“You obviously didn’t read my book.”
“No, I actually did,” Angel said with a laugh, “but I had to keep my feet in a bucket of ice water. I know that academic prose is supposed to be boring, but hats off to you. You’ve taken it to a whole new level.”
THE INSTITUTE FOR CONTINUING CONFLICT is on Massachusetts Avenue, off Dupont Circle in a house that appropriately enough was once the residence of Theodore Roosevelt, who as secretary of the navy did so much to usher in the dawn of American imperialism. The building’s nickname among those who worked in it was “Casa Belli.”
Standing in the marble lobby, waiting for Angel’s assistant to collect him, Bird studied the inscription above the gracefully curved grand staircase, chiseled into marble and leafed in bright gold.
Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.
—Barry Goldwater
Bird felt nervous. He had met Angel Templeton a few times on the cocktail circuit. He found her intimidating. Well, she was intimidating. Angel’s legend was well known around town. During her tour of duty at the Pentagon, she had been romantically involved with two generals and an admiral. The admiral was on the staff of the Joint Chiefs. Mrs. Admiral was less than thrilled to learn about the affair and made a scene that resulted in the admiral’s being reassigned to sea duty. Angel had never married. She was the single mother of an eight-year-old son named—Barry. Despite her reputation as a man-eater, Angel was by all accounts a devoted mother, a regular at parent-teacher conferences.
Bird studied the contents of a glass case in the lobby, books by ICC resident scholars and fellows: The Case For Permanent War. Retreat, Hell: Assertiveness in U.S. Foreign Policy, 1812 to 2003. Give War a Chance. Pax Americana: You Got a Problem with That? Double Stuff: The Rise of the Oreo-Con Movement. How America Can Keep from Becoming France—and Why It Must.
The Institute for Continuing Conflict was headquarters for the so-called Oreo-Cons—“Hard on the outside, soft on the inside.” Hard because they were unapologetic advocates of American military muscle. Soft because their domestic politics were for the most part laissez-faire; Oreo-Cons didn’t really care what presidents and the Congress did so long as they kept the Pentagon and the armed forces well funded and engaged abroad, preferably in hand-to-hand combat.
Oreo-Con critics, of whom there were no small number, thought them a shifty and largely self-satisfied bunch. Oreo-Cons had the uncanny knack of distancing themselves from failure. When one of their foreign interventions backfired, it was always someone else’s fault. The idea was sound. It was the execution that was flawed. For a group that had gotten America into one tar pit of a quagmire after another, Oreo-Cons were awfully blithe. Not for them, dwelling on disasters. No. Pass the ammo, pass the hors d’oeuvres, and on to the next calamity! Their current agitation was for a preemptive strike on Iran’s nuclear facilities, preferably with nuclear weapons. Slam dunk!
“Mr. McIntyre?”
Bird turned.
“Mike Burka. I work with Ms. Templeton.”
Bird was expecting a secretary. This Burka fellow looked like an active-duty Navy SEAL in mufti. His neck must have been the diameter of a young redwood tree; the eyes were steely cool and appraising. Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side. Bird followed him up the marble staircase.
“We have a pretty busy schedule today,” Burka said, “but we have you slotted in for twenty minutes. You’re lucky. Christiane Amanpour only got ten.”
“I’ll try not to waste Ms. Templeton’s time,” Bird said as they passed by Barry Goldwater’s clarion call.
“She may have to take a call from Dr. Kissinger. If she does, I will come in and escort you out of the office. I will then bring you back into the office after her call with Dr. Kissinger is completed. Her time with Dr. Kissinger will not be deducted from your twenty.”
Bird nodded. “As a matter of fact, I’m expecting a call myself.”
Burka looked at him uncertainly. “Oh?”
“The Dalai Lama. But I don’t mind if Ms. Templeton remains in the room while His Holiness and I talk. We usually converse in Tibetan.”
Burka’s pupils narrowed to laser pointers. His expression said, Normally I’d crush your windpipe, but I’m in a good mood and I don’t want to get blood on my shirt cuffs.
