Special Admissions, aren’t you?”
Ferret did not maintain eye contact. He constantly rubbed his hands together, fidgeted and was jumpy. He had the look of a man who had done something wrong, planned to do something wrong, or both.
“Mrs. Fitzhugh has never heard of you. Why’s that?”
Ferret stared dumbfoundedly at Gallatin. The latter got to the point.
“Look. I want information on two refugees from Croatia. Zlatko and Milan Branko. They murdered an immigrant couple, almost killed my daughter, and came this close to blowing my head off. The police need information so that they can be arrested and punished. Now what’s so difficult about that?”
Ferret’s jaw was slack. He was cornered. No amount of mealy-mouthed doubletalk would get this man off his back. And he couldn’t just kick him out lest he raise Gallatin’s suspicions further.
The ballet of savagery pranced wickedly back into his psyche. He wanted this man, this tormenter, dead. There was simply no more room in his life for any more pressures. He glared at Gallatin, his eyes possessed a preternatural power. Ferret knew it, could feel it. He said nothing, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. With all his power, he willed the other man dead. Star beams shot from his irises and penetrated his adversary’s brain. Gallatin’s head expanded, contorted, flushed to a scarlet hue. His mouth gaped from the pain, but no screams emanated. Then, like a balloon filled with water beyond the stretching point, Gallatin’s head exploded. The ballet of savagery was overwhelmed by red. Blinding crimson, hot and empowering.
“Mr. Ferret! I said, Ferret!! You okay?”
Ferret blinked. There was Gallatin, each hand bracing Ferret’s shoulders, shaking him vigorously. “Are you epileptic, Ferret? Diabetic? Shall I get a doctor?”
Ferret’s body was as rigid as an ice sculpture. His widened eyes had locked onto Gallatin’s face, then rolled back into his head, exposing only white. Sweat poured from his forehead, off his nose.
“Ferret! I’m going to get help.”
“No!” Ferret came to, his right hand locked onto Gallatin’s arm in a dead man’s grip. “Don’t go!” he gasped.
Gallatin tried to maintain control, but was terrified. Ferret was obviously ill, physically or mentally, but certainly he was not a well man. Ferret’s iron grasp hurt the ex-athlete. He couldn’t shake loose.
“Gallatin. Listen to me. I’m fine.” Ferret let out a long, deep breath. He released Gallatin, then straightened up, cranked his neck, and composed himself. He patted his forehead with his handkerchief and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s just that…I’ve been under a lot of strain lately. At home. And here.”
Gallatin sat back down cautiously. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean I can’t. I—”
“Take it easy. Let’s take it one step at a time. Are you in trouble?”
Ferret pondered a moment. “No, and yes. I have seen things, activities, which are unbelievable. If people knew…”
“Concerning what exactly?” Gallatin kept his tone of voice low and even.
Ferret looked at Gallatin with a start, as though he had just been rudely awakened from a deep sleep.
“It’s secret. Top secret. Compartmented. National security. I cannot divulge it. You understand, don’t you?” He almost pleaded for understanding.
“Okay, okay,” Gallatin replied carefully. He smiled sympathetically. “Ferret. Let me ask you this. Whatever you’re involved with — these things you say you know — are people, innocent people, being hurt?”
Ferret’s wide, intense eyes penetrated Gallatin’s face. He blinked as he finished processing a thought.
“Mr. Gallatin—”
“Mike.”
“Remember when you were a kid and you learned some secret about another kid? Maybe he stole, or cheated on a test. But you were afraid to tell anybody? Either because the other kid would beat you up, or people might suspect you were the guilty party but were trying to pin the blame on another?”
“Yeah. Sure. Or when you were the guilty party, but were afraid to fess up even though you were guilt-ridden.”
“You do understand!” Ferret appeared greatly relieved.
“Which are you, Ferret?” Gallatin asked carefully.
Ferret withdrew as if flames had suddenly burst before him. He placed both hands over his heart. “I am both, Mike. I am both. And I can’t stand it.”
“So tell me! What exactly is it? It’s something the government is doing, isn’t it? Is it something illegal?”
Ferret placed his face inches from Gallatin’s. The latter could feel Ferret’s labored breathing. “CHASM,” he whispered barely audibly in Gallatin’s ear.
Gallatin looked at Ferret with a confused expression. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, what—”
“I’m falling into a chasm, Mike. One with
no bottom. Where evil overcomes us and we become the evil. Pure hell.” He sported an eerie smile, a crown on his cryptic thought.