They walked through an outer office with four busy secretaries. Bird was ushered into The Presence.
Angel Templeton rose from behind a black-glass and stainless-steel desk.
“Bird McIntyre.” She beamed, extending a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. Sit. Please. I don’t mean to gush, but Groepping-Sprunt is my absolute favorite aerospace defense contractor.”
“Really? Well.”
“The upgrade package you did on TACSAT-4? In a word? Oh. My. God. And the FALCONSAT-26 real-time imaging during the run-up to Pakistan? I can’t even discuss it. Brilliant. Would you care for coffee? Tea? Red Bull? Adderall?”
“Uh, no thank you.” Bird flushed. “But I’ll be sure to pass that along to my former colleagues at Groepping.”
“Former?”
“Yes. All very amicable, of course. It’s just that I’ve decided to go in a new direction. In fact, that’s what brings me here.”
“I shudder to think where we’d be if it weren’t for companies like Groepping-Sprunt.” She laughed. “Throwing spears at our enemies. Pouring boiling oil on them. What those brain-dead, spineless jellyfish up there”—she hooked a thumb in the direction of Capitol Hill—“did to the MQ-9B . . . Jesus wept. Chick Devlin did an amazing job.”
“But that was a closed hearing.”
“I read the transcript.”
“I am impressed.”
“Mr. McIntyre, do I look like someone who gets her news from the Washington Post? This is in no way a criticism, okay? But if it had been me testifying, I’d have told those senators, ‘Okay, not interested in saving American lives over there? Then how about every body bag that comes back from there we stack outside your office door?’ ”
Bird laughed nervously. What does this woman sprinkle on her breakfast granola? Gunpowder? Powdered C-4?
He found himself staring at her stockinged legs, which seemed as long as the Washington Monument. He looked up, embarrassed, and saw that she was smiling.
“It’s all right. I enjoy it when men notice my legs, as long as they’re attractive. The men, that is. I know the legs are. Okay, Mr. McIntyre, enough persiflage. What’s this visit really about?”
“Well,” Bird said, “as I mentioned on the phone—”
“I know what you said on the phone.”
“I’m not quite sure I follow.”
“Don’t you think I do my homework?”
“Ms. Templeton—”
“Angel. It was originally Angela, but I dropped the final a. Too girlie. Go on.” She looked at her watch. “I don’t mean to rush you. It’s just that I’m expecting a call from Henry. Kissinger.”
“Yes. So your Sergeant Rambo informed me.”
“Mike? He was with the team that . . .”
“What?”
“That got bin Laden. And please do not tell him I told you that. I’m really not into the whole bodyguard scene, but we get death threats here. Pain in the butt. Had to evacuate the building twice this month. Really, it would be simpler to have our offices in a bunker somewhere out in Virginia, but I’m not into chain restaurants. Are you all right, Mr. McIntyre?”
“Fine,” Bird said. “Just . . .”
“Would you like a soothing beverage? Chai tea? A hot towel? We have an on-premise Thai masseuse. She used to do King Pramashembatawabb. A miracle worker. I get these knots. Right here. Feel.”
“Why don’t I just come to the point?”
“Enough foreplay?”
“China,” Bird said. “I’m here about China.”
“China? Well.” Angel laughed softly as if at a private joke. “China. Have you seen the latest figures on their naval-fleet buildup? They just added five new Luhu-
class guided-missile destroyers. And what do we suppose they’re planning to do with those? I shouldn’t really be discussing it, but a little birdie tells me they managed to hack into a U.S. Navy server and download the entire TR-46-2 program. They’re such pirates. Don’t you just hate them? The good news is stealing keeps them dumb. God forbid they should actually figure out how to make something by themselves.”
Bird affected an impressed look, though he had no idea what the TR-46-2 was.
“I read your piece in the Wall Street Journal last month,” he said, “where you called for expelling them from the UN Security Council unless they cut off aid to North Korea. Powerful stuff.”
Angel shrugged. “Am I the only person in this town who’s tired of hearing that the twenty-first century is going to be ‘the Chinese Century’? Could someone tell me—please—why America, the greatest country in history, only gets one century? And by the way, who decided this was going to be their century? Some thumb-sucking professor at Yale? Please.”
“It’s so refreshing to hear that.”
“All we do is kowtow to those people. Did you see what our secretary of commerce said over there last week? I almost barfed.”
“Deplorable.” Bird nodded.
“But what can you expect? We made them the real Bank of America. What are we going to do? Ask them—nicely—‘Please play fair’? ‘Please stop with the intellectual-property thievery’? ‘Please don’t arm Iran’? ‘Please don’t destroy the environment’? ‘Please don’t invade Taiwan’? Meanwhile those nutless squirrels—pygmies, all of them—on Capitol Hill are gutting the defense budget.”
“Angel,” Bird said, “that’s why I’m here.”
She looked at him. “How can I help?”
“I head up a foundation called Pan-Pacific Solutions. My board feels that it’s time—past time—that we focus the country’s attention on the Chinese situation. Specifically, on the . . . the . . .”
“Threat?”
“Yes! The threat.”
Angel laughed softly. “Oh. ICC has been focusing on that for years. But I’ll tell you—frankly, it’s a tough sell in this environment. Americans just don’t seem to care”—she sighed heavily—“they should. I could show you contingency plans we helped draw up for the ROC—”
“ROC?”
“Republic of China. Taiwan?”
“Of course.”
“Plans for a post-invasion environment.”
“Oh,” Bird said, “sounds dire.”
“You have no idea.”
“So,” Bird said, “do you think we might work together on this?”
Angel leaned back in her chair. “It’s worth exploring. Absolutely. Now, Pan-Pacific Solutions. I’m not familiar with them. They’re based . . .?”
“Virginia. Right across the river.”
“I’d want to do some due diligence.”
“Naturally. But I might as well tell you upfront that my board prefers to keep a low profile. I’d be surprised if you found much at all about us. But I can tell you this. We’re patriotic Americans. And we have deep pockets. Money is not an issue.”
Angel chuckled. “Money is only an issue when there isn’t any. Oops—plagiarism alert. I may be quoting Oscar Wilde there. But tell me—you still have good relations with the folks at Groepping?”
“Thick as thieves. I mean, best of friends.”
Angel said in a coquettish tone, “So what can you tell me about Taurus?”
Bird’s eyes widened. “Taurus? What’s that?”
“Bird. I don’t live in a cave.”
Bird shifted in his seat. “You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.”
“Good.”
“It’s highly classified.”
“Do I look like a virgin?”
“Oh, no. I mean . . . sorry.” Bird blushed.
“Oh, relax. So Taurus. Does it have a ring in its nose? Horns? Does it snort and run over drunk tourists in Pamplona? What kind of bull are we talking about?”
“Well,” Bird said in a conspiratorial tone, “I can tell you this much—it’s pretty darn scary.”
“I love scary.”
Bird glanced around her room. “Office clean?”
“Swept twice weekly.”
He took a breath. Think, man! Finally he said, “Well, seeing as how you have TS clearance . . . But I’d want your assurance that we’re speaking in total confidentiality.”
Angel rolled her eyes.
“It . . .” Bird’s mind raced. “Essentially, it’s about rearranging molecules.”
Angel stared. “Molecules.”
Bird leaned forward and whispered, “I may just have put both our lives in danger by telling you that.”
Why did that line sound familiar? He suddenly remembered where he had heard it: in the middle novel of his Armageddon trilogy—scene where Major Buck “Turk” McMaster reveals to Chief Warrant Officer Beatrice “Bouncing Betty” O’Toole the location of the muon bomb that he’s just planted beneath the presidential palace in Tehran.
Bird said in a grave voice, “I won’t pretend that I understand the science. But it involves subatomic particles. Muons.”
“Must be the next-gen neutron weapon,” Angel mused. “Remember the good old neutron bomb—destroys people, not property? Moscow denounced it as ‘the perfect capitalist weapon.’ ”
“Well,” Bird said, “I’m—was—just on the marketing side.”