Gallatin looked at Ferret with worry and confusion. “Ferret. What about the Branko boys?”
“They’re taken care of. Out of the way,” Ferret responded matter-of-factly.
Gallatin paused to process Ferret’s answer.
“What do you mean, Ferret? Are they caught? In jail?”
“No. Worse. Much worse.”
“And?”
“Listen to me Mike. You’re best going back home. Stay out of this. Nothing to do with you—”
“Bullshit! They almost killed my kid! Don’t tell me to stay out of it, goddammit!”
“Yes. Your daughter.” Ferret paused to reflect. He twirled a pencil against his lips. “May I ask a very personal question, Mike?”
“Shoot.” The eerie expression on Ferret’s face continued to trouble Gallatin.
“When you lost your wife. How did you feel?”
Gallatin stiffened. “It was the end of the world. Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Um. Don’t get me wrong. But I’m curious. Privately. That is, deep down inside, in your male’s rough soul. Did you not feel…sense just a twinge…free?”
Gallatin shook his head in astonishment. “You really are one sick fuck, aren’t you?”
Ferret drew his head upward, as though he had gotten a strong whiff of something putrid. He looked condescendingly down on Gallatin, but said nothing.
“I’m sorry. Look, can I return to my original point for being here? Can you tell me anything about the Brankos? Anything at all?”
“Only that they’re no longer a problem. It was a…a mistake.”
“What was a mistake?”
“They got through, but shouldn’t have. Mike, go home. Stay out of this. You’re a good guy. It’s too late for me. But not for you. If you dig too deep, you’ll get hurt. Seriously hurt.”
Ferret rose and extended his right hand, signifying that the encounter had ended.
Gallatin took his hand. “I want to talk with you again. I’ll call.”
“I may not be here, Mike.” He showed Gallatin out the door, then about-faced and disappeared behind the lock-festooned, steel door of the Office of Special Admissions.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ferret liked dropping in on the Yale Club, though work and family obligations prevented him from frequenting the place as often as he would like. As with the surrounding Tudor homes on Washington’s Cathedral Ave., the Yale Club telegraphed understated, moderate wealth; a neighborhood populated with gentle but ambitious white professionals who favored Volvos and tony private schools for their children. Like Ferret, they were liberal, yet protective of their own interests.
Ferret had begun his day in what had become for him a rare mood: positive, eager, something to look forward to. As he drove to work with the windows of his minivan open to take in the sweet air of a young summer, he rehearsed the address he would give that evening before his fellow alumni — “Refuge in a Dangerous World: U.S. Obligations Toward Justice and Humanitarianism in the Post Cold War Era.” He did mental editing, verbal polishing, rhetorical restructuring. And he did not forget humor. An anecdote or two to loosen ‘em up; witty observations on life post-Yale; the ironic turn of phrase. These were the speechmaker’s tools. In fifteen years as a public servant, he had them down pat.
At the office, he rushed through his work mechanically. He wrote his reports, made phone calls, attended meetings. But he was on automatic pilot. He did the right things, but his mind was elsewhere. Even Goldman was struck by his subordinate’s relative cheerfulness. He took care not to push Ferret lest the spell break and his obstreperous employee return to his usual cranky self.
At 5:30 sharp, Ferret was out the door. He jumped into the driver’s seat of his van as does a fighter pilot in his cockpit when on an urgent mission. His enthusiasm to leave his present reality for a previous one was such that he squealed his tires on departing the basement parking garage.
Ferret remained on automatic pilot as he negotiated the serpentine rush-hour traffic along Massachusetts Avenue’s Embassy Row, across Wisconsin and left onto Cathedral Avenue. The newly leafed oaks and maples swathed inhabitants and passersby alike in a protective, cool shade. A tingling sensation ran up Ferret’s back. He shook his shoulders in reaction. Like a damn kid, he scolded himself. A broad smile blossomed effortlessly across his face.
His four years at Yale were his best. Absolutely the best in his life. Memories of pals, all-night bull sessions, brilliant professors, gentle New England autumns, girls flashed across his mental screen. Sweet days.
He had met Lynette there. It was at a joint Yale-University of Connecticut classical music concert. She played Liszt. His smile evaporated. The present tugged at him. He wished to linger in the past. Ferret shook his head to shed the encroaching present as he would shake water from his hair.