“Muons,” Angel murmured. “Muons. Well, well, well.”
“You will be discreet?”
“You never have to worry about that with me, Mr. McIntyre,” she said sternly.
“Of course, the idea is not to have to deploy it. It’s all about deterrence.”
Angel smiled. “We’re not really into deterrence at ICC.”
“That’s right. I read your book. Taking the ‘Re-’ Out of Retaliation. Bracing stuff.”
“Well, as we say around here, an ounce of preemption is worth a pound of enriched uranium. Isn’t that the height of vanity—quoting yourself?”
“I look forward to working with you,” Bird said.
Angel’s intercom announced, “Dr. Templeton, I have Dr. Kissinger on the line.”
“Tell him I’ll call back.”
CHAPTER 4
UPKEEP
Bird found himself whistling on the drive out late Friday afternoon. He kept to the back roads, now that Washington could proudly boast of having the nation’s second-worst traffic.
He was speeding. The meeting with Angel Templeton had left him with a strange feeling of exhilaration. He felt the way he did when the writing was really going great guns. It occurred to him that Taurus—whatever the hell it was—had the makings of a darn good novel. After dinner tonight he’d sit down at the old laptop and bang out a few pages. He made a mental note to move the muon-bomb scene from volume two to volume three. Yes. And to build a new subplot around it. Talk about going out with a bang. Good stuff!
He looked at the speedometer. Whoa. Slow down.
“You look cheery,” Myndi said with an air of mild annoyance as he came in and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Great day. Excellent day.” He kissed her again. “How’s with you?”
Myndi exhaled a lungful of built-up weltschmerz. “Walter, you have to talk to Peckfuss. He makes no sense. None. I can’t get him to focus on that ghastly smell. Half the time I can’t even understand what he’s saying. Those teeth.” She shuddered.
Bird sniffed the air. “I can’t smell a thing. Other than your perfume. Rrrrr.”
“It comes and goes. Trust me. From the woods by the swamp. I’m not about to venture down there this time of year, with all the snakes. Peckfuss did manage to convey that he’d killed a water moccasin there the other day. You’d better wear those high-top boots, the reinforced ones.”
“I’m not going down there,” Bird said. “Getting snakebit isn’t my idea of a fun Friday night. But thank you for suggesting it.”
“T
hen you’ll have to talk to Peckfuss. Either he’s back on the sauce or he’s gone totally demented. Speaking of which, your mother—”
“Myn. Not nice.”
“Joking. Did we lose Mr. Sense of Humor? But I think the time has come that we had The Conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Walter.”
“I’m not booting Mother out of the house. End of conversation.”
“You’re not here half the time. I’m left to cope.”
Bird laughed. “You’re not here half the time. Look, babe, it’s Friday night. I’ve had a rough week. I want drink. I want food.” He put his arms around her. “I want . . . you. Rrrruff.”
“I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Then we better get started.”
In this area Bird had no complaints. Myn might be a bit of an ice queen, but she could still set the bedsheets on fire. Could it be . . . the horse thing? Bird was increasingly bedeviled by images of making love to the Duchess of Cornwall. He wished he hadn’t come across that article in the dentist’s office.
Afterward Myn set about making dinner. Bird made himself an old-fashioned and went out on the front porch, his perch. Heart and other organs at peace, he looked out over his corner of the universe. It was a perfect early-summer evening. Dragonflies hovered about. It seemed improbable that this same landscape had been the scene of so much misery and devastation a century and a half ago.
As he was thinking these very thoughts, he spotted a figure on horseback approaching. He saw the outline of the hat, the sword. Bird watched his brother with fond bemusement. Absurd, yes, but there was a charm to it. Except for his shiny German car parked in front, the scene before him could have been a tableau from the 1860s.
Bewks drew up on his horse, removed his hat, grinned at his brother on the porch, and saluted. “Compliments of General Lee.”
Bird returned the salute. “You’re too late,” he said. “Sheridan’s men have come and gone. They set fire to the house, ravished the womenfolk, stole the silver. Fortunately, our devoted slaves put out the fire.”
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 4