He arrived at the club twenty minutes early. People — mostly men, one-hundred percent white — of all ages milled around, sipping sherry, catching up on old times with former classmates. As Ferret debarked from the van, several immediately enveloped him to welcome him and to shake his hand. Like a white light from heaven, he thought. An encompassing warmth. Eternal. Or so Ferret wished.
The time for his address had come and he was led to a podium in a large room filled with folding chairs, nearly all occupied by alumni. Ferret was not nervous. On the contrary, the juices flowed. He softened ‘em up with a couple of quips about what it was to be a Yalee in the late twentieth century. He was repaid with ample chuckles. He launched into his topic confidently, being sure to make eye contact with his listeners. As he made key points, contemplative faces nodded in comprehension, perhaps even agreement.
“The foreign policy of a democracy worthy of the name cannot be humanitarian if it is not also just…” He carefully modulated his voice in the fashion of his hero, John F. Kennedy. He had meaning. Being here among his own, imparting his knowledge and his philosophy, validated him as a thinking man, a man with a deep conscience. The hypocrisy and lies of his work world were, for these moments, banished from his mind.
“Too often, diplomatic theorists act in a vacuum, and do not consider the common men and women and children whose lives are ultimately affected by their policies. Too often this ivory tower theorizing results in refugees fleeing certain death, wholesale slaughter, aggression and warfare…” As he drove home each point, his pace quickened, he tapped the podium in emphasis. He felt good; he felt strong. He felt righteous.
They applauded heartily. The activities director praised Ferret for his thought-provoking insights, and then invited questions. Ferret, standing back, patted his forehead with his handkerchief. So intent had he become that he had perspired rather profusely.
A short, dark lawyer in a pin-striped suit and horn-rimmed glasses shot up with his hand raised.
“Does your position hold up against what’s happened in the ex-Yugoslavia? I mean, wasn’t the Bosnian tragedy, in part, due to Western governments acting too late and, only then, with flawed policies?” he asked in a nasally voice.
An invisible force tugged at Ferret. It dragged him back to the present. He rubbed his left temple to ward off a brewing headache.
“That’s a good question. If you look at what’s transpired in the Balkans since 1991, you’ll see that no outsiders were in a position to really change anything.” Ferret went on to recite the U.S. government official line. He looked up to maintain that all-important eye contact, so key to a speaker’s credibility. The faces staring back at him were no longer contemplative. They were empty, lifeless. Ferret lowered his gaze, blinked hard, then looked up again. The faces hadn’t changed. He could see them in more detail. Still, blanched, rigid. The unblinking mass of eyes were sunken and dark, reflections of death.
The self-confidence drained from Ferret as the blood had from the conclave of seated corpses which now faced him. He stutt
ered. His eyes were locked onto them in a kind of hypnotic horror. As he fought to maintain his composure, Ferret could see more closely his sepulchral audience. Most wore tattered garments of non-American design. Some were in filthy, bloodied army uniforms. Females’ cold bosoms peeked through blouses that had been ripped open.
“Mr. Ferret. Mr. Ferret.” A warm hand placed itself gently on Ferret’s shoulder. The host’s concerned face was directed at him. The Yalees fidgeted in their chairs. Ferret felt like he had just awoken from a bad dream. He forced a smile and looked expectantly back at the host.
“Mr. Ferret, the lady in the third row has a question.”
“Of course.” Ferret sucked in his breath. He retained a nervous grin. “Sure, go ahead,” he said with shaky cheeriness.
A thirtyish woman in a dark power suit and with perfectly coiffed blonde hair tied back with a velvet ribbon stood up. She prefaced her question with a lengthy exposition on recent Balkan history indicating that she’d done her homework before coming. Another attorney.
“…and so, my question is, why is it that only a handful of suspected war criminals have been taken to The Hague for trial? The President stated that ‘We won’t let war criminals walk.’ Yet, they seem to be not only walking, but driving, swimming and skiing. What gives? Is the Administration leveling with us?”
Ferret stood motionless, appearing to be lost in thought. The force of the present tugged at him again. He rubbed his face with both palms. As his eyes reopened, they were back again. Victims of the Omarska concentration camp, the slain from the Srebenica death march, the massacred from Vukovar hospital. The violated women, the murdered children. They were all there. Muslim, Croats, Serbs. Off in a corner were the kindly grandparents and the guests of the St. Paul B&B eradicated by the Branko boys. All victims of a sham foreign policy. And Ferret was its midwife. Dozens of hollow eyes riveted upon him, their vacant gazes demanding answers.